I attended my first two ever yoga classes this week. The fist was part of my spinmamas (www.spinmamas.com – a women’s group that doesn’t scrapbook, and for whom dust bunnies are the family pet) group who had 25 middle aged women doing the “downward dog” in tights on a populated beach at sunset before we hit the martini’s. Fun, but maybe not so graceful. Using another woman as balance while intertwining your legs may seem like someone’s sexual fantasy, but I assure you there wasn’t anything sexy about it. I then dropped in at the powerful women’s yoga bootcamp (www.movementtohealth.com) because I really wanted to know if I could actually cut it turning myself into a pretzel. The group of women who show up there at 5:45 am seemed awfully bendy. Yes I want to be fitter, and yes I want to lose that 20 pounds, but more importantly, I want to know if it will make me more flexible in bed. Do these yoga queens have tighter pelvic floor muscles that me given I spend my days doing keegal exercises? Are they able to contort into those acrobatic Kama Sutra positions? And can they put their ankles behind their ears? What I learned is that yoga isn’t for pussies. It may not look like exercise, but try standing on one leg holding your ankle while bending down to pick up blocks with the other, and see if you don’t sweat up a storm. I find that my pecs are sore (maybe it will tighten up my bust – now that would be a public service), but for the moment I’m still having no luck putting my turning myself into the flexible love guru. So, I’ll keep at it, and see if a few weeks of being a powerful yoga chick will pay dividends in the bedroom. I may be swinging from a chandelier after all.
Related: backless bra, www.figleaves.com, www.bravissimo.com, www.maidenform.com, www.sexwithsue.com, www.solveprematureejaculation.net
It’s summer and the one thing I hate to do in the summer is wear lingerie. Bras are bullshit generally but never more when there is boob sweat. I gave up wearing underwear years ago, and now only wear bras under duress. It’s not a political statement, I just hate the restriction of having the ladies contained. There is nothing more uncomfortable than sweating in some lace and underwire contraption, that makes me feel constrained. I find them mildly claustrophobic – maybe that’s my big neurosis. I’m always pulling them out of my sleeve when driving home from some function or meeting where to be braless would give the wrong kind of message. My sweetie lovingly suggests that given gravity (only with how long I nursed my kids), I’ll soon be having to tuck the girls into the waistband of my pants, if i don’t think about some boulder holder that may give me some support.
The bras I have are starting to look more than a little forlorn, I went online, and into a few neighborhood stores to see if I could find the most elusive of items- a comfortable brassiere. Did you know that there are whole sites dedicated to “the big boobed woman”, and ones that design “fig leaves that delicately cover you”, and now a new smooth backless number that apparently eliminates those wrinkly rolls that appear when looking at my ample cleavage, and I that I wish would go away. I read review after review (the underwire is poking through, or it left marks where it dug into my back), and despite trying on ten myself, have yet to find one that holds me in, pushes me up, and still doesn’t make me feel like ripping it off and throwing it out of a moving car. So if you see a beat up C cup lying at the side of the Queensway you’ll know I have driven by recently. Smile and think of me. In the meantime, ‘let the girls hang low, and the hell with gravity.”
We do a lingerie swap every quarter with the Ducklings social group. Anything that doesn’t fit anymore gets thrown into the pile and we all take turns acquiring what we like. If you want to join us then check out the Ducklings. We are the coolest and sexiest group around.
I’m a little vain about my toes. Cute, well cared for, (a bit beat up because of high heel blisters, and walking barefoot for six months of the year), but they are symmetrical, and they do me well. Considering I’ve had my figure faults, having a feature that a few patients of mine went gaga over has always been flattering. I’ve alway loved having my feet rubbed (way better than any other kind of massage), and understood that many men have a bit of a toe fixation or fetish. I just never realized how many.
I’m at a fancy dress-up function last week where many of the women present were in open-toed heels. Sitting back people watching, (as I always do), I noticed the body language where the men checked out legs, breasts, and asses, but the number of men who’s gazes lingered at the feet surprised me. Maybe it’s like buying a new car, and then suddenly you see the same model everywhere. It’s just that you weren’t sensitized before. I’ve now bumped hip to just how erotic feet, especially feet with attitude can be. And how many boys find them hot.
Something to consider as I smush my toes back inside tights and boots for a few months. I need to let my piggies breathe more. Pass the pedi paddle, and repeat after me;
“This little piggy went into his mouth. This little piggy tickled his crotch. This little piggy tasted like strawberries. This little piggy was coloured in polish. And this little piggy called wee, wee, wee up his body until he went insane with pleasure.”
I guess not everyone is like this, but I have a "tell". You know, the thing that good poker players can detect you do if you are have a great or terrible hand of cards. Holding your breath, look down and to the right when you unfold your cards, anything that gives your opponents a sense of what you are holding or thinking is considered a "tell".
I think I’m a kick-ass Texas Hold’em player. A legend in my own mind. Well, as much as an enthusiastic blonde, with little patience, and an inability to count can be. And I put on my therapist’s face when reading my cards in poker. You can’t see my hand in my face. Na na na na.
However sex is another issue entirely. I have been told a number of times that I subconsciously bite my lip when I’m aroused. I guess not everyone does something like this, but even in business meetings, funerals, or places where I should really know better, if I get a really sexy thought I start chomping on my lower lip. You can tell, and you can guess with amazing accuracy what’s on my mind. Sigh. So much for being poker faced. It certainly happens when I’m physically turned on. In those situations I can sometimes catch myself, and stop the knawing. At least most of the time. Until I am carried away by the sensation. But like for many people in a sexual situation, I guess it’s congruent. It’s part of your sexual roadmap, and very difficult to change. Sexual consistency is a mark that the reaction is authentic. One of the things you can look for to determine whether somone is just acting, or genuinely reaching orgasm. For women, look for the same reaction every time, along with change in vulva colour, contractions, swelling breasts, sex flush etc. to determine point of orgasm. Or you could simply just ask…..
Apparently replicating someone’s sexual responses, who you haven’t seen make love, or reach orgasm, is almost impossible. Hard to guess by looking at anyone if they are a moaner or screamer. A bad thing for the Mata Hari’s of the world who want to pretend to be someone they aren’t. But an good thing if you want to pick out your partner in a dark room of 500 women reaching orgasm. Even if you can’t see that I’m biting my bottom lip.
The biggest difference between counselling men and women in my office is the amount of kleenex I go through. Men seldom cry during therapy, and if they do, a hug and reassuring word and most of the time all is well. If I have a week of women patients in my office, then I need to be assured that I have boxes of tissue. Lots and lots of kleenex. Women almost always cry when we experience strong emotion. It’s just the way we’re built. It turns out that many of these same women burst into tears during or after sex. How to freak out a new partner….
I can be tough as nails therapist sometimes, (bamboo under my fingernails, ancient torture techniques and I’m not flinching…), but give me a sad movie or book and I’ll be sniffling in no time. I cry at stories of happy couples, babies and puppies and golden anniversaries. And occasionally, very occasionally I’ll cry after sex. It’s usually the kind of sex that has me seeing colours, you know, the earth-moving, toe-curling, I’m climaxing in waves, kind of sex. It also has a great deal to do with how connected I am to my partner. It’s never happened unless I care very deeply about the lover in question.
It turns out I’m not alone. My google search turned up thousands of references, but as usual, about female sexuality, the lesbians had the most to say. I clipped some of the following quotes from a great lesbian chat forum with Curve magazine, and it summed up the whole sex and crying jags. We cry, we feel better, we deal with it. And as my Nanny used to say, "The more you cry, the less you pee, so it can’t be all bad."
"I always found it quite beautiful and moving that she felt able to do this with me. Moved me to tears occasionally, too."
"Sex is both simple and complex, all at the same time … or it can be. Sort of like the human condition in general. It brings forward lots of unexpected stuff – like tears. It happens sometimes."
"Sometimes emotions are so powerful that we can’t articulate them, so they just come out as tears. I don’t think it’s always a bad thing. In fact, it usally means the girl is really into me, and I’ve done something right."
I helped a girlfriend move yesterday. Well, I did the beer and pizza runs, cleaned her kitchen, watched kids, and packed her shoes. And I thought I was depraved about the number of pairs of shoes…
Anyway, a small gaggle of us were left at the end of the day sitting with our feet up whining about blisters. Her Christmas gift, a Black and Decker aromatherapy foot bath happened to be on top of the pile, complete with lilac smelling bubbly stuff. Plugged it in, and it started it’s foot tickling thing. ohhhhh. ahhhh. I am so glad I live in the technological age. I’m such a geek, but I especially love pleasure giving gagets. Note to self, must get one of those. So after drying off the now purple and lilac smelling toes (with the great candy-ass pink pedicure), we proceeded to massage each others feet. Playing with my toes if you don’t tickle me, turns me on. Well, often times watching you breathe turns me on, but that’s immaterial. So girls doing sensual foot massages got me thinking about why it is that my feet are such an erotic part of me? I would rather have reflexology than a full body massage any day. Maybe second only to the back of my head and hair for overall sensuous hot spots, those sensations walk the line between tingly, relaxed, and gut tightening sensations. I don’t know if she felt the same way about her toes being played with, but I was biting my lip by the end of it. The girl gives good feet. grin.
My friend Patti has this cool new blackberry. More bells and whistles than mine, (can you tell I’m envious) and she has a camera that allows her to take pictures she can email immediately. She told a group of us tonight (and gave me permission to tell the world) that she when she was feeling playful last week as she was sitting sending emails over a coffee, she took a picture of her boobs to send to her husband. You can guess the rest. The email went askew and he didn’t receive the cleavage shot in question. His loss is someone else’s gain. It is floating somewhere in cyberspace, and she isn’t sure if one of her business contacts got the breastmail by mistake. Her new blackberry doesn’t list her sent messages so she has no idea where it went. giggle. The gaggle of women hearing this story did some serious snickering at her cyber misfortune.
So on behalf of Patti, if you happen to receive a viral email with pictures of her abundant chest, please return to sender. grin.
As a natural blonde of Scottish decent, I don’t tan, rather I ignite. My ancestors lived in a cave in the North Atlantic, eating cod, and having their hairy legs protect them from the sun. So I have two skin tones, fish belly white, and sunburnt red, and despite the spf 120, I end up with attractive red blotches all over my back. I admit to being envious of those nicely tanned people, despite the skin cancer warnings.
I have this friend who is a practising nudist (as opposed to an non-practicing…). Wonderful person, ordinary job (software guy), spends weekends streaking at a nudist campground and doing everything in the buff. I’m intrigued enough to consider dropping in for a swim this summer. It’s not that I haven’t been naked in public before. Give me any excuse to be au naturel, and you’ll have me frolicing a la mid summer’s night – gloriously naked. I’ve never been modest, despite my regular adage of "if you’ve got it flaunt it, if you don’t, for God’s sakes cover it up". I have my share of train track stretch marks, and cellulite, but we sex therapists are prepared to take one for the team. My concern is the previously mentioned sun sensitivity. I know you are not suppose to apply sunscreen to babies and certain mucus membranes, but where is the research on well razored, exfolliated, and waxed vulvas? A google search give me few facts. I guess I’ll just have to do some "hands on research. So if I come home scratching my bottom with bug bites, and needing special apres sun skin cream on soft tissues, you can tell me to stop whinning.
My partner has size 13 feet. But more importantly, his ring finger is longer than his index finger.
So what, you say? Well next time you are in the bar scouting out potential cowboys for that midnight ride, don’t be concerned about the size of their boots, ask to see their hands. “According to University of Liverpool researcher John Manning, the size of your ring fingers and genitals are directly related tohow much testosterone you received in the womb; the higher the testosterone level, the longer they are. In fact, looking at the length of ring fingers in comparison to index fingers will give you an idea of the size of a man’s penis. If the ring fingers are longer, it means that there were healthy testosterone levels; if they were the same size or smaller, it means that there were lowered levels.”
This from Daniel Amen, “Sex on the Brain” book cool website on Dr. Amen, and some info on how scanning your brain may solve your emotional problems
I don’t know about you, but I’m going to go around looking at the fingers of guys I know, and whose packages I’ve always wondered about.
For most men erections happen with little or no thought. And since the advent of the wonder drugs (Viagra and the like), even older men are having good success over their Willys’. When a man comes to see me for erectile dysfunction it’s usually because he’s got one of the top five erection killers.
1. diabetes 2. high blood pressure medications (the cure is worse than what ails you) 3. smoking (especially controlled substances), and heavy drinking 4. high chloresterol 5. anti-depressants (those things are really, really sex killers).
Poor nutrition, unfit etc. certainly aid in the droopiness, but in 95% of the time it’s an obvious physical issue or obstruction. I can usually name the cause very quickly as it is rarely a difficulty "in your head". Now I have a mysterious erectile problems that I can’t diagnois popping up in my office. The first, a 24 year old guy who can very occasionally get an erection, for whom Viagra doesn’t work and who is extremely fit, on no medication and has a textbook- normal sexual history, and all tests are negative. At 24, he should be getting erections with a stiff breeze. Can’t figure it out. The second guy is 45, but fit, no medication, happily married, no contributing factors and is experiencing severe erectile dysfunction. I hate to say it, but I’m at a loss. I have a hunch it may be related to toxins, but will keep you posted. Any urologists with ideas are welcome to email me, but I will leave no stone unturned….Your friendly neighborhood sex therapist, saving the world one erection at a time.
Another monday morning and another book. Today it’s Daniel Amen’s (a psychiatrist and neuroscientist) book called Sex on the Brain. He starts with a study by Dr. Dean Ornish about a study where ten thousand men were asked one question: "Does your wide show you her love?" (aka sex, for those of us who hate speaking in sexual platitudes) The men who answered no, all died much earlier, and in very significant numbers.
Armen goes on to state emphatically that "withholding physical affection is actually bad for you, and you miss out on its many benefits; and two, it puts your partners health at risk." I think we are just finding out, just how at risk, but all these studies are continually surprising the researcher on how important sex is for your health.
Hey, you can write these studies down on cue cards and leave them on your sweetie’s night table. More on this tomorrow.
The common belief is that women hit their sexual peak about age 37. Considered the power age for women, your body has learned all that it needs to know, and your hormones are happy bubbling away at top performance about then. After that it’s downhill in terms of basic the biology of desire, interest and abilities. Or so so leading endocrinologists say. Sigh. As I rapidly approach 40, I’m going through the mid life panic that sets in when one hits major milestones. We may be like men, who peak at the age of 19 when their erections are the hardest, they recover the quickest, and can shoot the farthest. It doesn’t mean they know shit about women, but they are little rabbits in terms of desire, and abilities.
So what doesn it mean for women (like me )who are past the use before date? It means we need to take better care of ourselves, and increase our sexual activity, (I don’t know if it’s possible, as I chase my partner around the house as it is), and work hard on improving the quality of our sexual responses. This is the time to start exploring tantric sex, dessicrated liver tablets, (keep your hormones balanced) and buying ourselves a hot new sex toy. My friend patti beleives that every woman should have a vibrator fairy that delivers you a new toy for your 40th birthday. So as I get ready to celebrate my 40th, and look at the dawning of a New Year, my resolution will be to be the randiest, most sexually fulfilled middle aged woman around. You with me on that?