Sex
Sling shot
My sexologist date put me in a leather sling, in the hopes of inducing the elusive female ejaculation.
I am on my way to see my new lover, the
licensed sexologist — naturally, he
lives in
Marin — and I think of all the
schlepping I’m doing just to get laid.
It’s
going to be a three-bridge day — Bay,
Golden Gate and Richmond. And I have
to bring my own lunch, if you can
believe that. The guy, the man, the
squeeze, the love king, eats only meat
and fruit. End of story.
Or rather, it should be, considering who
I am, I who can’t think of eating
without schtupping or vice versa, doing
it with a man who wasn’t an
omnivore
and susceptible to my wild cooking.
So many reasons not to, but they all
fade just thinking of how good it
was the first time after so long
without. This is therapy, I tell
myself,
from the man who can.
And from the very beginning when I
talked to him on the phone, when he
was a blind-date guy calling because
so-and-so told him to look me up, he
started bragging about how good he was
and how all his exes were still
friends with him — even still fuck
buddies, and why didn’t I call some of
them
for references, which, he assured me,
they would happily give me. It was most
bizarre. A full-fledged narcissist, I
thought, especially when he said this
about himself: “I’ve been told I’m good-looking.”
Well who hasn’t been, but God, you don’t
pass along your compliments.
Flattery like that has a short shelf
life, limited to the receiver.
I said, “Look, I’m menopausal,
overweight and not the glamour puss I
used to be.” I made myself sound really
ugly.
“I think it’s what’s inside that
counts,” he replied.
“OK, I’ll see you.” Of course I caved.
He said the right thing.
When he showed up at my door, I noted
with much mirth that he looked a
lot like me. Yeah, I found him
attractive, but let’s not go there.
First date was coffee and more bragging,
especially about his favorite subject:
The G crest, which is the more proper
term for the G spot, he would explain. He
was
into this tantric stuff of stimulating
the G crest — a ridge, he said, on the
roof of the vagina that, when properly
and (devotedly) stimulated, led to an
orgasm he swore produced a female
ejaculation.
Women ejaculate? Huh? He swore it was
true. He’d show me if I liked.
As a sexologist, he’d explored all this.
I was willing to try. He
was, he said, nonmonogamous, and a
totally committed practitioner of safe
sex, a nonlying, not deceitful, full
disclosure kind of lover. He was looking
for a
serious relationship with someone who
was as committed to sexual pleasure as
he
and willing to accept his, ahem,
lifestyle of multipartners. I didn’t
think I could go that far, but as vulgar
as I found his bragging, I admit I
was more than willing to sample his
wares.
Our first time together, though strained
(he hated cats and wanted me to
lock them away, which I did, but their
pitiful wailing definitely got in the
way of my pleasuring), was more than
promising in the pleasure department,
and
so I agreed with alacrity to come to his
digs, where we would not be
interrupted by domestic animal concerns.
I arrive at a townhouse in the burbs,
all beige and boring, until we go
upstairs to his bedroom suite. One wall
is lined with mirrors (as well as
the ceiling over his water bed).
Another whole wall is lined with videotapes — yeah, most of them porn or
instructional, he said. The drapes are
blackout thick and make me feel
claustrophobic. I notice in front of me
is a
heap of straps and leather on the floor
– yards of it — with hardware. It’s
the kinkiest-looking contraption I’ve
ever seen.
What’s that?
A tantric sling. It hangs from there.
He points to a substantial hook
hanging from the low-slung ceiling. “Didn’t want to intimidate you,” he
murmurs unctuously as explanation for
why he hadn’t hung it up.
I am bold. Sling it up. I want to see
it. It hangs like an egg drop off
the lip of a spoon, ovule in shape, but
open because of the filigree leather.
He explains: “You lie back in it, your
feet in leather stirrups. It’s very,
very comfortable for you, you’re
completely supported. And I can fuck for
hours like this, just pull you back and
forth.”
But we ignore it for now. We move to the
bed. We’re on the bed. His
tongue is forever. But everything of
mine hurts — hips, back, shoulders.
I’ve
left out the part about me swimming in
the bay each day, training for a New
Years Day swim in frigid waters that
leaves my joints aching after training.
I’m a schwimmer, and everything hurts.
I ask again how comfy it is, hanging
there across the room.
You get in first, I tell him.
He gets into it, a mesh of broad straps
that cocoon the body. Slips his
feet, heels down into the stirrups.
It looks fetally comfortable and I am
overcome with excitement and
curiosity to try it.
I am all spread-eagled with my zorch
reflected across the way in the
mirror, mocking me with its open mouth.
I can barely stand it — except, as
promised, it’s totally comfy. I close my
eyes, but not before noticing his
dressing up of his schlong: first the
condom, then the cock ring. Oy vay.
Such utensils, I think.
He’s done my clit on the bed. Now he
enters. Slowly, he pulls on the
straps above me, and the tilt of me in
the sling
rubs and presses my urethra from
underneatha. I’m panting. I’m
clenching.
Breathe out, he says. Push out. He’s
my coach.
It is a constant erotic irritant, this
brushing of that ridge. But part
of the thrill is mixed with a competing
urgency to pee. I tell him so
between gasps.
“Let it go,” he instructs.
Whaddyamean, let it go! Pee, on the
floor?
He grabs a towel and pushes it down into
the sling, under my ass.
“Pushing out is how you have this
orgasm. You’re ready to ejaculate.”
I don’t mean to quibble, but I’m sure
it’s pee. Worse, it feels almost
painful, as if I had cystitis. I want to
stop. He does, and helps me down
out of the sling.
I pee. Come back. We start up again. And
once again, I’m out of my mind
it’s so exciting. He plays with me as
he says, “I can take you higher.”
And then he backs off. I am strings in
his hands, and he frets me as he
pulls on the leather strips of the
sling.
And so it went for hours. But
always, I have to pee, and despite
his urgings to let it go, I cannot. I
wasn’t raised to be incontinent by
choice! I’m tight-sphinctered, I admit
it.
On the last bathroom pass, I look at the
time and gasp. I’d been there
since noon and it was pushing 5
o’clock. I’ll have to try the pee shoot
another time.
“Omigod,” I wail, “I’m due at my best
friend’s house for a cocktail party
I promised I’d attend!”
“I have a party to go to myself,” he
owns, not to be outdone.
“I must go. I’m late already.”
I fly across the last bridge, the
Richmond, on my way to the Berkeley
hills. She’ll never forgive me, I think,
as the hour nears for the end of the
party in honor of an English guest whom
I knew and liked.
I go straight up to her house at the
exact hour published as the party’s
close. I’m breathless. She opens the
door and I see people still there,
thank God.
“Susie,” I gush, “I’m so sorry I’m late.”
“What happened to you?”
“My ass was in a sling.”
“Well, the important thing is, you’re
here now.”
“No. Really.”
Kate Coleman is a writer living in the San Francisco Bay area. More Kate Coleman.
Massage therapists rubbed wrong by sex talk
A Jennifer Love Hewitt show and the Travolta allegations have masseuses tired of being confused for sex workers
(Credit: iStockphoto/sybanto) Joe, a licensed massage therapist, knows what it’s like having a famous client who expects something extra. He had an Academy Award-winning actor begin gyrating on his massage table before raising his hips in the air to show off his erection. “He was hoping that I would play with him in some shape or form,” he says.
Needless to say, Joe isn’t surprised by allegations by two masseurs that John Travolta got handsy during massages. (Travolta’s attorney has denied all the allegations, and called them “ridiculous.”) “It happens all the time,” he says, and not just with celebrity clients. He frequently encounters men who try to fondle him, usually while he’s working on their glutes or lower back and their hand happens to be level with his crotch. “They think they’re so original, but they’re all so much the same,” Joe says, his voice rising. “They all use the same tactics, the same body movements, the same gyrations and grinding my table, the [heavy] breathing.”
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
A night at the vibrator museum
Early vibrators were hand-cranked, two-person jobs -- and prescribed by doctors. How far we've come since then
(Credit: Antique Vibrator Museum) I can now say that I’ve used a turn-of-the-century vibrator — on my hand, but still.
The silver, hand-cranked contraption is usually kept behind glass at Good Vibrations’ Antique Vibrator Museum in San Francisco — but staff sexologist Carol Queen made a rare exception. “This is very special,” she whispered, unlocking the case and carefully pulling out Dr. Johansen’s Auto Vibrator, a relic from 1904. The “auto” part is not so much: It was a two-person job, with her having to crank the device’s handle to get it thrumming. Pressing my finger tips to its inch-wide circular platform of pleasure, I was pleasantly surprised by its power.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
Maggie Gyllenhaal on sexual liberation
The beloved indie star tells Salon about her "vibrator movie" and why she loves playing transgressive women
Maggie Gyllenhaal (Credit: Reuters/Mark Blinch) When I met Maggie Gyllenhaal about six weeks ago, she was enormously and gloriously pregnant, stretching out on a sofa with her shoes off and feet up in a Manhattan office building. (Since that time, Gyllenhaal and husband Peter Sarsgaard have welcomed their second daughter, Gloria Ray, to the world.) We were there to talk about “Hysteria,” the charming, lightweight feminist farce from director Tanya Wexler that explores a key event in the history of female sexuality: the invention of the vibrator by Mortimer Granville, a Victorian doctor who was seeking to cure the mysterious “female malady” that lends the movie its title.
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Susie Bright and her daughter, Aretha, make parental talks about sex look easy -- and fun
Most parents loathe talking to their kids about the birds and the bees, let alone pubic hair grooming, faked orgasms and “water sports” — but most parents are not legendary “sexpert” Susie Bright.
Better than talking about these things, she penned an advice column in 2009 with her daughter, Aretha, then 19, for the ladyblog Jezebel. Their answers to questions about everything from porn to Paxil were unflinching but playful, and at times controversial. Now the pair have collected those columns into a new e-book, “Mother/Daughter Sex Advice.” Together, they read as an irreverent version of “Our Bodies, Ourselves” for the Internet age. The mother-daughter team also reflect on what the experience of writing the column was like, and it turns out it wasn’t as weird as many would think: For the most part, it was just a continuation of conversations they had been having throughout Aretha’s life.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
On the rack: A cultural history of breasts
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(Credit: iStockphoto/NadyaPhoto) It’s hard to be boobs. Sure, breasts are cherished as givers of milk and the pinnacle of sex appeal, but the modern world hasn’t been good to mammaries.
As Florence Williams writes in “Breasts: A Natural and Unnatural History,” they’re the most tumor-prone organ in the human body. They “soak up pollution like a pair of soft sponges,” and transmit environmental toxins to babies through breast milk. “Breasts are bellwethers for the changing health of people,” she says. While we’ve “genetically modified our crops to be able to protect them from the ill effects of pesticides,” Williams writes, “we haven’t yet figured out how to modify our breasts.” Aside from using saline and silicone, of course.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
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