Many years ago, when I was right out of grad school (masters in counseling) and unemployed, I was offered a job selling insurance. Burial insurance. It was the sort of deal where people bought an insurance policy to prearrange their funerals.
Yup, being jobless had come down to that.
I had no experience with either sales or insurance. But I was getting desperate, and nothing else had turned up. It was a new program, appeared to pay okay, my new boss seemed nice, and, God knows, funerals seemed a sure thing. At that point, I probably would have sold dead…
Recently, I was deeply moved by Zara Everly’s blog post “Maybe This Is Why Your Wife Doesn’t Want To F*ck You.” She listed several reasons for her “dead bedroom” from fatigue to her husband’s sexual selfishness. For me, one reason stood out and resonated with my own experience. She lost sexual interest because her spouse made her feel like sex was an obligation and a chore.
My longest relationship was marked by a large desire discrepancy. My partner and I never had a “dead bedroom” per se, but sex was a significant source of conflict. He wanted it daily, and…
The year 1856 was a very challenging one for Dr. Horatio R. Storer. The poor doctor was stuck treating two extremely difficult patients.
And who were these patients from hell?
Why they were a couple of thoroughly incorrigible nymphomaniacs that’s who! Nymphomania was a major concern in the 19th century. And it was pretty easy to define — in a nutshell, if you were a horny women who wanted sex and you wanted it good, you, my dear, were a nymphomaniac (gasp)!
A few years ago, I adopted my first rescue cat. And it’s been a wonderful experience with some surprising benefits. My adorable little housemate had a rather rough start in life. She was abandoned and semi-traumatized, and I think that coping with her issues forced me to become more tolerant and patient. These are NOT qualities that come naturally for me.
So, did I rescue her, or did she rescue me? I’m not sure the answer to that one.
I adopted her in January 2013 after an especially bad holiday. Right before Christmas, my beautiful, frail 18-year-old cat, Daffy, finally…
“Anonymous” is an ordinary, middle-aged woman and working mother with one amazing superpower. She’s capable of having 100 orgasms or more in a typical sexual encounter!
I came across an interview with her in the journal, “Sexual and Relationship Therapy”, while writing my article on misconceptions about the female orgasm.
Though she refused to use her real name in the paper, she did discuss in depth her experiences with multiple orgasms. Her story is presented as a scientific case study. Let’s just say it’s jaw-dropping.
“Orgasms with a partner could in essence be indefinite but usually after around 60 or…
“He drove his tongue inside her, setting off another shattering moan that was music to his ears. She was quite an instrument to play, so finely tuned, and if he touched her right, she made the most glorious sounds — raw, intense, absolutely delicious noises of pleasure as he plundered her with his tongue. — Lauren Blakely
When it comes to sex, the vulva is an exquisite instrument capable of producing and sending incredible sensations. But all women are different. And what sends Carry Ann to the moon will send Susan screaming out the door.
Now, this could be said…
Poor Princess Marie Bonaparte (great grandniece of the short Frenchman with the bad attitude), in the immortal words of Mick Jagger, she “couldn’t get no satisfaction” despite a robust sex life.
Now it is true that her sex life didn’t include her closeted gay husband Prince George of Greece very much. But he wasn’t the only fish in the sea…There was always his aid-de-camp, that cute prime minister of France, and other lovers she took while married to George.
But none of them made her come during intercourse.
This bothered the hell out of her! It didn’t help that Freud…
When I was 25 years old, I went on the road trip from hell — all thanks to my new best friend and her jailbird boyfriend.
At the time of the trip, I had known my BFF Karen* for almost a year. We had bonded deeply and were pretty joined at the hip by the time this merry jaunt into the 9th circle took place.
We clicked despite our wildly different backgrounds. I was five years older than she was and a southerner, while she was from New York and barely 20.
It was a bond born out of trauma.
A few years ago, I noticed that the cellulite that had always made a patchwork quilt of my behind had somehow made its insidious way up to my arms. Let’s just say this wasn’t a wonderful discovery. In fact, it was downright jarring.
I have always had a tendency toward cellulite, even when I was less than 100 pounds, even as a teenager, and even with a strict workout regimen. It is my genetic lottery. My luck of the draw. So, I had long ago reconciled myself to cottage cheese thighs — as long as that’s where the cheese stayed.
A few years ago, I started doing fine art self-portrait photography. At the time, I was in my mid-forties, a grad student, and needed a creative outlet. While I loved self-portraiture, let’s just say that looking at my aging skin in unflattering light and raw HD was more than a little ego-deflating.