Sex : Sex

In the Sack: Un-Silent Springs and Drama Class

Jeannie Greeley — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 10:00:00 GMT

You are too funny [in "Aural Sex: The Decibel Dilemma"]! Move the bed to the other side of the room, put some music on, and fix the springs on the bed. Any lesbian can do this in 10 minutes! Better yet, find your decibel level at someone else's house first. They're not your neighbors! My roommate happens to be a dominatrix, so anything she hears next door is nothing new! You can't be silent all the time!

Risqué Roomie

Dear Risqué Roomie,

If I dated lesbians who doubled as repairmen, I'd probably be screaming in fear, not pleasure. But thanks for the tip. Oddly enough, the one dominatrix I dated was a mouse in bed. Makes you wonder what taking in all that unwanted aural static can do to a girl's libido.

I just read your article ["Aural Sex: The Decibel Dilemma"] in STUFF Magazine and found the quest for hot silent sex very interesting. In my experience, I found silent sex to be hotter when the silence is needed, such as when a college roommate is sleeping a few feet away or there's the thrill of getting caught in some form. The unsaid decision to remain silent brings a level of chemistry to the experience. It almost becomes a competition where one wants to make the other scream "UNCLE!" This can create more of an unselfish sexual experience that can be incredible. Holding back in bed is rarely fun. However, when it is needed and you're both trying to hide the fun being had, the challenge can be orgasmic.

Quiet Riot

Dear Quiet Riot,

I have a better idea - how about we get all Gestapo like Tufts University and ban dorm sex when a roommate is present? People, please don't confuse my message of respectful and pleasurable volume with this ill-conceived policy to "facilitate communication among students and ... empower roommates ..." The only thing students are going to learn from this harebrained scheme is the perfection of the muffled orgasm. And, for the record, if a girl is silent during sex and then screams out "UNCLE!" it's usually going to be followed by years of therapy.

I found your column ["Drama Trauma"] to ring all too true and admire your decision to avoid drama, rather than seek it. And I'm envious that you may have found a non-melodramatic counterpart (though I'm doubtful she'll remain that way, if she is an actual woman). But I'm curious about this tandem function you mention, and your own hand in creating/sustaining drama. Does your therapist have any advice on changing those things - beyond your dating choices - that may subtly work to keep drama in your life?

Drama-free Dude

Dear Drama-free Dude,

Theater, gay men, and Jewish in-laws all work to keep drama in our lives. There is nothing we can do about any of them. And, sadly, you are likely correct that this calm and pleasant soul will soon implode solely because of her biological affliction as a woman. If you had to wake every day and shave 75 percent of your body, apply makeup, do your hair, saddle yourself with a bra, ram a thong in your crack, and weather your PMS or tend to your period - all before you left the house - I imagine you'd have the occasional emotional flare-up as well. But you've put me on notice. If things stay this even-keeled for much longer, I might have to check her for extra parts.

- Jeannie Greeley
Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who checks her mail at jeannieg@comcast.net. Letters are subject to editing for considerations of space and clarity.

The Latex Landfill

Jeannie Greeley — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 15:00:00 GMT

Re-gift it. Make a bouquet! Boil them.

These were just a few of the suggestions I received after soliciting advice about what to do with old sex toys - a societal quandary on par with health-care reform these days.

If you've got even a hint of kink (or desperation) in you, you've probably managed to amass quite the arsenal of tools by a certain age. And while lovers have likely come (ba dump) and gone, one or the other of you likely gets stuck with the romantic relics of that time together.

Normal people probably just chuck these things in the trash. Normal people probably don't buy purple plastic penises and give them sexy foreign identities. And normal people definitely don't suffer bouts of depression when they forget the name of a beloved strap-on. So, sure, call me crazy.

But I know I'm not alone in this dilemma. I know of some who have fought over these objects during a breakup as if they were family heirlooms. And I know of others who thought they could literally wash away their pasts and start anew with a tarnished toy.

So how do you simply wake one day and whip something so personal, so laden with memories, so goddamn expensive, in the trash? I guess it could be cathartic. Maybe I could be like one of those crazy moon-goddess bitches who goes to the woods to burn mementos of her lover to a pile of ash. Instead, I end up throwing the random dildo in a closet, or tucking it in a sneaker in the trunk of my car for my father to stumble upon accidentally. Awkward.

The bigger problem, I realize, is detachment. And if I sound like some freak that collects a lover's hair out of my shower drain, it's not nearly that creepy. In fact, it's got less to do with the actual sex act related to the sex toy than the experience surrounding it - the precipitating events that led you to the Amazing Superstore on Route 1 on a Saturday afternoon, the awkward hilarity of buying it, the unspoken realization that you are taking your relationship to a new level. And then suddenly - bam! - the lover is gone, and you're left with a used fake appendage or sputtering Rabbit.

Maybe there should be a recycling program. There's got to be a way to melt these things down into something useful - maybe we could be driving our hybrid vehicles on tires made from dildo heaps. Or maybe there's a program for the less sexually fortunate. Do you know what a fake penis costs these days? Pleasure ain't cheap.

Well, ask and you shall receive. The kind folks at Dreamscapes (recycleyoursextoy.com) and SexToyRecycling.com not only free you of your libidinous burden, but they incentivize the recycling program with gift cards or discounts on the purchase of "post-consumer sex toys."

"Now, when you get rid of your ex-girlfriend's strap on, your ex-boyfriend's butt plug, that worn out pocket pussy or broken Magic Wand, you'll be doing a favor for the environment," the latter company boasts.

But perhaps most promising of all is LoveHoney's Rabbit Amnesty (lovehoney.co.uk/rabbit-amnesty), a program that has already recycled thousands of burnt-out bunnies and offers half off the purchase of a new rabbit vibrator to help with future "ecogasms."

Suddenly the landfill beneath my bed seems less daunting. I mean, isn't this what we all want to do at the end of a relationship anyway - trade up to a newer, faster, and better model? So perhaps it's time for me to let go of the ghosts of dildos past and move on to greener pastures. Now let's just hope that my upgrade isn't just an amalgam of the haunted remains from a bunch of crazy women that came before me.

- Jeannie Greeley
Jeannie Greeley is an eco-freaky freelance writer. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.

Drama Trauma

Jeannie Greeley — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 14:00:00 GMT

"I'm concerned about this word you keep using to describe your relationship," my therapist said recently. My mind filled with a list of titillating adjectives, only to hear this word drop from her mouth: "Normal."

Normal? Normal! About the only thing in my life I want described as normal is a pap smear. Certainly the word had rarely, if ever, crept into my relationship vernacular. There's been "unhealthy" and "insane" and "toxic," but never this seemingly offensive "normal" that she now spoke of.

At a stage in life when even my staunchest female holdouts have succumbed to marriage proposals, I'm still petrified of drifting anywhere near normalcy in my relationships. Last week I broke into a cold sweat when I found myself gripping a grocery cart and worrying about missing Mad Men.

"Are you about to have a seizure?" The Girl asked.

"Just back away from the carriage," I warned, surveying my midsection to make sure I wasn't wearing a fanny pack.

The problem, I've realized, is perhaps not such a fear of normalcy, but such a dearth of drama. Drama - it is that rage-inducing emotional rollercoaster that we all wait in line to ride, dreading the nausea of its peaks and dips only to queue up and have another go at it. And it has plagued nearly every one of my relationships for the last decade. While I've tended to blame my melodramatic counterparts for its creation, I'm now realizing that drama only functions in tandem. You are either creating it or sustaining it by your actions.

"Do you think you might be ... addicted to it?" one friend asked with trepidation.

Me? Addicted to drama? God no! I hate drama. (Note: the previous utterance is usually the first sign that you like drama.) But it has been the sustenance in my relationship diet for so many years that I'm now weaning myself off it like Kirstie Alley with a whoopee pie. And the truth is, I might actually miss it. If I don't go through phases of hating you so intensely, how will I ever measure my love?

So was my friend right? Am I a drama junkie? And why do I sound like Carrie Bradshaw right now?

In researching the traits of a true drama addict, I sadly had to accept that I possessed many, if not all of them. Drawn to chaotic, unstable people. Check. Losing sight of life goals because of the focus on your toxic relationship. Check. Dreaming of killing your lover in her sleep and then being the saddest one at the funeral. Check.

So rather than hiding my ailment, I confessed to The Girl. I dredged up all the damaging tales of arrests and fights and gross infidelities, the late-night getaways and screaming matches and text-message battles, the tears and the stress and the insecurities. And I swore that I Wanted To Change.

"Wow," she said, dumbfounded. "Now I'm worried that I might bore you."

I stroked her hair and reassured her. "You will," I said.

Then I clicked on the television, tuned in to Mad Men, and got my vicarious fix of womanizing, binge drinking, and meaningless sex. Thank god for Don Draper.

Hey, if I'm going to let go of my own drama, I can at least indulge in everyone else's like the rest of you "normal" folk do.

- Jeannie Greeley
Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer with no baby, no mama, and no more drama. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.

Aural Sex: The Decibel Dilemma

Jeannie Greeley — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 14:00:00 GMT

This time of year, many of us are adjusting to the presence of new roommates, new neighbors, new surroundings. While this comes with a host of changes, one of the most unwelcome accompaniments is this: silent sex.

When we think of silent sex, most of us conjure an image of an ex who lay in bed like a loaf of bread. That’s not what I’m talking about here. I’m talking about hot, passionate, desirable sexual activity that needs to be muzzled like a disobedient German shepherd.

On a decibel level, I’d say I fall in the midrange of sexual volume, in what I expect both of myself and of my partners. Mute women doubling as mattress pads can be discarded just as easily. Yet the screamers on the other end of the spectrum annoy me with their histrionic performances, which seem less sincere than self-serving. But if we need to take others into consideration, we should all adjust our volume knobs a tiny bit.

Surely we’ve all heard the stories of the girl in the building whose orgasmic cries were mistaken for a brutal murder. Or we’ve had to confront our orgasmically unruly roommates in order to sleep through the night. Or, worse, we’ve had a note slipped under our door by a neighbor begging for a reprieve from our disruptive trysts.

Personally, I think it exhibits brazen rudeness or a general lack of self-awareness to simply release your orgasmic wails without regard for the person on the other side of the wall, a person who you will most likely bump into at the coffee pot. Most people don’t want to hear you having sex unless they’re paying for it. But we also cannot be expected to completely alter our sexual urges to suit the whims of an intrusive roomie or ever-present housemate.

I thought for sure my friend would have some advice in the silent-sex department, since she lives with her invalid grandmother. But all she had to say was “She’s deaf.” Another friend is making the best of it, having recently welcomed a new male roommate. “Of course no one’s going to argue that unbridled sexual energy is the best kind,” she said. “But, failing that, you’ve got to work with what you’ve got.”

So I’m trying to explore silent sex as a divergent treat for our other senses. It’s like a Charlie Chaplin film, without the thick mustache. When we don’t have our normal aural cues to rely on, we have to focus on other things, like the pace of someone’s breathing, a wincing of the face, the stiffening of limbs. Playing with the deprivation of sound can actually be quite fun. Haven’t we all experienced the hilarity of trying to get off while riding atop a bed that sounds as if it were designed to produce a soundtrack for Looney Tunes? Part of the fun of that experience is the hushed allure — moving slower to accommodate the springs, inhibiting your usual spastic movements, perhaps even inadvertently enjoying a much longer road to climax.

Silent sex can teach you that pillow biting isn’t simply for gay men bracing for the pain. It’s also for straight girls and lesbians who need to stifle their sound with a mouthful of goose down. And if you want to push that one step farther, you’re inching slowly toward the world of gags, which have a host of applications even outside the bedroom.

Essentially, by depriving yourself one sexual pleasure in the way of sound, you are inviting new techniques and pushing the boundaries of what each of you can withstand without releasing an ear-piercing shriek that will make for an awkward elevator ride with the new tenants.

Or maybe this is all bullshit. Maybe I’m simply coming up with ways to adjust to my surroundings rather than adjusting my surroundings to suit me. Maybe I am a screamer, dammit, but I’ve never broken from my crowded Back Bay accommodations to allow myself that unbridled vocal freedom. I fear I’ll be the Susan Boyle of sexuality — finally discovering my vocal talents when I’m too old and homely for anyone to truly care.

Instead of reaching that frightening conclusion, I remain content to explore the joys of silent sex while avoiding the subject of cohabitation. On that topic, I’m perfectly happy to hold my tongue.

— Jeannie Greeley
Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who wants to hear people speak up about this subject. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.

In the Sack: Post-break-up songs and Facebook-phobes

Jeannie Greeley — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 14:00:00 GMT

I enjoyed your column on the woes of post-break-up music (“Plucking the Heartstrings”). I had the same experience this year. I ended up taking “our albums” out of my iTunes for the time being and returned to the music of simpler times in my life (e.g., The White Stripes and Sublime). I also found solace in two somewhat esoteric Dylan tunes: “Honey, Just Allow Me One More Chance” and “When the Ship Comes In.” Hope you like them.

Mr. Dee-Jay

Hey Mr. Dee-Jay,

Dylan makes me want to kill myself on a good day. I can’t imagine having to suffer through him while in a melancholic state. But thank you all for your suggestions at harmonic healing, which included everything from Godsmack’s “Whatever” to Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” to Ani DiFranco’s “Untouchable Face.” However, the standout suggestions had to be from a blog post called “I lost you but I found rap music,” which lists tunes like Jay-Z’s “Dirt Off Your Shoulder” and The Panty Droppers’ “She Got Her Own.” If a girl can’t find promise in The Panty Droppers, there’s no hope.

Just joined the wonderful world of Facebook a few months ago, and I will probably soon need to go to Facebook Anonymous for this. Our communication is breaking down so much. I never thought I would get into texting, but now I am, along with swarms of other Americans. Pretty soon I swear they are going to come up with some type of technology in which your phone blinks colors that symbolize a feeling: green flash … someone is jealous. But oh wait! They won’t communicate why they are feeling this way. It will just be a guessing game of the new age. It is way too much effort. Especially when it is a booty-call text or something.

Facebook-phobe

Dear Facebook-phobe,

I, too, agree with you on many of these points about the plight of our communication. But what I’ve realized is that the digital wave is one you’ve got to get on in order to get off. If I were you, I’d be less concerned about the annoyance of returning a booty-call text and the looming prospect of these digital “flashes” of emotion — because one day soon, this digital age will have passed you by. And the only “flash” you’ll have to worry about is the hot one accompanying menopause. Enjoy this digital delirium while you can.

I first lived with my wife in St. Louis in the early ’70s. She loved sex and taught me a lot too (an anal maven!). But she kept another part of her sexuality from me: she liked girls. One night after drinking with friends, I came home and heard sex sounds coming from the bedroom. Macho me was ready to kick ass! But what did I see? Her doing the “69” with one “Sherry” — a blonde, 38DD babe friend of hers. They both saw me but kept on at it. No invite, so I passed out on the sofa. Some six months later, we broke up. Ten years went by and she found me. She claimed her bi days were over and proposed marriage. I accepted. Huge mistake. She kept coming home late and would not tell me where she had been … licking pussy no doubt. Netdetective.com tells me that she has divorced three times. Gee! Wonder why?

Limp in St. Louis

No, dear readers, I do not make this stuff up. Had you read the original two-page diatribe, written entirely in caps, you too would likely have thought it the lost pages of a tragically trite ’70s porn script. But one more lost soul found it necessary to make me the receptacle for his lunatic ravings. On a positive note, if the “anal maven” mentioned in this letter did turn out to be gay, she has this freak as a reference point, which might make lesbians seem normal in comparison.

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who checks her mail at jeannieg@comcast.net. Letters are subject to editing for considerations of space and clarity.

Bite Me!

Jeannie Greeley — Mon, 07 Sep 2009 14:00:00 GMT

There is one act in a sexual relationship that single-handedly reveals the potential kink level of a partner: biting.

Bar none, a partner’s receptivity to biting has always been commensurate with his or her receptivity to further sexual exploration. My purely unscientific research has proven that lovers who respond to a first, fretful nibble with an “ouch” or an “ow!” tend to plateau as mediocre sexual partners. On the other hand, those who react with a heated sigh or intrigued gasp have proven that biting is simply a welcome foray into kinkier behaviors.

Biting, no doubt, is a mild kink when compared to more intense things like bondage, or catheterization. Without really acknowledging it as a voyeuristic kink, we as a society have grown obsessed with Anne Rice novels, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and, more recently, True Blood. Hell, this very publication ran an RCN ad depicting a topless couple in which the woman is clawing and biting through the man’s flesh. The copy read: “Eternal life, eternal entertainment, always RCN.” “Temporary erection” was implicit.

This is subtle (or not-so-subtle) vampirism, folks. Surely the WB network would have been hard-pressed to air Buffy the Paddle Wielder. That would have been a gross nod to leather freaks and homos and other people who enjoy themselves in the bedroom. But biting? Biting is a behavior that, while a touch taboo, is harmless enough for prime time. We’re so comfortable with the act of biting that we use the phrase “sink our teeth into it” to express our lust for everything from food to books. Why not people?

For the trepidatious lover, biting is a tempered way to play with pain, and also a controllable one. We might not know how to safely wield a whip or how to heat wax to a lower-than-skin-scalding temperature. But we know what’s required of our teeth to bite through an apple versus pudding. (I do, however, confess to nearly having to floss a nipple out of my teeth after a few overzealous nibbles.)

Biting is also an interesting way to toy with the give-and-take nature of control in a sexual encounter. And, if you’re so inclined, it’s a unique way to mark your turf by leaving a fading reminder for your lover. More often than not, it’s a simple, animalistic expression of insatiability. Sometimes, a kiss is just not enough. But a bite will do.

You can start with the lower lip, where most people have already experienced some form of impassioned nibbling or pulling. Inner thighs and underarms usually require a more delicate approach. But a protruding collarbone or sturdy (yet ticklish) hipbone can allow for some serious gnawing. Personally, I would avoid any serious exploration of the clitoris, which could be dulled rather than excited by biting. Most of you can’t find it anyway.

I’m not daring to say that a partner who doesn’t like biting has no sexual potential. There are those who could have been scarred by an old dog bite or who might have dated a British man. Exceptions are always allowed.

But I’m continually astounded by the vanilla sexual repertoires of the average person, or by the blushed admissions of “I’ve never tried that” at the coyest attempt at sexual exploration. My general bedroom mantra is this: if you’ve never tried it, how do you know you don’t like it? (Exception: blow jobs.)

A harmless nibble could lead to an enticing bite, which could lead to a serious clawing, which could lead to a spontaneous spank. Pretty soon you might be biting off more than you can chew ... and eating it up.

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who wants to hear your thoughts after you chew on this. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net

Hit it and quit it

Jeannie Greeley — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 14:00:00 GMT

In today’s fast-paced society and puttering economy, many of our favorite luxuries seem to have become less of a priority. Extended lunch breaks, days at the spa, and feeble attempts at the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle have all suffered.

It appears even sex has taken a hit as of late, with our libidos shrinking alongside our 401(k)s.

But even for those among us maintaining our pre-Bush/Cheney sex drives, we are at the whim of an evil force called Time, which has turned the marathon sex session into a full-on sprint.

I began to wonder about the intriguing solution to this and many unfavorable sexual circumstances: the quickie — a must-have tool in anyone’s coital arsenal, in my opinion. But the less flattering connotation of the term was brought to my attention by the bored musings of a married friend. “The faster he can get it over with, the better,” she stated. “These days, I prefer the quickie.” Suddenly, my romantic image of impassioned mid-afternoon trysts was sullied by the image of a painful pummeling.

So what is it that defines a “quickie”? Is it a function of inconvenient circumstances, or the product of disinterest? Or is it the ultimate acknowledgment of irresistibility? Is it simply any sex where at least one partner is attempting to climax in as little time as possible, regardless of the motivation? Or have you grown so accustomed to seven-minute stints in the missionary position that you have no idea what this “quickie” is that I speak of?

Hurried sex seems to occupy a curious niche in our collective sexual repertoire, encompassing on one hand the steamiest of opportunistic encounters, and on the other hand the most sterile and utilitarian of orgasmic pursuits. Personally, I don’t think the “I-have-to-pin-you-against-this-bathroom-stall-right-now” screw should ever be lumped in with the “let’s-just-get-this-over-with” kind of romp. One has to do with desire, the other with divorce.

But the boundaries of acceptability on the quickie seem to be debatable, highly circumstantial, and largely dependent upon who’s getting off. Some more goal-oriented lovers seem eager to accrue orgasms for themselves and their partners like lap tallies in the Daytona 500. Others adamantly defend the need for extended foreplay, viewing the quickie as wasteful or less meaningful — the sexual equivalent of drive-through fast food when you could be feasting off fine china. Most people I talk to, however, seem somewhat ambivalent on the topic, recognizing both the allure and the compromise of the quickie.

“It can be totally hot, and highly functional,” said one male friend. “But sometimes I feel guilty for skipping the foreplay. Should I have been sweeter?”

The answer is no. Quickies should come with an implicit understanding of the haste with which the act will take place. A less addressed aspect is that probably only one of you will be getting off. In my opinion, if you initiate the quickie, you should be the giver of the orgasm. If I’m going to be woken from a groggy slumber before my alarm goes off, I better not suffer through my day with a trapped orgasm while you wander about in your post-coital bliss.

But if you’re going to employ regular use of the quickie, make sure it’s just one of many tools in your sexual arsenal. Certain occasions are simply unacceptable for the quickie. These include time away from the kids, romantic getaways, or really any kind of vacation. But since most of us don’t get to indulge in these luxuries anymore, we’ll just have to get used to feeling like 10-minute tricks with our panties pulled to the side.

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.

In the sack

Jeannie Greeley — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 12:00:00 GMT

I can’t even express my full reaction to your article “Pet Peeves.” Your words so closely and so humorously echo sentiments that I have expressed. I’m writing to you on behalf of all the other maladjusted, loveless hermits whose lives go unenhanced by the pitter-patter of little feet, chronic jarring cries at 3 o’clock in the morning, or regular regurgitated-furball and Alpo “surprises” on the kitchen floor. Good luck to you whenever you start making the rounds to the “local pound” again. May you eventually find genuine healing and resolution … not just a replacement.

Peeved

Dear Peeved,

By this point in the summer, we lesbians have suffered through the despicable frat party that is Memorial Day weekend in P-town and survived the subsequent khaki chaos of Pride. If I see another Bud Light or popped collar, I’m going to plunge into either single motherhood, pet adoption, or worse, speed dating. Keep hope alive!

I read your article “G-Spot Jealousy” and found it really interesting. I am curious to hear more about your experience on this whole range of intensity, frequency, and ease of climaxing among the women you have been with. There is so much misinformation out there in terms of how different people can be, and that sometimes leads to unfulfilled expectations, frustration, and hurt feelings. How much of a difference in range have you seen for ease of climaxing, frequency/number of orgasms, and intensity?

Curious George

Dear Curious George,

I almost paddled a girl in bed once — and not in the kinky oh-yeah-harder way, but more in the all-signs-of-life-have-expired way. Like many people, I’ve seen women experience everything from eye-rolling ecstasy to depths of boredom normally induced by balancing a checkbook. I’m sorry, but if my tongue is as cramped as a runner on mile 25 and you’re still not reacting, you need to quit the Zoloft or learn how to speak in the sack. Too many women will let someone hopelessly thrash around between their thighs, while they lay there silently enduring it, rather than asking for what they want. Then it becomes humorous fodder for brunch with the girls. By then, the talk is just cheap. And guess who still hasn’t had a good orgasm?

Read your article on second chances [“Used Goods”]. My girlfriend and I are on round three of going out. She ended a very quick round one — “Something’s missing but I don’t know what it is.” I ended a quick round two after she said the same. We embarked on round three. I loved her and wanted to build a life together, but only if she felt the same. She is still mixed up, doesn’t know what she wants, loves me but doesn’t love me that way, is terribly upset, doesn’t know why she can’t let me get close to her, wants to love me and can’t let me go, feels something is missing but can’t define what, and is just generally a mess. I guess the message is, we had to explore this all the way. Know any cute girls? Straight ones (no offense). Sane ones.

Not-So-Merry-Go-Round

Dear Not-So-Merry,

I’m cringing at your recitation of your girlfriend’s psychotic ravings — partly because I’ve both heard and spoken similar sentiments. Truth is, the poor thing probably just needed a best friend who porked her when it was convenient. Sadly, what’s probably “missing” for this girl is her next boyfriend, which is why she’s jerking you like a yo-yo. On the upside, it’s likely that you’re good in bed because nobody gets caught in the revolving door of a relationship for a mediocre lay. And sorry, but if I knew any cute, straight, sane girls, I wouldn’t be sharing.

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who checks her mail at jeannieg@comcast.net. Letters are subject to editing for considerations of space and clarity.

All up in your Facebook

Jeannie Greeley — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 14:00:00 GMT

As I adjust to the ever-evolving world of digital relationships, I’ve decided to stick to one simple rule: do not allow someone you love on your Facebook page. (Friends and family are exempt.)

Actually, this rule also applies to anyone you might date, could possibly share bodily fluids with, or might one day anger, upset, or incite and especially to those you might dump or be dumped by.

I’m embarrassed to admit that in a recent breakup I felt compelled to warn her of her impending deletion from my Facebook profile. Certainly, this was tops on the list of emotional necessities. The phone calls were ceasing. The text messages no longer jingled. The carrier pigeons had been laid off. But Facebook — that omniscient digital diversion — still taunted me with its voyeuristic prowess.

At any given point, I could check in on the ex’s moods, stew over flirtatious banter on her wall, gently caress her pixilated images. (I’m not doing any of this, by the way. Just saying that one could.) You can watch a life go by without you if you take that masochistic route. So why give yourself the option? Trust me: that innocuous gesture of Facebook “friendship” at the start of a new relationship will only come back to byte you in the ass.

So now, with any new prospects, I just pretend to be above Facebook’s shallow playground. “I don’t want to reduce us to that form of digital stimulation,” I’ll say. It sounds more sophisticated than, “I fear my own digital stalking capabilities.” And then I just hit “ignore,” and their requests vanish like Ambien on my nightstand. Besides, do I really want to give potential paramours access to several pictures in which I’m clutching Budweiser cans or sporting a teal bridesmaid dress?

When I fretted to my therapist over the temptation to text or Facebook an ex (pathetic, I know), she reminisced about the days when Alcoholics Anonymous used to simply urge “restraint of tongue and pen.” Now, it’s restraint of tongue, text, tweets, you name it.

But hitting that “remove” button on the ex felt like pulling a trigger. “This cannot be undone,” comes the ominous warning. I couldn’t do it. That dastardly Facebook remained my only semblance of a high-speed connection to her.

I had to hire a digital hit woman. “Give me your email and password,” she demanded. Reluctantly and after much backpedaling, I did. “Be gentle,” I insisted. And within seconds, the job was done.

Now that I’ve had to quit my digital temptation cold turkey, there’s always that lower-tech temptation, a little thing that runs on batteries and that has been gathering dust. Hey there, old friend.

Plucking the heartstrings

Jeannie Greeley — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 14:00:00 GMT

Every relationship has its soundtrack. It starts the moment you meet on the dance floor, fist pumping to tired Journey tunes. It grows along the miles of lengthy road trips and romantic getaways. It builds as you climax during sweaty sex. Then it haunts you in your sleep like that lady at Wal-Mart with the one eye cocked in a different direction.

I’m suffering from what I’d like to call harmonic hurt. The affliction involves the painful plucking of the heartstrings with every note of every song I experienced with an old flame. Currently, I’m working to silence that soundtrack — I’ve put the CDs away, altered a few Pandora stations, deleted the “Romance” and “Take it like you mean it” playlists from my iTunes. But then some sappy Feist ballad sneaks onto the airwaves at Target, and there I am, sobbing into an Isaac Mizrahi jumpsuit. With all this talk of music “therapy” in the world of psychology, why hasn’t someone created a padded cell where jilted lovers can go and hurl themselves against walls while looping Radiohead’s In Rainbows? (Oh, Thom Yorke, how I love and hate thee.)

To hold me over until that happens, I’ve come up with a few tried-and-hopefully-soon-to-be-true methods of healing the traumatized eardrum — because even though listening to Sia right now is like masturbating with sandpaper covered in images of my ex-girlfriend, I can’t imagine never being able to hear that Aussie’s sultry voice again. So, here are some steps to recovering from the aural scarring of a failed relationship:

• Treat the songs of your relationship like Ted Williams — put them on ice for a while and hope that they will eventually live again.

• Don’t ever introduce “your” songs to a new love interest in the hopes of experiencing some restorative power. You will only cry.

• Tell new love interests that your favorite artists are Bob Oakes and Judy Swallow. A soundtrack of National Public Radio guarantees total numbness while you heal your wounds. (If they’re too dense to recognize these names, you don’t want to date them anyway.)

• If a new love interest happens to play one of “your” old songs, act calm and then tell them it reminds you of the Holocaust. Hopefully they will be sensitive to your needs and not want to condone Hitler.

• Be prepared for the unexpected moment of sabotage when one of “your” songs is played in a Verizon commercial or between innings at the ballpark. Casually stick your fingers in your ears and hum a few bars of the soundtrack from The Shining.

• Unless you are a hard-core masochist, don’t ever have sex with a new flame to one of “your” old songs. If you do, make sure it’s from behind.

• Keep a couple of your favorite songs (and maybe even one band) entirely to yourself. Imagine how much more painful the Bee Gees would be if they reminded you of someone.

• Listen to soulless techno until you are reduced to a drooling zombie that finds emotional fulfillment in a glow stick.

Still, you must prepare to be caught off guard by a gut-wrenching chord progression, the sound of lyrics once whispered in your ear, the haunting repetition of a chorus.

Clearly, I’m not past that point yet, seeing as I almost projectile vomited in a coworker’s office at the recognition of a Bon Iver tune coming from her speakers.

“I hate losing artists in a divorce,” I said. And it was in her advice that I have to keep faith. “Yeah, but the artists always come back to you,” she promised.

Even if the girl didn’t.

Cue world’s tiniest violin.

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer. Send your upbeat song suggestions to jeannieg@comcast.net.

Pet peeves

Jeannie Greeley — Mon, 15 Jun 2009 14:00:00 GMT

When you’re going through a break-up, people are all too quick to offer advice — get under someone else, move on, reconsider suicide. But the consistent medicinal mantra these days seems to be this: “Get a dog!”

Yeah, because one of the best ways a single girl can market herself is by carrying a bag of fecal matter wherever she goes. A dog? I lost a living, breathing, thinking human being, and I’m supposed to replace that with a creature that eats its own vomit? Personally, if something is going to hump my leg and slobber all over my face, I at least want it to buy me coffee in the morning. But it seems quite therapeutic for a lot of folks. I’ve got at least three friends who got rid of one bitch only to replace her with another.

“I’ve never loved anyone like I love this little thing,” my friend said of her new puppy. Watching her walk down Newbury Street with the clumsy thing on a leash, I could see the allure — beautiful women stopping in their tracks, strangers gushing at your prized possession, compliments like “I want that!” and “Ohhh, I have to touch it!” becoming part of your daily routine.

Me, I feel the same way about dogs as I do about children — I like them when they belong to other people. I don’t think I’m cold or heartless for admitting either. In fact, I think it’s quite revealing as to what I can manage in a relationship: I don’t want anything depending on me for its basic survival. And if something’s going to look cute dressed up as a carrot on Halloween, it’s going to be me. But admit that and it’s like you just stoned a baby. I’ve been called selfish, unable to commit, self-absorbed, and unreliable upon the revelation. And at her recent show, Janeane Garofalo issued a terse warning about people who don’t like dogs: “Don’t trust them.” Why? Because I don’t want to spend my Saturdays hurling sticks in the park?

But survey after survey on the subject seems to support this logic. People consistently say they would ditch their lovers before they would ditch their dogs. The quandary earns cable coverage with shows like It’s Me or the Dog. Books are written on the subject, like When Pets Come Between Partners.

I think dogs just delude people about what they can expect from human beings in a relationship. No human is that predictable, unconditional, forgiving, or basic. That’s why people choose the dog over the dude. Take this nugget of wisdom from the aforementioned book: “Sometimes animals take the place of people in relationships.... Feelings of jealousy, anger, control, guilt, and fear can all play themselves out through our pets.” So when you’re lucky enough not to have the dog as a scapegoat, you can just heap all those horrible feelings right onto the human recipient who deserves them.

And therein lies the issue: replacement. We replace people with pets, lovers with rebounds, spouses with affairs, and so on and so forth, until we are covered in a collage of band-aids that makes us think we are healed.

This time around, I’m not giving in that easily. I’m not surrendering and heading to the pound anytime soon (with the exception of the local lesbian bar). I’m sure there’s someone out there just as maladjusted and as repulsed by shedding as I am. And once I find her, I’m going to collar that bitch and put her on a short leash.

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who’s all bark and no bite. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.

Yogasm: a near-breath experience

Jeannie Greeley — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 14:00:00 GMT

Sex educator Barbara Carrellas is writhing around on a padded mat, heaving and convulsing, giggling and groaning, jerking and tensing, until her tattooed feet stiffen with delight.

Circled around her are 20 awe-struck strangers and one seeing-eye dog, all transfixed by a spectacle that seems part religious experience, part epileptic seizure, all ecstasy. It’s what is known as the Firebreath Orgasm — an explosive, solitary experience channeled up along the chakras through a combination of breath work and mental energy that seems to rival the intensity of childbirth, if childbirth was pleasurable for your vagina.

“Practice this and you can become as big a breath slut as I am,” jokes Carrellas, the author of Urban Tantra: Sacred Sex for the Twenty-First Century.

I am here at Somerville’s Yoga in the Square partly to educate readers, but more to figure out how to get off during a particularly crippling dry spell. “Can you really reach ecstasy simply by breathing?” the class description asks. I’m hoping so. In this economy, who can afford batteries?

Carrellas steers us through a series of steps that includes yawning, deep breathing, Kegeling, undulating our hips, and directing all our energy into one pinky finger.

“Now imagine doing this with a cock or a clit!” she says of our now-throbbing extremity.

Then we’re asked to act the vocal part of every character in our own dream orgy. As everyone else moans in pleasure, I’m reduced to near silence, stuck wondering whether Penelope Cruz would groan in Spanish and in what key Lenny Kravitz might climax. Meanwhile, the louder howlers in the room are beginning to crescendo into a cacophonous roar as Carrellas screams “Cum shot!”

Finally, we are ready to practice the Firebreath Orgasm, which culminates with the crucial “clench and hold” — a tightening of every muscle in the body, with special emphasis on the butt, abs, and PC muscles. Imagine someone in a sexy state of rigor mortis, and you’ve got a good sense of the clench and hold.

“This is going to be like a sex party without the sex,” whispers the woman beside me as we recline on our mats and close our eyes. Carrellas cues the stereo, and Télépopmusik’s “Breathe” starts to thump from the speakers.

I’m feeling grossly unprepared, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to be outdone by a guide dog. I writhe and gyrate and try to imagine my breath traveling from my pelvic region into my heart and then on to my head. More likely, I look like my mother, panting and gasping for air as she works out on her rusty Health Rider. Though Carrellas has directed us to focus on our individual experience, I’m distracted by the salacious soundtrack that has erupted around me.

As we head down the final stretch, I take the requisite 30 quick breaths, followed by three deep inhalations, holding the last in. Then I squeeze every muscle taut and stiffen my body like a board. After our respective climaxes, the gasps, shrieks, moans, and yelps eventually subside into silence.

“Whatever just happened to you is amazing,” Carrellas assures us.

I’m not quite sure what happened to me. I know my arms went numb — an apparent side effect of intense breath work that doesn’t involve cigarettes. I tingled a bit here and there. I fretted over the whereabouts of that dog. And I generally got stuck in the clutter of my own head, which is all too often what hangs us up in life and in bed. In either arena, the best advice is often that offered by Carrellas: just breathe.

If that doesn’t work, try a vigorous bike ride on a bumpy road without underpants.

Jeannie Greeley is a light-headed freelance writer. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net. To learn more about Barbara Carrellas and Firebreath Orgasms, visit www.urbantantra.org.

Bugged out in bed?

Jeannie Greeley — Mon, 18 May 2009 18:27:00 GMT

IN THE SACK:

Your letters. My responses. All in a fancy, condensed format.

I met a great girl and we fooled around some, and I could tell she was holding back. Finally she told me she got HSV (Herpes Simplex Virus) 2! I was shocked and felt bad, but I stopped seeing her because of it. Two years later, someone I’m sleeping with gets it. I get checked out and I don’t have it. A year later, it shows up! I don’t know where I got it, when or from who! I have slept with women and not told them, and I just use condoms. I haven’t passed it on to anyone. But I feel bad for not being truthful. I know a lot of other people feel the same way.

Bugged Out

Dear Bugged Out,

There’s a giant ship that’s also called the HSV-2, which stands for High Speed Vessel. What’s my point, you ask? Don’t you see any correlation between yourself and that hulking piece of steel? You both ram your giant vessels into open ports, unload a bunch of unruly seamen, pollute the local ecosystem, and then speed off to your next port of call in a new, strange land. Me, I’d at least want to know what I’m welcoming into my waters. So, you now have HSV-2 and don’t tell the people you sleep with, who in turn might have contracted it, and then they sleep with other people. And yet you say so assuredly, “I haven’t passed it on to anyone.” Yeah. That’s what the sailor said.

As a former “married straight girl” who has been with a woman for the last five years, I’ve heard it all. I’ve had several conversations with people on this topic, and you said it well [in the Flirt issue’s column, “Label Whore”]: “I’d rather it be a defining moment in our lives than something we feel we need to define for others.” I’ve noticed that these are the relationships that are easiest for everyone to pick at. At the beginning of mine, it wasn’t about me switching labels. For both of us, it was about making the commitment to one another. Life is made up of phases, and sometimes we’re lucky that the good ones stick around and make up all the brilliance of our future.

Flip-Flopper

Dear Flip-Flopper,

My god, if only my relationships were solid enough to endure the three-week lag time in publication. That altruistic outlook of mine was soooo winter ‘09. I’m not sure what phase she’s in now. But this is my new “phase” — rich husband. Where art thou? Please, no more women with their talking and their crying and those pesky mutual menstruation cycles. (And by women, I mean me.) Right now, I couldn’t care less about the sexuallabels, but I’d love some nicer ones on my clothes.

Maybe you would like to weigh in on an issue that has caused me some vexation. In a few of my recent girl-to-girl relationships, I have noted that many women who prefer to have sex with other women are completely intolerant of the presence of my very close male friend, who is exemplary in that he is not attempting to siphon off something for himself from my female lovers, but would like to be included sometimes in a very marginal way. In your opinion, Jeannie, is the state of woman-to-woman affection so feeble that it must refuse all men from proximity? Must women who have experienced consternation with some males reject even the best men?

Vexed Vixen

Dear Vexed Vixen,

If by including him in a “very marginal way,” you mean he’d be picking up bar tabs and opening those ungodly heavy doors of the world, then perfect. But I suspect many “women who prefer to have sex with other women,” also sometimes known as “lesbians,” wouldn’t want a side of steak on their plates if they ordered tofu. In other words: “What the hell is that random dude doing masturbating at the foot of the bed?” Sure this “male friend” might be “very close” to you, but he’s likely a stranger to your mates, who probably didn’t bargain for the threesome. And if by “proximity” you mean “in my vagina,” then I’d likely react with consternation as well.

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who checks her mail at jeannieg@comcast.net

Talking Out Your Butt: The Smoker's Dilemma

Jeannie Greeley — Mon, 04 May 2009 14:00:00 GMT

The habit of smoking after sex has never made sense to me. Personally, I’ve always viewed smoking as more foreplay than finale.

Yes, yes. Shake your head at the arsenic-soaked loser that I am. I admit, quite regretfully, that I’m a perpetual quitter when it comes to tobacco. I know what it’s done to my skin, teeth, and circulation. But I hadn’t really thought about its effect on my love life until recently.

Researching ways to quit, I stumbled upon a report about the role of smoking in relationships. “Lighting up gave clues to each partner that it was time to talk, time to give space, or even time to defend yourself because a world-class argument was about to begin,” the article stated, adding that couples need to “recognize cigarettes as an abusive third member of their relationship.”

How could this be? This tool I’d so long used as an excuse for introduction and flirtation had become my abusive lover? Great. Now I’m a smoker and a battered woman.

The report led me to do a painful little inventory that revealed that more than 75 percent of my relationships have started or progressed through smoking — the bumming of a cigarette, the borrowing of a lighter, the numbers found scribbled on matchbooks, the endless conversation that accompanies chain smoking in a relationship’s infancy.

Most of us have clear-cut policies on smokers — we either date them, or we don’t. My lines are a bit blurrier. I don’t want to date a cigarette-with-my-coffee-in-the-morning kind of smoker. And I made this very clear in a recent relationship when my girlfriend’s smoking was becoming excessive. “I don’t want to date a smoker,” I said, exempting myself. She soon called to reveal that she had found a replacement vice — chocolate. “I don’t want to date a fat girl, either,” I admitted, realizing that a butt here and there might not be so bad.

For me, the behavior has always come coupled with revelations about a person: does she prefer Marlboro or Nat Sherman? Is he attentive enough to light you up first? What will her lips look like as she exhales?

But, as smoking culture has died off as we near the fifth anniversary of this state’s ban on public smoking, so too have those opportunities to use it as a foray into flirtation. My once guilty barroom pleasure has now reduced me to a shivering mess begging for a light on the corner like a crack whore. More noticeably, my smoking behavior has tended to follow that same fateful arc as so many of my relationships — from fun to damaging.

In the beginning, my girlfriend and I used to sneak away from the dance floor for a quick puff. But toward the end, we were gorging on tobacco diets fueled by anxiety, frustration, and an impending sense of doom. We’d sit for hours in an idling car, flicking butts out opposite windows and speaking only to snag the last drag. It became my preferred tool of passive aggression, as I’d flagrantly light up after nagging her all day to quit. And if I woke to find a cup of stumped-out butts, I knew a fight had gone down the night before.

On top of all this, my “abusive third party” is also reportedly responsible for damaging my orgasmic potential, shriveling my eggs, and leading to early menopause. Hot!

So here I am again, single and vowing to kick the habit. If this go-around fails, there’s always smokingpassions.com, a dating site for unapologetic smokers, who lure women with musings like: “All I know from the first time I bought a pack of Marlboro reds at age 14 for $1.75 I know I was onto something.” Shootmyselfintheface.com is looking a lot more appealing right now.

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who hopes her friend Petunia has kicked the habit. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.

G-spot jealousy

Jeannie Greeley — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 12:51:00 GMT

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.