I’m A Ball Woman

I met up with 2 of my favorite people last week for a girls’ night. Six years ago, this would have involved low cut tops, tight pants, boozy nights out, and battle cries of “Let’s get slutty!!” reverberating off the walls. Now, it means we get together and order take-out, look at pictures of Melanie’s new baby, and Natasha turns into Martha Stewart and bakes decadent desserts. Like Bob Dylan said, the times they are a-changin’.

One thing that never changes though – the conversation always turns to sex. It seems inevitable when the 3 of us get together that we wind up in detailed conversation about the craziest shit. And we wouldn’t want it any other way. Thank god Melanie isn’t one of those people who can only talk about her baby, and our conversations haven’t been toned down in any way. (Neither has she for that matter, and for that we are all grateful.)

But I digress – we were talking about sex.

Screw the stereotype that men talk about sex more than women or the antiquated idea of “locker room talk” – most of the women I know love to talk about their sex lives more than any of the men I know. And I have news for you, guys – we share detailed information with each other. Detailed. Information. We’re in the trust tree, and if you can’t talk to your best girlfriends about nipple clamps or sex-induced UTI’s  or what went wrong the last time you attempted anal, who CAN you talk to?

So I was asking about Melanie’s sex life after the baby and the conversation turned to our partners’ specific preferences. Melanie has never been lacking in the boob department, but now that she’s breastfeeding her cups runneth over. Like, a lot. They’re huge. And she was saying how her husband has always been “a boob man” and now that she puts Pamela Anderson to shame, he’s enjoying them even more. That’s his “thing” – the visual of her tits just does it for him.

This of course led into me sharing that it’s the reverse in my house. Gil appreciates my G cups, sure. They never want for attention. But he is “an ass man” through and through. He can’t get enough of my butt. And can I just say, there is plenty of it to go around. But for him, that’s the visual. That’s the thing that really revs his engine. I would even tell you that if I could get a silicone replica of my butt made for him to snuggle with (or whatever) when I’m gone, he would be all over it, pun definitely intended.

big butt apple

It got me thinking though, it’s so common for us women to categorize our male partners as either “ass men” or “boob men” because so many of them really have a distinct hot button, but there is no equivalent the other way around.

It’s not like Gil is sitting around with his friends saying, “Yeah man, Courtney appreciates my dick but she really can’t get enough of my balls. She’s totally a ball woman.”

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I AM a ball woman. But I’m also an ass woman, a lip woman, a tongue woman, a strong hands woman and a deep brown eyes woman. There is not one aspect of him that turns me on above everything else. It’s all a package deal.

When Natasha or Melanie are talking about their hottest sexual encounters, they’re not telling me things like, “Oh, I was in heaven with his balls just bouncing above my face. I almost came just looking at them.” I mean, good on ya if that’s what does it for you; whatever gets you to the big O is a win and not something I would judge – trust tree, remember? And the sight of our men does certainly turn us on. But I don’t think it’s the same for us in a visual sense when it comes to one specific body part, which is really interesting to me.

I know it’s different for every person and every couple, but it’s the term, “He’s a _____ man” that has become such common vernacular in our society. When Melanie tells me her husband is a boob man, I don’t bat an eye and I immediately understand what she’s talking about. If her husband turned to one of his friends and commented that she was totally a scrotum woman, I think he’d definitely get some very confused looks and a thorough grilling.

Some would definitely argue that it’s a sign of how much women are objectified and looked at as “things”, while the same is not really true of men. And I suppose I would agree with that to a certain extent. But for me, at the end of the day it is so nice to have a partner who is so vocally and physically expressive of his appreciation for my body, I don’t mind it one bit. I guess I don’t find that kind of objectification to be a problem if it’s coming from the person I love. Quite the opposite actually – I revel in it.

I’m fortunate enough to have a partner who is constantly telling me how beautiful I am, and how much he loves my body. One who walks into the kitchen just to grab my ass, or try to slide down my yoga pants if he can get away with it (he totally can). As someone who has really struggled with my weight over the last few years and who is still at odds with my own body and self-acceptance, I could not ask for anything more.

So maybe I should be objectifying HIM a little more, and start commenting more on how good his butt looks in his pants, or reaching over and giving his balls a little squeeze when no one’s watching and reminding him how much they drive me wild. If it’s as much of a confidence boost for him as it is for me, then shame on me for not doing more of it sooner.

I feel an experiment coming on…

My Mom Caught Me Masturbating

My mom officially knows I masturbate. Well, she has probably known that for a long time… we are pretty honest with each other and there have been enough slightly awkward jokes over the years to really bring that point home. Plus, who DOESN’T masturbate? To those who say they never have, I’m not even sure how to wrap my head around that. Please, do it tonight. It’s amazing.

Anyway, she knows, and has known for quite some time and we have the kind of relationship where we can talk about sex and it’s not weird or awkward. But let me be the first one to tell you… even if you have the kind of open relationship I have with my mom, nothing prepares you to be caught going to town on yourself with your Magic Wand. While having phone sex. Oh, did I not mention that part? Let me set the scene for you.

The story takes place about a year and a half ago. I was recently back in my own condo after having lived with my parents the month following a rather painful shattered ankle and subsequent surgery. I was so excited to be on my own again, and have some real privacy – when you are sleeping on a recliner and can’t move on your own, privacy takes a back seat. I should probably mention at this point I was seeing someone who lived in Maryland, and with me being in California, we were very, um, verbally expressive with each other since physical contact wasn’t on the table.

So I had reached a rather frustrating crossroads and desperately wanted to be in my own room, spending some quality time with myself. And my vibrator.

With that in mind, I announced my decision to go back home and my parents helped me pack up and get settled, with the agreement that my mom would stop in to check on me regularly and help me out with cooking, cleaning, etc. All the things I still couldn’t do while on crutches. And she already had a spare key so that made things easy. Are you starting to see where this is going?

One evening, we discussed having lunch at my condo the next day, but since my mom works different Weight Watchers meetings, she wasn’t sure when she would be available. We left the conversation with what I considered soft plans – I assumed she would call once she knew if she could make it. And when 2:00 rolled around and I hadn’t heard from her, I figured she wasn’t going to make it. And I got a call from Maryland. What’s a girl to do? Take a break from work and catch up with the East Coast, that’s what.

So there I am on my bed, pants strewn somewhere on the floor, “catching up” with both Maryland and my Magic Wand. Bedroom door open, since I’m in my condo alone and closing doors behind you on crutches is a real drag. And it was good, let me tell you. Weeks and weeks of build up and frustration finally coming to a head. Literally. I was so close I could taste it when I heard a noise that sounded a lot like my door opening. I froze, my lady boner disintegrating instantly. And then I heard the distinct sound of my door closing and my mom’s voice.

To be fair, I had just chastised her the day before for ringing the doorbell before coming in – I had a broken ankle, did she think I was going to get up and come answer the door?? Apparently she had finished up with her meeting and had taken our conversation to mean we had lunch plans for whenever she finished up and remembering my comments from the day before, had just decided to let herself in without knocking or ringing the bell.

giphy

None of that was consolation to me as my orgasm dissipated and the mortification of the situation started to wash over me. OK, so she came in the back door of the condo which doesn’t have a direct view into the bedroom at least but I was fully naked from the waist down, spread eagle on my bed and flustered from the lack of blood in my brain. And still on the phone with Maryland, who, I’m fairly certain hadn’t missed a beat on his end.

The logical next step here would have been to call out to my mom, tell her I was naked or changing, or ANYTHING else. But instinctively I tried to avoid the horror that is your mom walking in on you like that, so I sprang out of bed, leaping across the room to close the door, forgetting for a minute that I had a broken ankle. I remembered mid-air though and essentially tucked and sprawled to protect my ankle from any contact, and laid myself out across the floor and into the door, slamming it closed with my head essentially, phone still clutched in my hand. I screamed in pain or panic or both, and I could hear Maryland on the other end interpreting that as a sign of orgasmic bliss and an invitation to join me.

And my poor unsuspecting mother is now pounding on the door, demanding I let her in since she can hear me howling on the floor and is convinced I’ve fallen and hurt myself again and is probably mapping out the fastest route to the ER in her head. And I’m just babbling at this point and can’t put together a cohesive statement. At some point I hung up the phone and rolled away to let her open the door. So there I am, naked on the floor, bawling, with my mother asking me what the hell happened, trying to figure out why the fuck I’m on the ground.

As she is peppering me with questions, I’m trying to stop crying long enough to form sentences and I just didn’t have the wherewithal to even lie. I probably should have. But through a strangled breath I finally gulped out, “I WAS MASTURBATING! I’M SORRY!!”

She laughed. I mean, how could you not? Once she realized I wasn’t really injured and hadn’t just cracked my head open or broken another bone, she laughed her ass off. I wasn’t quite so ready to laugh about it. I was still naked and had a broken ankle, so I had to ask my mother to bring me some pants so I could get dressed and really assess whether I had hurt myself while hurtling my body across the room.

A few minutes later as we were sitting on the couch and had determined the only thing that was injured was my ego, my mom just looked me dead in the eyes and said, “I wish I could tell this story to everyone. It’s so funny.” Thanks Mom.

I’ll tell you one thing though… she ALWAYS knocks before coming in now.

I Can Finally Wear A Vibrator Around My Neck!

We are officially living in the glory days of technology. Forget flying cars. Crave just launched a new vibrator that you can WEAR AS A NECKLACE. Oh yeah, they also have one that doubles as a thumb drive. Screw the iWatch (pun definitely intended) – this is some wearable technology I could get excited about!

necklace

Crave: The Sexy Side of Wearable Tech

Part of me thinks this is totally ludicrous – I mean, who needs this?? But the other part of me is definitely going to pre-order one, because HELLO — it’s a wearable vibrator that is also actually a stylish piece of jewelry, and I love me some accessories.

Apparently you can also get these puppies engraved… now all I can think about are the best inscription options for something like this.

From Crave’s website:

Take your pleasure seriously. –Charles Eames

My brainstorming session:

The essence of pleasure is spontaneity. -Germaine Greer

Pleasure is the most real good in this life. -Frederick the Great

Too much of a good thing can be wonderful. -Mae West

Well, you get the idea. I could go on and on. Come on ladies, who’s with me?? This is such a step up from those cheap vibrators disguised as tubes of lipstick or yellow rubber duckies. This is actually a piece of jewelry I would wear. Now, I have no idea what the power is like on this thing, or how its performance stacks up. But don’t worry… I’ll investigate and report back

Everyone Needs Their Own Sexy Ewok

As anyone who has been in a long-term relationship knows, your sex life ebbs and flows. Not necessarily dramatically, but sometimes there is more consistency than others. I mean, it’s all relative: for some people that means it goes from once a week to once every couple weeks and for others it means it goes from 3 times a day to once a day.

Life happens – whether it’s kids, or opposite work schedules, or stress. Sometimes we’re just tired. Sometimes we need to make more of an effort than others. I personally feel that sex is an incredibly important part of a relationship and it should never feel like a chore. And as a woman, I want to be sexy for my partner – that really makes me feel good, so it’s a win-win situation. I want him to want to rip whatever I’m wearing right off of me. And I have recognized that sometimes if I’m not feeling great about my body or if I’ve had a really stressful work week, I’m less likely to make the extra effort.

And the other day it really hit me that I haven’t been making as much of an effort lately. Case in point: I was making dinner and while it was cooking on the stove, I walked out of the bedroom with no pants on and said, “Hey babe, wanna do it while dinner is cooking? We have about 15 minutes.”

OK, while he definitely didn’t say no to that, I’m not winning any romance points. He even commented from the table, “Wow. Really? C’mon babe, ROMANCE ME.” And ladies, he’s right, we should definitely be romancing our guys as much as we expect them to romance us. And for them, it doesn’t mean sending roses to their office or buying them chocolates. It’s sex. They want and need sex.

So the other night as we were lying in bed together, in an attempt to get my sex goddess on, I had a conversation that took a sharp left turn, and reminded me that humor is actually one of the hottest things you can bring to bed.

Me: Hey babe, would you like it if I bought something sexy to wear for you?

Him: Of course! I would really like that.

Me: Oh good. I was thinking sexy lingerie. Or maybe even a costume.

Him: (after a pause and a slightly confused look on his face): A costume? You mean like Batman?

OH. MY. GOD. This is what happens when you fall in love with someone whose first love was comic books.

Me: (screeching) NOOOOOOO!!! Oh my god, what is wrong with you?? I meant like a naughty schoolgirl or something!!!

Him: (now enjoying my dramatic reaction and the potential for humor) What about Spiderman? Or Superman? Or FRANKENSTEIN!!

Me: (shaking my head in defeat): I should have just suggested Princess Leia, you big nerd.

Him: No, that’s stupid and overplayed, don’t do that.

Me: OK, well maybe I’ll just dress up as a sexy Ewok then. Make one with boob cut-outs. Would you like that??

Him: You know, I bet they make those. The internet has everything. I bet there is even Ewok porn.

Me: Seriously? You’re so ridiculous, I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.

And 10 seconds later, thanks to smart phones and dirty lonely guys who live in basements and have a knack for graphic art, we discovered that Ewok porn does, in fact, exist. And I was reminded how lucky I am to be with someone I can laugh with all the time. There’s pretty much nothing sexier than that.

Dear Vagina

Petals of Pink Roses on woman's body. Concept of Waxing. Bikini Zone

Dear Vagina,     

I hope we can find someone to just love us for US someday.

Love,

Courtney

Dear Courtney, 

Do it yourself. Seriously. We’re awesome.

PS: I’m cold.

Love,

Vagina

There is a weird mental block that happens to a lot of women when it comes to our vaginas on display, and I want to talk about it.

Most of us have, at some point or another, made the trek to the salon/spa/shady nail place with a backroom and a faded old curtain, to have some or all of our pubic hair ripped out with hot wax. As I type that sentence I can’t help but wonder what broke in our brains to think it was a good idea. That notwithstanding, many of us (myself included) went back, time after time for more of the same. That means a total stranger basically within inches of your lady garden, getting a fully unobstructed view of every last detail, making sure you are getting your $50-$100 worth of torture. And I do mean every last detail, as any woman who has gone through this can attest – they are THOROUGH and get you into positions you didn’t even think were possible for non-gymnasts.

But we happily oblige, letting Olga bodily flip us over on her table in a room with walls that don’t go to the ceiling, barking at us in Russian, grabbing our ankle and spreading us wide to get every last offending hair (true story). Seriously, after the first experience and mild mortification when you belatedly realize that a Brazilian means that OH MY GOD YES THEY ARE ACTUALLY WAXING MY ASSHOLE… SHOULD I SAY SOMETHING? IS THIS NORMAL? OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD, you get used to it. I used to have totally normal, pleasant conversations with my waxers (all female obviously) as they were pulling and stretching and spreading to do their job. It never occurred to me to be self-conscious at that point and there was a predictable routine, so it was essentially like getting my nails done.

And even if you’ve never subjected yourself to that experience, all women have had to hoist their feet up into the stirrups for a pelvic exam – it’s part of our coming of age I suppose, and you do get used to it.

On the flip side, at the same point in my life that I was going Brazilian on the regular, if someone I was dating had asked to just “look at it” and give my vag a full inspection in a well lit room – just looking – I would have been uncomfortable. And I explicitly remember a girlfriend of mine recounting that exact scenario. I remember her telling me how weird and self conscious she felt and me emphatically agreeing. And we’re not alone. I know this concept makes a lot of women uncomfortable. But WHY??

Why, after spending all that time spread eagle in the salon, was I at all self-conscious when a new boyfriend wanted to leave the lights on and visually drink it all in? I spent all this time and money on something I wanted to just hide under the covers? Where is the vagina-love?  I mean, I am no prude and have no objection to oral sex, but the idea of someone really looking that closely without DOING something… I guess I assumed they would be looking for imperfections. Because that was what I did to myself and to my body – look for the things that were wrong.

And that’s the crux of it I think, at least for me. I spent way too much time beating myself up, comparing myself to others, and wondering if I looked ok, that I couldn’t just be. I couldn’t love myself completely. It was different when it was just a stranger at a New York salon – who cares what they thought of me? Who cares if they were comparing my vagina to the one they’d seen an hour before? But with someone I cared about, someone I loved, it was scarier. Somehow, my twisted self-criticism had morphed into an unfair projection that my boyfriend would be doing the same: picking out what was wrong, or comparing me to others.

It took some time and a healthy relationship to drive home the point that in reality, that couldn’t be further from the truth. At the point that someone just wants to admire your body like that, and once you have that level of intimacy, they are THRILLED to be able to see all of you and love every inch, whether it’s waxed or not. We should embrace it. And give our vaginas (and our whole bodies for that matter) some unconditional love.

Men as a whole (at least the ones I know) are very visual creatures, and they relish the chance to enjoy all of you without self-conscious squirming or outright refusal for them to just be able to look. It is actually a very loving and erotic moment in a relationship when you let those insecurities go and literally lay yourself bare for them. Unless you’re having no strings attached one night stands with guys with a gyno fetish, in which case mazel tov and enjoy.