Over 20 million American adults a year suffer from a mood disorder, and according to the National Institute of Mental Health, Major depressive disorder affects near 17.1 million people, and it is currently the leading cause of disability in the United States for people aged 15 to 44.

When it comes to depression, men fair much better as depression seems to affect twice as many women than men, regardless of race, ethnicity, or income. Generally, married women experience depression more-so than single women, and it is most commonly seen in young mothers who stay at home full-time with their kids. While more men die from suicide than women do, women attempt suicide twice as often than men and unfortunately, only 1/5th of women who suffer from depression seek treatment, leaving 4/5th untreated.

I am a married woman under 30, with one child that I now stay home with, and I suffer from depression… and I don’t really like to talk about it. It’s not that depression is a taboo subject or something meant to be kept private, it’s just that I’ve spent years talking about it, years of trying different medications to help stable my chemical imbalances, and years trying to make myself feel better. But I’m one of those people that hasn’t really had a lot of success in becoming a happy person- sometimes I am happy, I can go for months or even years where I’m content and blissful, but then I have times where I hit low points and I can’t find any light to help me through my darkness. And when I’m unable to see what lies ahead, it means my sex life suffers which causes my husband to suffer and ultimately, my depression rocks the very foundation of my marriage.

When I experience depression I either can’t have sex or I want too much sex. How is it possible to want too much sex? When I look back and think of all the times where I’d only have sex once or twice a week, “too much” sex seems so silly. Yet, for me, sex has always been a way to distract myself from the things going on in my life. Sex has filled in the gaps for sadness, worthlessness, low self esteem, and the feeling of not being loved- for years, sex was my comfort food. By going out and getting laid, I was preventing myself from dealing with any pain, it was a way to ignore my issues, to make them go away for a few minutes… but after sex, the feelings would usually come back and I’d have to have sex again to keep those emotional demons at bay.

As I’ve aged, I’ve lost interest in using sex as a weapon to fight the pain, and instead, I’ve stopped having it for periods at a time. I just seem to lose all focus, all motivation, and all desire. Even masturbation seems like an impossible feat and becomes the furthest thing from my mind. Unfortunately, when you’re in a committed relationship, not only are you denying your partner your once happy self but you’re denying them an activity that may or may not have been one of the major ways you expressed your love for one another. When I’m depressed, because I become removed and stop having sex with my husband, he often feels at fault or as if he’s being punished. Without any intention to, I punish him by not allowing myself to feel better and it relays a message to him that says, “you’re not worth getting better for” and many fights follow which do little to help the situation.

Usually depression results in me becoming incredibly self-involved, I don’t think of anyone else’s’ needs and I forget about my husband. I forget about his needs, I forget he is a strong, virile man and instead, by giving him the cold shoulder or ignoring his sexual advances, I make him feel like less than what he is. Instead of smiling, he mopes. My lack of affection which is by no means directed at him, results in behavioral changes, and he suffers depression by proxy. We have suffered together for well over 4 years with ups and downs. Infertility has caused a major rift of unhappiness in our household and often, while he still smiles and tries to keep each and every situation positive, I’m the one trying to bring us down. I am an anchor and he is the ship, he tries constantly to try to move me to get out of port but I am unmovable, I am stubborn, I am pigheaded, and I refuse to go upwards. Depression (and that good ole Irish Catholic charm) causes me to be completely unwilling, so while the rest of the world tries to hoist me up, I only want to keep myself down.

For me, there is no instant cure for depression. I’ve never found the magic pill and instead, I’ve fought prescription after prescription because of some very lousy side effects. Often, a lot of these medications that try to lift your spirits often drive down your desire to have sex… and just losing interest in sex or having poor lubrication is enough to make and keep you depressed. if you aren’t sad already, a limp dick will make you. But this is where motivation comes in to play (and we all know when you’re depressed, motivation is hard to come by). Chances are, the first medicine you try isn’t going to be “the one” so communication with your doctor is vital. You don’t have suffer with crappy side effects even if you physically and emotionally feel better, it might take a few different brands and dosages before you start feeling like a person who is both happy and able to get it on.

For those of us with more than chemical imbalances, medication isn’t enough and therapy needs to be included in our treatment plan. Therapy can either be a dream or a nightmare. I’ve seen a lot of therapists, counselors, and psychologists to know that I hate talking to people. Being patronized by someone is humiliating. Explaining your life, your issues, and being told to do things or alter yourself so drastically that is financially or physically impossible, can cause even more problems. The hardest part for me was never finding the right medication but finding the right outlet. Instead of relying on a therapist or friends to open up to, I turned to a blog. A way to anonymously let out all my feelings privately (and if I wanted, I could remove any password protection and open myself up to the rest of the world, allowing others’ to comment and give advice/tips/hints on ways to improve myself and my life). Blogging is modern day journal writing and without it, I’d go insane.

So while depression is a sexual death sentence, with the right outlet for expression of feelings and thoughts, and if need be, the right medication, you can change your life and become a happier and more well rounded you… which in turns, keeps your partner from feeling as if they’re being punished. So if you’ve convinced yourself that you aren’t worth getting better for, your partner is… and so is your sex life!

I think one of Myspace’s TOS (terms of service) requirements are that you’re either a 15 year old girl or a middle aged sex offender, or at the very least you have some sort of criminal background.

I remember the birth of social networking sites, and yes, Tom was MY friend. He also became a friend to millions of others, but STILL, he was my first. He broke my social networking cherry and I remember the fateful day I saw him on my profile. A “WTF” ensued and I got rid of him as quickly as I could. Honestly, who did he think he was and how did he add himself to my friends list? Shenanigans.

With the passing years, many imitators have tried and failed because honestly, there really is only one Tom.. who happened to jump ship before all the pedophiles started getting busted, and he and his merry band of techies managed to come up for air with a cool $580 million in their pockets . Not bad, not bad at all.

Myspace is a reminder that I’m old. Not old enough to be considered creepy but old enough to know I’m not a teenager anymore. Old enough to know that I really don’t have any friends, old enough to know that I wasn’t very popular in high school (because maybe 5 people from my graduating class have tried to add me), and wise enough (wise means “smart” but for old people) to put as little information out there because I really don’t need any stalkers at my age.

Yet, I’ve had a stalker or two, or maybe a dozen. And not those awesomely hot guys from high school you always hoped would have a crush on you, but women, bat-shit crazy teenage girls and hormonal middle aged women. See, this is why you make your profile private. When profiles are public anyone can see everything and that random guy from the other side of the country that randomly added you because who the hell knows why (you probably had a default image that showed a lot of boob) means he probably has some randomly psychotic girlfriend that inspects his friends list like I inspect my hair for grays. In the course of my relationship with Myspace I’ve received MANY emails from women who asked me if I was sleeping with their boyfriends, if I wanted to sleep with their boyfriends, if I ever had slept with their boyfriends, or if I ever would sleep with their boyfriends at any point in the future.

See, if you’re like me, women hate you anyway. I don’t know why (okay, I totally know why) but Myspace just fuels fires, it is a breeding ground for drama. I had one woman that I met once at a party post on my comments about getting together with her for an orgy (and my family saw, super embarrassing if you’re the type of person that likes to believe they have tact or class), I had another woman that I used to be friends with launch a campaign to break up my marriage, and I have had many old exes that I’ve tried to forget exist send me messages to rekindle flames or revive dead romances (just those emails *that were never reciprocated* being in my inbox was enough to raise some interesting questions from my husband). See, if you’re a private person, social networking sites destroy any chance you have of keeping shit to yourself.

Myspace has done something for me though- and not because it actually does anything useful except make me feel really fucking old, but it has done SOMETHING. It’s a way I can get together with my friends and family and watch those really good episodes of To Catch a Predator. See, this show is hilarious and sad. (It’s not really sad but I have to say that to make myself seem like an empathetic person or that I care about the poor slutty teenage girls that post naked pictures and then get old dudes messaging them asking for a hook up and they’re all “OMG, WHY? I’m so innocent!”). But watching grown men cry or show up with a bottle of Jack Daniels and a box of Trojans and say the only came over to ‘be friends’ with a 14 year old girl on national TV is pure unadulterated entertainment. Chris Hansen reading out transcripts of offenders’ graphic chat conversations or discussing the pictures of their genitalia that they sent to the undercover officers posing as minors is what has made reality TV what it is today. Unfortunately, this show was also a way for pedophiles out there to find new victims. Predators that weren’t smart enough to realize how easy it was to trick kids on the internets on their own saw these Dateline specials and realized they could do the same thing, only with a real teenage girl and not an undercover police officer. To Catch a Predator became a how to of How to Become a Predator.

Because of this new predatory awareness, I had a lot more views on my profile and a lot less friend add requests, probably because all these old men that signed up for Myspace assumed I was a teenage girl but then realized I was a grown woman once they saw my pictures (which made me feel really old). And because of all the negative publicity my friends blocked pictures of their children or deleted their profiles completely. Parents were more cautious of what their teenagers were doing and made them delete their profiles, not post pictures, or make everything private- and because of all these changes, I noticed a lot of people dropped off my friends list (mainly the creepy profiles without pictures or the random guys from random parts of the country that added me). Because of Chris Hansen my friends list dwindled. And then Myspace started “cracking down” and getting all serious. Any picture I had that had even the slightest bit of nudity (I call it art, they called it pornography) was flagged and deleted. I had to start covering my breasts and start acting like a woman my age. I wasn’t a teenage girl so I wasn’t allowed to show off my body in a bikini or without a bra on, I swear it’s written in the TOS that you have be under 17 to do these things. Because of Chris Hansen it was no longer cool for women my age to have Myspace.

But there is hope if you aren’t a teenage girl or on the local sex offender registry, all you have to do is delete your profile. And as a last resort, you can flock like a refugee to Facebook.

“That’s not me,” I tell myself that every time I look in the mirror.

I’m one of those women that has this image of themselves in their heads and can’t accept what they see in the mirror. I used to be able to, 80 lbs ago. I’ve seen my scale at different numbers for years; 160, 180, 200, 220, and the all amazing 240 after I had my son. The scale is a magician with a slight of hand, it changes daily in increments of 1,2,3,4, or even 5 lbs. I used to be obsessed with weighing myself, obsessed with how to change the number, to make it go down. I’ve thrown scales out because I swore they were broken, but then I’d head right back to Walmart and buy another one, this time digital- yes, digital wouldn’t lie to me.

Sometimes I’d try to cheat myself, I’d put my hand on the towel bar, or I’d lean a little against the wall- that would make the scale read 3, 4, 5, or even 6 lbs less. Once I made it read 13 lbs less. I remember that day, that day was a good day. That day I felt better about myself, that day I didn’t cry.

I’ve tried diets, colonics, I’ve starved myself, and I’ve even choked down Trimspa pills because Anna Nicole Smith looked amazing in my copy of Star Magazine. Look at her now, she’s dead. And all I could think of after I read the news reports she had died was, “All her hard work has been wasted.”

I’m cruel to myself over my weight, but it spawns from years of feeling inadequate. My mother and two sisters both weigh 120 lbs and my father weighs 170. I was 170 when I was 15. I remember school shopping for clothes and instead of buying cute outfits at the Gap like my sister, I was subjected to the Woman’s department in Macy’s or dear lord, Lane Bryant. My mom used to try to convince me that what I was buying was new, and young, and hip but then I’d hear her at home bitching to my dad because I had gone up a size or because a size 18 jeans cost $60. They tried for years to help me to lose weight, noting my imperfections, and my father often told me, “if you lost 20 lbs you’d be so pretty”… “if you lost 20 lbs you’d get a boyfriend”. They thought these would be motivators to get me to try harder with dieting but all it did was make the hurt more pronounced and make me hate my body more.

When I was 17 I lost weight. It happened when I got my license, when I could leave my house and finally have freedom- the freedom to stop being reminded that all I needed to do was lose 20 lbs. I’d hang out with my friends- we’d go swim at the beach, we’d go drive around town, and we’d even go shopping. Shopping at places like AJ Wright, god, I loved that store. I was now a size M/L up top instead of an XL, and I was a size 14 in jeans instead of an 18. This store offered me both cute “normal size” clothes and cute “plus size” clothes, I finally wore things that didn’t make me cry or didn’t make me worry if my Memaw had the same thing. I now had a wardrobe that gave me confidence.

Throughout the rest of my early adult years I let my clothes define me (as most women do). I’ll never forget the size 14 dress I got from Frederick’s of Hollywood that I wore the first Valentine’s Day with my boyfriend (now husband). I felt beyond sexy and everyone there at the restaurant knew it. I got a lot of looks, it actually took me a couple of years to become accustomed to the feeling of having eyes on me- eyes that instead of judging, were loving. When I was a kid in school the boys would never look twice at me, now men were falling all over themselves to get an extra glimpse at my round breasts or long, slender legs. Instead of being the fat girl, I was a curvy woman.

My body had become a weapon I didn’t quite know how to wield, and my new shape got me into trouble- it got me married and it got me pregnant. I really only had 2 good years to enjoy skin that was tight, an abdomen that was flat, and legs that went up to here.

My first prenatal appointment required a scale and I actually made me husband leave the room. Oh god, here we go again… I knew it went up, all I did was lay around at home on bed rest and eat whatever I wanted because my mom convinced me whatever you gain during pregnancy goes away after you have the baby. (If only I knew what I know now!) The doctor looks at me judgmentally, “190 lbs.” I cried for days. Each prenatal appointment was like that and the appointment I had the day before I had my son, the scale read a whopping 244 lbs.

Two weeks after having my son I pulled down my size 14 jeans from the closet shelf and tried to put them on. I couldn’t even get them up over my thighs. I became depressed, suffering for months with postpartum depression and postperfectbody depression. I gained 20 more lbs but it felt like 100. I remember looking in the mirror and not being able to truly see myself, I had this image in my mind that I still looked like I did before I got pregnant. I disillusioned myself so I wouldn’t have to accept the reality that now was, the 220 lb reality. Instead of size 14 jeans, they were now size 22.

I’ve yo-yo’d for the last 5 years between a size 16 and a size 24. Instead of my weight just making me feel like crap or making me avoid the mirror, my weight now causes my hormones to fluctuate which has prevented me from getting pregnant for the second time around, has caused periods to disappear or last for months– but these weight changes have also been a godsend by helping my doctor discover I have PCOS (poly cystic ovarian syndrome) .

Trying to get pregnant at 200+ lbs with PCOS has made every lb lost a miracle and every lb gained an obstacle. I’ve consulted dietitians, I’ve become a member of at a least a dozen gyms, and I’ve even paid Nutrisystem $400 to try their “amazing program”. I’ve tried to fight the scale- I eat healthy, I exercise, I live a lifestyle where I stay on my feet but that damn scale constantly wins. It beats me over and over again. It took the doctor I have now to help me see that this is not all my fault (okay, so I do eat a Big Mac every now and again) but that PCOS, an under-performing thyroid, and diabetes are the cause of most of my weight issues. That all this time I’ve been fighting the scale I should have been fighting my body.

Even with the realization that there are factors beyond my control for why I’ll never be a size 2 or 4 like my sisters or a size 6 like my mother, I still don’t feel comfortable in my own skin. Mainly because I don’t believe it’s mine. My body has failed me on many counts; never letting me to truly feel like myself (I don’t even know who myself is!), preventing me from getting pregnant, and preventing me from learning to love what I’ve been given… but I’m trying. I’m trying to love who I am and I’m trying to get myself to a happy and healthy weight but these are things that often feel impossible to do.

Instead of fad diets, colonics, or diet pills, it takes me a lot of prescriptions to look like I do now, and I’m nowhere where I used to be… but I use my old size 14 jeans and that old size 14 dress from Frederick’s of Hollywood as a motivator to become who I once was- and not the fat girl that thought perfection was always just 20 lbs away, but the curvy woman that used her body as a weapon.. instead of letting it become a weapon used against her.

Before I met my husband it was rare to meet a man that didn’t look at me like I was a freak after I explained a fetish or fantasy, let alone one who would support it, embrace it, or even try it. I was often stuck with one variation or another of “traditional” sex and had to learn to suppress my desires. There was nothing like being a twisted girl stuck in a vanilla world.

It took until my 4th year of marriage to be comfortable enough to speak up and say what I had long wanted, what my true needs were. And truthfully, I’m a Pony Girl (among other things). I have incredible BDSM needs that I want met; they make me demanding, and quite frankly, a pain in the ass to deal with. Getting my husband to now agree to fulfill both my sexual needs as well as my domestic needs (like taking out the garbage, cleaning out the cat’s litter box, and being the one to change the station when we lose the TV remote) was easier than I had ever assumed.

Trust building exercises were explored within the following weeks; we not only had to be comfortable with the idea of Pony Play but we had to be comfortable with it with each other. I’ve always had 100% faith in my husband’s ability to never push my limits but this time I had to coax him to go past them. The first conversations were easily the hardest- I didn’t want to just come out and say, “I am a Pony, ride me”, I had to show him the lifestyle little by little; Frequent Google searches were made, amateur Pony Play videos were watched, and lots of products arrived to facilitate the journey we were about to embark on.

I remember the first website we went to and I’m honestly surprised he agreed to go through with everything. Most of the very first photographs he saw featured one particular Pony, his penis, and what his trainer did to his penis. My husband turned to look at me and when I was afraid he’d give me the whole “This is way beyond what I’m capable of”, he says instead, “You don’t have a small penis so I don’t know how well this will work.”

Our first time is the hardest, the most awkward, and the most exciting. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the feeling of when my husband slipped the bridle over my hair, or the feeling of his rough fingers securing the clasp tightly under my chin and against the back of my head. It was intense as I now felt locked into submission. He slid my blinders up and all I could see was his face in front of me, my eyes were only focused on him because now he was my trainer.

As he had me on all fours with my back straight and my nose pointing straight forward like a hound dog who had acquired the scent of a fox, there was nothing I wanted more than to serve him. However, he struggled and didn’t say much. My husband is not a very vocal guy and often feels silly when he has to be creative, this was not so good when the entire fantasy was to be led by him, much like he would soon lead me by the reins, literally. Unfortunately, the trainer is the one meant to give the orders, and I couldn’t exactly say anything to help him out as there was a leather bit in my mouth that prevented speaking and allowed only drooling.

Inspired to teach me how to walk, he tried to help me up off the floor. With saliva running down my face, restraints on my ankles preventing me from being able to use my feet, and the blinders on my bridle slipping down my face making it hard for me to see, I looked just as drunk as I had been on our first date. I was also just as unsteady on my feet and instead of helping me up off the floor, he too lost his footing and within moments, was right down on the carpet beside me. I couldn’t help but laugh, and the harder I laughed, the more drool spilled from my lips, down my chin, and all over the carpet. Our first time exploring this new fantasy lasted all but 5 minutes because I couldn’t keep it together, or have the degree of seriousness required to practice this new form of submission and domination.

We talked to analyze what went wrong and how we could improve the fantasy. After a few nights of visiting some Pony Play websites that featured women instead (nothing against the male Pony but your penis did little to help me encourage my husband to pursue this further), we discussed pictures that excited us and he armed himself with a better perspective on what was required to train me. We started our scene on the floor again but this time he chose a ball gag as opposed to a bit, and thankfully, he decided against putting hobbles on my ankles. He also decided to focus on showing me that he loved me by grooming me, immediately securing a connection and allowing us to be completely turned on by what was happening.

He ran a large brush along my backside, having the bristles caress and explore every inch of my body. As the brush neared the end of my body, he knelt down on one knee behind me and his hands spread my legs for inspection. One of his hands soon slipped between my thighs, and as his fingers explored the inner folds and ridges of my vagina I came close to explosion because I realized this was the moment our sex life would change, that there was no going back. Clearly satisfied that we had started the night off right, he got to his feet and with his large form looming over me, he barked his first command…. and he’s been barking them since.

It hasn’t been all tack and roses since our first successful time exploring my love of Pony Play; we’ve fought… he’s felt odd… I haven’t felt truly degraded… and I’ve resented him on more than one occasion because he wasn’t able to submerse himself in the fantasy. At times it only felt like my fantasy, not ours… but I cannot fault him because instead of making me feel insecure or weird… or not even pursuing my desires at all, he’s agreed to try the things I want to do. While our Pony Play trysts have not yielded the success I had hoped they would, we have made progress. Overall, many aspects of our relationship have changed for the better. One of the biggest steps we have taken to improving our love life has been to learn how to openly communicate our needs which has resulted in exploring new fantasies of his too— the biggest of which has been “pegging”… and the end of that conversation left him saying yet again, “You don’t have a small penis so I don’t know how well this will work.”

Pegging required me to be the one with the dick and him the one with the receiving orifice. Even I, who is willing to try everything once, was a little speechless when I fucked my husband in the ass for the first time. But I have both embraced pegging and felt just as awkward with it, as I’m sure my husband felt exploring Pony Play for the first time. However, I’m willing and very happy to do whatever he wants because he has done the same for me. Thankfully though, his fantasies don’t leave him drooling and incapacitated.

So Thank God I’m Married because I now have a wonderful partner that will try anything I ask him to, even if it means letting me be a Pony… or drool all over the carpet.

I’m not your every day suburban wife and mother, in fact, a lot of people do not even know that I’m married or that I have a child. And some people, well, some people don’t even know my real name.

I’m a PSO, more commonly referred to as a phone sex operator.

Even though society has progressed with how we view sexuality and have realized that humans are indeed sexual beings, I have not told my family what I do and my neighbors just think I’m a very quiet freelance writer… thank god for soundproofed rooms (although, the days I leave the windows open kind of defeat the purpose of discretion). I have no shame about what I do but I don’t want to make those that know me feel uncomfortable or think my husband and I are sexual deviants because we get paid to be sexual.. (and yes, he plays a role but you gotta read on for that.)

My job of being a PSO entails creating persona’s or characters that I use to tell stories or create fantasies with; I customize unique experiences for my callers and the person I become for them I may live for just that day or for months at a time. I’m really just a glorified storyteller… well, an erotic storyteller for big kids.

In this line of work, imagination is key. I’ve always been theatrical and I’ve tied it in with my musicality, having a background of performing in live theater and even some opera, has given me the ability to be one kick ass phone sex operator (at least my clients tell me so). While my background consists of elitism and snobbery, to do what I do you don’t need any diplomas or degrees, you just have to be confident in your ability to create an illusion. This is what appeals to me the most; No more business suits or company uniforms- I can walk around the house in my favorite sweatpants with unwashed hair and not have a care because I don’t have to look perfect… I just have to sound perfect. And whomever I dream up for that day is perfect, she is someone’s ideal girl. and to them, she.. well.. I, am absolutely wonderful.

I’m a partial narcissist, okay, either you are or you aren’t.. but it gets me off knowing that men think I’m hot, sexy, amazing.. usually everything that I (on some days) doubt I am. I am addicted to having a caller tell me I’m wonderful, to tell me how sexy I am and it DOES turns me on. See, if I was single this wouldn’t pose a problem but I am married and want to continue being married, lol. I discuss sexual acts and “what I would do” to my callers and what they would do to me in return, that’s not exactly what most married women I know do. My husband is actually fairly cool with all this though, after 4 years of conversations about lines and boundaries and lots of paychecks earned, he has become adjusted to my way of life… but he hasn’t always been this way.

I’m not even sure how I fell into being a PSO. I think a friend was telling me about her niece that made money getting paid to get naked on her webcam and I did a few google searches (not of the niece but of this line of work.. let’s just clarify that right now. lol). I found the company I currently use as a platform and have stayed with them for roughly 4 years. Before I give you the misconception that being a PSO is an easy job, I must be frank. For someone people it becomes a lifestyle that is hard to maintain, especially if you allow yourself to create friendships or bonds with customers (clients) or if you let your guard down or slip up and say things that are not part of the character you created. You deal with emotions with clients, as you would with any other relationship, but you have to keep yourself distanced because the money is the goal, the money pays for the life you lead off the phone. For those of us who are married, we have to be extra careful in how we deal with men who want to pursue GFE’s (girlfriend experiences) and we also have to make sure our spouses are on board with our chosen profession or else there is the potential for serious disaster. I remind myself on a daily basis that I do this for the M-O-N-E-Y as I provide a service that men pay for, these men are my customers- no more, no less.

The way I talked my husband into it was with the first paycheck. I will not lie, the money has the potential to be good, especially if you’d otherwise be sitting around the house waiting for the kids to get out of school or for the husband to come home from work. My husband has gone from leaving the room when the phone rings to being right there moaning in the background or even allowing me to use his penis or various body parts for the pictures I use in my listings. He is incredibly helpful and has at times, earned my paycheck just as hard (if not harder.. har har) than I have. We lead a double life that is actually very profitable.. and while I love money, it makes me so happy- you may find yourself in situations where even the money is not enough.

Worst case scenarios involve being stalked; when I create persona’s I create girls that live in a state at least 5 states away from the one I currently live in. Other worst case scenarios are when you become too attached to your clients, where you get jealous over their dating or marital habits and you find yourself dealing with unhealthy emotions when you, yourself, are a woman in a committed relationship. Other disasters are when you get the callers that want you to pretend to be a child or a family member so that they can abuse, rape, or molest you or even some men that call and you can hear their own children in the background. These type of subject matters are actually against most phone sex platform’s terms of service and you can be banned from using that company again if you pursue the fantasy or advertise as “doing” those particular fetishes. Being a mother, I have hung up on many men over the years and I’ve even gone out of my way to berate them on the phone with chosen adjectives about what a sub par human I find them to be. I know we all have our own vices ( and if anyone knows that, it’s me)… but I have my limitations and I can be a big momma bear when I need to be.

I’ve had some interesting times. One of my first callers was very interested in BDSM when I was so very, very vanilla. Our entire conversation I had to google everything he was talking about. CBT? Is that a home alarm system? Sploshing? Is that a type of body wash? Mistress? Oh yes baby, I’m married. *Allow me to stop to roll my eyes at my very naive little self…* I was completely out of my element and getting these repeat calls for S&M topics actually had me doing my research and exploring what was suggested on the phone within my own relationship. I’m proud to say the husband and I now use whips and restraints, and he absolutely loves it when I top him- this first hand knowledge and love of these subjects now provides me with the necessary tools to create a very successful fantasy. If anything, phone sex has improved my sex life off of the phone.

One of the best calls I ever had was when I ran on the treadmill while talking on the phone and my caller thought I was so out of breath from all the “rough sex” he and I were “having”. Another time was when I had one caller call me from his closet because his wife was home, the entire 15 minute call was me telling him to talk louder because I couldn’t hear him, so he’d have to stop and start the fantasy all over again- all I said for 15 minutes was “talk louder”.. come to think of it, I get a lot of those, it seems men just love to hang out in the closet. My favorite call of all was when I had a request to “pour” condiments all over my body, I grabbed the ketchup bottle out of the fridge and just kept squirting it out onto a paper plate the entire call. My husband was pretty pissed when he went to put some on his hamburger the next day and there was none left! Oh, and one of my easiest, frequent clients (he cannot go unmentioned) is a guy that will pay $35 for just one picture of my arm hair- if that just isn’t free money than I don’t know what is.

The characters I’ve had the opportunity to play range from a German Domme to a cheerleader from Texas. You have to be willing to diversify because the requests can be far from what you’re comfortable with, or you may get lucky and find a niche that works for you and that callers request. I’ve tried everything from erotic hypnotism (I am in no way trained and have no idea what the hell I’m doing) to creating a scene with supposedly 2 other girls (try doing that by yourself). I’ve used props such as vibrators turned on high, smacking my thigh with a paddle (because that didn’t leave a bruise for 2 days), and using ketchup (more than once). I’ve pretended my husband was a minister and I was the bad Christian wife (I had to google a lot of Biblical passages because the guy wanted “legit”), I’ll tell ya, there’s nothing like a caller getting off to you talking about Cain and Abel. I’ve been a nurse, a teacher, a maid, a flight attendant; come to think of it, I’ve done more role playing on the phone than I have in my own damn bedroom!

Without question, being a PSO, there is the potential to have a lot of fun but you have good days and you have bad. You can sit around for 8 hours and not get a single call and the next day you can get back to back calls. The most devastating times are when I’m sick or I’ve lost my voice, my voice is everything and without it, I do not make any money that day. The pay is wildly unpredictable but it’s all on how you market (sell) yourself- you’re your own boss and if you’re inventive and creative enough, you can keep the cash coming for years. This is definitely not a job that is for everyone but for some of us, we love it and can’t deny the fact we do. And our husbands… well, while our husbands might not initially love it, but chances are they will come around once that first paycheck rolls in.

It starts with a burning… a dull heat radiating from your loins…. a cataclysmic force of warmth that builds and builds, leading to excruciating pain… when you pee.

And what you may or may not have, is an STD.

Before I met my husband I was fucking terrified of catching something. Ever since that moment in a League of their Own when Jimmy Dugan (Tom Hanks) signs the little boys baseball with, “Avoid the Clap” have I tried to avoid it and Thank God I’m Married, because I’ve never had it. Getting that ring on my finger ensures he’s the last partner I’ll ever sleep with… wow, um, kind of a depressing thought but on an uplifting note, I know I’m the last partner he’ll ever have so there is little chance of him becoming a cesspool of bacteria. That seems like a fair trade off: One disease-free sexual partner that has the ability to perform just two basic sexual positions… for the rest of my life. (Yeah, the more I think about it, that’s totally not fair. I should be allowed my husband and a freebie… like um, Brad Pitt, he’s dating Saint Angie so you know that bitch bathes him in holy water.)

In fact, with all the 30..er.. 20…10something, 4 partners I’ve had… I came out single virtually unscathed. I can honestly say (and without crossing my fingers or with a slight inflection of my voice) that I’ve never had an STD. But just because I was never diagnosed with one doesn’t mean I didn’t think I had something at a point in time. In fact, that’s what I spent the majority of my single life doing.. checking to see if I was clean.

Let me just say right now, I’m glad I had good health insurance when I was a single young woman. Some friends I had went to the Woman’s Clinic once… maybe twice, three times a year- I went to the same Gyno at least once a month for 5 years. When friends would wash with a bar of soap after sex, I’d spray my body down with bleach and paint thinner. I did whatever I could to keep myself clean and disease-free. I firmly believe cleanliness is next to godliness and we Roman Catholics, we love us some God.

My very first visit to the Gyno was for the inspection of what I thought was herpes. A huge, nasty sore that in my mind oozed an acidic poison that would burn off the flesh of my vagina. The doctor told me within a split second that it was an ingrown hair/cut from when I was shaving. She told me to get a new razor and shaving cream because the one I had was not doing me any favors.

A few weeks later I headed back because OH EM GEE! The condom slipped off. Have you ever had one of those moments? It’s dark, the sex is kinda shitty and there’s a major amount of friction? He cums and goes to take off the condom, and it’s gone? You check the bed, you check the floor, you check everywhere but you can’t find it? Yeah, probably not. I went to bed wondering where the hell it went and it wasn’t until the next day and my vagina was as swollen as Lisa Rinna’s lips (gotta love a latex allergy) did I notice something was amiss. When I felt the nasty, wet, limp Trojan slither out from vagina did I realize- HOLY SHIT! There it was, inside me! And NO WAY but I could get pregnant from this major snafu! So I went to see her again, freaked out I had contracted chlamydia as well as achieved some sort of demonic pregnancy only to be given a pack of birth control pills to use as the “morning after pill” and a STD test that came back clean a few weeks later.

A month or two after that I saw her yet again because there was this incredible rash that would not go away. I swore it was Syphillis, she said it was cheap laundry soap.

Throughout the years I’ve believed I’ve had herpes, chlamydia, gonnorhea, genital warts, syphillis, and have been pregnant at least 30 times. I’m one of those people that will “self diagnose” and head to any legitimate-looking website to read all the symptoms and convince myself I have them. And what I had sworn were major diseases that would lead to blindness, my vagina falling off, or eventual death, turned out to be yeast infections, poor shaving results, minor bacterial infections, pimples, and allergic reactions to laundry soap and hair dye. Don’t bother to ask what hair dye was doing by my private parts, we should all know the answer to that by now.

While I always hated the STD scares, the pregnancy scares were worse.

Growing up I had PCOS (I still have it) but I went years without being diagnosed. PCOS caused irregular periods that I would mistake for, “My period is late so I’m pregnant”. I don’t know how many of my boyfriends heard, “I might be pregnant”… (okay, all of them.) But have you EVER seen the look on a man’s face when his girlfriend tells him he could be a father? Sheer panic, it’s like telling him instead of the Superbowl airing, it will be reruns of the View. I never had a positive response except with my husband. He wasn’t the “Dear Lord, I promise never to have sex again and will let my dick shrivel up and fall off if you make that pregnancy test negative”. No, he was the, “I’m going to jump on Oprah’s couch on National TV while making myself look like a huge douche” type. I clearly like the douche-y type seeing as I married him. And shit, did I just call my husband a douche? (I promise Sweety, I say these things out of love.)

Usually with the pregnancy scares the relationships would end. And when I say usually, my husband was the only exception.. yet again. He manages to survive every incredible awkward situation I put him in. And by survive, I mean he comes out with less hair and a rounder middle than he had before. Throughout our marriage he’s survived my freaking out over ingrown hairs, rashes, and pimples- he’s been there to constantly talk me down from the ledge when I was so close to jumping off. Amazingly, even when at times he makes me feel SO batshit crazy, he has time and again saved me from going absolutely fucking nutty.

So Thank God I’m Married because now I don’t have to worry about STD’s or losing my mind.. .and instead of worrying if I get pregnant, we’re now trying our damnedest to make sure that I do get pregnant…

(PCOS, Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome- is a health problem that can affect a woman’s menstrual cycle, ability to have children, hormones, heart, blood vessels, and appearance. One in 10 women of childbearing age have PCOS.)

I love my husband? I don’t know, is that a rhetorical question? Should we even be discussing rhetoric? Is it too early to do that? Not quite a second date kind of thing, is it? Shit, I’m already fucking up our relationship.. I promise I’ll be better, just keep reading. Shit, I’m already making empty promises, I promise never to do it again.

Speaking of fucked up relationships… my marriage oddly isn’t one of them. Somehow we got things so right that we’ve survived each other for 6 years. I’m still amazed, but these stretch marks from popping out his 8 lb son are truly battle scars enough for me. Don’t get me wrong, we fight all the time, in fact, I’m surprised the neighbors haven’t called the cops on us. And yes, we’d be that couple on Cops- he’d be the one saying on the phone to 911, “My wife is drunk and naked on the neighbors lawn…again”, and when they showed up, I’d be dry humping a flower bed in the buff.

But even with my seemingly good marriage, I have been in my fair share of fucked up relationships and usually it’s because of one thing; the fact I equated sex to love.

For some young women (those of us who flip their “crazy” switches) we think just because a guy is doing us, he loves us. I made this crucial and heartbreaking mistake at the ripe age of 18. OH MY GOD, YOU WHORE! (It’s okay, I say that to myself in the mirror when I’m getting ready to go out at night.) But I liked to have sex, I started younger than most, and I wasn’t ashamed of this.. in fact, I’ve used sex as a weapon and it has proven quite lethal.

Unfortunately, starting to pursue a life of having sex with men twice my age, led me to believe that these were actual relationships built on love and trust instead of just sex. And one of the worst sexual relationships I ever had was with a man that was much too gorgeous for me… and a man that I ended up falling head over heels for.

Yes, I think I used to think I was hot. Looking back I long for the days of no visible stretch marks, a body free of cellulite, and breasts that didn’t sag to my belly button. And even though I reveled in the fact I made women tell their husbands to look away when I walked by with my young perky body, I landed this one piece of ass that was just too good looking for me. He was this candy coated goodness made out of the same sprinkles God used in his recipes for Jude Law, Javier Bardem, George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Hugh Jackman, and a young Tom Hanks. AKA- man candy of epic proportions and way out of my league.

See, back in these olden times we didn’t have Myspace or Facebook, we had Yahoo Chat and ICQ. Don’t know what these are? Google them. And yea, we didn’t have that either. But the way to communicate with people from your state via the computer machine was to rely on one of these incredibly complicated means of instant messaging.. and by instant, I mean a 3 minute delay between messages received. If I were to have met this man in “real life” I don’t think he would have looked twice at me, yet it was late and neither of us had anywhere to be but our local state chatroom on Yahoo.

This particular relationship started with conversations talking about our love of music, he happened to be an avid Live fan, as was I… he also happened to love the Red Sox as passionately as I did.. and from there, we spent months where I assumed we were falling for each other. Well, within what felt like an incredibly long span of time, he made the move to a town about a half hour drive from mine because of a new job and well, we started “seeing each other”.

See, I assumed we were dating and he thought we were just fucking around. At this point we had already been together for three incredible months that was full of sex that was so rough I had rug burn that never went away… sex so loud that the neighbors would vacuum to drown us out.. and sex that felt so good my vagina became addicted to his penis. I thought things were perfect and progressing at a fantastic rate but I didn’t know what was really up until one night we were just sitting together on his couch watching That 70′s Show and I blurted out, “I’m in love with you”. (OMG, YOU NEVER SAY IT FIRST! … Yea, even though I know that now, I’m still the first one to say it.)  and he froze and didn’t say a word. Minute after minute passed and he didn’t look at me. When there was a commercial break and with eyes averted, he finally countered my “I’m in love with you” with a; “I made sure this would never happen.”

Now, being an 18 year old girl, I was fucking confused. I mean, he and I were having wild sex that explored our inner selves. How could that not be love? Yet he explained quite clearly between commercials that he was just tapping my ass so he could bust a nut. I was shocked, stunned, mortified. I did things with him I never thought possible and well… he had one of the (and to this day) biggest dicks I had ever experienced. (I think his big peen was the reason I “fell” for him.)

In a moment of passion and rage (think Susan Lucci… you know, the really good acting where you finally win an Emmy after doing the same shit for 19 years), I picked my car keys off the coffee table and threw them at him, I also screamed, cried, and begged him to tell me why he didn’t love me and what the fuck he meant by; “I made sure this would never happen”. *I didn’t know this at the time but begging really isn’t attractive. Go figure, right? That should be right up there on the list of “Sexiest Things to Do” somewhere between telling them you name your cats things like Mr.Charlie Buttons and being able to say you’ve seen Titanic 4,781 times. (I may be guilty of both.)* He actually got his lazy ass up off his futon (mmm, college chic) after I ran to his door to leave, to return my keys to me so that I could get my ass up out of there. Feeling his body so close to mine was electrifying and as I waited for some form of comfort, he did this weird “hug” sort of thing where he held me at max distance and made sure to touch me with only the tips of two fingers.

I left shortly after that odd interaction and he promised to call me to make sure I got home safely, since I left on a night where there was a massive snow storm with tears streaming down my face like pig’s blood poured down Sissy Spacek in Carrie. I waited by my phone for hours that night and he never called. So what did I do? I called his ass about 20 times that night and proceeded to call again the next day, even making sure to block my number… like he didn’t know it was me, because guy’s friends obviously call them with a blocked number and hang up repeatedly or leave phone messages where they’re audibly crying.

For two weeks I didn’t talk to him and not by choice. One day after work I decided to drive over to his work to see if his car was there. Discovering that it wasn’t, I drove to his house.. and sure enough, he was home. I knocked on the door and he was both pissed but not surprised to see me. He invited me in (I’m thinking score!) and immediately, I see that he has some beautiful blonde sitting on his couch. I didn’t know what to say but doubt crept in that maybe this wasn’t the guy for me and maybe he didn’t share the same feelings. After a few awkward minutes of waiting for her to leave (because we Irish women are stubborn and persistent), he asked to talk to me in the kitchen. He explained to me that he was sorry he led me on but there were warning signs I should have noticed:

1.) He never kissed me. (Um, who would care about kissing when he had a huge penis… plus he was a smoker and I thought he avoided kissing me because he had bad breath.)

2.) He never tried to get me off and asked me repeatedly not to masturbate on his bed because that’s where “he slept”. (Yeah, I just thought he was one of those selfish guys into the “me” shit.)

3.) He never took me out or introduced me to his friends. (Hello! Who would want to leave the house when there was such amazing sexual chemistry.)

4.) He never called me and only texted when he was looking for sex. (He just wasn’t very good at communication or opening up.)

and 5.) He already had someone new. (I was thinking that maybe it was just his sister or some Jehoviah’s witness taking a break from her door to door religious solicitation.)

Sadly, the blonde wasn’t the first to leave, I was. He asked me to cool off and take some time to think about me and what I wanted. He also urged me to explore my life and apply for any and all colleges I was interested in. To make things even worse, he said all of this in front of her and I don’t think I’ve ever been as humiliated.

Months went by and surprisingly, I didn’t carve his name into my thigh or go through his garbage in the middle of the night for precious mementos. Instead, I tried to fill my sexual life with new partners that fell short of the standards he had set. Coming up on the third month of not speaking, he instant messages me that he’s leaving the area and says that if I’d like to see him one last time I could. Now, I should have said, “Bitch, I quit you” but I drove mindlessly like an addict searching for my fix to his house.

The sex was insane, months of aggression and bottled feelings exploded into one of the best sexual experiences of my life in the middle of an empty bedroom in his now empty apartment. Afterward, I helped him with the last box to his SUV and all I did was stand there waiting for him to kiss me. A wave of emotion washed over me and I was on the verge of crying and preparing myself with a StalkerFest that included driving 2 hours to see him every weekend but he stopped me in my tracks with one sentence: “The sex was amazing, thanks for keeping me busy.” I didn’t quite realize then and there that this relationship was all about sex. I continued to (he says harass) him with instant messages asking if we could see each other until I finally got the hint that I was no more than a notch in his bedpost. And funnily enough he found out years later that I was getting married and mindfucked me into thinking he once had some feelings for me with an email saying, “you will regret it getting married” and “don’t ruin your life”.

So ladies. The moral of this insanely long and humiliating tale is that sex does not always equal love. Even though they’re slipping the peen into your vajayjay, this does not designate that they are head over heels for you. Some importance to gain from my mistakes is to look for the red flags that I clearly missed. Thank God I learned my lesson and you too (If you’re dealing with a bit of the “crazies” as I once did) can upgrade from that hot piece of ass that will never profess his love for you to something that means something a whole lot more than sex.

While my husband isn’t the epitome of a Grecian God- he kisses me, he gets me off, he introduces me to his friends, he calls me or txts me every day from work, and he never has hot blondes over to hang out on our couch. So Thank God I’m Married because now, I have a guy that actually loves me… and has prevented me from being a convicted stalker.

Before I met Mr. Right (well, today I’m calling him Mr. Get-Your-Ass-Out-of-Bed-so-You-Can-Drive-Me-Around-to-Garage-Sales), I went through a lot of sexual trial and error. I had a lot of mishaps and some overall, pretty awkward times.

I’m not one of those women that fawn over their husbands. After 6 years of marriage I just look at him with one raised eyebrow when he’s doing something stupid and say things along the lines of, “seriously?”, “really?”, and my all time favorite, “what the hell was I thinking?”. But despite his ability to save electronics he’ll never use again (that Commodore 64 is bound to make a comeback so please, keep it in my garage), and his inability to perform fellatio correctly.. if at all, there’s something there that has never been there before for me. And I’m not talking about love or all that mushy crap (I think every woman has experienced that once or twice.. I experienced that probably 30 or 40 times as a teenager), I’m talking about good sex. Yea, even after a night of watching him sprawled out in his boxer shorts with one ball trying to escape down his leg, all while eating Doritos and letting the crumbs fall in his chest hair, there is always amazing chemistry between us in the bedroom. Well, not always, even Sex Gods need a night off.

My first time was hellish. Okay, it wasn’t that bad. It didn’t hurt (we’ll thank my love of early teenage masturbation and body exploration) but overall, it was one of the worst sexual experiences I ever had.. and sadly, I’ve actually had a few far worse than this.

His name was Eric and he drove a Ford Fiesta. Have you ever seen one of these cars?  They’re about the size of a clown car and can barely fit one person, let alone two… in the backseat… trying to have sex. It was the middle of winter in our part of the NorthEast and if I remember correctly, it was one of the nights where it was below zero. Well, Eric, being the college student he was, couldn’t afford a decent car, let alone one with a working heater. So not only is it freezing outside and the heater’s busted, but he decides it’ll be a good idea for us to just park somewhere and chill… I’m thinking literally.

The goal all night had been to have sex. I sat next to him in anticipation, admiring his good looks and flat personality. My hands shaking from nerves and a heat radiating between my thighs from thinking of the potential of how amazing sex for the first time could be. Everything in my teenage years had led to this moment, this one of, “OMG, DO ME NOW”, or “Romeo, take your lover and lead her by the hand into the throws of passion”…  Instead, the culmination of a life without sex resulted in very anticlimactics: “Is it in yet?”, “Can you go faster?”, and his favorite line of the night; “Is it big enough?”.

Trying to position ourselves correctly resulted in discovering flexibility I never realized I had… and will never have again. He knelt on the floor in front of me while my ass took up the entirety of the backseat and I had one leg sprawled ontop of the middle console between the two front seats, and the other was wedged between the passenger seat and door. I kept losing circulation in my legs and ass, and overall, I was pretty well frozen numb from the start.
I’ll never forget the first time he slipped inside as nothing really happened. I had these visions of what it should be like but instead, I just kind of looked at him thinking, “That’s it?” I should have been thrilled, this should have been amazing as I was being penetrated for the very first time! Fireworks should have shot across the sky, doves should have sang, little naked cherubs should have floated down and hit me in the ass with their arrows, because I WAS GETTING LAID!!!!! This was the moment that all naughty girls dream of… but it was less than ideal. Okay, it sucked and all I could do was count the minutes until he was done. Thank God that most guys I’ve experienced in their late teens only have enough stamina to last 8 or 10 minutes.

He didn’t caress my body (How could he with my 6 inch thick wool sweater?) or try to find my elusive clitoris in the hopes to bring to orgasm (Do 18 year old guys even know what that is? Okay, that’s a little ageist as I’ve experienced many men in their 20′s and 30′s that are just as ignorant to that part of the female anatomy). Instead, he bumbled around in the cramped space of a “car” trying to gyrate on top of me and kissing me, repeatedly transferring his 3 hour old gum between his mouth and mine. He also insisted on constantly talking when all I wanted to do was lay in silence and focus on the underwhelming sensations I was feeling for the very first time.

Every 30 seconds he wanted an update on my first time sexual experience, trying to goad me into conversation with gems such as;”Is it big enough?”, “Does it feel good?”, “Are you having fun?”, “Am I hurting you?” and the awesome, “Are you sure you’re a virgin?” after I countered his questions with a, “Can you go faster?”

Finally, after getting hit in the face with his sweat that soon crystallized the moment it met my skin, he stopped. It was over! I actually breathed a sigh of relief that sounded just like the one I let loose after taking the SAT’s.

He tried to get up off the floor to sit next to me in the backseat to cuddle but his leg was stuck underneath the passenger seat. I offered to help him free but he insisted on doing it himself. He put his hands on the top of the backseat and pulled himself upward. He lost his grip and within a split second, he fell back to the floor and his elbow met my cheek, immediately sending pain throughout the entirety of my face.

As I sat on the backseat, holding my hands to my face with my pants down around my ankles, I asked if I could take me home.

I realize now, every man needs praise after sex, even if he wasn’t very good. He needs to be made to feel as if he’s some Adonis, even if he was more like a Larry. But I just couldn’t do any more, there were no “Good Job’s” or high fives in me. I was tired, my entire body was frozen, my vagina was starting to itch from the use of a latex condom (I discovered the day after when my vagina was red and swollen I had a latex allergy), and now my cheek was throbbing. I opened the car door and immediately, the cold winter air flooded into the car as I climbed back into the front seat with the hopes of leaving this place… the place where I lost my virginity.

To make this night even worse, in his haste to park he had gotten his golf cart of a car stuck in a partial snowbank. It took him around 20 minutes to get the car free and after driving around for an extra 30 (he couldn’t remember where we were), I was finally home. He gave me a kiss and told me he’d call me. Now, I’ve heard that so many times but Eric actually did call… about a dozen times. I didn’t have the heart to pick up, I dodged his calls and ignored his messages. Looking back, I actually feel bad about that as I now know the pangs of rejection after a night of really bad sex.. and rejection after a night of really good sex. But it’s over and done with and all I can say is, THANK GOD I’M MARRIED as I’ll never have to deal with first times or rejection ever again.

I entered into womanhood on a very cold night in the back of a very small car with a very itchy vagina and a very bruised cheek saying, “can you go faster?”.. and I’ve been saying it ever since.

(To be continued…)

The Future of Fucking!

When I think of robotic sex, the first thing that pops in my mind is Cherry 2000. Not everyone has seen this movie, slowly but surely it became a cult classic amongst technological lovers and even those who aren’t geared towards shiny metal developed a love/hate relationship with the film. It stars my all time favorite actress, Melanie Griffith, who plays a sexy tracker helping Sam, a very lonely guy, find a duplicate replacement for his sex bot/ wife that broke down. They journey through the seedy and lawless underbelly of the earth called “The Zone” and have some mishaps, but along the way Sam learns that a robot, no matter how seemingly perfect, can’t replace a real flesh and blood woman. While some appreciate the concept, there are technosexuals out there who will never be swayed from their mechanical toys; this is where android Repliee Q1Expo comes in.

At Japan’s 2005 World Expo Repliee Q1Expo was unveiled. Repliee Q1Expo features silicon skin, 42 compressed air-controlled actuators and is controlled by a computer which enables the robot to mimic the movements of a real human; right down to fluttering her eyelids, shifting her position like people unconsciously do, and even breathing. Oh, and she talks! When I watched the video of Repliee on YouTube, I was amazed with how incredibly awesome this robot was. Robotics are becoming more and more mainstream and covering all age gaps- what with robotic dogs for kids, robotic vacuums for housewives, and now the possibility of robotic nymphos for lonely technosexuals.

MSNBC had an article that goes above and beyond just sex with robots, they talked about marriage. “My forecast is that around 2050, the state of Massachusetts will be the first jurisdiction to legalize marriages with robots,” artificial intelligence researcher David Levy said at the University of Maastricht in the Netherlands told LiveScience. In his thesis, “Intimate Relationships with Artificial Partners,” Levy states that robots will become so human-like in appearance, function and personality that many people will fall in love with them, have sex with them and even marry them.”It may sound a little weird, but it isn’t,” Levy said. “Love and sex with robots are inevitable.” If you can’t wait 42 years, Henrik Christensen, founder of the European Robotics Research Network, said in 2006 that he predicts people will be having sex with robots within 5 years, so that’s just 3 years away!

If you don’t want to wait a few years for a robotic nympho to fulfill all your needs, there are dozens of realistic sex dolls on the market, it’s all a matter of adding electronics and vibrations to them. While they won’t be as technologically advanced as an android, they’ll still be able to simulate and stimulate the pleasure you’re seeking!

It seems like the Holidays are FINALLY over with. I can’t tell you how relieved I am that I don’t have to worry about Holiday shopping for another 11 months! However, due to an email I found in my inbox today, it reminded me that one of the best holidays of the year is a little more than a month away. Can you think what it is? … Valentine’s Day! Only the most “romantic” day of the year. I’ve always loved it, I never got a lot of cards or ever had a Valentine until I met my husband. Every Valentine’s Day we’ve spent together we’ve done something meaningful and sensational and then my husband ended the night with some cheesy gift or crappy box of chocolates.

I told my husband on Christmas what I wanted, but he failed to give me the one gift on the top of my list! For anyone familiar with SNL’s Andy Samberg or pop sensation Justin Timberlake will know what I’m talking about. “Dick in a Box” has become the 10th most viewed video on the web and funnily enough, won an Emmy. I’ve always been a fan of SNL, while the last few years haven’t been as creative as my generation of cast members were, I still manage to find sketches that crack me up and “Dick in a Box” trumps everything I’ve ever watched on SNL. While I didn’t get my “Dick in a Box” for Christmas, I’m hoping he’ll come through for Valentine’s Day!

“Dick in a Box” is fairly easy to accomplish:

Step 1. Cut a hole in a box.
Step 2. Put your junk in the box.
Step 3. Make her open the box.

And that’s the way you do it!

Now for the lazy guys like my husband, you can actually buy a licensed SNL “Dick in a Box” costume on the internet instead of making your own! I think what would be more impressive than having him sticking his dick in a box is keeping it hard long enough for me to unwrap it. That should be easy for him, but he’ll probably end up sitting around for hours wearing the box waiting for me to come home and through the front door, lol.

“Dick in a Box” works for all couples! If you don’t want to literally put your own dick in a box, you can put a “dick” from EF in a box! I love my Adam’s PleasureSkin Cock. It’s one of the best priced realistics I’ve come across. If I didn’t already have one, I’d love to be able to unwrap it! For snobby sex toy connoisseurs there’s the Lucky, available in chocolate no doubt! It literally is better than a box of chocolates, creamier and tastier too! There’s the Johnnyas well that has been a favorite of two Sex Toy Contributors, the Johnny is harness compatible so if you’d prefer to wear it while wearing a box, you can! Realistics have come a long way and there are many out there that rival a real penis. Poke around on EF, they now have features where you can search by specific materials, diameters, prices, and colors, etc. If you know your partner, you can easily find a new toy for them to love or you can surprise them with something new and different.

If your partner has a sense of humor than go out of your way to make them smile this year. “Dick in a Box” is better than a bouquet of flowers that will wilt after three days, a box of chocolates that will go straight to your hips, and a card imprinted with some generic expression of half-assed love. Make their Valentine’s Day special this year with a dick in a box!