Boreal

LOVE, SEX & 1 1/2 Suicides

Spooked

(Draft)

I wanted the sex portion of Love, Sex and 2 1/2 Suicides to be anchored in reality, to be brutally intimate and clinically correct. That last one has proven the most difficult to achieve. Following is justified criticism from my knowledgeable copy editor of what I wrote about changes in appearance and physiology of female genitalia due to sexual practices and partners.

There is one idea brought up multiple times in that used to be commonly shared as fact but has since been determined to be a myth (a.k.a., clinically incorrect): that sex or sexual activity changes the vagina, causing it to become "loose" or appear damaged… natural differences in the shape or size of female genitals tend to be attributed to personal practices rather than a combination of genetics; temporary changes during arousal or due to tension or friction; estrogen levels, especially during development and later, menopause; and the aging process, causes atrophy of muscles and changes to skin texture and tone (the same way the scrotum sags or wrinkles over time: due to diminishing collagen that reduces elasticity in the tissues). As one example, a protruding labia minora, a normal variant that occurs in about 50% of women, became a common source of insecurity that led to increases in cosmetic surgery as it was considered a 'disfigurement' by male sexual partners and diverged from what these women saw portrayed in media.

This myth has a long history of being used to shame and control girls and women, therefore is considered harmful misinformation that also has roots in medical malpractice (e.g., the superficial and highly damaging "husband stitch" after injuries from childbirth as opposed to providing pelvic floor therapy to appropriately address tightness or weakness in the muscle walls that can lead to changes in sensation or prolapse). Sadly, shaming of women's bodies and sexual freedom/independence is seeing a rise in propagation today, which is why I am especially passionate about not contributing to its furthering.

And neither do I.

Except for that one assumption on why being inside Lucette felt so different, I have deleted all other observations that she found objectionable and/or misleading. It may be all in my head or it’s an illusion I wish to maintain, or whatever, take your pick. Her criticism prompted me to write “Spooked” believing that there is a lesson to be learned here, and let the chips fall where they may.

I think it was a 2011 interview on CBS’s 60 Minutes, of all shows, with one of Kristin M. Davis’, known as the Manhattan Madame, high priced call girls, who, during her interview mentioned that she had let her pubic hair grow so as not “to spook” the type of people who could afford her services, namely older gentlemen who had never had relations with a woman with no hair down there.

It is possible that I have been spooked—the reason for some of my remarks? I’m not sure. I don’t remember the first time, if ever, I got close and personal with a hairless pussy in the clear light of day or in a well-lit room.

Pussies Galore

If the subtitle brings back memories of the character Pussy Galore as portrayed by Honor Blackman in the 1959 James Bond film Goldfinger, you’re welcome, you dirty old bastards.

In my time, Playboy magazine was a teenager’s visual introduction to a female’s hidden anatomy. Playboy used their model’s pubic hair as camouflage and as a line they would not cross. When Penthouse came along, they would inevitably differentiate themselves by showing what Playboy would not, and what they showed was not unlike the pussies I would get to enjoy beginning with Joyce and ending with Lucette.

Margaret—the love of my life before Lucette—is largely responsible, along with maybe some stuff I read or some movie I saw (Porky's comes to mind, if that is the film where a prostitute will not have sex with the black friend out of concern his size will spoil the experience for the others) for my believing that a larger-than-average penis will have an impact on the sensation experienced by an average penis subsequently occupying the same space.

The sensation I felt when inside Anne’s vagina was not unlike the sensation of being inside Lucette, in spite of Anne having had sex with men with larger-than-average penises. After telling me this, she quickly added that sex with “normal men” was more to her liking. Lucky me.

Anne would not have sought out large phalluses based on her stated preference. This may not have been the case with Margaret. About a week or so into our break-up, she called with a simple message before waiting for a few seconds then hanging up.

“Just called to let you know that, after I got your note, I went to a gas station in Detroit and got fucked by a bunch of black guys.”

The reference to “black guys” may have been her way of reminding me of her time with Rakesh, who was neither white nor black. As to her saying that she ‘got fucked’ instead of her fucking them, I can only speculate. Her mentioning the unlikely location for a gangbang meant, as far I was concerned, that she did not let a bunch of men serially fuck her out of revenge, as implied in her phone call, but out of habit.

I may be wrong about why Margaret’s vagina gave the impression of entering a cavernous space—not a unlike a cathedral, considering the time I spent worshipping there. But, what about the outward appearance of her pussy; shouldn’t it have shown signs of repeated penetration, with or without letup, by a succession of normally well-endowed individuals?

Apart from the actual lovemaking, I went down on Margaret so many times that, if her labia had been impacted by more than occasional tag-team sex and such, I would have noticed; then again, there was all that hair. And there’s the rub. Then again, I may be all wet, and so was Margaret.

Abundant sex, from what I now understand (or have misunderstood), should not impact a pussy’s appearance unless the girl first had sex when she was too young, been repeatedly penetrated on more than one occasion when she was not ready, i.e., lacked sufficient lubrication or was not receptive, as in the case of rape.

Penthouse pussies, until Joyce came along (remember: Ella kept her legs together), was my only acquaintance with a woman’s private parts. Then came the internet and the hairless pussy craze and young women opening their legs to show pussies that were so outwardly different than those in Penthouse, and the handful on which I had performed oral sex in well-lit spaces.

The more I missed my Lucette, the more time I spent watching porn on the internet. What won’t I admit to, to get you to read my more scholarly writings. I still spend a lot of time on porn sites featuring married women supposedly having sex with men other than their husband—while on vacation in the Caribbean in particular—hoping to catch my Lucette on video, not to confirm my suspicions but to again gaze upon her beautiful naked body, even if it means witnessing her having an orgasm courtesy of another man. It’s crazy, I know, and I have been crazy for quite some time. I sort of wish we had made a sex tape, or at least taken a few pictures of her with no clothes on.

Most of these alleged cheating wives and mothers, from what I have observed, have the type of vulvas worth writing home about, unlike many of the young women who spread their legs on popular fake casting sites hoping to impress the requisite fake agent, who will then fuck them and record the whole thing as part as a pitch they will make on their behalf to porn producers. I don’t know what attracted me to these sites, which may have been largely responsible for my developing an unfavorable assessment of some pussies, while assuaging any aversion I might have had to hairless labia.

These sites, the most popular having been around for at least ten years, warn visitors that they are not legitimate casting agents; in other words, the many young women who show up to be interviewed and fucked must know this and may simply want a safe Tinder-like date where they will be shagged by a known quantity or fulfill a fantasy of being fucked on camera. If this is not case, then they are being figuratively and literally screwed.

The congenial now 40-something host and fake agent of B... Casting—it’s just him, his cameraman, a couch, a desk, a few toys, some handy lube for girls who also agreed or will consent to anal sex after having been fucked the traditional way, and wipes—unlike some fake casting sites, never browbeats reluctant participants into doing his bidding except to remind them of the money to be made. For many of the girls, this is a bonus and the reason they give, apart from liking sex, for why they hope to land a job in the porn industry: they will get paid to do what they now do for the love of it.

The confidence he inspires had some, after he has them bend over his desk poised for penetration, look back at him and apologize for their pussy’s appearance. His response has always been that they have lovely pussies, and that there is no need to apologize as he plows ahead. He has also fucked girls on his desk who have mistimed their period. Apart from mentioning it in passing, it has no impact on the business at hand.

I am no longer spooked, if I ever was, by hairless pussies. Nonetheless, I remain perplexed as to why young women would go to the trouble of giving their pubes that prepubescent look. They are obviously not trying to make themselves attractive to pedophiles; so, what gives?

Because of the internet, men have gazed upon more pussies per capita than at any other time in history, and that is including gynecologists. The fascination with their form and function, for the straight male population, will not be abating any time soon, as was nature’s intent.

There is a pussy type for everyone, and expanding on what the man who sampled more than his share observed: they are all lovely.

When you are writing about your sexual experience in a book such as this one, you can’t help but make comparisons. Just remember, that one man’s experience—and a biased one at that—is just that: one man’s experience, not necessarily anyone else’s.