61 Frames Per Second by John Constantine Today in Hooksexup's videogame blog: Test Icicles take it to the Streets of Rage and Cole goes Sega ga-ga for Segagaga.
The Remote Island by Bryan Christian Today on Hooksexup's TV blog: Is Ashley Alexandra Dupré developing her own reality show? Our sources say... maybe!
Since I have the kind of Type-A personality that's satisfied by rules, I contend with the tension between here and there by purposefully not doing something (anal sex) until a fixed date (marriage), not as a joke or endearing quirk, but as way to deal. Not everyone understands. I get hell from my girlfriends for not trying it. "You write about sex, weirdo. You can't not do it." A few of them think my decision is based in fear: of pain, of the unknown, of crossing some invisible slut line. Some of that might be true. I'm typically a wholehearted submissive (unless instructed otherwise), and there's a lot that's sexy to me about all kinds of power dynamics and their manifestations. But anal brings nothing to mind other than a stinging shock. My ever-expanding universe of imaginary and porn-related fantasy (a recent addition: panty-specific porn — so hot!) has never included anal. I click away from anything that meanders unexpectedly assward. There's no appealing wetness over there, no give. Watching a particularly large penis go to work on a young lady's backside is in no way erotic to me, even to the part of me that generally responds all too quickly to the combination of pain and pleasure. Anal just seems like too much sex, sex that undermines itself, a bloated and ridiculous version of the original.
My distaste is isolated, applied only to me, and only for now. I thrilled to discover that a Rory Gilmore-ish girlfriend of mine is a hound for ass sex.
A maximally WASPy background has me convinced that giving it all away upfront is an autobahn to disenchantment, and moreover, bad manners.
And, penis-insertion aside, I'm not ignorant of the rewards — I've warmly welcomed fingers and tongues into the fray. I'm curious, of course, about the feeling of anal sex. The anticipation is tremendous, in fact.
Still, the whole concept feels too personal to share with a man who isn't the designated "one." My boyfriends, even important ones, aren't allowed to see me in certain compromised situations. I don't pee with the door open, greet them sans mascara, or hang around in sports bras. While I'm an advocate for frank discussion of sex, I don't enjoy talking about non-sexual bodily functions, which is difficult when you're friends with vegans. A maximally WASPy background has me convinced that giving it all away upfront is an autobahn to disenchantment, and moreover, bad manners.
My traditionalism also informs what I believe is a flaccid basis for modern marriage: two adults with enmeshed lives, formalizing their state of enmeshedness. I want marriage to bring with it something particular and new. It won't be a shared apartment or house; marrying someone I haven't lived with seems sociopathic. And it won't be his perspectives on monogamy, experimentation, quality communication, or how best to spend a rainy Sunday, which I'll already know. Saving "it" for marriage has slipped away, and I don't regret that. But I do have this one last thing I've saved.
