I thought that someone would call me on my poorly-phrased comment in a recent post:

As someone who’s never had a need for sex toys (but that day is getting closer) …

Sure enough, TwiddlyBits gently did it, stating, “‘Need’ is such a relative word….” So now I’ve a good reason to elaborate.

I don’t have anything against sex toys. In fact, I’d love to have some nipple jewelry (no piercings for me, for weird health reasons). But I will confess to being somewhat bemused by the fondness some individuals seem to have for vibrators and such. It is a hard stretch (pun intended) for me to see how they can be better than sex with a person. I know, I know — they never get tired (or if they do, you can just pop fresh batteries in), they can do things humans can’t, and you don’t have to talk to them to try to get them to do exactly what you want — you just flip the switch or turn the dial, or whatever, and presto, the desired setting automagically takes one into orgasmic ecstasy.

I said I’ve never had a need for sex toys (meaning vibrators and dildos, specifically) because until now, I’ve never been without a willing sex partner for a significant period of time. Now that I am, and it seems likely to be that way for a long time, maybe some of you would be willing to educate me as to what I’m missing, on this subject.

This item carries with it a severe risk of insulin shock. But I confess to understanding the source of the creative urge behind this one. The Nymph has hands which retreat into her sleeves at the first hint of cool weather; I’ve been known to grab her wrist and peel back several layers of sleeve in order to get at a hand to hold. Which is not to say that I would be caught dead sporting this rig:

You are looking at (wait for it) “Smittens“. Ouch, yah. Pass around that insulin needle when you are done with it, will ya?

Okay, so this an entirely predictable post. I’ve been waiting seven days to see what Gina Lynn would write on in her first Wired Magazine “Sex Drive” column. So after I gulped down enough coffee for my eyes and fingers to work moderately well, I fired up the ol’ browser and mosied over, to read about a new remote-controlled dildo that is seriously remotely controlled:

In other words, a man can be thrusting in Cleveland while a woman is penetrated in Seattle, and the cybersex experience gets one step closer to the holodeck.

Here’s a link to the entire interesting column. As someone who’s never had a need for sex toys (but that day is getting closer), this whole idea is weirdly kinky-cool.

I can vouch for this advice:

“Never go to the sex shop when you’re horny. You have no idea what you’re going to end up with. Make a list. Stick to the list.”

Comedian Wendy Spiro, as quoted in the October 2004 issue of Esquire.

Edifying Spectacle offers a fitting tribute to “sexploitation” director Russ Meyer. I imagine the forever-frigid feminists would happily affix that adjective to his work, but as the author of the tribute points out, Meyer’s work celebrated American pop culture in a singular way. Here’s an excerpt from Richard’s tribute:

Incompetently I wish to do honor to one of America’s masters of erotica. To hell with philosophers, economists, editorial writers: isn’t enlivening the erotic life nobler and more valuable than the vaporizings of the classes that think themselves thoughtful and useful?

And, a wonderful image of Kitten Natividad, star of Beneath the Valley of the Ultravixens:

I doubt I’m the only one with an urge to go make tons of popcorn for a Meyer filmfest tonight …

I have a soft spot in my heart for optimists … especially optimistic men. This beautiful sunrise picture shows why:

For the record, I don’t think males and females are necessarily and inevitably enemies, but sometimes the differences between the sexes can make it feel that way. But for some, even the same sex can feel very foreign to deal with.

The recent visit of my sister and nieces highlighted yet again for me how different I seem to be from the normal female. They all are very feminine — careful in choosing their clothes and accessories, skilled at the art of hairstyling and makeup application, and apparently quite good at flirting with men and getting attention without being obviously manipulative. (My other older sister is like this, too.)

I’m lucky if I remember to drag a comb through my hair before noon. I wore makeup in high school, but have gradually lost interest in it. The last time I tried to apply mascara I poked myself in both eyes and looked like a stoner for days. I couldn’t flirt my way out of a paper bag.

Now don’t get me wrong — I get (or got, before I moved out to the sticks) plenty of guy attention. But it’s a very different kind of attention than what I see the other ladies in my family getting. They’re coddled, while I’m asked to help with the heavy lifting. It’s okay for them not to know what a strong safety is, but I’m expected to know the different rules for NCAA and pro football, and recite them whenever they’re relevant in a game.

In short, I’m a tomboy. And in a lot of my interactions with men, it makes a huge difference. It can be very pleasant, when we cut through all the Mars-Venus bullshit and just talk, but it leads to unhappy surprises, too …. like when a guy asks me to dinner, and he freaks because I appear in a dress instead of my usual jeans and t-shirt. I feel like a mutant female.

So, I sometimes sneak behind the lines to see if I fit in better with the guys, which it usually seems I do. Typically, though, like this AskMen website, there’s not much that seems to apply to gals like me. Sigh…..

Oh well. At least I found this gorgeous picture while on my recon mission, which I bet lots of ladies will like as much as I do.