Tantus G-Spot Review and a Headache

My review of the Tantus G-spot is up at EdenFantasys!

Products from Tantus are hand-made with high-quality silicone. No phthalates there, folks! This wasn't the best toy I've ever used, but I think it would make a good g-spot toy for use with a harness, so if you use one of those you should check it out.

In other news: apparently my immune system survives full-on attacks better than guerrilla warfare. Ten days of throwing caution to the wind with my sick boyfriend got me approximately two days of mildly sore throat. Then my roommate got sick, and somehow -- even though I make out with her a lot less than I make out with my beau -- today I feel like hell. Go figure.

Keroack Resigns

Eric Keroack has resigned as head of the federal Office of Population Affairs due to some legal action being taken against his MA based private practice. In a message to their pro-choice action network, NARAL is calling it a victory. I'm glad to be rid of the guy too, but I don't see how this is a victory. If he had been forced to resign, maybe because... oh, I don't know, maybe because he doesn't believe in providing birth control? Then it would be a victory. As it is, since the protests of Dems in congress and reproductive rights activists around the country didn't seem to register with the Administration, Bush will probably just appoint more of the same.

But we can hope. And like I said, good riddance. Click here to go send a letter urging President Bush to "take this opportunity to appoint a medical professional who actually believes in birth control to lead the nation’s family-planning program."

Gentleman's Quarterly? That's a laugh.

In their April issue, GQ is running an article titled Where to Find Her, 2007. The caption beneath the title reads, “A whole world of smart, beautiful women are out there, from the beaches of Uruguay to aisles of Whole Foods. We searched far and wide to discover the best spots on the planet to meet them.”

The article, which if full of pictures of women who are indeed beautiful (in the most current sense), contains a sidebar which describes where not to find her. The list is meant as a joke; for example, men are instructed not to look for her at the family reunion, in high school, or while on vacation with the wife and kids. They’re also instructed not to look in Hooters or a Red Light District window, since of course women who use their bodies to make money cannot be both smart and beautiful (nor would they be fit company for a gentleman – for more than a night, that is).

According to the article, men should also avoid looking for her at a goat show in Tijuana, on Mykonos, and at Smith College.

I suppose I don’t even need to tell you that Smithies are pissed. Well, some Smithies at least. The Facebook group “F*ck You, GQ: Smithies are Beautiful” has 487 members as of 1pm today, and that number has grown by more than a hundred since I looked last night. The group constitutes a call to action to Smithies to send photos of themselves showing off their inner beauty and confidence to the editor of GQ to demonstrate their beauty. From the website:

…while this list offends all different types of nationalities, sexualities, religions, hobbies, and age groups in addition to ALL WOMEN EVERYWHERE, I feel that it is our JOB to stand up for our college. Smith does not get enough positive publicity. This article appears in a well-known, well-read magazine. It offends our school, our intelligence, our beauty, and our beliefs. It lowers us to a worthless thing. According to GQ, we are merely a place where smart and beautiful women cannot be found…

I am damn proud of my Alma Mater, and make a point of loudly declaring myself a Smithie whenever possible. Smithies are beautiful on many different levels, and it’s really hard to be at Smith if you’re not smart. But there’s another thing Smithies are, and it’s the thing that got the college landed in this article.

Smithies are Queer.

Okay, wait, don’t get mad at me yet. I know that not all Smithies like the ladies or identify with the queer community in any way. After all, some of my best friends are straight. But Smith has a reputation for being The Big Gay. Now, that reputation doesn’t go as far as you might think – in fact, it’s primarily known by people who went to other Small Liberal Arts Colleges in the Northeast. Students at SLACs like Dartmouth, Wesleyan (technically a University, I know), and our own beloved Amherst, as well as those at other women’s colleges know Smith’s reputation for being queer. I’d be willing to bet $20 that the person who contributed Smith College to the list either went to a Northeastern SLAC or to UMASS Amherst.

Although there are debates about how Smith got its gay reputation, I am proud of the atmosphere at the college that allows that reputation to thrive. Smithies are open-minded, tolerant, willing to learn from each other and politically and ideologically minded. It’s a tough place to be conservative, and I’d like to see both students and faculty make a more concerted effort to have those kinds of political discourses, but in general I think that Smith is a good place to learn how to be who you are. If that means that the “gentlemen” who read GQ don’t want to date us, so be it – we can do better than them, anyway. You know, like by having partners who respect us.

Sex in the News: Rhythm Method Woes

Now birth control can be as easy as not having sex two weeks out of every month! We no longer have to worry about -- wait, WHAT? No sex for half of every month?

You've probably heard of the rhythm method. Young people often receive a simplistic version of this complex birth control method i.e. "A woman can count the days since her last period and not have sex around the 14th day, which is when she ovulates." The method is often joked about -- after all, this is the only form of family planning approved by the Catholic Church. How many married childless Catholics do you know?

Of course, not all women ovulate on the 14th day, and (when practiced correctly) the rhythm method is a lot more complex than just counting days. The sympto-thermal method of family planning (which has evolved from "counting days") requires a woman to wake up at the same time every morning to take her temperature (called basal body temperature), monitor her cervical secretions, and keep a fertility calendar. During her two most fertile weeks of the month -- which other research suggests is when she'll want it the most -- the couple must abstain from sex. A recently released report on a German study reveals that, when practiced properly (one might say "religiously"), the method has a .6% failure rate, which is comparable with hormonal birth control.

But according to this article in the Scientific American, failure rates for normal couples are actually much higher. I know, I know, you're shocked. You thought that young women, some of whom can't even remember to take their pill at the same time every day, would simply jump at the chance to get up early on weekends and get all up-close and personal with their lady-juices. Not to mention the fact that it's a good way to get out of sex for half the month -- more, if you don't have sex during your period -- since, of course, women don't actually enjoy sex.

Okay, I'll be serious. The thing is, if you're willing (and have the leisure) to be diligent about it, fertility awareness is a great option. It means you don't have to put hormones into your body -- and the environment -- in order to effectively avoid getting pregnant. Fertility awareness over long periods of time is also of use when it comes to intentionally getting pregnant. I'd even go so far as to argue that charting her fertility can put a woman more in touch with her body and her sexuality. This is a family planning method that deserves a place in the adult birth control arsenal. For the average person, though, this isn't going to be the right option.

So, what do we tell the kids? Not the kids, so much as the teens: a book called Cycle Savvy: The Smart Teen's Guide to the Mysteries of Her Body, which describes fertility cycles in detail, is stirring up debate among proponents of comprehensive sex ed. Some argue that giving teens too much information about their fertility cycles will lead them to have unprotected sex on days the believe they are "safe". Others say that young women should be given as much information as possible about their bodies, and support the book. Cycle Savvy doesn't go into detail about fertility charting or discuss in detail which days are less fertile. It contains no reference to any day of the month being "safe", and encourages young people to always use protection, describing fertility planning as a useful tool for adults.

All of that being said, I have a confession to make: as sex-educated as I am, I still consider the rhythm method when having sex. Not the fancy sympto-thermal method, either. I wouldn't say it's my primary birth control method, but I usually find myself counting days, as in "okay, I'm on day 15 of my 24 day cycle, what are the odds I'll get pregnant if something goes wrong?" And when I was younger, there was a point in time -- before my 17th birthday, when I went on the pill -- when I did use the so-called rhythm method as my sole form of birth control. If I'd had this book to explain to me just how complicated fertility awareness really is, maybe I'd have thought twice. I fail to see how arming girls with solid information about their own bodies could ever be a bad thing.

Walk On Eggshells

Last night, a man came into my place of employment. He'd been in before; last time he'd stayed only a short while, and commented to me that he didn't like the music that was playing. When he came in last night, I smiled like I do at every customer, and cracked a joke: "I'm playing NPR tonight, so you don't have to run away from the Dylan." He laughed, was surprised I remembered him. "That's great!" he said. "And you're here consistently, so you'll be easy to track down."

Only a mildly weird comment, right? His body language made clear that he was getting ready to chat me up, though, so I decided not to play too nice. "That's kind of a creepy thing to say, actually," I told him, arching my eyebrows. "Oh jesus," he groaned, "you're one of those fucking paranoid..."

"I'm kidding!" I said, cutting him off, "and anyway, I just won't tell you my last name." He started to change the subject, but then he backtracked:

"You know, I hate that men have to walk on eggshells around women now. It hasn't always been this way, you know. This has just happened in the last five years or so. It's like you can't say anything to a woman without her getting all paranoid."

"Seriously, I was just kidding," I said, although what I was thinking was you fucking misogynist. "But anyway," I added, "women have had to deal with being afraid of men for ages. I think men will have to walk on eggshells for a while, spend some time really examining their own privilege, before things will ever be equal."

He made a face. Isn't that vindictive?" he asked, and it turned out to be rhetorical. "I'm still getting over my ex... now she was paranoid, like seriously..." He trailed off and looped his index finger near his temples, the western hemisphere's sign for crazy. He paused, then he continued, "But you know, I was just making an offhand comment, and you took it and went someplace dark. You went someplace dark and twisty with that. There are some really crazy people out there these days, some real kooks on the street, it's true, but it isn't me, it isn't men like me, it's these women who think men are out to get them."

At this point I was completely uncomfortable -- too uncomfortable and nervous to even be angry. Nice Girl is so ingrained that I felt like I couldn't ask him to leave with other people in the store, so I let him talk and nodded and pretended to listen. He told me I was cute. I thanked him. He told me about his band, gave me a flyer, signed it. Asked if I had a boyfriend, and I told him I did. He asked if I was in love and I told him I am. He went on about what a shame it was, but I was nice and young and -- was I 18? yes, okay, good -- had plenty of time to change my mind. How old did I think he was? Actually, never mind, he hadn't slept in a few days, he'd ask me again the next time we talked. I still didn't tell him I hoped there wouldn't be a next time. I was too busy hoping the situation would just go away.

He held out his hand for me to shake as he was leaving and I took it, happy he was heading for the door, but then he turned my hand over and kissed it. I yanked it away and gave him a dirty look. I spent most of the rest of the evening feeling vaguely nauseous.

There was more to it than that, but the details are fuzzy. It's hard to put into words exactly what was so unnerving about the interaction; in text it looks like he was just some patronizing asshole trying to get a date. But in the moment it felt like I was being manipulated, talked down to, and searched out. I don't like that he knows where he can find me.

More than that, though, I think the incident left me shaky because I didn't stand up for myself. I should have told him exactly where to go the moment he called me paranoid -- you try walking down a dark street at night by yourself in my (female) body, and tell me if you feel paranoid. It makes me SO angry to have to be concerned for my safety in a city where very few men have that same feeling. It makes me furious that I can't just pick up and travel the world by myself, working odd jobs along the way, without constantly being on guard. And it makes me literally sick to my stomach that I couldn't tell this asshole that I'm not fucking interested and to get his chauvinist ass the hell out of my store. If I can't stand up for myself, what kind of feminist am I?

Then, this afternoon, I came across a link on Amber's blog to a post by Sassywho, whose blog I Never Leave the House Without Incident is a consistently good read. This post made me want to yell and cry all at once. As Amber says, "HELL FUCKING YES." Go read the whole post, but I'll snip the best part for you:

I am the Woman that misogynists love to hate. I am the Sister, who, before puberty I could kick your ass, or at least take as good of a beating as you could give. The Tom-boy on the playground who did not respond to you telling her that girls couldn't play football, instead tackled your ass when you caught the ball.

I am the Slut that owns her sexuality, and will insist that you give me head or there will be very little chance of another sexual encounter. I am the Tease that allowed you to buy me dinner, but that does not give you an automatic pass to my body for the evening. I am the Irresponsible Hussy who if we had an oooops and I did not want to have children, I would be at the clinic as soon as I found out with $400 in hand and a smile on my face.

I am the Cunt who challenged your ideas in a meeting, and it even turns out I was right. I am the Whore who has slept with more men than your quota for a woman who deserves your respect, even if it is less than your number. I am the Fucking Slut who responds to your verbal abuse while I am bartending by making you wear that beer you just ordered.

I am the Bitch who wants equality in a relationship and refuses to be your mother. I am the Ballbuster who isn't intimidated by your masculinity. I am the Wife that was not okay with your 15+ affairs, so I had an affair myself before I left. I am the Fucking Bitch who filed a restraining order on your ass and prosecuted you to the fullest extent of the law when you tried to intimidate me and my friends with harassment to keep me in the relationship. I am a Misogynists worst nightmare.

I hope that asshole comes back in. I have a few things I'd like to say to him.

The Books of Summer

Believe it or not, there are times when working at a sex toy store gets boring. Yes, even in Provincetown, even in the summer. During the week, especially on really gorgeous beach days, we’d often be terribly, horribly, poke-your-eyeballs-out slow. All by myself at the smaller of the two commercial street stores, with the door closed and the AC blasting, I’d survey my options: rearrange the displays for the hundredth time, take a demo model (and a condom!) up to the attic for a test-run, or pick a book from the shelves to peruse. Occasionally I’d fuss with the displays. I never actually took a toy upstairs, although I seriously considered it on occasion. Most often, I ended up reading a book. I read a lot of books. If you’re looking for something to read in your spare time – something, that is, that’s a little easier to curl up in bed with than your computer – take a look at what I thought of the books of summer!

I started with a pair of SM novels. Carrie’s Story and its sequel, Safe Word, both by Molly Weatherfield, follow a young woman (the eponymous Carrie) from her introduction to SM through her experience as a trained pony. The first book was sexy and intense and pushed my kinky boundaries. I’d never so much as thought about the idea of a 24/7 relationship before then, and although it still doesn’t really appeal to me, there are aspects of it that are exciting to imagine. The sequel, though, felt a little like sexual tourism. Butt plugs with horsehair tails attached? Pony carts? Slave auctions? After work I’d sit at my computer for an hour, looking up websites on pony play, trying to make myself understand that this stuff does in fact happen. Don’t get me wrong; Safe Word was a good read (with an interesting ending). It just also happened to be an eye opener for me.

From there I moved on to some lesbian pulp fiction, which was terribly depressing. If you’ve never read any, let me summarize the plot (because there’s more or less only one): mild mannered straight woman meets extremely seductive lesbian; “straight” woman is seduced; people find out and trouble ensues. In the end, the “straight” woman is saved or cured, and the lesbian dies or goes crazy. Published in the 50’s and 60’s, these books are interesting from a historical and sociological perspective – in a sense, they’re the mid 20^th century’s prescriptive literature. I’m sure I’ve got some friends-of-friends who’ve written women’s studies papers on the topic, in fact, or if they haven’t they ought to. Anything by Ann Bannon is classic, and there are some great anthologies of lesbian pulp fiction out there.

Slammerkin by Emma Donoghue was a fabulous read, but then it did combine sex and history (two of my favorite topics, if you hadn’t noticed). The novel takes the bits and pieces left to us by history of a young woman whose name made the news in 18^th century England and fleshes them out, creating an engaging and intriguing story. Historical fiction fans will love this one.

Best Sex Writing 2005 left me, like the best lovers, wanting more. Although some of the pieces are sexy, it isn’t a collection of erotica – it’s a collection of sex journalism. I keep meaning to pick up 2006.

Noelle Howey’s Dress Codes weaves her own memoirs in with biographies of her mother and father and the story of her father’s social and medical transition to female; she writes with grace, humor and compassion, making the book and entertaining read even if the situation isn’t a familiar one for you.

I was utterly entertained by Bingo, by the prolific Rita Mae Brown (and before you ask, no, I never got around to reading Rubyfruit Jungle, and no, that doesn’t make me a bad queer). The familial fiction, clearly based on Ms. Brown’s own experience, had me laughing out loud even when there were customers in the store. It relates the story of Nickle, an out lesbian having an affair with a man, and her cast of friends and family. I found myself saying “YES! That’s my family!” over and over. Six of One, the book that precedes Bingo in the story of Runnymede, is high on my to-read list.

Eventually I ran out of fiction and had exhausted our entire library of Dykes to Watch Out For (and Allison Bechdel’s graphic memoir, Fun Home). I skipped past the exhausting shelf of “How To Have Lesbian Sex” books – honestly, why is it that publishing companies think women need so much help figuring out how to do it?

I read SM 101 by Jay Wiseman, which is a fabulous beginner's guide (and intermediate's guide, actually) in terms of tools, tricks, and safety. The author is about as well-informed as one can possibly be, but the book is definitely written from an “SM scene” perspective; I kept finding myself thinking that anyone who just wanted to tie up her girlfriend once in a while would be completely overwhelmed by the details of floggers vs. paddles, etc. On the other hand, the section on consent and negotiation is crucial and extremely accessible.

I fancy myself a sex educator, and as such it’s important to me to read books on a wide variety of sexual health topics – even if they don’t apply directly to me. A Survivor’s Guide to Sex was interesting and informative and certainly got me thinking. The way that we relate to our sexual selves is so complex, and I liked the way the book highlighted that. It made for an enlightening read. I read large portions of The Ultimate Guide to Sex and Disability. I seem to remember not liking parts of what I read, although I can’t recall why, but I clearly remember the light that switched on in my head when I realized how complicated sex can be. The way we shroud it in secrecy makes it much more difficult for people with disabilities to get what they need in the bedroom.

Following that, I read A Hand in the Bush, which is a guide to vaginal fisting. If you own a vagina, you probably don’t need this book. Allow me to sum it up: cut your nails, go slow, and use lots of lube. I tried to follow that up with Anal Pleasure and Health, but I had a fainting spell while reading about anal fissures and decided to set that one aside. It was full of wonderful, important information for men and women looking to engage in anal play. It just happened to make me very dizzy.

“But Amanda,” I hear you asking, “what about the smut? Didn’t you read any good erotica this summer?” Oh boy, did I. I also read some erotica that was only okay at best, but we’ll just talk about the good stuff. Exposed is a collection of stories by Alison Tyler. This collection didn’t go over well with my beau – he said it was written for women. Maybe so, because I really liked it. Alison’s stories are smart and funny. Much of this collection involves power-play in a really light, effortless way that I can imagine many of my friends identifying with.

The other collection that stood out for me was downright kinky: Best Bondage Erotica was edited by (surprise!) Alison Tyler, and is comprised of stories spanning different sexual appetites. It’s not too intense – if you’re looking for stories about bloodsports, or even watersports, look elsewhere – but it covers a good range and… well, it definitely got me off.

By the way, if anyone has recommendations for me based on the above, I’d love to hear them!

Linkage: Sugasm #71 and More of Me!

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