Submit to the Quizlet

I don’t remember taking the SATs, or the GREs, or the ERBs, and some AP tests in high-school because I was one of those students who was more familiar with Philosophy than popularity. Other than my mother shrieking like a harpy about how the SATs would determine what college I went to, and therefore what law school I would get into, and thus solidify exactly the type of husband I would have, the success of our future children, etc., I don’t remember the experience.

I never went to law school, became a non-monogamous nympho, and never put faith in the efficacy of examinations. When I started seeing quizlets pop up on Facebook, ones with ‘fun’ results like what city I should live in (Paris? How about non…) or what Star Wars character I am most like (Princess Leia? Try Han Solo…) or what my spirit animal is (Owl? I’d prefer drag king…) I thought, “Wow, working a desk job sure makes people bored.”

Then on my favorite guilty pleasure portal,  I saw one of the girls I follow posted about a sexual profile test. According to her, it was fairly accurate, and I trust Tumblr more than most people I know in real life, so I clicked on the link and took it.

First off, shout out to all the kinksters like the one behind this test who perpetuate the theory that those of us who are experimental in bed are more intellectually curious and mentally stable. The exam was comprehensive, and gauged everything from what the taker has attempted to things that they just keep in the realm of fantasy.

Screen Shot 2015-01-27 at 12.13.30 PM

Beginning with some “preliminary statistics” (the most irksome of which, for me, was the math test to make sure I wasn’t a robot) the test sets out to determine who it is exactly that is visiting the site. With what seems to be a parameter logistic model scaled to seven for the item response, each test taker grades questions between a Strongly Agree button, color coded in green, to a Strongly Disagree button, coded with red. Midway between the two is a yellow Neutral/No Opinion button. The test itself is eight pages, with the second-to-last being a series of graphs that the taker will gauge using a sliding button.

The questions were hard for me – I like inflicting pain during sex and seeing the results of it (marks/bruises, makeup running by tears, etc.) afterwards led me to think, “Well, I like seeing that I scratched a back up a little, but I don’t want to make anybody need to say they walked into a door or anything, so how strongly do I agree? Are there absolutes?” – but I made it through. I expected my results to be reflective of my own sexuality that my consciousness views with a fairly biased skew towards Brat and Submissive. Basically just be the boss, let me challenge you, and put me in my place, then snuggle me and call me your good little girl. (After that I’ll redress and go home and program my coffee maker, because pair-bond formation is something I struggle with. Feelings.)

Unfortunately, in the end, the BDSM test was just as frustrating as all of the others. While, like the SATs, which proved that my ineptitude at mathematics was vast, the foundation was clear – yes, I was largely submissive – there were so many variables that I seemed far more multifaceted and murky than my sexual palate leads me to believe. In this case, I am not Han Solo, I am Princess Leia in chains, while the test gave me a 37% C-3PO and a 4% Jaba the Hut.

Leia

These were my results:

89% Submissive
88% Brat
84% Girl/Boy
75% Degradation Receiver
75% Voyeur
66% Exhibitionist
64% Experimentalist
63% Bondage Receiver
63% Switch
59% Slave
54% Masochist
53% Primal (Prey)
46% Primal (Predator)
38% Non-monogamist
37% Brat Tamer
33% Degradation Giver
29% Bondage Giver
29% Pervert
24% Daddy/Mommy
24% Dominant
20% Vanilla
16% Sadist
15% All-Rounder
4% Master/Mistress

Doesn’t this seem like too many…things? I get that I scored higher in certain categories, but I don’t think that the criteria for judging Master/Mistress would indicate that 4% of myself is desirous of being called Mistress. (Spoiler Alert: Absolutely not, no thank you, Sir.)

The diametrically opposed types of Degradation Receiver (75%) and Degradation Giver (33%) don’t add up, both numerically or otherwise, something that even someone as mathematically challenged as myself can determine. While I think it’s great to be titillated by calling someone a whore, as I need someone to call me the names I like to be called, I don’t actually get off on doing that. Agreeing with a principle and executing said principle are not the same thing. Correlation ≠ causation and all that.

I know that analyzing the gap between divergent types of sexual preferences as scaled by an online test is a lot like trying to project nuance onto a mood ring. There’s no real cogent argument that can be applied when the basis for formulating a result comes from personal preference and appetites. While I agree that ambiguity and variances in behaviors can be mapped into ‘types,’ and a gradation of characteristics as interpreted by data, when it comes to sex it’s a lot like cryptographical mathematics, there are just too many elements in the fields for humans to reduce it to anything binary or simple.

Nothing is unequivocal, everything is unique, even when one’s own preferences seem fairly predictable, biased, and unwavering. Again, just skull fuck me and call me your princess.

my little bdsm pony

How can one be vanilla but also masturbate on command in public restrooms? What determines vanilla as a category? Moreover, I am not at all into non-monogamy for my emotional relationships (play partners, so long as we’re all being safe, should just play fair and be honest.)

And, again, not to beat a dead horse (unless it’s into that) an online test that gauges the sexual preferences of self-proclaimed deviants for the sake of distilling components into percentages isn’t exactly a reflection of relational framework theory or any sort of actual meta-analysis. It’s just funsies, as concocted by an intellectual kinkster, for the benefit of our kaleidoscopic community. The fact that I’m analyzing the analysis? Totally – 100%, even – appropriate. It’s my mildly aroused opinion that test taking, in this case, should be left for student/teacher fantasies.

Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell

I’ve always viewed bisexuality as the overlap of a Venn diagram. On one side, you have the blue of heterosexuality: a girl wanting a boy’s fuzzy chest to lay her head on, a girl wanting a boy’s manly man things like grunts and hockey fandom and tinkering in a garage, a girl wanting a boy’s sweatpants boner…and then on the other side, the red of homosexuality: a girl wanting a girl to spoon with and whine about her menstrual cramps in solidarity, a girl wanting a girl to walk in silence with in the woods, a girl wanting a girl to wedge a Hitachi Magic Wand on top of as they scissor their way into another night of multiple orgasms and shared pints of gelato…The purple ellipse between the two being bisexuality. A union of amazing sexual and emotional dynamics, a blending of the best, and occasional worst, of both possible worlds.

Unfortunately, in real life, it’s far less an overlap, more like a game of Pong. On one side, I’m straight but weird, a girl with short hair, tattoos, and a penchant for wielding muscle and curses like a tiny, female midget pirate. Then I’m the gay girl, the not-quite-butch/not-quite-femme lesbian with hair too long for either category, and a demurring smile that seems to hint of something, like my love of skullfucking. All of this is fine, and not my problem, until there’s a juncture where one or the other side of my identity needs to be revealed.

This is less of an issue with men who, by and large, seem to value bisexuality as a kind of cool party trick for their girl to bust out. After all, a bisexual girl is just a girl-on-girl threesome waiting to happen to most guys. But for lesbians, my bisexuality is often viewed as less of a glittering example of my uniqueness, and more of an unsavory detail, much like a lack of faith in evolution, Creed fandom, or an STD. (Those last two might be the same.)

snuggles and hitachis

So what’s a bisexual girl to do, other than feel proud that they’re part of the 13%? Do I lie to the ladies, keeping my love of guysweat a secret? Do I trot out my queerness with a degree of self-resignation or shame? Or do I pretend that the percentage of my lesbianism outweighs my percentage of heteronormalcy somehow, as though the results have come back and I’m 65% gay, 45% straight?

Instead I usually wind up keeping it a secret, staying quiet when men are brought up or any man-bashing takes place (which is less often than most straight men would think.) Recently there’s been a bit of a predicament, however. I’ve started working for a venue that is run by two very pretty, very intelligent women who happen to be both gay and in a relationship. And while I allow them to think that my unfortunate haircut and tattoos of naked pin-up girls on my arms put me in the center of Dyke March every year, one of them initiated a line of questioning recently that sent a shiver of fear into my tiny, LGBT-supporting heart…

Her: Did you ever know a girl named Ana X?

Me: Um, where?

Her: Westchester.

Me: Freckles?

Her: And a gap between her front teeth.

Me: An Ani DiFranco “Righteous Babe” tattoo on her ankle?

Her: Left ankle.

Me: (remembering Ana X doing GHB and making out with me on a lawn at Sarah Lawrence College on a night during the beginning of spring semester of freshman year) …maybe.

Her: That was my roommate in Brooklyn!

Me: (recalling a drunken night, meeting up with Ana X and a long-haired girl with glasses at Meow Mix two years later and making out with both of them, at separate times, in the bathroom line) Oh. Wow. Yeah.

Her: We could have made out!

Me: No, no, no, I mean, maybe, I mean, no, I mean, I haven’t seen her in so long, I don’t think I met you…

Her: You never know. The lesbian community is so small.

Me: Yeah. Us lesbians. Real small. Heh.

But, while I was a lesbian back then, I lost my boy-to-girl virginity five years later, when I realized – also drunkenly – that I was bisexual and not gay. (Interesting statistic, most bisexual people won’t tell anyone about their orientation until they’re twenty years old, but most likely that isn’t a gay person telling someone they’re actually bi, as opposed to a presumably straight person coming out as bi. Still, worth noting.)

kiss kiss

Ever since then I’ve been an equal-opportunity whore, viewing bodies as bodies and people as people and respecting all forms of identity while never pigeonholing my own. But what of people, especially lesbians, who knew me as “one of their kind” way back when? Do I come out as a bisexual? Or stay closeted in my rainbow closet of gay? Moreover, is it my responsibility to do so, as some sort of representative of the ‘other’ end of the queer spectrum?

Worse yet, if I did, would I lose my job?

Needless to say, there might not be a so-called right answer. But it’s definitely something that’s been sitting its heavy ass at the foot of my bed. Considering that bisexuals are only ‘tolerated’ a little bit more than IV drug users in a 2009 survey of self-identifying straight people, I have a feeling that, while my personal predicament is less common, I’m not the only one wrestling with this. But I might be the only one who has made out with her boss, and boss’ former roommate.

Blowjobs. The Learning Annex Edition.

The other day my crimson-haired girl Princess suggested to me that I should give blow job lessons since I often find myself waxing poetically about them.

Blowjob workshops already exist, and are taught by women and gay men far more experienced and knowledgeable than yours truly. I don’t have the steel stomach required to speak publically, let alone about something that makes me blush and giggle. So here’s a manual, in the form of a post.

in the mouth

Everybody, and every body, is different. I’m approaching this list from the point of view of someone who is not nearly as good as verbal communication in the sack as I wish I were. True fact absolutism: the real list of tips and tricks for anything carnal has only one bullet point, and that is this, ask. Seriously. Just talk to one another and you’ll save yourself a lot of anxiety and guessing, and probably, maybe have a bit more fun figuring things out.

But if, like me, you choose the fool’s path of seeking without speaking, here are a few of the key screws and wrenches that have proven to be the handiest of implements in my oral toolbox.

Oh, and while I write about this from the perspective of a girl-blowing-boy configuration, I’m going to go out on a phallic limb and state that all apply for boy-on-boy action, too. If anything, you lads have an advantage, as you have one.

Reading. It’s more than just for books.

Start by figuring out your partner’s cues. Common physical markers of pleasure are fairly obvious, other than a hard-on: muscles tense up, respiration and circulation quicken, there can be flushing of the face, neck, and chest. They’ll likely wriggle around a bit, and he might make some sounds (super hot to me, though to some girls they may sound like an animal being slowly wounded in the distance, depending on the dude.) These are all good things. Negative signs are fairly easy to spot, and though I’ve fortunately never experienced ‘em, I assume they’d include wincing in pain, shrieking, smacking not-in-the-fun-way, crying, falling asleep, and calling their mother.

Think butter knife > steak knife

You have teeth. Teeth are sharp, and are one of the reasons why we’re at the top of the food chain. Vegans be damned, our canines were designed to tear at flesh. Don’t be dumb. Sure, a little nibble here and there can be some guys’ jam, but try to avoid actual tooth-to-dick contact. No chewing. If you feel contact between your bicuspids and his glans, try to shift your position, and don’t repeat that move.

The dick is not a hands-free device.

If you’re bad at multitasking, don’t. Personally, I can’t be touched, let alone 69ed, when I’m sucking somebody off. But oral isn’t just oral, it’s also manual. Use at least one hand, though I personally have found that most guys prefer two, if they have the length for it. You’re not churning butter or playing foosball, go easy, but use your mitts.

vanilla

Make a mess.

Think 5 Napkin Burger. Ideally, there will be paper towels or a washcloth required for cleanup on aisle dick. While this may not apply to every man, it seems as though many will choose sloppy over orally OCD. More spit makes for a better bj. Maybe don’t hock a loogie on his junk, but drool like a bulldog with a beachball. Get it going in your gob, the wetter the better. If you feel weird about this, watch porn. (More about this later.) You are not looking to walk away from a blowjob with your lipstick in tact. I’ve been known to leave the scene of the crime with my mascara running.

Pro-tip, if you think you’re going to wind up on your knees, hydrate properly. Good for your health, helpful for a proper slide into third base. Guzzle some Gatorade or, better yet, toast with some tap. Which brings me to…

Down the hatch.

When it comes to the end-game, the opposite tact is best. While you weren’t slurping away the spit that got your blowing needing a bib, you should enjoy the fruit of your labor. And by that I mean, swallow it down. Think about if a guy were going down on you and then pulled out a pack of wet naps and some Purell. You’ve gone that far, finish the job. Glug-a-lug and feel good about it, unless he indicates he’d rather spunk someplace else. Related, don’t quit while you’re ahead.

Follow-through.

Stroke beyond the ‘o,’ ladies. No, don’t yank it off, don’t change your game, but orgasms for men don’t end the moment the cum comes out. Pulse, pulse, quiver, happy birthday, quiver, pulse. A few more pumps to get out the last drops and he’ll appreciate the effort. Again, read cues, as he’ll likely stop you and signal the need for cessation when it’s time.

Pride brings you low.

Ladies. I know we’re all taught to be pretty. You may have spent hours putting yourself together tonight and playing mind games for months in order to kneel before his phallic throne. But now that you’re here, give up trying to stay straightlaced and coloring within the lines. Do the opposite of what would keep you looking good on the street. Get gross. Indicate how much fun you’re having. Stop trying to seem like anything other than a ravenous fat kid with a pack of creamsicles. Veto any vanity, sacrifice squeamishness, drop your dignity at the door . I personally veer towards cock worship, but that’s in part because it’s my default setting with a partner who I enjoy.

3, 2, 1, eye contact.

Look up from what you’re doing, or open your eyes if they’re shut tight. Fix your gaze on his face. Blink. Look earnest, though I sometimes think that on my face this comes across as concern. Don’t get all serious and start a staring contest, and try not to shoot him crazy eyes. Look down or close ‘em up if and when it feels right, but most men want to look at you looking up at them as you go down to peen town. Besides, eye contact is romantic, right?

Deepthroat. It’s not only for Nixon.

Deepthroating. Most of us have heard about it. And while a lot of guys of average size are able to be completely consumed, some certainly are not, and probably never will be. (Lucky!) Regardless, on dicks of all sizes, if you find deepthroat difficult, just keep trying. Get comfortable gagging. Don’t look at this maneuver as something that necessarily has to be done for an extended period of time over and over again, but I’ve found that one or two attempts to get past the uvula are much appreciated when thrown in the mix of mouth ministrations. If you have a hair-trigger gag reflex (…me!…) practice makes better, not perfect. Ease into it on your own if self-stylings are the type of thing that would make you feel more secure. I’ve found that in the shower it’s easier, sometimes I try with the handle of my toothbrush, or revisit high-school and just jam my fingers down my throat. Remember that, when deepthroating, coughing is totally okay, but vomiting is not. Look to avoid actually tossing your cookies on his crotch. Snot is not unexpected, hacking and choking a bit is fine, but hurling should be side-stepped, ideally.

Go lower. No, lower.

The balls are not just a decorative ornament or air freshner hanging off of the rearview mirror of his dick. Do not neglect them. Stroke ‘em gently, lick ‘em lightly, maybe suck on them a little. Again, read his cues. No pulling or tugging on the goods unless asked, no aggressive sucking unless told directly or implied, and no fucking biting, what are you an asshole?

Gentlemen's club

For guys only.

Dudes. Your girl is doing something nice. Do her a solid, shower first? At least tidy up the junk. Trim your pubes, manscape a bit, use actual soap when washing.

Don’t immediately grab the back of her head, unless she’s into that.

No skull fucking unless you guys have discussed it first, as that can really and truly freak a girl out and possibly hurt. (Trust me.)

If you care about her and have the sort of intimacy that wouldn’t make it weird, stroke her cheek. Say sweet things. Make her feel good while doing it and chances are she’ll do it again. Women are creatures built with an engine that runs on positive reinforcement. Compliments go a long way.

graduate level shit

Advanced Placement

Here are a few suggestions that may require a little more commitment, time, and personal dedication to the craft. I only recommend these if you are either very seriously interested in making a good impression or know that you’ll be blowing your boy, as per a previous arrangement.

Also, if you’re the type of chick who feels weird about sex, maybe skip this part, if you even made it this far…

Afrin.

I’ve found that using nasal spray to keep the breathing passageways clear can help, especially if you’re looking to bypass the epiglottis and go right to the trachea.

Chloraseptic.

I’ve read that this helps, but I’ve only tried it twice, and both times I think that other non-sexual activities took some time before getting it on, thereby leaving my throat no longer numb. A risk that I wondered about, but never found a definitive answer to, is whether or not its application could wear off on the dick. An oral analgesic isn’t the same as a topical one, but phenol, the active ingredient in many throat sprays, is also found in aspirin, and ingrown toenail treatments, and even paint stripper. I like my partners too much as a general rule to go around thinking that rubbing paint stripper on their dick using my vocal chords is a kind gesture. That said, I got the warming kind in fear of menthol giving him a peculiar cooling sensation down there as I did my thing. There are specific products made for numbing for oral, too, but that just seems like a waste of money and a little dumb. My honey lemon spritz may do double-duty during cold and flu season.

Watch porn.

Goes without saying. If you want sex advice, go to the pros. I mean, it’s not as if you’re not clicking over to Pornhub anyway.

Godspeed, suck safe, and have fun.

pop, buh-doom, doom, doom, doom