Also, would it kill them in some unspecified way to have error messages that have meaning? All of them have the same text because they're still working on creating pop-up error messages that say what's actually wrong, and do it three times in a row sometimes. I'd take a goddamn random-ass number-letter code.
Playlist of the Week: May Kicks Ass, created from the songs used on several Women of Marvel vids on youtube. Setting May kicking Ward's ass forever to empowering music does things for me.
Note: All the TMI. I'm posting this at one thirty in the morning after three days of work related wtfery and pretty much nothing is a bad idea at this point.
...who saw that coming for a cut line? It's got a certain rhythm, don't you think?
Reading on tumblr a lifehacks reblog that mentions yoga, sage oil, farting and diva cups as ways to deal with cramps, the lack of 'get yourself off' surprised me. And the thing is, I rarely see that one anywhere, and this is in fandom and tumblr, where I've had long, intense discussions on how to deliver pizza to an alpha knotting an omega during heat (really).
Years ago--and I'm talking x > decade--Te told me in chat during a particularly nasty case of uterus hate to try getting myself off and I sat there, almost shocked (context: I was writing at the time Lex rimming Clark and googling prostate massaging, as one does) because--I don't actually know why I was shocked at the idea of getting myself off to get rid of cramps.
(Spoiler: years later, I will have a theory on this one.)
It was months before I actually tried it, it was awkward and weird the way that masturbation hadn't been for me since I got the basics down, and the thing is, it worked--it wasn't particularly magical (and of a very specialized aesthetic value indeed, one that is most definitely not mine), but it did work--but I restricted myself to the worst cramp times (aka desperation) for several years until one day, curled fetal-like and bitter in bed and debating if this was bad enough to justify getting myself off for pain relief--
--it occurred to me I had no clue what that even meant: like, it was tainting my sacred getting-off-to-mcstories-m/m-body-modifi
(Just reading that sentence makes me wonder about my life and my choices. Like, I make pretty good ones sometimes. Go me.)
There a line in a novel I read in my teens about a woman: she reduced sex to something as casual as taking a trip to the refrigerator for a snack.
That stuck in my head for years and I didn't even question it or the explicit disapproval of such shenanigans because reasons; when I started having sex, when I stopped, when I learned to masturbate, when I got good at it, when I bought my first vibrator (and second and third, because once you go Hitachi you never go back), when I wrote fic with a porn per capita to plot of 1000 to 1, when I leveled up from mcstories and nifty straight to asstr, when I stopped entering vaguely generic keywords and hoping to hit something kinky by accident, when I started entering the keywords I stopped pretending I didn't want, when I stopped pretending I wasn't curious if I'd like to read about that, when I stopped pretending that I wasn't ashamed of liking it, and when I realized I wasn't ashamed of a goddamn thing.
Except my orgasms as a late night snack: I didn't roll like that.
And then--looking at my keyword search of asstr including one thing I had to look up to spell--I wondered why exactly masturbation for snack value was a line I couldn't quite cross and for that matter, what the fuck does that mean and why was I afraid that was me?
Operation: Masturbation Like Doritos was a-go.
For indeed, I wanted to find out what it was like to get off like it was Pringles and I couldn't have just one, tortilla chips and salsa at two in the morning, peanut butter straight from the jar with a steak knife and a lively lack of self-preservation due to hunger because the bread was like, two entire fucking feet away and that was bullshit, the jar's right here. Let's see what better living through orgasms can do for life's problems; would it get less special, more boring, would I be unable to get off at all eventually because I was ruining my four-course orgasm dinner with empty orgasm snacks?
(Reference: this is the moment I realized what a terrible metaphor I'm using here.)
Here are (a very few of the) things the internet seems not to know about that the Dorito Method taught me (your mileage will vary):
1.) Sleepy? Better than coffee.
2.) Cramps? Better than ibuprofen.
3.) Bored? Excellent time to expand your solo skillsets and kill some time.
4.) Not in the mood? That's what I call a challenge to my own ingenuity.
5.) Need to relax? It works.
6.) De-stress? It works here, too.
7.) Unfocused and distracted? Yep.
8.) It's a pretty decent analgesic for a toothache, too.
...and when one achieves getting off because you're four hundred miles away from your dentist and your tooth hurts or because you've got two hours to kill and just can't be fucked to do anything that requires you get anything not within reach of your arm, you have achieved Dorito level status. I'm so proud.
The only difference I can discover between "masturbation not Doritos" and "masturbation like all the Doritos and peanut butter at three AM with a steak knife" is that I got much, much better at it, quality improved substantially, and I learned that sometimes, I want an epic orgasm filled with feelings and sometimes, I just want to manipulate my own biology when my body is fucking with me and I don't have time for this because I got shit to do.
It's not something that occurred to me before, how the female orgasm is approached, and I get the reason it's like this, but honestly, it might help if we stopped approaching it as a transcendental experience you should be having or you're not doing it right, and more like a sneeze and you then can level the fuck up. Books, movies, and personal tmi posts talk about long periods of failure before the magic switch gets hit: the bursts of pleasure and the awesome and how they felt when they got it right, it was magic and breathless and all the romance novels in the world. All you need is a switch, a binary zero of failure or one that screams success.
They don't say that it could be some of us were getting it right early on, and there was another reason it took time to go from 'eh' to 'holy shit'. This may be biology, but my body had to learn to use a toilet not a diaper, how to form words with my mouth and tongue, my hand to hold a pencil, how to move to form a single letter and build them into painstaking words. My kindergarten efforts with the written word weren't calligraphy quality; that doesn't mean I wasn't doing it right and no one thought I was doing it wrong or telling me about the copperplate switch that would make a six year old write like a monk with too much time on his hands and a lot of ink. My hand was new at this shit and needed to learn.
Practice helped. A lot of it.
It took me years to get past 'nice' in my orgasm related activities not because I was doing it wrong, but because much like my handwriting, my body was new to this shit and needed to learn. And it still is: I'm teaching it more every day (sometimes literally).
All those Doritos helped.
This has been a life lesson (mine, in case you're curious) in which I really should have rethought my metaphor but by the time I realized that I was too committed to care. I liked the tree-serf post a lot better.
In closing: yeah, I shouldn't have stopped when I was writing this post (around playlists, to be specific) and checked my dash. That never ends well, though to be fair, it's not like anyone sane saw this coming.
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