Bowie’s first dictionary was likely much like my first dictionary — an eight-inch-thick tome. It was big, heavy bitch with thin-skinned pages that stuck to your fingers, covered with a stew of spider-fine print. I’ve grown up, and the dictionary has shrunk. The big, heavy book first became a couple of featherweight CD-ROMs; then the CD-ROMs thinned into weightless internet. This disappearing act is a paradoxical one, for as the dictionary has journeyed from analog to electronic to digital, it both holds more and is easier to use.
“Do you have Kik?” read the OkCupid message from Odin’s Thirst Trap, a 20-year-old blond living in Stockholm. “It’s what all the kids here use.”
I was traveling to Sweden to write and to get laid, not necessarily in that order. I prepped for my trip by checking the average April temperature, booking an AirBnB in Hornstull (“the Brooklyn of Stockholm”), changing my OkCupid location from New York City to Stockholm, and joining international Tinder. I downloaded an app for the T-Bana, the Stockholm Metro, because it was free.
Every adult—and every astute kid—knows what’s really going on in “Little Red Riding Hood,” and it’s a lot creepier than a wolf sitting at the top of the food chain. Audiences recognize that this fairytale is less concerned with literal predation than it is preoccupied with literal rape. But when the anthropomorphized wolf consumes Grandma and Red, “Little Red Riding Hood” conflates eating and rape in a strangely cannibalistic act.
In a new memoir, an obsession with the Bard and spanking transforms what it means to live a sensual life.
Put your head on your lover’s chest and you will hear ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump. It’s a heartbeat, but it’s also a very specific rhythm—it’s iambic pentameter, the metrical foot made famous by William Shakespeare. Even if you don’t know your trochee from your spondee, you know an iamb. You can’t not know it; iambs are the poetry of your lover’s blood, your mother’s blood, and of your own.
It’s a straightforward act, yet it’s a slippery one. “Milkshake,” “skull-fuck,” “hummer,” or “head” all name it; likewise, you might suck a dick—or you might enjoy getting your cock sucked, or both. Opting for delicacy, you might call it “oral” or “fellatio.” But real talk: if we’re going to name the sexual act of giving pleasure to a penis by mouth, chances are we’re going to call it a “blow job.” In the kingdom of sexual slang, “blow job” reigns supreme; it’s the odd sex term that sits nearly unchallenged on its throne.
However ubiquitous, though, “blow job” is hilariously inapt.
We know horny. We’ve used it to describe the state of our own bodies and those of others. “You make me so horny,” we might have told someone, and when we said it, we meant it as a compliment. “I’m so horny,” we might have complained, and when we said it, our auditors knew exactly what we were feeling, for they have felt horny too. We grew up with horny.
"Once you've had a lover robot, you'll never want a real man again." That's a line from Gigolo Joe, the sexbot played by Jude Law in A.I. Artificial Intelligence, the 2001 Steven Spielberg film. What makes Gigolo Joe special—aside from his dewy skin, gnocchi-plump lips, and shiny-suit razzmatazz—is that he represents a very rare filmic depiction of a male sexbot .
Think about it. The sexbots you know and love are almost exclusively female bots servicing human men. They're the Stepford Wives' gynoids and Austin Powers' s fembots; they're Ava and Kyoko of Ex Machina and Pris of Blade Runner. Chick sexbots populate television, too. Buffy the Vampire Slayer's April and the Buffybot were lovingly crafted with the express purpose of fucking.
December 1962, June Cochran changed history. More than being named the fourth official Playboy Playmate of the Year and the magazine’s ninth Miss December, Cochran (5’2”, 36D, 102lbs, 19 years old) became the first playmate to have her photos accompanied by a questionnaire divulging her “turn-ons” (Corvette sports cars) and “turnoffs” (fresh guys). Every Playboy Playmate since has reliably done the same, putting the objects of their erotic desire on display right alongside the things that quash that desire dead.
2014 was the year that misandry became chic. That January began with the reminder from Madeleine Holden, creator of Critique my Dick Pic, that "dick is abundant and low value," a Tweet that resonated with the power of a 140-character manifesto. The movie release of Gone Girl and Taylor Swift's video for "Blank Space" made misandry aspirational. Etsy samplers emblazoned with "men are scum" and Café Press mugs reading "male tears" proliferated. The year ended with feminazis opening their 2014 Misandmas presents with glee, finding copies of Bitch Planet and Bad Feminist.
A week ago, Stoya, adult performer, business owner, and essayist, accused her ex-boyfriend and fellow performer James Deen of rape on Twitter. Stoya described her assault in a pair of tweets; the first alluded to the pain of seeing her rapist lauded as a feminist, and the second named her rapist and described the rape. She said, “James Deen held me down and fucked me while I said no, stop, used my safeword. I just can’t nod and smile when people bring him up anymore.”
Stoya’s tweets packed a powerful punch: they brought down the most famous straight man in porn.
Adult performer Stoya signed into her Twitter account on Saturday and, in two succinct Tweets, leveled rape accusations at her former boyfriend and one-time porn co-star, James Deen. “That thing where you log into the internet for a second and see people idolizing the guy who raped you as a feminist. That thing sucks,” she wrote. Just over 10 minutes later, she clarified: “James Deen held me down and fucked me while I said no, stop, used my safeword. I just can’t nod and smile when people bring him up anymore.”
The reaction was swift: since Saturday afternoon, the tweets went viral, engendering two supportive hashtags (#SolidaritywithStoya and#standwithStoya); porn outlets Kink.com and Evil Angel dropped Deen from their rosters; The Frisky ended Deen’s sex column; and two more porn performers, Tory Lux and Ashley Fires, came forward with their own stories of alleged abuse by Deen.
Stoya’s tweets and their quick entry into the news cycle hints at a larger cultural movement: that people are believing women, even sex workers, when they say they were raped.
Here’s one compelling clue that sex on the beach sucks: The drink named after it uses peach schnapps. At best cloying and at worst the thing of which nightmare hangovers are made, peach schnapps is preferred by people who are young, unsophisticated and lacking a proper bed.
Which, I might add, is also true of those who consider sex on the beach a capital idea.
The act seems to hold myriad allure. Sex on a beach is public, it feels romantic and classic movies tell us it’s something hot couples do. No doubt, the beach is sexy. People are barely dressed, rubbing themselves with oil, dripping with pheromones. Everything about the environment tells us we should want to fuck.
Everything, that is, except the sand. And the bugs. But mostly the sand, which sticks to moist bits (and what is sex but an elegant mashing of bits that are moist?). At its essence, sex on the beach is a bucket-list act, sitting alongside the mile-high club as something we're supposed to do. Beach boning is a to-do list item that, once checked off, is unlikely to be done again.
6/25/2015: Can 'Orange is the New Black' Jailbreak 'Caged Heat'?
Three years ago, the pilot for the Netflix series “Orange is the New Black” opened with a long, menacing, and vaguely hallucinogenic shower scene. It plunged Piper Chapman, the main character based on real-life ex-con Piper Kernan, into a steaming, wet torrent of images—and the audience with her. “You got them TV titties!” an inmate exclaims, snatching the towel from Piper. “They stand up on they own, all perky and everything.” It’s a scene that could have come out of any girls-behind-bars B movie, an opening that flirts brazenly with the trope of girls gone wrong. (Read more)Read More
I remember the first time I actively, unambiguously tongued the anus of a man. It was June 1994 in the Yankee Doodle Motel in Shelburne, Vermont. My boyfriend, a muscly manly man, hot from the shower and dewy with steam, flopped on the bed. The skin over his ass was plump and invitingly pink-white; I had to put my mouth on it. My tongue, flat as a trowel, cleaved to his asshole. In the parlance of the time, I "rimmed" him, and he liked it.
In the course of writing this article I have made five false starts, checked Twitter eight times, refreshed my email four times, texted plans with two friends and IMmed a third, four times run out for coffee, and masturbated—twice. All of these things are forms of procrastination, but only one is a form of procrasturbation.Read More
Let's see: There was the time I was 15 and, eying a career in broadcasting, did a Saturday ride-along with the local news team. The smirking, fratty 30-something male reporter told me a dirty joke; it ended with a punchline about a tiger and me laughing nervously. There was the middle-aged guy at the pool who would leer and talk at me the summer I was 16; his chest hair glistened in the sun, oily and fluffy as sheep wool. I giggled at him too.
The filmmakers cut the infamous ‘tampon scene’ from Fifty Shades of Grey without understanding why fans found it sexy instead of disgusting.
I am a big fan of period sex.
Part of my enjoyment is that I came of age in a place (Vermont, renowned for its woodsmen and its hippies) and a time (the late 70s and early 80s) that were conducive to being matter-of-fact about female bodies. The very first time I had sex during my period was on the floor of a nearly-empty college apartment with a guy I was dating; I had no idea that I had gotten my period while we were shagging. I went to the bathroom and, in the greenish cast of the fluorescent lights, I saw the blood. I thought it was pretty cool.
I walked out and told the guy. “Oh,” he said, looked down at his crotch, and offered me a beer. It was no big deal to him. (Read more)
John Ruskin, as any liberal arts grad will tell you, is famous less for being the defining voice of Victorian art criticism and more for the putative story of his wedding night: He gazed upon his bride’s naked body, saw her muff, and fled in horror. Ruskin died in 1900, but our own repulsion at and fascination with female pubic hair continues to mirror his. The human body holds myriad uncanny sites, but few are as contested or as overdetermined as the female mons. Hairy or bare, it’s rife with meaning, intrigue, and analysis. It’s also the shiny, glossy, four-color subject of Marilyn Minter’s glam new art book, Plush. (Read more)
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man in possession of an iPhone must be in want of a dick pic. But once he snaps a photo of his Johnson, how should he negotiate the thorny terrain of prick portraiture? Speaking as a single woman who takes great delight in all the male parts, but especially the dick, I can attest that while every man could send a dick pic, not every man should send a dick pic.
We are in the age of the dick pic, so much that it’s hard to remember that it wasn’t always that way. (Read more)Read More