or Love Large
I believe that love is big.
I believe that you can love people for different reasons but with the very same intensity. And not just love but LOVE love.
I believe that love isn’t meant to obsess over just one person. That if you turn all your love tentacles on just one person for too long, that love will quickly turn to entitlement and then hate. Both because your love is bigger than and easily capable of crushing just one person, and also because that person needs more than just one particular color in her/his love spectrum.
I believe that love is stretchy. I believe that the more people you allow into your life, the bigger your love will stretch to cover them. Dunbar’s number suggests that the average human can comfortably maintain around 150 stable relationships, and I believe that if you want to really LOVE love each person in your life, your love is big enough to do that. Your number may be more or less than Dunbar’s, but I believe it is always bigger than one.
I believe that even the most rigorously, traditionally “moral” of people, if cultural or situational circumstances compelled them to love more than their traditional “one,” they would easily be able to.
In short, I believe that everyone is capable of being poly.
It may not be your default way of being, but I believe that there is always a love lurking inside you that has the potential to be bigger.
If a mother can overflow with love for her three children, one because she’s the smallest, two because he’s the biggest, and the other because she’s the middlest, why can’t you too love the people in your life the same amount and with the same passion but for very different reasons? Some people insist that even mothers pick favorites, and maybe some do. But just because she has a favorite doesn’t mean that she wouldn’t also die (or kill) for the other two.
Love is big. Be as big as your love. Love big.
or 10 Steps to a Convincing Climactic Performance (for heterosexual women)
(For obvious reasons, men have more difficulty faking their orgasms, and gay women would only be preaching to the choir.)
This guide can be used to fake an orgasm during oral sex, manual stimulation, or even intercourse. As with any sort of acting, don’t exaggerate. Subtle is better, and when in doubt, go light.
Start off with slow, deep breaths and gradually quicken the pace of your breathing as your supposed “arousal” is heightened. As the “moment” nears, work up to a crescendo of gasping for air. Make sure he can hear you breathe heavily. It doesn’t hurt to let out a few intermittent moans.
“Involuntary” Muscle Contractions
During an orgasm, almost every muscle group experiences involuntary muscle contractions. These are easy to fake. Arch your back. Curl your toes. Clench your jaw. Flare your nostrils. “Unconsciously” dig your nails into his back. Light spasms in your legs, arms, and stomach can help seal the deal.
Say the Words
Tell him you’re about to cum. No man can resist being told this, and it will go straight to his ego. You can tell he is caught in your act like a fish in a net by the way he moans along with you and quickens his pace and intensity.
Make Less Noise
Believe it or not, during the moment of climax, the majority of women actually go quieter. Although some women do scream when they cum, most tend to make more noise when they want their man to cum and less noise when they are climaxing themselves.
While you can go either way, copulatory vocalizations are a fine line and can easily sound fake. Silence and a faceful of intense concentration, even almost borderline pain, are a sure bet.
While these are technically involuntary muscle contractions, vaginal contractions at the moment of orgasm can also be faked. Practice doing Kegel exercises to know which muscles to contract and get a good handle on these. Throw in four or five “contractions” right at the appropriate moment.
Some women do not feel hypersensitive around their clitoral area after climax and some do. In your case, anything you can do to reinforce your “orgasm” in your partner’s mind is a good thing. Tell him not to touch you there or move his hand away and pretend like it’s extremely sensitive while you close your eyes and “enjoy” a few moments of “afterglow.”
Make sure to tell him afterward that he made you cum. Again, men really cannot resist these words, and reiterating afterward the “occurrence” of your “climax” as caused by him will be the coup de grâce that just might get you that Oscar with a capital O.
Keep Coming Back
This is the difficult part. If you have sex with him once and then never come back, he will begin to step back from your amazing performance and start thinking of the big picture. If she never came back, something must have been wrong. It must have been him. He must not have satisfied her completely. If, on the other hand, you do keep coming back, something must be right.
What You Can’t Fake
Vasocongestion, the localized increase in blood pressure resulting in, among other things, the sex flush, swollen nipples, and vaginal lubrication, is impossible to fake. These truly involuntary bodily reactions may give you away if your body refuses to cooperate. Fortunately, there is an easy solution.
How to Fake Vasocongestion
Vasocongestion is, in this case, your body’s real, involuntary response to sexual arousal. Did you catch that? –Arousal, but not necessarily orgasm. As long as you experience some level of arousal, you will lubricate, swell, and flush, and this is really all you need to go along with your breathtaking show.
A small amount of real arousal is essential to every award-winning fake orgasm, so think happy thoughts. The rest you can do on your own. Congratulations, masterfaker, no man alive will be able to tell the difference.
or Unto the Rapey All Things Are Rapey
Okay, now he was close, tried to domesticate you
But you’re an animal, baby, it’s in your nature
I wrote a song about a free and spirited woman chained to a chauvinist and over-possessive madman.
She started out madly in love with him. And because of the depths of that desire, she might have misled him a little at the beginning. Promised him things that she couldn’t give. Might have led him to believe things about her nature that weren’t entirely true. Time passed and eventually she had to be herself again. And who she was was a wild woman. An animal.
She began putting out feelers to other men, the sensual, ravenous kind of feelers. A sane man picked up on these late one night, maybe at a party, maybe over drinks.
You’re far from plastic
Talk about getting blasted
She was an honest woman. She told him right out that she had someone else in her life. Had a lover. Had a boyfriend. He was nonplussed. She was obviously a wild creature. A free spirit that a madman was attempting to cage. Boyfriend or no boyfriend, she wanted it.
I know you want it
(I know you want it)
Maybe she didn’t want to make the break with her first man entirely, just break up with his chains. Have her cake, then eat it, then go back for another piece of cake. And no matter how staunchly feminist you are, you can’t fornicate with yourself. There has to be another participant.
You’re an animal, baby it’s in your nature
Just let me liberate you
She couldn’t liberate herself. It wouldn’t be liberating and she would be no freer from her madman’s imaginary hold if the liberating act involved only her. It had to involve someone else. The sane man begged her to let it be him. To let him be the one with whom she sought her liberation. The one with whom she would, after being shackled to a madman for so long, commit her first liberating act.
The way you grab me
Must wanna get nasty
Go ahead, get at me
He knew she wanted it by the way she was grabbing at him. If there is any rapey in my song, it is the raping of him by her grabby fingers. Fortunately, they were both adults, and believe me, they were very much consenting.
You’re the hottest bitch in this place
I feel so lucky
She was the hottest bitch in the place. It wasn’t a dis, it was a fact – a filthy, dirty, sensual fact. If you have a problem with dirty talk, maybe you would be perfect for the other man in this scenario. He is also old-fashioned.
I hate these blurred lines
And then there were the blurred lines. These involved two people’s very different definitions of what did and didn’t count. Sex, to him, was a very broad, openly-defined scenario. Sex, to her, was one very specific, narrowly-defined act. Did a little open-ended flirting count as cheating? what about a kiss, just a little peck on the corner of his mouth? What about a little grabbing, a little clutching at belt buckles, a few buttons? Did it count as cheating if there were still layers of fabric between the two sets of skin? What about his neck? What about her collarbone?
Where was the right place to draw the line? It was all looking a bit fuzzy.
What about her bra? You know how loose it always seemed to be. It was always slipping out of place at the most awkward and the most fortuitous of times. What about a bit of harmless skinny dipping in the electric-blue glow of the warm pool? It was all in good fun anyway. Did it count if there were still layers of water between their two naked bodies? What about his fingers creeping her up leg? What about her fingers creeping down his stomach?
You see, if it counted for him but not for her, well let’s blur up those lines a little and take us one tiny step closer toward being free from our would-be zookeeper. Who was to say what did and didn’t count?
And anyway, who’s counting?
or Don’t. Stop.
I lie on a narrow sterile couch covered with a white sheet while two nurses hold me down and one therapist wrings the remaining life out of my bruised, swollen, post-operational feet. My spine arches almost to the point of snapping. My head is flung back and my lips spread open like jelly on white bread.
Adrenaline is swimming violently through my twitching veins. My heart is on fire and burning its way into my lungs.
My fingers clutch at the sheets like a naughty sibling tugging to expose a Halloween ghost. The staccato screams flee from my lips in a blind jungle of panic, grasping at vines of horror and ferns of terror in a tumble of sonic arms and legs on their way out.
From the waist up, it looks suspiciously like someone is getting a blowjob.
Intense pain is surprisingly like an intense orgasm.
It is the same powerless, helpless plight as when I am pinned down and forced to receive pleasure. My body has the same basic hand of reactions to good and evil both, give or take maybe a sharp note or two in its cries.
I shrink toward the pain and then away from it in an undulating, almost musical, rhythm.
I bite deep into the pillow, the blanket, my arm, or anything else that happens to be in the way.
I am a tangle of involuntarily contracting and releasing muscles that are prone to throwing me around like a tennis ball without my consent.
I am a spiderweb of delicate blue veins clawing through the surface of my skin.
During an anti-orgasm, all my nerve endings and receptor cells are blinded by the fire at ground zero; you could press a burning brand to my neck and I’d kiss your feet in gratitude for the distraction.
I lie in a helpless pile when they’re finished, thrown like car keys on a countertop, counting the cracks in the ceiling, trying to remember what it feels like to breathe.