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Thursday, July 31, 2008
Hit the Sheets, Part 2
Spread SheetsSex can produce some sticky situations. For some, the stickier, the better. That is where Sportsheets come in. The signature product of Sportsheets International, the Sportsheet Bondage Bedsheet, makes use of Velcro to aid in restraining bed buddies. Tom Stewart, the founder and president of the company, was first inspired by those Velcro walls such as the one that appeared on The David Letterman Show in 1984. He figured that if Velcro was strong enough to hold a person upside down, it could replace more traditional bondage restraints – why ruin a perfectly good necktie or two?
Each sheet set comes with four wrist/ankle cuffs that can be quickly attached to (and, thankfully, released from) four, amazingly sticky, Velcro anchor pads that adhere directly to the velvety Velcro fitted sheet. The sheet itself looks like a plain old black sheet, and it acts like one, too; it is machine washable. And just in case you thought about freeing yourself by removing the entire sheet, the folks at Sportsheets fitted it with a drawstring and two adjustable nylon straps that are fastened under the mattress. While these are not the sheets of a super-experienced dungeon master, they are surprisingly powerful and, what I might call, “dungeon-light.” Like any good bed buddy, they are strong yet soft to the touch, flexible and easy to clean, and, of course, they have excellent staying power and durability. I am certainly stuck on them.
Hit the Sheets, Part 1
Damask is classy and satin is sexy, but I was recently reminded that there are a myriad of other options available when it comes to bed linens. Here are a few of my favorites.
Fact Sheet
I love Twister. I love the anticipation of trying to figure out how I am going to keep my right hand on red while I stretch my left leg all the way over to the first available green. I have fondly held on to childhood memories of the game, and often find myself wondering why I don’t play it more often. No longer! I have just discovered a new, slightly more grown-up, twist on this childhood favorite. Karmasheetra has incorporated Twister and the ancient Indian art of Kama Sutra into, of all things, a bed sheet. Be still my heart!
Who would have thought that sexual nirvana would come in the form of a cotton-poly blend flat sheet and cost only £19.99? Printed on each Karmasheetra are numbered and color-coded pieces of anatomy -- blue for boys, pink for girls (although, I don't see why you couldn't switch up the assigned colors, with appropriate accessories). By choosing corresponding numbers, partners can align themselves in seven different, and potentially bliss producing, positions. Thank the gods! I have always found it a challenge to keep my ass off the ground whilst playing Twister. The lovely folks at Karmasheetra have left a spot just for my ass, several spots, actually. They have also condensed thousands of years of sexual and spiritual practices into color-coded and numbered cartoon drawings. Thanks for saving me some serious reading; who says paint-by-numbers is a bad idea? Perhaps their next endeavor will be a sheet set incorporating the classic 1960’s game, Operation and acupressure: Acuration? I suppose it’s not quite as sexy, but a girl’s gotta dream. I have always loved that big, red nose.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Color Me Excited!
Right. So I have talked way more about my pubic hair on this blog than I ever imagined I would. Ever. Yet here I am again with my nether regions on my mind (not literally; I am not quite that flexible). Back in the day when Natasha Senior (my salon had the distinction of employing two Natashas) was my waxer-extraordinaire, there was talk of something dazzling and cutting edge. Some of the beauticians at this posh San Francisco salon were using cookie cutters and hair dye to dramatically transform bikini lines. Natasha Senior herself spoke of a beautiful blue dolphin she had recently emblazoned on a client's mons pubis. I remember thinking how outrageous it was at the time. Ridiculous even. I thought colorful, decorative pubic hair was soon to go the way of banana clips and zipper jeans.
Flash forward six years or so, and, much to my surprise, here I am staring at a box of do-it-yourself pubic hair dye. Betty Beauty comes in a wide variety of colors from natural (brown and black) to not so (blue and hot pink). Nancy Jarecki, the creator, got the idea when she saw colorists at a Roman salon slipping little brown bags to their clients as they left. She learned that the bags contained a small bit of the hair color that had been used on the clients' heads so they could take care of making "downstairs" match in the privacy of their own homes. Brilliant!
In addition to these fantastic colors, that come with a lightening creme and fat mascara-wand-looking applicator, Betty Beauty has also provided the stencils. For just $9.99, you can purchase a whole collection of fun shapes from hearts and lightening bolts to peace signs and dollar signs. I have always aspired to profess my political ideology with the hair on my vagina. Now I need only decide if my dollar sign will look better in Malibu Betty Blue or Fun Betty Pink. Decisions, decisions...
Labels: beauty, rant, review, wax
Monday, July 21, 2008
It's a Beautiful Thing
My mom didn't shave her legs when I was growing up, and her idea of eyebrow grooming was to occasionally spit on her thumb and rub down my ample brows in an attempt to minimize their persistent fullness. While I fully appreciate the lessons my mom taught me about self-acceptance and natural beauty, I entered adulthood with scant knowledge about enhancing and maximizing my better qualities and minimizing or eliminating those less desirable. Even though I have picked up some gems over the years (tweezers rock!) I am still fairly naive when it comes to beauty products. Thankfully, the time has come for me to get schooled: Beauty Junkies Unite.This clean, well-organized and honest site gives me new insight and ammunition for my expanding beauty regimen. Woo-hoo. Maybe I will send a link to my mom.
Labels: beauty, body image
Dead Mouse
Recently, and unexpectedly, I found myself at Disneyland. My hubby had to go to Anaheim for work, and one of the perks was that he got free passes to the Magic Kingdom. While Pirates of the Caribbean and the Haunted Mansion thrilled me just as much as they did throughout my childhood (perhaps even more so now that they have added Johnny Depp to the slew of animatronic singing pirates), I have to admit the the rides were not my favorite part of the trip.While I certainly appreciate the creativity behind some of the rides at Disneyland, I am generally sickened by the Disney culture. By this I mean adults who are trapped in their childhood obsession with a mouse and his cohorts. I had a colleague once who used her wedding registry to try and complete her set of Winnie the Pooh dishes. I am all for maintaining a connection with one's childhood and relishing in eternal youth, but there is something saccharin sweet about the Disney experience generally. It kinda makes me want to yack (and yes, that is even before I consume mass amounts of amusement park food). Maybe I am the sicko, but the frenzied Disney obsession makes me kind of sick.
It is because of this feeling of nausea and my disturbance that Mickey Mouse hats now come with optional earrings, that I derived (perhaps an obscene amount of) pleasure from lobotomizing Mickey, spilling his brains on the bathroom counter, and recording the evidence. I hope you are able to delight in the ghastly image as much as I do.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
All Nude All the Time
My S Factor class meets Fridays at 4:30. Yesterday, like most Fridays, I writhed around on the floor with nine other scantily-clad women for two hours. Loud music engulfed us, and warm, dim light surrounded us. After a three week summer hiatus, I had forgotten how much I value this weekly ritual of paying homage to my body and soul. This sexual, sensual revelry is a source of profound joy and satisfaction in my life.I started taking class a little over a year and a half ago because I thought pole dancing would be a cool skill to have (it so is), and because I aspired to increase the ripped-ness of my biceps. I didn't realize that that was only one small part of a much bigger picture. In fact, I scoffed at the notion that pole dancing and stripteese could be anything more than a sexy workout. Over the course of the last eighteen months, I have learned far more than how to hang upside down and take off my shirt. I have gained far more than I could have ever imagined.
As I sat yesterday and watched my classmates bare their souls through their dances, I felt insanely lucky. How often is it that I get to bask in the presence of sexually confident and alert beings? How frequently do I get to experience completely honest and vulnerable communication, let alone communication of a physical, sensual variety? The answer is, once a week on Fridays at 4:30.
Surely, I have opportunities for open communication in other aspects of my life. In fact, I seek them out. But there is something uber-exciting about experiencing this communication in such a focused and charged setting (OK, I admit the lacy underwear help, too). In my day-to-day life I see women spending so much time tearing one another down -- tearing themselves down -- "Am I too fat?" "She's too fat." "I can't believe you're wearing that." "I could never wear that." "What a slut." "What a prude." My class provides a fantastically refreshing respite from this storm of negativity. It is full of supportive women -- women who cheer you up when you fall, and cheer you on when you soar, both in class and out.
Of course it takes a degree of confidence to strip out of one's clothes in front of others, and the results can be electrifying, but it is even more risky and exhilarating to expose one's soul, one's self. Each week in class we have the opportunity to do this. To be real.
I relish the high I feel having exposed myself, and I am honored that others trust me and the rest of our class with their bare souls. This nudity of the spirit is not limited to the classroom. We can't help but carry it away with us each week. Maybe it manifests in the courage to admit new love or the strength to give honest feedback to a friend. As layers of clothing come off in class and I fly around the pole, I am able to expose more of myself in life and test my wings. Damn! Nudity is hot!
(Image courtesy of Eric C. Carter at Dizzy Pixel.)
Labels: body image, dance, fitness, rant
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Paper or Plastic?
Sex is sometimes a dirty business, and while you can protect yourself from germs of the genital variety with condoms and dental damns, no one has made latex that appropriately protects one from the germs spread via US currency involved in monetary transactions, sexual and otherwise. Think about it, even nose-pickers pass the bucks. In fact, it is arguable that many people fondle dollars more often than they fondle their privates, or even whist fondling their privates. Just imagine all of that dirty money.
Prostitute, Angela Eversole, of Kentucky has the solution. Instead of accepting filthy cash from her johns, she, allegedly, accepted a $100 gas card in exchange for sex. Right on, sister! In addition to being far less absorbent than paper, plastic gift cards are also handled by fewer specimens of questionable cleanliness.
Unfortunately, Ms. Eversole and her gas daddy were picked up after a police stakeout at a local Day’s Inn where they were accused of having their gaseous tryst. Angela Eversole’s story and her mug shot have been gleefully spattered all over the headlines by media equally eager to condemn consensual sexual relationships and whine about rising gas prices. What a rare opportunity! I only hope Ms. Eversole will serve as an inspiration to others; safe sex is important. Choose plastic over paper when you have the option.
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