In Which Getting Buzzed at the Bar Gains a Whole New Meaning in Japan

Oh, my sweet galleons. I’m sure you are all aware of many of the… peculiarities of the Japanese sex industry. Hell, we’ve even touched on a few here. But only a few, because that shit gets weird fast.

Like the new bar that just opened up in Tokyo- Love Joule. On first approach, it’s just a nondescript establishment in the bustling Japanese city:

Meander inside the innocuous looking building, however, and you are greeted by a bar quite unlike your typical urban watering hole:

Love Joule is Japan’s first bar dedicated to female masturbation. Which is a strange bar theme, but hey, you can only go to so many faux cowboy saloons and skanky dance joints before you are looking for something new.

Of course, the question is: how exactly can a bar claim it’s all about lady wanking? I mean, is it a place for women to masturbate? Do you order a vibe and perch precariously on a barstool, buzzing your way to a public orgasm?

I mean, I guess that would explain the name- all that sexy electricity is bound to produce a few love Joules.

Sadly, the bar doesn’t actually seem to be too keen on ladies actually getting freaky with a dildo on their dance floor. Instead, it’s meant to be a fun, safe place for women to discuss sex and relationships. And when I say safe, I mean safe from single dudes coming up to the women and hitting on them (which, you know, is a bad thing… we’re dedicated to masturbation here, dammit, not sex), seeing as single males aren’t allowed in. Coupled guys are, however, provided they show up with their lady.

Because the best place to have “the relationship talk” is in a girly bar surrounded by fucksticks as big as your arm, designed to penetrate a lady in both orifices while massaging her innards with a soothing collection of old pinball balls.

The bar hopes to help eradicate the stigma surrounding female masturbation in a manner that is lighthearted while still fostering a haven for women to have serious, playful, and exploratory conversations about sex and men.

As far as I’m aware, the silicone joy wands lining the wall behind the bar aren’t for use in the bar proper, but can be purchased by ladies on their way home to test out their new knowledge on their knickered bits.

Or, possibly, they’re used to stir the cocktails. I’m really not sure.

Interestingly enough, the proprietor of Love Joule is none other than Megumi Nakagawa, the man who introduced the male masturbatory community to the Tenga eggs.

I guess he’s found his path in life. A solitary path.

Size and Why It Actually Doesn’t Matter as Much as Men Think It Does

The male obsession with their penis size is rather baffling to the majority of the female sex. Mostly because the idea of bigger being better is not necessarily based in truth.

Therefore, I think it’s a topic we should address here, my galleons. Let’s peel away the bullshit to uncover the truth about size and it’s impact on your sex life.

***

A 2006 study by David A. Frederick found that only 55% of men were happy with their packages.

Which is baffling, considering a reported 85% of women in this same study were perfectly satisfied with their partner’s size.

So, instead of confident, creative lovers, we are facing an onslaught of insecure men worried more about their size than their skill. We are also burdened with an influx of erectile enhancement ads on the television and interwebs and spamming our goddamn inboxes (seriously, I don’t even have a dick). And it’s all total bullshit.

The fact of the matter is, the only real benefit to having an enormous cock is that you have the potential to pursue a career in porn. When it comes to satisfying a woman, however, a giant dick can often be detrimental.

Just as there is no one size for a male penis, the size of female vaginas vary depending upon the woman. In fact, perhaps this is where we should start:

Vaginas.

In its resting state, the walls of the vagina actually connect with each other, allowing it to close around whatever is inserted in, regardless of size. So, if you were ever wondering just how a woman could insert a little tampon up in there and have the fucking thing stay… well, now you know. But what’s really amazing about the vagina is its elasticity. That same little sheath can expand to squeeze out a little hellspawn to ruin your life. Amazing, no?

In all seriousness, the very fact that the vagina is just so damn stretchy means that it can adapt itself to fit any size penis. Because of this nifty little ability, researchers like William Masters and Virginia E. Johnson have concluded that penis size cannot have a true physiological effect on female sexual satisfaction.

And to highlight how pointless this masochistic obsession with size really is, let’s take into account the fact that an increase in penis size has pretty much zero effect on female satisfaction. Why is that? Well, when you take into account the fact that 3/4 of all women cannot even achieve orgasm through penetration alone, you start to see why size really isn’t everything. You see, 75% of men always have an orgasm during intercourse… while only 28.6% of women do.

Maybe men need to spend less time worrying about their size and more time brushing up on their technique, eh? Things like clitoral and vulval stimulation are way more important than the size of your member, boys. Remember, sexual skill depends more on what’s between the ears than the legs.

***

You boys are still concerned, aren’t you? Let’s look at a few more interesting facts.

The average vagina in a non-aroused state is roughly three inches long. When aroused, the vagina only extends to a length of four inches. It is quite possible for the vagina to stretch much longer (it can actually lengthen an additional 150 to 200 percent) if something is introduced into it gradually, but the fact remains that even a below-average penis will fill a woman completely.

So, there we go: the average penis. What is that, anyway? Here’s where I’m sure you boys are all biting your nails, wondering just how you measure up. Calm the fuck down- this is exactly the problem I’m trying to stomp into the ground today.

There’s something super interesting about penises that most people don’t know. See, the size of flaccid penises do vary from man to man. But, the vast majority of erect penises end up being roughly the same size (about 6-7 inches). See, the little guys have a built-in compensating system. A man with a non-erect penis on the smaller side will achieve a nearly 100% increase in size when aroused, whereas a man with a non-erect larger organ will achieve a smaller increase in size.

I’m sure there’s a shower/grower joke hidden in there somewhere, but whatever. Show or grow, it all ends up evening out for the most part.

So stop worrying, dammit.

***

And if you are still concerned… well, first I’m going to smack your face off of your face. Then, I’m going to remind you of a little trick of perspective known as “foreshortening.”

Do you remember this from art class? Well, if you don’t, let me remind you. Foreshortening is simply a distortion caused by perspective- the object appears compressed when seen from a particular viewpoint.

And what does this have to do with your penis, you wonder?

Well, think about it. When you are looking down at your penis, you are looking at it from an odd perspective. The angle with which you view your own equipment actually causes foreshortening. Therefore, you almost always have a skewed view of the size of your own package. And since we’re all only human, I’m certain you lot sneak a peek at other men when given the chance. And if you constantly compare your foreshortened view to the unforeshortened view you’re getting of the penises of other men, is it any wonder that you develop a damn complex?

***

I can’t make you stop worrying about your damn dick size. I know that. I just want to present you men with the facts- that all your concern is misplaced. I’ll never forget the night I spent nearly ten minutes listening to a guy I was really attracted to go on and on about how small he was. I didn’t give a flying fuck, and the more he talked, the more I just wanted to shove my goddamn tongue in his mouth and shut him up. I’d show his dumb ass just how little that whole “size” issue mattered.

Because not only is it more about skill in the bedroom anyway (and I’m almost certain that particular gentleman would be a goddamn master at cunnilingus), but your dick is not the sole reason I want to fuck you. You rarely get a really good view of a dude’s package before you sleep with him, as most men don’t wear pants that tight (except those damn hipsters, and they aren’t getting anywhere near my lady bits). No, it’s not your cock that makes me want to jump you. There are tons of other ways you make yourself attractive to me. And that doesn’t change once you drop trou.

Unless you’ve got some kind of freaky disease, because dude, there’s no way I’m touching that.

Feeling the Love Buzz: Breaching the Bond Between a Lady and Her Little Electric Friend

Okay, so, I thought the title was clever, seeing as masturbation helps one achieve a form of nirvana. Eh? Eh? Guess it’s only funny if you are a late-80’s grunge fan…

Not too long ago, I rambled on about sex dolls, a standard of the male masturbatory toolkit. I felt it only fair that we give equal time to self-pleasuring devices of the ladies.

So… let’s talk vibrators.

***

We begin, as before, with a history lesson. A sexy history lesson.

It’s a warm summer’s eve in ancient Greece (it’s so much fun when I get to start off this way). But the πλανήτης aren’t the only things a wanderin’ tonight. With the menfolk off fighting Sparta again, the women of Athens are plagued with an itch they just can’t scratch.

Or can they?

The men of ancient Greece used to gift their womens with phallic objects made of stone, wood, or leather. And in the land where olive oil runs like water (all praise to Athena, yo), lubrication was never in short supply. So when the men marched off to fight neighboring nations (or city-states), the ladies curled up with little wooden Lysander. So the men slept easier, knowing their wives’ uteruses weren’t straying, and the women slept easier because… well, because they were relaxed.

The Greeks, bless ’em, were a lot of fun in terms of sexual history. While they might not have been the first to make dildos (there are finds that suggest phallic masturbatory aids have been around since the Ice Age), they were the first to mention them in literature and to portray images of them in their art.

[You know, one day, I think we’re going to do a post on art and sexuality… I’ve got a wealth of good material from my art history days.]

Continuing on, while dildos are all fine and dandy, you are going to find that, these days, most of these toys also tend to require batteries. Vibration is considered a necessity in the formula for a perfect lady love stick.

The first of these electro-phallic wonders was created in 1869 by a British physician named George Taylor. But this wasn’t like the Hello Kitty cutesy contraptions littering the sock drawers of ladies’ dormitories the world over. Instead, this was a steam powered monstrosity known as the Manipulator:

With all the sex appeal of a gutted train engine, we can safely assume this was not something women were ordering out of their Sears and Roebuck catalogs with their pocket money.

In fact, this hell device wasn’t created with the idea of female pleasure in mind. Instead, it was created as a medical tool to aid in the treatment of female “hysteria.” While billed as a form of madness, this “hysteria” really boiled down to a deep, intense need for a lady to orgasm. In those days, sexual repression had been perfected into an art form.

This forced repression began early on in the schools for young women where the matrons would glove the hands of their pupils at night in their dormitories to prevent them from masturbating. Anyone caught caving in to their carnal desires would have the further embarrassment of having their hands strapped to their beds while they slept.

Such insanity continued into their adult years. People didn’t talk about sex. “Sexual communication” between partners was nonexistent. In fact, it really didn’t matter if the lady got off at all. Sex wasn’t about pleasure- it was about baby makin’. Period.

Naturally, these women were carnally frustrated. This frustration came to be known as “hysteria.” According to the 2nd century anatomist Galen, hysteria was caused by the retention of “female semen,” which could get into the blood and corrupt it. So clearly, it had to be periodically let loose through “paroxysm” (…an orgasm).

And how did the doctors have to do that? Why, by massaging the female genitals, of course. But all that vigorous and distasteful rubbing was tiring for the poor doctors (who had never built up their forearm muscles properly because of all that repressed carnal energy). Thus, the vibrator was born.

From there, the vibrator quickly became an item one could purchase for the home. Looking slightly less like a robotic torture device, these home vibrators were offered up as cures for headaches, wrinkles, and neuralgia. Such as this delightfully named gizmo:

“The Victor was manufactured by Keystone Electric of Philadelphia in 1903. The left side was a vibrator, the speed of which was controlled by the lever in the middle of the console, the one over the (unlabeled) mother-of-pearl speed indicators. The right side was a pneumatic attachment, which, like a vacuum cleaner, could either inhale or exhale. It could, as it were, either blow or suck, depending on the user’s requirements.”

Fantastic.

Anyway, from here, as society started to loosen up a little in regards to sex, vibrators became more and more popular. In 1998, when the rabbit vibe made an appearance on the (bafflingly) popular Sex and the City, demand for the electric abomination skyrocketed.

What? I hate rabbits (and certainly don’t want one near my lady bits… have I ever mentioned that “lady bits” sounds like a salad topping?).

***

These days, vibrators come in all shapes and sizes.

Seriously. From the muppet fetish pieces to those at home on Glornak 7 to so-called “body massagers” that aren’t fooling anyone (hehe, body massage), to vibrating apps for your iPhone, there’s a trembling toy for everyone.

Vibrators are exceptionally useful in the sex therapy business, recommended to women who have trouble getting off during sex (you hear that, Sofia?) because vibrators are more powerful than manual stimulation and are easy to use.

There’s a lot of speculation/worry that frequent use of vibrators can deaden the genital tissue to the less powerful sensation of manual stimulation. This has never been verified, for the record. It is true that, when using a vibrator, a woman using a setting that is too intense can experience numbness in the clitoris, though this usually means she’s pressing the vibrator too hard on the sensitive nub (remember, for best results, you need to actually move the fucking thing around). If ladies are having issues, they need to dial down the setting on their little friend. Not because it can damage the clitoris (it can’t do anything serious), but because those women aren’t getting the pleasure they should out of their devices.

***

Now, I’ve been among the throng who have made jokes about the vibrate setting on my cell phone (particularly when said device goes off while sitting in my lap). Still… when it comes to non-traditional means of getting your vibe on, there are a multitude of options.

Your cell phone, while seemingly convenient, probably isn’t the best option. This is because you can’t get a lasting, sustained vibe out of your average cell phone. And spotty vibration is just frustrating (both for you and the person trying to call you).

A classic is the ol’ washer or dryer. Hop on a humming clothes cleaning machine and ride that puppy out to orgasm. Of course, it’s not exactly easy to get in a satisfactory position (not unless you are super flexible, in which case you should probably just go to the local bar, do the splits, and take your pick of the men who will be lining up to fold you into erotic pretzels). And if you live in an apartment building, you better hope it’s not “laundry night” for anyone else… manus turbare interruptus is an unpleasant situation.

There’s also driving/riding a bike down a bumpy road… but this proves dangerous, as you still have to steer. Still, it’s doable.

But, for female gamers, there’s yet another solution (gamer girls, come on, you know what I’m talking about). Since the advent of the rumble feature on controllers, lady geeks have had an easily accessible means of getting their rocks off. Of course, that rumbling vibration has proven to be just as intermittent as the cell phone’s. Plus, it’s hard to angle that controller just right and manage to play the damn game at the same time.

However, I hear there’s a new product that can help. Rez is a Japanese PS2 game that comes with a trance vibrator accessory. The game itself is a music shooter, where you fly down neon corridors shooting space/machine beings in time to techno music, like Tron on ecstasy. A stoner’s delight, right? Add in the pulsing trance vibrator, though, and you have every gamer girl’s fantasy. As you move through the levels, the vibration gets more and more intense.

A female gamer described the sensations she had while her boyfriend played the game, and she, well, gave the trance vibrator a cozy home:

“Pretty soon the levels and the images onscreen were just a faint blur to me. I knocked off my glasses and leaned back. I was in a daze. From far away, it seemed, I could hear Justin saying things like, “I made it to the next level!” and “This is cool!” but I was lost in my own little trance vibrating world.”

Like this girl, I just don’t see what other purpose this trance vibrator device could have. I mean, hell, the thing comes with a “protective glove” you can take off and wash.

Sounds like another bullet point on the Pro list of “Why Sam Should Buy A PS2.”

***

Of course, I have never tried any of the above methods of vibratory experimentation. And I certainly haven’t tried all of them.

*cough cough*

Video game, anyone?

An Open Letter To The Women I Work With (And Women In General)

I have a bone to pick with you, ladies.

So, you’ve squeezed out a kid or two. Fine. That’s great (I guess). If you’re happy with it… whatever. I don’t care.

And that’s the kicker. I. Don’t. Care. I don’t give two shits about your offspring. I really don’t. Just because I was born with a uterus doesn’t mean I like children, want children, or think children are even remotely interesting.

See, a woman’s success is not measured in the number of times she’s snipped the umbilical cord. It’s just procreation. On a scientific level, in terms of the sperm’s journey to the egg and the combining of genetic material and the growth of the blastocyst into an embryo… sure, procreation’s pretty damn interesting. But socially? Popping out a baby isn’t novel, exciting, or in any way interesting.

Do not get offended when you ask me if I have children, and I chuckle and tell you I will never have kids. It’s my decision whether I decide to carry around a parasite for nine months, birth it, and then have it leech off me for the rest of my life, or whether I keep my vagina intact, keep my sanity, and enjoy my freedom. My decision. Not yours.

Frankly, I don’t think you should ever start a conversation by asking if I have children. At least ask my name first.

And the proper follow up to me telling you I have no desire to breed is not to puff out your chest and proclaim you have five children. Because I just don’t know what you expect me to say in response to that. I’m not going to congratulate you for doing something women have been doing for thousands of years. What do you want me to say? Good for you? Because that’s the only response I can think of. I’m not going to ask you anything about them. I don’t want to know their sexes, names, ages. I don’t care how they’re doing in school. I don’t even know you. Why would I care about your faceless spawn?

Also… do you cease having interests once you give birth? Because I just spent 8 hours locked in room with three women roughly my age who could talk about nothing but their children. And the birthing process. Can’t we talk about anything else? I’d settle for a discussion about shoe shopping. Seriously.

Because it’s just flat-out boring for me when you yammer away about little Miah or J’nelle. [as an aside… people, name your fucking children normal goddamn things]

When I have to be around you, interacting with you, for a prolonged period of time, there’s nothing I hate more than to be served a heaping platter of maternal smugness. Oh, I have carried a life within me and released it upon the world and now am nurturing and caring for it, raising it to be a real person. Aren’t I special? Don’t you just envy everything about me, from my stretch marks to my post-partum depression to my lukewarm marriage to the man who planted his seed in my womb all those months ago?

I feel all you women could learn something from this video, because seriously, it’s not just pregnant women who are smug. It’s new mothers, too. Anyone who thinks that having a baby makes you better than other women. Anyone who thinks they are suddenly wiser and more mature because they’ve ejected the product of meiosis and fertilization from their body.

So, you have a baby. That’s nice. It’s not something that has to be brought up every three minutes. Because some women just don’t care about your kids. I’m one of those women. Don’t assume that my vagina means I believe in any kind of female solidarity. That I think procreation is a sacred, beautiful act. That I want to listen to you tell me about your epidural and how your belly felt right before your water broke.

Deal with it- your greatest success in life is of absolutely no importance to me.

Shut the fuck up about your goddamn baby.

I Have Heard All of These in Guild Chat (Not to Mention From My Male Gamer Friends)

A Letter to the Female Undergarment Industry

To the Designers of Women’s Bras:

Hello. My name is Samantha. I have a few complaints about your products, so if I could just have a moment of your time…

Fantastic.

I’m speaking to you from the vantage point of a specific group of women. Namely, the women who, through nature or design, wear bras with an above average cup size. And I have noticed a few problems with your bra designs in these upper ranges.

The biggest concern I have is about your perceived shape of female breasts above a C-cup. I’m going to tell you something right now that might shock you: women’s breasts are not square in shape. I know, I know, this is truly surprising. Or, at least, it should be, seeing as you constantly seem to design bras that have an odd, square shape to them.

The female breast is round. The cup of a bra should not contain folds and seams of material that give the impression a woman is either a robot or suffering through a bout of Cubism. Support and lift can be obtained without sacrificing shape (I know this because Victoria’s Secret always manages to do so). It’s already bad enough that I have to deal with breasts that are entirely too large. When you make them look like a fucking shelf or body balcony, it makes it infinitely worse.

So, let’s reiterate: NO VISIBLE SEAMS ON THE CUP.

Next, I want you to think long and hard about the sex appeal of your bras. For the little A- and B-cups, you add frills and lace and all manner of adorable designs. But for your D-cups and above… well, we’re lucky to get something that isn’t white and plain. Put some effort into these bras as well, people. Every woman deserves to wear sexy undergarments if she so chooses. Please stop discriminating against the larger cup sizes.

You wouldn’t think this would be a problem, what with the male obsession with D- and DD-sized breasts. You’d think bra companies would be tailoring their designs toward these women and would make the A-cups cry in a corner with their plain white bras. Of course, this isn’t the case.

To sum it up: STOP IT. Make me some sexy, cute, fun bras.

And finally… maybe you missed this lesson in science class, but there’s a little force acting on us at all times. It’s called gravity. Gravity causes things like, oh, a woman’s breasts to sit lower-than-ideal on the body. Especially if a woman has larger breasts. No matter how perky and firm a woman’s breasts may be, if she has a D-cup or above, there’s going to be a bit of sagging going on. Sagging. Christ, what an awful-sounding word for something that’s really not that bad.

Thing is, women want their breasts to ride high and happy on their chests. Not only because it’s more visually appealing, but because it’s better for their posture. Which is better for their backs. So, would you make a concerted effort to help them combat the effects of gravity by making bras that actually support and lift?

I thank you for your time and consideration. I hope you take these suggestions to mind when you sit down to design next season’s undergarments, because you’re all starting to piss me off.

Oh, and while you’re at it… matching sets of bras and underwear? Yeah, I’d like to see more of those. Sexier. In bolder colors. Get on it, people.

Art is Just a Rotation of the Mundane

My favorite, stand-alone quotes from Dresden Codak (which I read through today, finally, in an effort to stay awake after my all-nighter… and really enjoyed… delicious science):

~While your admiration is flattering, I must decline your girlish advances, as your brain is filled with sawdust and lies.

~My heart is nothing more than an engine forged from the remains of a dead star. You know that.

~A smoking jacket is always appropriate.

Confession: I’ve Never Read “The Zombie Survival Guide”

I went to Ann’s show(s?) today. Here is my official report on the experience:

“This is a Chair” was an… interesting piece dealing with modern isolation from geopolitical events. Portrayed as a series of short, mundane scenes overlaying a constant projection of global events, with groups of still, posed characters in the background, the show focused on the obsessions of people with their own banal problems. Problems that don’t mean anything when put in a larger context. I feel the actors were too young and inexperienced to really portray the complexities of these mini-characters, but they still did well. Of particular note was the short dealing with the relationship of a gay couple. It was played-out without any sentence being completed, just a series of beginnings arcing through a full set of emotions. Character work, overall, could have been better. It still felt very rough.

The lighting of this show was of special note. Cominations of color and shapes that I hadn’t thought of before. Also, the projection of images straight onto the stage, without the use of a projection screen. And the use of mobile curtains as said screen. The monochrome costuming and performance art-absurdism should also be remembered for future use/disuse.

The second show, Far Away, was infinitely better than the first production. Set in a dystopic future, it follows one character through her life and the shifting dynamics of her society over time. The actors here were much stronger, though I remain irritated by the extremely poor aunt actress (and her strange bosom). The intensity of their emotions were fantastic in the execution scene- I was almost in tears by the end of that. [NOTE: I wanted to slap Katie during that bit. It was the part where her hat was featured, and she giggled through the whole thing. I was so emotionally involved in the production that I was upset with her for ruining the moment.]

It was beautiful, arcing from the story of a young girl’s uncle smuggling people out of their current situations (rescuing them), to her work in a hat company where her hats are used to decorate people during “The Parade”- a sick mass executioning, to a future world where everything in the world is at war (Polish allying with gravity, deer siding with Jews and programmers and children under 5) and all loyalties are in constant question. It’s also, obviously, presented as an increasingly absurdist piece. Disturbing, terrifying, upsetting, haunting, and wonderfully well done.

I had to argue the merits of the second show while simulaneously explaining it to someone who didn’t understand it, frustrated because I see everything from the viewpoint of a writer/English major/director. I analyze everything. I watch technicality and symbolism and vision. And nobody else does this. It’s hard to talk about things when you aren’t speaking the same language.

Also, for the love of god, the baby voices among the women I know are driving me to violence. How old are you? 2? No, you are not. So please speak like an adult. As someone mature. Please. Thank you.

I am not currently in my right mental state. I hope this makes sense. I’ll check my intoxicated jackassery in the morning.

ADDENDUM: Wow, that was a disturbingly coherent post for as fucked-up as I was. Kudos to me.