Sex Positive!

i’m not here to tell you what to do with your saucyparts or your goods, but we all need to finally realize that being SEXY and SEXUAL is for everyone- no matter what body type, shape, gender, sexual preference or part of the rainbow! boy parts, girl parts, dirtybits, trans, no-no spots, special purposes, whatever!

because we all need a little boost now and again- here are some AMAZING sex positive tumblrs!
i guarantee you’ll find something to make you smile! (among other things.) ENJOY!

oh- and these are SERIOUSLY nsfw- so wait until you get home where you can (ahem) view these with more privacy *coughs*… because you will!

love your body! love yourself! be sexy! be pervy!
(didnt i just say i wasnt going to tell you what to do? but these are good things- and you should do them!)





by *Miss Theresa*

Yes. I am going to talk about it. I’m going to talk about the infamous “69”.  I don’t remember when I first heard about 69- it was probably in middle school, but I do remember whoever was telling me, took great pains to explain that the “6” was one person and the “9” was another. That was all fine and good, people being numbers and all, but I didn’t understand why people were giggling about it. I wasn’t very good in math, and failed Algebra once and dropped Geometry, so what the hell did I know? X=Y after all.

Time passed, and I was now in high school, and by then I had lost my virginity.  Sex became a little more than just “doing it” and sort of actually almost started to feel good (and the women out there know what I mean.)  High school sex is more about the guy getting off and the girl just being in dreamylove with this boy they are letting poke at them for 10 minutes.  My (loser) boyfriend at the time was talking about 69 and I remember KNOWING that the “6” and “9” were people.  I felt IN on this dirty little secret!  The numbers are PEOPLE!!!! I yelled to myself in a sexually SOYLENT GREEN type of way.  But, what these peoplenumbers were actually doing was still very much a mystery. Eventually my boyfriend finally let me in on it, and before I could really figure things out, he initiated it.  Welp.   He demonstrated in the “best” way possible (for an inexperienced teen for had NEVER actually done anything but missionary, of course) – and we awkwardly began the dance that is 69.

I remember thinking that the commencement of the aforementioned position was beyond awkward, unceremoniously crawling up on each other, and bony knees jabbing ribs and feeling stupid.  I felt weird and claustrophobic, and of course, only being a new young slut at that time was still self conscious about, well, you know, letting a boy *whispers* (put his mouth down there) and then, to add nasty insult to filthy injury- he actually put his “stuff” near my mouth, and then, EXPECTED me to you know, give him, you know! I mean, REALLY!  Ghastly!

And this was what the fuss was about? All of this awkward discomfort? I remember it was about three minutes before I decided it was the dumbest thing ever, so, he more than likely shot his load someplace I didn’t want, and that was the end of 69 for awhile.  INTO the “NOT-MY- THING” CABINET WITH YOU, SIXTY-NINE!

69 was whispered about and giggled over all through my college years.  Occasionally I was lured into participating in it again, assuming that since my lovers were getting more skilled, that 69 would finally be what everyone was raving about… because… you know, “yer getting head while yer giving it- what could be better?”  Welp, I’ll tell you what’s better than some idiot making you “soixante-neuf.”  Anything.  Anything is better.  Gardening, going to the library, embroidery, clogging.  ANYTHING is better than the ol’ 69, especially with a boy that until that moment had only seen it in HUSTLER or heard other fakers bragging about it being the END ALL of SEXUAL EXPERIENCE.  It was all so scandalous, and SO taboo, it HAD to be great. I mean, “dude! She’s blowin’ you while you got yer mouth on her. It’s aweeeesome.”

Well, it wasn’t.

More time passed, and my disillusion grew.  I still heard so much fuss over 69 and finally figured that maybe I was the weird one; that clearly I found, dated and screwed every single lousy lover in the city of Pittsburgh.  I started to resent 69, as if it was some rare pearl that I would never obtain.  People talked tough about the ol’ “dinner-beneath-the-bridge” and I just felt unwelcome at that party, so it just became one more thing I never understood, like chess, cars or computers.

I hit my sexual peak, and incidentally found myself divorced and on the market.  This lead to a whole lot of interesting-ness, and my old foe- the “double header” was back in my playin’ field.  I had heard endless giggling, and so much big talk from my female friends, that I KNEW, I was missing out.  Again, giving AND getting?  Shut the front door!  You know it’s good girl!

Now, I had come a long way (no pun intended) from that stupid little wannabe slut messing around with stupid inexperienced boys in basements and cars, and one of my first established SEX RULES was that “I NEVER PLAY EVEN-STEVENS”- which translates to- just because I’m doing you, doesn’t necessarily mean you need to do me, and vice versa.  Sometimes it’s fun to focus on one partner, other times it’s all in (no pun.)  Because of my “TIT-ISN’T-NECESSARY-FOR-TAT” rule, I felt that 69 was not aiding to my cause of sexual independence.  I could be a woman and get mine, without giving, and that was pretty empowering.  This pretty much left 69 in the darkest corner of my closet along with the KAMA SUTRA book which I never understood and that horrible rabbit vibrator thing- that hurt a lot more than it pleasured.

In my thirties sex was pretty much in EVERY CONVERSATION EVERYWHERE and was totally unavoidable, so I had to define myself pretty quickly, picking and choosing from the sexual buffet BEFORE it came up.  My turn on’s and off’s, my do’s and don’t’s, condom preference, gender preference, past partner resume, what have you.

Again, lots of talk from lots of ladies- and I even fell prey to the whole, “oh yeah, I totally get off blowin’ a guy thing”– which, when honest, really means, “I really just want him to like me.”  Eventually I admitted this to myself, and although I like giving head to guys, honestly, it’s not within my TOP FIVE on my ol’ sex menu. *shrug*

More and more time went by and I finally got to the point where I am now- which is “I’m almost 40 and I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks about me” (which, between you and me and everyone over there, is a REALLY nice place to be) and do you know what I’ve found?  I am NOT alone in the “I just don’t get the whole 69 thing” category.  In fact, I have YET to meet someone who honestly and I mean HONESTLY enjoys the whole “flip flop double marriage” thing.  Now, I know what you are going to say, “But *Miss Theresa* I LURRRVE 69!” of course you do, honey. We all do in the sense that it’s sex.  But I’d bet with the right partner, you’d enjoy fucking in mud too, BUT you actually love a bunch of other positions more.

After all of the hype, I finally found someone that I enjoyed 69 with.  I did.  And they didn’t kneel on my hair, or make me feel like I was suffocating, or make me do anything with their ass, or bruise my lungs or kick me in the face, or say “I’m too heavy” or stop every 30 seconds saying “are you ok?”  but the reason it was different, was because I would do anything for this person, and so “loop de loop” was as good as anything that I could have done or have gotten done at that time.  When it happened it wasn’t as if I shattered the SEX CEILING or unlocked the mysteries of pleasure or anything like that.  It was what it was, our mouths on each other, giving and getting at the same time.  It was nice.  And it was good.  But it wasn’t a fistbump at the gym or a check mark on my POSITIONS I HAVE TO TRY card.  And it certainly wasn’t worth decades of secret snickering, giggling or pedestal-sitting either.  Now PEDASTAL SITTING… there’s a position.

So I’ve blown the lid off yet another taboo.  And I know, I know, that’s what she said, however, I spent a long time worried that I wasn’t in on the secret, and I find out 30 years later, I wasn’t really missing out.  Mystery Solved.  Now, I’m expecting a few angry emails from women still claiming to LOVEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE giving blowjobs.  No worries, ladies.  Your secret is still safe with me.


You want pussy?  Because we got it!  Come and get it!

Ok, so yes, we mean “pussy” in THE ACTUAL feline sense, but there’s plenty of other action still going on, so don’t be too upset and dont click on the links somewhere you’ll get busted- there is plenty of nudity and adult-type stuffs to raise some eyebrows at work.

Take a peek—

and while yer at it- check out-

I’m sure we could have used more cat puns, but I’m sure by now you are already clicking the pictures and your mouses….

So enjoy!

The Curious Sofa

curious sofaNow it’s no secret and it’s certainly not a surprise that i love smut. i can appreciate it on a lot of different levels. from it’s shock value, to feeling quite liberated after a good one-handed-read, smut is truly my favorite genre. add some humor and throw it together with illustrations, and you have yourself ONE.GOOD.BOOK.

The Curious Sofa is one not to be missed. Written by the fabulously brilliant Edward Gorey (publishing under an anagram pen name “Ogdred Weary,”) this clever little book lets us take a little peek in on the suggestive and scandalous adventures of the naughty lady of the house, Alice. Oh! what the neighbors must think as she entertains multiple gentlemen callers, several obliging women, a friendly married couple; both with a wooden legs and even the maid! *gasp!*

but there is more to this tale than the upstanding socialite Alice “entertaining” other members of the upper crust, oh my gracious, no! this is a story about a sofa. a rather extraordinary and sinister sofa. baring all, but leaving everything to the reader’s dirtybirdie imaginations, this cast of saucy characters are in for quite a strange surprise caused by this bizarre piece of furniture.

whimsical, dark and smutty! what else can one such as me ask for? pick up a copy! you’ll thank me.

-*Miss Theresa*


by *Miss Theresa*

It’s pretty hard to be a monster. It really is. It takes a lot of effort to be immoral, depraved and above all, inhuman.

Yes, it’s true. Bisexuals aren’t human. They really aren’t. Bisexual people are just cold- blooded, dead, sex machines. Bisexual men and women spend all of the time in a purgatory state roaming the earth looking for their next “trick”, their next sexual adventure. They are uncaring, unfeeling bags of dead, maggoty flesh, which makes it much harder to get dates than the warm-blooded straight people of Earth, but it still doesn’t decrease their quest for booty.

Bisexual people do not have checking accounts or jobs, as they wander the twilight seeking only indiscriminate sexual contact. Yes, bisexual people are horny zombies, but instead of brains, they crave carnal pleasure and one night stands with anyone they can get their cold, dead hands on.

This myth addresses the disbelief that an alternative lifestyle, sexual preference or identity like bisexuality can be a way of life. So fine, don’t think of bisexuality as anything more than a group of human beings that love other human beings. We are your neighbors, coworkers, baristas and your amusing and quirky Auntie Steve. We are pet owners and voters and care as much as anyone about that overdue copy of Kung Fu Panda on the coffee table that was supposed to go back to the video store on Saturday.

Believe it or not, bisexuals get married, have kids and mortgages. Bisexuals have real bigpeople jobs and don’t just spend their days lying around on filthy mattresses in crack hotels waiting for dusk so that they can prey upon the “good people” of the world. Bisexuals are tax payers and contributing members of society. And just as some straight people, some bisexuals are unemployed or seeking better jobs, but they also send their kids to summer camp and enjoy getting postcards from their friends.

Bisexuals drink good wine and eat fancy cheese, but also enjoy Oreos and laying around on the couch reading the newspaper on weekends. We wear regular clothes and not just raggedy remains of “easy-access” stripper clothes with ripaway pants. Bisexuals listen to music and go to movies- just like the rest of the world. We hate spiders and clean our bathrooms and take Pilates at the community college just like the straight people.

Bisexuals can be in shape, or big ol’ fattys. Bisexuals enjoy gardening and jogging and going for fast food a few times a week; our sexual preferences have nothing to do with any of the things that they do. Bisexuals even go to church and enjoy spiritual enlightenment. Bisexuals do not spend their existence preying upon the “normals” of the world and I would venture a guess to say that given a lineup of 5 John Q. Public’s and 5 John Q. Bisexuals, you probably would have trouble spotting which was which- we are THAT cleverly “disguised”.

The reality is most “good bisexuals” don’t even think about the term “bisexual” or being bisexual during their typical day, what with the everyday stress of life, jobs and money problems that everybody faces. The typical bisexual is as human as any human. We worry about getting old, finding love and paying taxes just like everyone else.

Bisexuals are flawed and beautiful, typical and unique. We are mommies and daddies. We are your sisters and brothers. We are aunts, uncles and cousins. We are not indiscriminate incorporeal beings that just want to get laid (no more than the “straights” of the world, anyways).

We are-
We are-
We are-

We are- just like everyone else. We just happen to be attracted to and can love, as well as make love to a person despite gender. Bisexuals are more than a stereotype and as plain or as dynamic as any other person. To be completely honest, and not to give away our mystical secrets, in the event of the apocalypse or zombie attack, we have the same chance for survival as anyone. We have no immunity or super powers that would give us any advantage. I mean, yeah, we might have a better chance to find a date amongst the survivors because we “fish from a larger dating pool”, but other than that, when the end is near, we are all equally screwed.