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The Latex Landfill

The Latex Landfill


 

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Drama Trauma

Drama Trauma


 

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Aural Sex: The Decibel Dilemma

Aural Sex: The Decibel Dilemma


 

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Bite Me!

Bite Me!


 

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Hit it and quit it

Hit it and quit it


 

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In the sack

In the sack


 

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All up in your Facebook

All up in your Facebook


 

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Plucking the heartstrings

Plucking the heartstrings



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Pet peeves

Pet peeves


 

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Yogasm: a near-breath experience

Yogasm: a near-breath experience


 

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Bugged out in bed?

Bugged out in bed?


 

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G-spot jealousy

G-spot jealousy


When you’re in a relationship with another woman, there are many small envies that might develop — over thicker hair, better bone structure, smaller thighs, bigger breasts. But the one that really hangs me up is a bit more complex: orgasm envy.

If there is such a thing as an “orgasm inferiority complex,” I think I suffer from it. Just when I think I’ve reached my sexual apex, I wind up in bed with some girl that performs the sexual equivalent of an Olympic floor routine. Or, better yet, she settles all my doubts about the existence of female ejaculation.

The more women I sleep with, the more orgasms I see. The more orgasms I see, the more envious I grow. “Why can’t I do that?” I often wonder, watching a woman writhe around at the apparent stimulation of her G-spot. It’s not that I’m not having orgasms; it’s just that I don’t foam at the mouth before my head spins around twice and explodes. On more than one occasion, I’ve responded to a woman’s orgasm with a stupefied “How did you do that?” Coy laughter follows. “No,
really,” I insist. “How did you do that?”

“Most women I’ve been with female ejaculate,” one lesbian pal reported. “Why can’t I female ejaculate?! Damn it!”

Or, conversely, you have the woman worried about having too many orgasms when her partner can’t get there. “I put a limit on myself. I realize at some point I have to stop because it’s not fair,” says one orgasmically inclined woman. “And I just make sure to take care of myself when she is not around.”

I have to imagine this is strictly a lesbian affliction, whereby two women with similarly functioning parts could potentially grow envious of each other’s orgasmic capabilities. In a heterosexual relationship, a girl might be jealous of the ease at which her boyfriend climaxes. But she probably won’t be left wondering why her penis didn’t feel the same, or resort
to punishing her vibrator in an attempt to emulate a partner’s performance.

It’s terrible to admit, but sometimes I feel as if I’m performing in bed more as a lesson in how I want the favor returned rather than as a selfless act of pleasing a partner. I’m like a lesbian Bill Belichick vividly mapping out my vaginal playbook: “Okay, I want you to run down the outer labia, then go deep in the hole, and pump it fast several times.” My hope is that perhaps I’ll attain the same level of satisfaction that she did through a reciprocal technique.

Ultimately, I guess I should be happy that I’m with women who actually have orgasms, considering that up to 75 percent of women have reported faking. (Faking with another woman, by the way, is sort of like trying to fool a carnivore with Tofurkey.) And many more of my lesbian sources report of partners who are anorgasmic altogether.

Though I’m always open to sexual exploration and growth, I’m also aware of my own limitations, one of them being the tendency to roll over and conk out like a dude. So, rather than give in to the insecurity that could develop by
measuring my performance against a partner’s, I’ve learned to enjoy the pleasure vicariously as part of a
cumulative sexual experience.

And like the good Catholic girl that I am, I recognize that sometimes it really is better to give than to receive.

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who’s pink with envy. Send your thoughts to jeannieg@comcast.net.

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Making scents

Making scents


 

 

They say that human beings are capable of smelling more than 10,000 scents. Why is it then that one singular odor can leave us scarred and wanting to take a toothbrush to our nostrils?

For me, it wasn’t just any scent. It was her perfume — a heavy musk that seemed to live in her hair, on her clothes, in her skin. It was both alluring and off-putting, just like her. I should have known then that we were destined for failure.

My sense of smell is my strongest — and the only memory trigger lucky enough to have survived years of bong hits. I smell Cool Water, and I’m immediately back in 2000 wondering why my girlfriend smells like a man. I get a whiff of Curve, and I’m pursuing a cute poet in Ptown in 2002. Patchouli has its place in my olfactory annals, as does CK Be, along with the “natural” odor of a mate who shunned deodorant.

According to the Discovery Channel’s Anatomy of Sex program, every one of our other senses gets filtered through the cortex. Not smell. Smells bypass that logical part of our brains and race directly to the limbic system, nestling into our long-term memories. Essentially, we can’t fend them off with logic. Smells just invade, a quality that is especially alarming if the smells trigger unpleasant memories.

Hence the reason why that malicious musk has become a constant reminder that both it and the woman who wore it were too strong for me to handle. What’s more, her unwillingness to alter it proved that she was either unaware of my sensitivities or simply didn’t care.

To me, perfume and personality have a direct correlation. People who wear floral scents are trying to say, “Look at me! I’m sweet!” People who wear musks want to say, “I’m edgy and slightly dirty.” People who wear anything by Calvin Klein
are saying, “I am susceptible to homoerotic advertising.” And those who wear enough of something to overpower a room
are saying, “I’m an inconsiderate asshole completely devoid of selfawareness.”

Asked about the effect of scents in her relationship, one friend had this to say: “She never smelled bad, but she never
smelled good.” Unfortunately, the relationship was characterized by emotions that were equally lukewarm, and it suffered a quick demise.

Another friend recalled the unpleasant experience of kissing her girlfriend’s neck and getting a mouthful of what tasted like white lilies. “I felt like I ate a funeral bouquet,” she said. “It’s no surprise that our relationship died.”

There is a reason why certain olfactory expressions, such as “sniff it out,” “something doesn’t smell right,” “I smell a rat,” “pass the smell test,” and so on, exist in our vernacular. They are meant to remind us that when our eyes betray us, our nose knows. You might see wine slide nicely down the side of a glass, but if your first whiff of it smells like trash, you probably shouldn’t swallow. Applying this logic to your relationships might help.

And so I’m hoping that someday soon, the pungent aroma of that woman’s signature scent will stop reminding me of how much the relationship stunk.

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who wants to know what your perfume says about your personality. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.

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