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Here is a confession.

I don’t have sensitive nipples. I spent the first year that I was sexually active pretending that I did, though. I thought there was perhaps something wrong with them or that maybe I was feeling all there was to feel. I did a lot of exaggerated moaning and groaning when my boyfriend would suck on them. Meanwhile, I could barely feel a thing. I didn’t understand all of the hype.

I have heard rumors that women with larger breasts sometimes don’t have very sensitive nipples. I can’t find anything to corroborate this one way or another. Nonetheless, when I am turned on, they are basically numb to any sort of gentle stimulation.

I finally admit this to my boyfriend and he has adjusted his technique a bit. He still sucks on my nipples sometimes because he likes to (and hey, it isn’t as if I dislike it). And he also began doing something completely delicious. He licks and kisses for ages right at the crease of my breasts where they meet my chest. Everything that I imagined was supposed to happen when someone licks your nipples happens when he does that. Shivers run through my whole body and I find myself begging him for more.

However, I’ve more recently realized that there is pleasure to be had from my nipples. It all started when I began having phone sex with A. For me, gently sucks and nibbles don’t do much but hard pulling and twisting turn out to be remarkably effective. If it weren’t for A ordering me to pinch my nipples until I was whimpering in pain and pleasure I might never have discovered how much joy I could get from treating them roughly. A side effect of this is that I have also become very responsive to the word “harder” as he often growls it out me when he wants me to step up the intensity of the squeezing. The timbre of his voice at those moments is so incredibly intense that I really can’t think about disobeying.

As a result of these exchanges, I brought the new discovery to my boyfriend. He now enjoys pinching, twisting, and biting my nipples in addition to his previous repetoire. One of these days I’ll even get him to admit that he is becoming a bit of a breast man.

Nerve published a really bad story today. It isn’t bad in the grand scheme of things, but as erotica I’m not feeling it. Priapism by Robert Lopez is infuriatingly stylized, really to the point of sillyness. If you ever wanted to know what existentialist erotica (with a hint of pure absurdism) would look like, this is it:

The man has an erection and the woman is locked in the bathroom. The children are downstairs playing with toys. The dog is in the yard. The back door has been left open and the light in the hallway is on and so is the television in the living room. There is a roast in the oven. The kitchen table is set.
The man loses his erection. The woman emerges from the bathroom. She is clothed.
It’s gone away.
I was in the bathroom.
What were you doing in there?
I was doing what I do in there.
That again.
What’s gone away?

But, Nerve redeemed themselves with a link to this clever quiz, Sex or Something Else. I did terribly, perhaps you will fare better.

I will be back in full force on Friday, I have one more big paper to finish before I can return to blogging on good conscience. However, I am doing a lot of work this semester on sex and sexuality so I thought I would hit you with some of the more provocative quotes from things I am reading and writing.

One research project is in the area of sexuality, violence, and colonialism. Frantz Fanon gives a touching and ambivilent perspective on this in Black Skin, White Masks:

Out of the blackest part of my soul, across the zebra striping of my mind, surges this desire to be suddely white.
I wish to be acknowledged not as black but as white.
Now - and this is a form of recognition that Hegal had not envisaged - who but a white woman can do this for me? By loving me she proves that I am worthy of white love. I am loved like a white man.
I am a white man.
Her love takes me into the noble road that leads to total realization. . .
I marry white culture, white beauty, white whiteness.
When my restless hands caress those white breasts, they grasp white civilization and dignity and make them mine.

There is something troubling about the female body as the site of counter-colonization but there is trouble to a lot of Fanon’s gender politics. More about that in the future. . .

I also recently delivered my paper on masculinity in the works of Kate Chopin. I’ve been delving pretty deeply into the masculinity studies literature but the best part of delivering papers with a psychoanalytic bent is watching everyone squirm in their seats when you talk about the phallus. Especially cigars conferred in homosocial gift situations as phallic symbols.

I leave all of you fellow bloggers with some words of encouragement from Michel Foucault, the theoretical ally of perverts and miscreants everywhere:

If sex is repressed, that is, condemned to prohibition, nonexistence, and silence, then the mere fact of speaking about it has the appearance of a deliberate transgression.

May the transgressions carry on!

I’ll be back in a few weeks - I have 10 million ideas in my head and I want to make them good. During the next month I’m finishing the semester and my boyfriend is moving in. I plan to keep podcasting. Email if you’d like.

Download Bedroom Radio Episode #6 (62 minutes 58MB) or Subscribe

Show Notes

Interview
Mr Melvis of Comfort Stand Records

Music
from Wakka Chikka Wakka Chikka Porn Music For The Masses Volume 1
Eldad Tsabary - Lophophora Williamssii
De Zwervende Keien (The Drifting Boulders) - Wooden Shoes In Tirol
mr_melvis - Whose Fantasy Is This, Anyways? (featuring R. Stevie Moore and Ms. Demeanor)

Dancing with Myself
Tord Gustavsen Trio - “Curtains Aside” from The Ground (Thanks for the song, Jeff! If you have a song that you think I should use for this part of the show, email me.)

Very Cool Podcast
He Said, She Said

Comments? Questions? Adoration? Naked pictures?
Email - bedroomradio AT gmail.com
Phone - 206-339-7357
Website - BedroomRadio.com
Blog - Lumpesse.com

I read a lot and I like to think I’m a good reader. I know this because people pay hundreds of dollars to get me to tell them how to be better readers. As a good reader, I’m picky, there are lots of things in the world that I want to read and I know that I will never have a chance to read it all. This fills me with fear and sadness sometimes. It also means that I start a lot of books that I don’t finish.

When a friend recommends a book to me, I am one of those rare people that actually picks it up and gives it a shot. Since I read about 700wpm in novels, I can risk investing my time in 50 pages of something just to see if it is worth finishing. Often, the book ends up back on the shelf or headed back to the library. I am a chronic book starter, often having 5-7 started books going at once.

Last week, however, I finished one. Now, finishing a book is not remarkable - I finish several books a week. However, I finished this book the same day I started it. I had no desire to dip in and out of this book, I didn’t want to put it down, and I certainly didn’t want to stop reading it all together.

It was recommended by a fellow blogger Shortly after I finished it, being the trendsetter that I am, this friend suggested that everyone read it and is willing to back up that suggestion. I have to admit that I concur.

With The Contortionist’s Handbook, Craig Clevenger has written one of the most compelling love stories that I have read in a long time. It doesn’t read like one from the beginning. In fact the protagonist renders love down to its most biological explanation by describing it as mere endorphins. However, this cynicism is witness to some incredibly gritty, realistic, and heart-breaking writing on the subject of crime, passion and addiction. The ending made me catch my breath and desperately search for closure. This is a novel that is infuriatingly good - the only thing left to do when I finished was to rush out and get his other book.

I am now half way through Dermaphoria, which is unfolding a bit like a dream. Clevenger’s new protagonist has a more philosophical tone (in contrast to the stark realism of The Contortionist’s Handbook) which suits the story and has drawn me in.

You’ll certainly hear more about it when I’m done reading as I love to kiss and tell. Plus, word on the street is that there is hot sex scene coming up.

Having a job that involves travel sounds sexy on paper, but the reality is a bit different. Driving in unknown cities, eating crap food, never sleeping as well as you do in your own bed, and long commutes down anonymous interstate. Flying doesn’t solve this problem either - it just involves having to share your breathing air with lots of germy people and drunk men oggling your breasts.

At the end of a work day on the road I am physically and emotionally drained. I want a glass of wine, something to eat, and a couple of good orgasms.

I’m not horny in any sort of sensible way. I don’t have a particular fantasy running through my head, I don’t think about kissing or groping or fucking. Hell, I don’t even think about another person. My focus is wholly selfish and personal; I just want to get off, hard. If I had another person at my disposal in this moment, I would be the worst lover in the world. I would barely let them touch me except for a back rub and cunnilingus. After that I would banish them to cuddling, I wouldn’t even pretend I cared if they got off.

After a day of teaching, sublimating my needs for everyone around me, this sort of selfishness makes sense. My feet and legs ache, my back is throbbing, and my throat is worked hoarse from being a peppy teacher all day. All I can think about is taking my mind off of it all with bath and an orgasm.

So, after a passable dinner at a local restaurant (I’ve learned to take a chance as I can’t fathom another meal at Appleby’s) I head back to my hotel with a singular mind on my trusty vibrator. At times like this, I am too lazy to use my fingers and I know that the toy will get me off fast and well.

Fuck fuck fuck. Reason #1 to pack the night before. My vibrator is nowhere to be found and I recognize that it is probably sitting on the kitchen counter with random other things that I pulled out to pack but that never made it to my suitcase. (Sidenote: If anyone looked at my kitchen counter right now, they would think they were dealing with a psychopath. I reckon it is the home of some dirty dishes, my birth control pills, a massive purple rabbit vibrator, and a pencil sharpener. I mean to pack everything but the dirty dishes.) It seems silly but the absence of my vibrator almost brings me to tears.

Possible solutions:
1. Go solo and succumb to a meek orgasm.
2. Suck it up and ask the concierge about a sex shop nearby.
3. Blog about it while I consider the dilemma.

I got out of the house tonight, setting aside a paper on masculinity in the works of Kate Chopin in order to be social for awhile.

These are 27 to 35 year old former gutter punks, college DJs, and local band members. They would be townies if this wasn’t a city. They enjoy the newest hip dive bar with an undetached irony. I know the bartenders/owners and about half the people here. The fire marshall has the place rated for 67 occupants and there are at least 150 people crammed wall to wall.

The gimmick for the night is a Ramone’s cover band called the Whoremoans. There is a female lead singer and she isn’t trying to be sexy. Instead she plays the part totally straight and the effect is hot. In fact, none of the women at the bar are dressed in “Slutty ____” costumes. One friend is a turd, another a stalk of broccoli (with cheese), and the real life Greaser couple is (you guessed it) dead Greasers.

The music isn’t sexy at all, it is dirty and loud and adolescent. That is what the Ramones are after all. And the mood doesn’t really take hold until people start spraying the band with beer.

There is no stage, but if there were one, my proximity would be front and center. I get nearly impaled with the neck of the bass a few times and bear the brunt of several misguided splashes of PBR. I don’t particularly give a shit because dancing is a bit too fun at the moment to watch out that my feet aren’t stepped on.

Gizmo wins the costume contest in a best out of 3 wrestling match against Master Shake. I hear an acquaintance who is in a sleazy garage rock band and no doubt a graphic designer by day, explain that Shake is “too fucking trendy and topical.”

It takes me a half hour to sign my tab for two drinks. I never think to bring cash on the busiest nights at a place like this. Nonetheless, I’ve only said hello to a fraction of the people, so my wait at the bar is a good chance to make small talk and oggle clever costumes before heading home.

Believe it or not, this makes me horny.