Sex and Dead Squirrels
Nov. 16th, 2012 08:43 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mallorys_cameraCassandra and I had a long, fascinating conversation about sex last night.
Also the Meezer took out a huge squirrel and obligingly dragged it on to the front porch for show and tell: Look, ladies! Dinner!
Cassandra, very much Not a Cat Person, has been surprisingly tolerant about my animals, but this was a bit much for her. The Meeze, of course, is the world's most perfect barn cat, but helas! There are few if any barns in Nassau County, Long Gisland. If this were only 14th century Venice, we'd be perfectly safe from bubonic plague transmitted via rodent vectors: Our DNA would prosper! Theirs would die! All thanks to Meezer!
I've spirited any number of small rodents and even a few birds away from the front porch so Cassandra wouldn't see them, but this was a really big dead squirrel. "Damn!" I said. "I mean there were squirrels in Ithaca. But Meezer never got one."
"These are Long Island squirrels," Cassandra said. "Slow and stupid. They shop at outlet malls."
###
"What does it mean to top someone?" I asked Cassandra over dinner, a salad with tons of beets and candied walnuts and small salty morsels of goat chevre – ultimate yum. Served with a bottle of Beaujolais Noveau, first of the year.
Cassandra cocked her head to one side. "Well, it means to run the scene."
"Is it a BDSM term?"
"Not necessarily."
"And do you like doing it?"
Cassandra's eyes went wide and she smiled a dreamy smile. "I do like doing it."
"And had you done it a lot before… ?"
"Before Allan? No. But I was very lucky with Allan, you see. He knows exactly what he wants. He's always asking, How did you know to do that? And I tell him: Because you told me!" She laughed.
There was a time in my life in my sexually liberated 20s, working as a volunteer medic at both the Berkeley Free Clinic and the Berkeley Feminist Health Collective, when I would sit all prospective lovers down in front of a mirror, and then slip off my pants. In some cases, I believe I even introduced a plastic speculum into the mix. That's my clit, I'd tell them. Direct pressure doesn't do it. Takes a while to get aroused. Feels spongy, right? You want to stimulate it from the side or blowing on it gently, or with the gentlest movements of your tongue. That's my urethra. That is not an erogenous zone. Do not play around with my urethra. It doesn't feel at all sexy, and it will only give me a urinary tract infection.
Necessary instruction? I certainly thought so! Because you wouldn't believe the number of prospective lovers – men and women both – who apparently couldn't tell my clit from my urethra.
Until I got married for the first time, I divided my sexual energies equally between men and women. I never had a strong preference for one over another, though, so when the Gay Lib movement first emerged, it left me confused. I would never have identified myself as "gay." In fact, I didn't see the need to identify or label myself at all. This got me into Big Trouble with strraights and lesbians alike. To this very day though I'm still a bit perplexed by people who need to label themselves sexually.
Lots more I wanted to write, but the magic work hour approacheth.
Also the Meezer took out a huge squirrel and obligingly dragged it on to the front porch for show and tell: Look, ladies! Dinner!
Cassandra, very much Not a Cat Person, has been surprisingly tolerant about my animals, but this was a bit much for her. The Meeze, of course, is the world's most perfect barn cat, but helas! There are few if any barns in Nassau County, Long Gisland. If this were only 14th century Venice, we'd be perfectly safe from bubonic plague transmitted via rodent vectors: Our DNA would prosper! Theirs would die! All thanks to Meezer!
I've spirited any number of small rodents and even a few birds away from the front porch so Cassandra wouldn't see them, but this was a really big dead squirrel. "Damn!" I said. "I mean there were squirrels in Ithaca. But Meezer never got one."
"These are Long Island squirrels," Cassandra said. "Slow and stupid. They shop at outlet malls."
"What does it mean to top someone?" I asked Cassandra over dinner, a salad with tons of beets and candied walnuts and small salty morsels of goat chevre – ultimate yum. Served with a bottle of Beaujolais Noveau, first of the year.
Cassandra cocked her head to one side. "Well, it means to run the scene."
"Is it a BDSM term?"
"Not necessarily."
"And do you like doing it?"
Cassandra's eyes went wide and she smiled a dreamy smile. "I do like doing it."
"And had you done it a lot before… ?"
"Before Allan? No. But I was very lucky with Allan, you see. He knows exactly what he wants. He's always asking, How did you know to do that? And I tell him: Because you told me!" She laughed.
There was a time in my life in my sexually liberated 20s, working as a volunteer medic at both the Berkeley Free Clinic and the Berkeley Feminist Health Collective, when I would sit all prospective lovers down in front of a mirror, and then slip off my pants. In some cases, I believe I even introduced a plastic speculum into the mix. That's my clit, I'd tell them. Direct pressure doesn't do it. Takes a while to get aroused. Feels spongy, right? You want to stimulate it from the side or blowing on it gently, or with the gentlest movements of your tongue. That's my urethra. That is not an erogenous zone. Do not play around with my urethra. It doesn't feel at all sexy, and it will only give me a urinary tract infection.
Necessary instruction? I certainly thought so! Because you wouldn't believe the number of prospective lovers – men and women both – who apparently couldn't tell my clit from my urethra.
Until I got married for the first time, I divided my sexual energies equally between men and women. I never had a strong preference for one over another, though, so when the Gay Lib movement first emerged, it left me confused. I would never have identified myself as "gay." In fact, I didn't see the need to identify or label myself at all. This got me into Big Trouble with strraights and lesbians alike. To this very day though I'm still a bit perplexed by people who need to label themselves sexually.
Lots more I wanted to write, but the magic work hour approacheth.
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no subject
Date: 2012-11-16 02:20 pm (UTC)comment with clinical question from tmi
Date: 2012-11-18 04:26 am (UTC)Re: comment with clinical question from tmi
Date: 2012-11-18 06:17 pm (UTC)Serious question.
Saliva will actually carry bacteria, so I don't recommend its use.
Best lubes are those silicone-based oils. Cyclomethicone is that stuff cosmetics manufacturers use in body sprays to make your skin feel all plush and satiny. The silicone molecules are too big to be absorbed into your body and it evaporates really quickly. Also because it's synthetic, it doesn't really give bacteria a place to congregate. I recommend it.
In my experience at least, the urethra shouldn't get rubbed the wrong way from penile penetration, but it can definitely get rubbed the wrong way during foreplay -- particularly if you are with someone who does not wash his/her hands often enough. I would impose certain hygiene codes within the context of romanticism, of course. :-)
Re: comment with clinical question from tmi
Date: 2012-11-22 06:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-18 07:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-18 06:09 pm (UTC)