I’ve never thought of myself as high maintenance and my litmus test for that was whether or not I owned and wore a sleep mask to bed. Along with bathing in a mixture of milk and honey, I thought that having a sleep mask with pockets of lavender, or one that simply reads “Bitch” in satiny pink, was the ultimate sign of a diva. So, whatever, I’m wrong again because I now use a sleep mask, but at least it’s a cool one and I’ll tell you why.
Last year, I was about to embark on a 16+ hour flight to Japan and needed some way to pretend that I wasn’t trapped in a flying coffin with 300 other people while Everybody Loves Raymond played on loop in the background. Although Valium would’ve been a better option, the Lights Out Sleep Mask was a close second and, given my propensity to nap, has been very popular ever since. It’s great for travel, which is why I usually reserve mine for plane rides, road trips, and even when I have an unwieldy headache that makes even the faintest source of light feel like Fran Drescher’s voice has been frozen to a point and forcibly pushed right between my eyes. The contours around the nose ensure that most, if not all, light will be eliminated and the elevated pockets allow the eyes to breathe and prevent them from drying out. This is especially useful if you’re currently deployed overseas and are dealing with less than ideal sleeping conditions, if you have a shitty roommate who has a habit of using a strobe light when they jerk off (in this case, you have bigger problems) or if you just want to sleep until 2pm in the afternoon.
The Lights Out Sleep Mask doesn’t get points for being really fucking creepy, but (if you buy from Amazon), it comes in blue which was a selling point for me because it meant that I could pretend to be some sort of renegade superhero like Batman or Steve Jobs. Only, instead of having real powers, I have the ability to sleep with my mouth open, and hand down pants, while arguing with LeVar Burton about how sad it is that leather tanning is now a lost art.
step by step instructions on how to masturbate and how to get the most out of it for girls only + pictures of vaginas and penis’s
This keyword search popped up today in Google Analytics, and while normally I would laugh and move on to the next fucked up keyword involving raw meat, Vaseline, and Corky Thatcher, I was saddened instead. Ok, I still laughed, but since there was no reported time on site, I felt that I had failed this person in their quest to discover self love.
It’s impossible to properly describe how to masturbate. If I could start going door to door doing at home demonstrations, I probably would. That is most likely considered lewd, so for now, I’ll talk about the process I went through that has given me the ability to get off on the inseam of my jeans if necessary. First of all: GET A MIRROR. Looking at my pussy in the mirror was the single most exhilarating experience of my life, and yes, I am counting the time I saw Boyz II Men guest star on Wayne Brady’s Don’t Forget the Lyrics.
It’s important to see what you’re working with and to know the where, what, and why of what feels good. A few phone sex sessions taught me early on that rubbing my clit and half-heartedly moaning, “Oh baby yes I am so wet” doesn’t work. I have to actively participate in my orgasm, I can’t simply be an enabler. Climaxing through stimulation alone is an act in futility, so it is essential for me to bring up my play list of erotic thoughts, which usually includes getting my cunt eaten, sucking cock or usurping Beyonce’s spot in Destiny’s Child.
Most (all) of my masturbation took place on top of a pillow until I was 18 years old, which is coincidentally when I started smuggling dick. In my teens, I went through a phase where I craved penetration. Since I still had a Mickey Mouse themed bathroom, finding the real thing wasn’t possible so I used tampons, markers, and even a Dizzy Doodler just to mimic what a dick would feel like.
There was a definite transition period from humping pillows to penis, and for a long time, I thought that I had somehow sealed my sexual fate by conditioning myself to orgasm on a pile of goose feathers. Truth be told, I didn’t even have a proper idea of where my clit was until my first boyfriend started sucking on it. In my idealism, I thought that the clitoris was strategically positioned somewhere near the opening of the vagina, meaning that it would be stimulated upon its rendezvous with the penis. File that under the list of things I was wrong about, right next to press-on nails and Joey Lawrence’s music career.
I remember I was really embarrassed about the fact that I fucked my pillow as if it was going off to war. I think, because I felt it wasn’t normal, but assessing sex based on whether or not it’s normal probably means that it’s no fun. I had it in my head that I was supposed to give my clit three or four counter clockwise manipulations, maybe insert a finger or two, soak my bedsheets and scream out to the monster cock that just gave me the best orgasm of my life. It doesn’t work that way. Of course, it can work that way, but it takes patience.
That being said, I am officially switching to plastic sheets.
