SexyPrime, a blog by Susan Crain Bakos

HAPPY ORGASMIC NEW YEAR!

Thank you for reading SexyPrime.  I've been doing this a little over six months--and have found (to my surprise) that I love writing in blog format and connecting with all of you.

Here are my new year's wishes:

That the gods and goddesses will protect Barack Obama and keep him safe so that he may lead us out of this big mess we are in.  If anybody can, he can.  And also protect his lady Michelle and their darling daughters.

That the American people will rediscover Who We Are--because we lost our way in decades past.  This country is about success and achievement, yes, but not about greed.  The American dream was never meant to be distorted the way it has been in recent years.  Let's get back to who we are and improve on that to be more tolerant and accepting and inclusive.

That African Americans will make good education for their children the next wave of the Civil Rights movement.

That women will make female sexual empowerment the next wave of the feminist movement.

And that all of my readers will have many, many, and many more orgasms in 2009.

ARE YOU HAVING SECRET SEX?

Are you having secret sex?

Do you remember the “Sex and the City” episode where Carrie confronts Big and demands to know why he keeps their relationship secret?  She wanted to meet his friends and, in a later episode, his mother; and he just wanted to take her out to dinner at that Chinese restaurant where married men dine in dark corners with their girlfriends.  When an unattached man doesn’t want to be seen with you where he might be seen, it’s a statement.

 

I had a lover who told me he couldn’t come most of the time with other women --and he always came with me--but he didn’t want anyone to know he was seeing me, because, he said repeatedly:  “I sit on a corporate board”--whereas I, of course, write blow job directions.  Amusingly, I was seeing an international banker at the same time; and he took me to black tie events.  Businessmen and women from other countries are not embarrassed to sit beside the author of internationally best-selling sex advice books. 

 

Being kept in someone’s relationship closet because you are deemed not good enough in some way is a dispiriting sex secret.  

 

It’s not the same as sharing the secret-- meeting in hotel rooms for an illicit affair.  (Here’s my new rule:  If you don’t want to acknowledge me in public, pay for an expensive hotel; I’m not coming over to your place to give you a blow job--and, honey, you did acknowledge that nobody ever did it better.)  Affairs are delicious secrets.  They are black lace lingerie, champagne or martinis, room service--and telling him things you don’t tell anyone else and doing things with him that you don’t do with anyone else because you don‘t have to worry how that will affect the power balance in the re-la-tion-ship.

As you know, I would never be happy in a polyamorous situation.  All that truth telling and multiple relationship discussions is the equivalent of white cotton panties, plonk wine and cheap beer.  No, thanks.

 

I love the mystery, the romance, the erotic freedom that accompanies being with someone who has no expectations of me and values the time we share.

 

Therapists and women’s magazines beat us over the head with the concept of “intimacy”--that special emotional place where, they say, the sex is better.  For decades, we were told this safe place was the only place where female sexuality could bloom.  Research has proven that wrong.  

 

Paradoxically, women lose sexual desire in relationships faster than men do.  (So much for that myth about women needing emotional security to open up sexually.)  A 2006 study of 530 men and women at Hamburg-Eppendorf University found women lose interest in sex far more rapidly than men--within four years of being in an established relationship.  Men may complain about the lack of variety, but they still want sex. Other studies on desire in relationships quickly followed and drew the same conclusion.  

 

The best sex I’ve ever had was not within the confines of monogamy.  

 

My New Year’s resolution is to start a new secret.  I know who he is; and I‘ve bought new black lace panties.  This is going to be fun.

WHO KILLED MALE SEXUALITY? The Erotic Mini-Series Concludes

WHO KILLED MALE SEXUALITY?: Part Four

An Erotic Mini-Series Featuring Death And Orgasms

(Incorporating Real Characters And Real Events Into Fiction That Includes Fake Orgasms, Forays Into Vibe Addiction And Larger Than Life Throbbing Dicks….Just Like Porn)

By Susan Crain Bakos

Part One is still up on glamwire: http://www.glamwire.com/articles/2008/12/06/sexuality-in-the-city

Part Two is still up on Sexy Whispers:

http://sexywhispers.wordpress.com/2008/12/12/male-sexuality/

Part Three is still up on Club Double:

http://clubdouble.com/columns/fridaymidnight/whokilledmalesexualitypartiii-3.html

At the end of Part Three, the character loosely based on me, had sex again with the man whose large dick curved slightly, making him better than a G spot vibrator. Between that ending and the beginning of Part Four, the following events (among many others--you’ll have to wait for the book) took place: the little stylist was arrested for murdering the little person, her accomplice in blackmailing clients of a wealthy dom. One by one, the city’s dungeons were shut down by the vice squad until only a few staid places remained. Not since Rudy cleaned up the porn shops around Times Square had there been so much attention paid to the moral behavior of New Yorkers. Between the crackdown and the recession, Palagia’s erotic parties were also taking a hit. (The best public sex is private, parties organized on the web but not open to anyone willing to fill out long questionnaires.) People aren’t spending a lot of money to go out any more--which is partly what led the many who were asking Who Killed Male Sexuality? to conclude; the best sex events in town are the free workshops at Babeland.

On December 22, the party at the Mercer Street Babeland store was the hottest ticket in town. Admission was free. Party favors included individual packets of lube and condoms, silver bullet vibes erotic chocolates. Drawings were held for three luxury vibes, JimmyJane’s new waterproof Form 6, Layla Spot and Sasi, providing the closest experience to cunnilingus you can get without a real live tongue. Add wine and cheese cubes and a hint of notoriety--and who could resist the invitation? Every time I enter a Babeland store, with the bright color schemes and elegant product arrangements, I am reminded once again of how much straight women owe lesbian women who were championing women’s sexual rights long before we were--and started the sex toy business in America. Thank your lesbian sisters for being able to buy glass dildos that look like little pieces of art and high-tech luxury vibes.

“She did not buy that huge dildo at Babeland,” co-owner Claire Cavanah assured a reporter from The New York Press. “Really, that model is just too big. I’m sure it came from a place in the West Village.”

The young girl reporter nodded in agreement. It came from some place in the West Village, like The Pink Pussycat or The Pleasure Chest or one of those really gay shops that specialized in harnesses, whips and chains. And why was the tiny stylist shopping in one of those places? The tabloids posited the question: Would the stylist be charged with pre-meditated murder because, obviously, she didn’t buy that dildo for her own intimate use?

I was more interested in the sudden feud between two girl bloggers. Serena and Mindy accused one another of “stealing” ideas, interviews, photo ops--and, of course, men. Bi-girls moving into polyandrous territory, they were as my friend Anton said, “fighting over the same little pie.” The poly concept is over-extended in blog world anyway. No one lies and cheats--suburban adultery as I played the game; they obtain permission from their “primary partners” to have sex with others. They create lots of rules and talk endlessly about their multiple relationships. Anton’s love Miranda once famously said, “Poly-amore is when you say, ‘My love, I need to fuck someone else now.’” (Typically the negotiations are more wordy than that--or so I have heard and read.) The more evolved polyandrous people bring secondary partners into their primary relationships and set everyone down together for holiday dinners, including the in-laws--like the extended family from hell. (When you just lie and cheat, it’s all about the sex; and you do not have to meet your lover’s relatives.)

I was standing between Nick, the man who is enthralled with the New York sex scene, and Steve Otero, my pal who knows everything about that scene, past and present--and that‘s way too much information to co-exist in the brain with any romanticized vision of the city‘s sex event calendar. Moxie, the girl who blogs retro relationship advice straight out of The Rules, was sizing up Nick from across the room. Oh, good match.

“I’m waiting for a girl fight,” I said. “Serena and Mindy have both signed book contracts to write about their experience of moving from straight to bi to poly.” I added for Nick’s benefit: “They’re basically going to write the same book.”

(Let me tell you about that particular pie: their small publisher’s advances were likely in the $3500 range--with potential royalties possibly throwing them into the Still Not Five Figures book earnings range. Candice Bushnell may be the last person to make serious money from documenting any part of the scene.)

“You’re so wrong about these girls,” Nick said. “They are very supportive of one another. They’re always telling me, ‘You have to talk to this one and that one.’ They share.”

“They deny it, but they all think they’re the new Carrie Bradshaw,” Steve said.

“Yeah, if Carrie Bradshaw had been paid a realistic fee for her column and couldn‘t afford all those shoes and was dating Mr. Not That Big,” I said, studying Serena and Mindy who, with their identical long dark haircuts, resemble one another enough to be sisters. “They might be exchanging veiled insults at twenty paces, but they’re not going to fight.”

“What? And wreck Babeland’s perfect displays?” Steve asked.

Yeah, again. I wandered the room holding my plastic wine glass, chatting briefly with the little groups of people, mostly women, who gathered together like chocolate chips in gooey cookie dough. Occasionally someone asked me if I really thought male sexuality was dead--or if women had killed it. Oh, how I wished I was wearing my Sweetheart, a strap-on vibe, so I could be discreetly getting off as I pontificated on dead male sexuality.

I spotted my two invited guests coming in the door: two handsome strapping husbands in their thirties one from Westchester, the other from north Jersey, faithful readers of my blog. They both e-mailed me regularly asking questions about their sex lives with the most oft-repeated: “How can I get her to let me go down on her more often?” I hear that a lot. Apparently all over America men are waiting to serve--and women just want to sleep. It’s a curious turn of events. The daughters of the Boomers who made ‘she comes first” via cunnilingus a generational battle cry, these girls, according to their mates, demur more often than not. What’s up with that?

I hugged my men and introduced them to Stephanie, a hot Babeland sales clerk. They wanted to buy toys, lots of toys, for their wives’ Christmas stockings. Stephanie was just the person to fill the store’s pink shopping bags with the right choices.

“Where are the real men?” a petite blonde asked me.

“Real men buy sex toys,” I said.

“Yes, I suppose they do,” she said, her tone sounding doubtful. (Ha! You see the problem? Some women think real men don’t buy sex toys.)

I thought about my friend A, almost 40, who definitely considers himself a real man. (I can’t see him purchasing anything but handcuffs and a flogger, maybe a sturdy paddle; the vibes would intimidate him.) A bit of a misogynist, he has reduced every woman in his romantic past to an unflattering blog post. I don’t think he gets laid very often either. (“What’s wrong with women?!” he frequently whines.)

I keep telling him: Bi-girls and Cougars get all the action; and he appeals to neither.

Thirty minutes later I was hailing a cab, having left “the scene” for the delights of a large black slightly curved dick in BedStye. Yes, the scene is all about women now. Who needs a scene anyway when the internet has made the private public? Men don’t. They lurk on craigslist. If they have lots of money, they pay for high-end call girls, happy endings at Asian massage parlors--or blow it at strip clubs. Male sexuality isn’t really dead; it’s still paying its own way.

How much do the girls of sex influence sexual behavior? I pondered that question on the way to my lover’s loft. Very little, I decided. Bloggers with the power to change thinking and the influence to make things happen are writing on politics, not poly-amore. The women who started Babeland changed our lives; the bloggers who promote their products--including me--are latecomers to the cause.

The new Sexual Revolution is a women’s revolution, the final stage. Female sexual empowerment! If we don’t own our sexuality, we don’t own ourselves. The message is out there, in many places, on many levels. I keep writing because I believe in the message. Women are getting it or they’re not--or not until they‘re ready to hear it.

I got it that night. Once again. I wasn’t wearing panties. He pushed up my skirt and thrust that incredible dick into me; and I began to come as soon as he entered me.

I would love to tell you that the story ends here in blessed monogamy on almost Christmas Day, with all the loose ends tied up as neatly as in the murder case. But, alas, I went home from BedStye, opened my email and read the latest chapter in an ongoing long distance flirtation I was carrying on with a younger man in California, another frustrated young husband rarely given the opportunity to serve. A former pro athlete turned vintner, he’s coming to New York on business in January and wants to meet.

I would love that

, I typed.

I’ve sent you a fantasy of being with you; now you send me one

, he typed.

And so I began to write a fantasy of meeting him for the first time in a restaurant, maybe one of my old favorites in Soho, scenes of my sexual past:

In my fantasy of a sexual encounter with this younger man, he is definitely in control. He doesn’t ask, What would you like to do? He says, This is what you will do.

When I get up to use the ladies room, he takes my wrist, holds it and says, “Bring your panties back to me and put them in my jacket pocket.”

My heart is pounding and my pussy is damp as I walk back to the table, panties crushed inside one hand. I do as I am told and slip a pair of delicate black lace panties into his pocket. We both know that signifies submission and surrender. I will do whatever he wants.

I am really attracted to his intelligence and good looks--the trim and fit body!--and to the athletic discipline that seems to guide his life. He surely understands the body, specifically I think he will understand mine-- how he can play it and use it and push it to the erotic limits. In the cab on the way back to his hotel, we kiss and run our hands up and down one another’s bodies. He reaches inside my blouse, into my black lace bra, caresses my breasts and takes my nipple between his thumb and first finger, pinching and twisting it until I gasp into his mouth.

In his room, he tells me to take off my skirt and blouse. Standing before him in thigh high black stockings and heels and my bra, I eagerly anticipate his orders. My pussy has a pulse of its own

……

Yes, my pussy has a pulse of its own.

IT'S A WONDEFUL LIFE?

It’s a wonderful life.

Yes, I watched another old black and white Christmas movie, the Jimmy Stewart sentimental classic that my late sister Ellen referred to as ‘the worst movie ever made.” She teased me for watching it year after year. Maybe like George Bailey, I need the life lesson--over and over again.

Whether you celebrate it or not, Christmas is inescapable in the Western world. If “It’s A Wonderful Life” doesn’t get you, something will. The moment will come when you reflect upon the state of your life as compared to that of, for example, the woman who has everything you don’t but wish you did. Christmas is the holiday that manages to be a competitive sport--and you with your broken spirit in a sling--while evoking the sadness of loss and wrapping loneliness around you like a tattered coat.

If you’re in that moment, here is my last cheap and easy holiday thrill suggestion:

Take a walk outdoors if you can. Conjure up a happy Christmas memory. Relive it step by step. Breath deeply. When you are at the end of the memory, let it float away knowing it will always return, without indulging in the post-mortem that makes us ask: How did something so good turn bad? Or why didn’t I spend more time with my mother when I had the chance?

Here is my happy memory: Several years ago, on a night just before Christmas, I had dinner and went to the movies with my pal J. We saw “Shakespeare in Love”. When we came out of the theatre, snow had begun to fall. He walked me home all the way across the city in the snow; and I will remember that magical night when we were close friends, there for one another--before he married the woman who doesn’t approve of me.

Now. Walk is over. Grab your guy, call your Boy Toy or turn on that vibe, because, Babe, there’s nothing like an orgasm or several to make you feel better, be it Christmas or some odd day in January or May.

SEXUAL HEALING....

…is a news segment running on CNN today. Therapists to Wall Street say: “Bankers are behaving badly” in these bleak economic times. (Excuse me, but didn’t bankers behaving badly lead us into this mess?) More and more of the men are paying for sex from high end calls girls. They’re frequenting Asian massage parlors and strip clubs. One therapist claims to have a client, recently fired, who is spending $2,000 a week on these pursuits.

The men are thrill-seekers and power brokers who are trying to manage women since they aren’t managing that much money anymore.

The women of Wall Street aren’t paying for sex but they are hooking up in bars and having “indiscriminate sex.”

Not labeled “thrill-seekers,” they are instead described as “sexualizing their feelings.”

Sex does have healing power. Whether the Wall Street bankers “behaving badly” are being healed is doubtful. And what about the rest of us--the people whose retirement accounts are hovering slightly above net zero and don‘t have a spare two grand per week to spend on expensive hookers or new shoes, for that matter?

Let’s all sexualize our feelings for the holidays--in a good way, of course. I want to share with you one of my favorite holiday sex memories. It happened a few years ago in Soho. The man’s identity must remain deeply hidden; he’s a nationally recognized figure. We had long been friends and found ourselves each alone in the city on Christmas Eve. His wife had just left him. Bad weather had shut the airports down before my flight out for the family Christmas in Illinois.

“Let’s have a long drunken lunch,” he said.

We met at a Malaysian restaurant on Spring Street. After the hugs and kisses, we ordered a bottle of champagne--which the manager insisted on “comp-ing” because he recognized my friend. X and I drank and flirted, which was our style because we were occasional “fuck buddies“. We touched one another frequently and suggestively. Under the table I kicked off my heels and played with his legs. In return, he kicked off a shoe and wedged his foot beneath my skirt and between my thighs.

Another customer sent over a second bottle of champagne; and we started on that before our food arrived. Yes, we were well into the plan: a long, drunken lunch. He went to the rest room and, upon his return, sat down next to me in the booth. We fed one another; and he nuzzled my neck, put his hands down my blouse and up my skirt. I massaged his huge erection through his pants. Then he put one hand down my waistband and played with my clit until I came--though a little more decorously than Meg Ryan did in “When Harry Met Sally.”

We walked to his apartment where we had MORE champagne as we made out on the sofa. I took his huge cock into my mouth and languidly sucked and stroked. All that champagne. We moved in slow erotic motion. As I sucked him, he played with my clit. I was aroused, but too drunk to come fast. So was he. I sucked and stroked. We shifted positions so that he could suck me too.

The sucking and licking and kissing and massaging went on seemingly forever. I reached for orgasms that were, in fact, just out of my reach. On the verge of “almost”, I began to enjoy the feeling of being not quite there. Finally we were both highly aroused. He entered me; and the orgasms began. So did something else: gushes of fluid erupting from my pussy like a little volcano. I was squirting--for the first time ever!

We fucked and I squired and we came and we came. Afterward we sent out for more food and drank more champagne. And we both still fondly recall that day as a “best sex ever” event.

On my way home the next morning, I realized that it was Christmas, as good a day to be alone and sated as any.

Who Killed Male Sexuality?: Erotic Mini-Series, Part Three Goes Up Tonight

WHO KILLED MALE SEXUALITY?: Part Three

An Erotic Mini-Series Featuring Death And Orgasms

(Incorporating Real Characters And Real Events Into Fiction That Includes Fake Orgasms, Forays Into Vibe Addiction And Larger Than Life Throbbing Dicks….Just Like Porn)

By Susan Crain Bakos

Part One is still up on glamwire: http://www.glamwire.com/articles/2008/12/06/sexuality-in-the-city

Part Two is still up on Sexy Whispers:

http://sexywhispers.wordpress.com/2008/12/12/male-sexuality/

Part Three goes up Friday December 19 on Club Double for part three---and for the conclusion on Friday December 26 on SexyPrime.

In Part Three, you'll learn why the little person was bludgeoned to death with a giant dildo--why big cocks that slightly cuve drive women wild--who hangs out in the E. Village listening to erotica readings.  After the stories of throbbing cocks and dripping pussies-does anyone get laid? 

Sexually Pragmatic, Emotionally Romantic: Single And Alone In The City

Single and alone in the city for the holidays?  Blame everything on "Sleepless in Seatle" or "Youve Got Mail" or "Runaway Bride."  Without the influence of romantic comedies distorting our thinking, we could all be happy with someone like the old George Costanza character on "Seinfeld."  We wouldn't expect any better.

As reported in the U.K. Daily Mailon December 16, psychologists in the Family and Personal Relationship Lab at Heriot-Watt University in Edinburg, Scotland, studied 40 romantic comedies from 1995 to 2005 and their effect on student volunteers.  (The Mail dubbed this "The Notting Hill Effect" and also went to the source, Dr. Bjame Holmes, the lead doc in the study for quotes and confirmation--putting them ahead of everyone else having a good time writing about it.)  The psychologists concluded:  The films have led us to believe that our true love will know what we want without having to tell him and the sex will be perfect.

Romantic film devotees are more likely to believe in fate, destiny and predestined love.

I know enough about how research studies are carried out and results distorted in the headlines to tell you:  Don't take this stuff too seriously.  It's a fun read, like a Cosmo article, not science.

On the other hand, maybe I'm a good argument for their case.  Sexually pragmatic, I know how to get my needs met and I don't have to be in love with the guy--though I do like to worship a good cock--and I'm not going to fall in love with him just because we have sex, even good sex.  To connect emotionally beyond the sex acts, however, is difficult for me.  Secretly, I do believe that my true lover will understand me without a seminar conducted by me.  Yes, I am a hopeless romantic past my sell-by date, albeit one driven by a pragmatic clit.

And, yes, of course I am alone in the city for the holidays.

My cheap holiday thrill for you today:  F the study and rent a batch of romantic comedies, including the old B/W films.  Wine, cheese, a box of tissues.  Some chocolate truffles and cognac.  That beats up cuddling with a George, even a rich one.

My favorite holiday romantic comedy is "Christmas in Connecticut," from 1945 starring Barbara Stanwyck.  If you haven't seen it, add it to your pile.

When I was growing up, that film was on TV every holiday season; I watched it every year with my late mother and, in more recent years, with my late sister Ellen, my second mother who was 20 when I was born.  Ellen, by the way, eloped to get married when she was 21.  She had known her husband all of six weeks--and they'd never had sex.  Their marriage lasted her lifetime; and they were one of the happiest couples I've ever known.  I never heard her use phrases like "communication is the most important thing" or "work on the relationship."

Blame the movies.  Or blame my sister.  I am alone.

I Promise You: He Won't Come In Your Mouth

Photo credit:  very hot lips by Raul Flore

Women ask me:  How can I stop the blow job before he comes in my mouth?

If he's not your monogamous lover, you have good reasons for not wanting him to come in your mouth.  Some STIs are spread via oral/genital contact.  You should use a condom to perform the BJ.  (Try the mint or chocolate flavored.)

Or maybe you just don't like the taste of his semen.  Fair enough.

Never mind his promises about not coming in your mouth.  I keep my promises.  He doesn't.  (But give him the added incentive of:  "You can come on my breasts or face," and he will probably work with you.)  This is my gift to you, a valuable free tip from The Sex Bible For Women.

How To Make Him Come When You Want Him To Come

Pay attention to the subtle signs that he is close to the point of ejaculation--different in every man but always the same for each one.  Men are creatures of orgasmic habit.  He does something in exactly the same way before every orgasm.  He may:

Hold his breath.

Breathe with more intensity.

Make a certain sound--a grunt, cry, exclamation--or go silent

And his balls will rise closer to his body.

Now that you know his moment, you can trigger it by:

Stimulating his G spot with your thumb or finger pressed against his perineum, the space between his anus and the base of his testicles.

Or inserting a well-lubed finger inside his anus to stimulate the G spot from inside--but only if he is comfortable with having that done.

Bettie Page, An American Icon Who Redefined The Sexual "Normal"

Bettie Page, photo taken by Bunny Yaeger

The incredible Bettie Page died this week at age 85 in a Los Angelos hospital.  Like Marilyn Monroe to whom she was compared, Bettie was an oft-photographed sex symbol.  Both women appeared on covers of Hugh Hefner's fledgling Playboy magazine.  They were the dark and light of sexuality in the 50s--for more reasons than the contrast of brunette and blonde.  Bettie posed for bondage and fetish photos and starred in little films that were quite outrageous by the standards of their day.  She was Sex's Really Bad Girl.  (Marilyn just played a bit naughty on screen.) If you are not familiar with Bettie Page, go to google, type in her name and prepare to be stunned, by her beauty and how tame these photos and films were that so outraged the as yet unnamed Moral Majority folks.  

Something else that will grab you by the shoulders and make you salute:  The lady never looked ashamed or embarrassed or uncomfortable, whether she was pretending to spank a bound girl on her lap or being led around in a harness and boots with six inch heels.  Bettie was a natural--a natural model, comfortable in her own skin, a free spirit unashamed of her own sexuality.  She was always metaphorically winking at the camera that loved her and confiding, "Girls just wanna' have fun."

I had never heard of Bettie until I started writing for Penthouse Forum in the late 1980s when Jack Heidenry was the editor and the assignments were interesting.  She was a cult figure then; and Jack wanted me to find out what happened to her after she dropped out of sight in the early 60s.  Back in the pre-internet days, such knowledge was difficult to come by.  I narrowed the reports and rumors down to the most credible:  She found God; moved to California; got married.  All true, as it turned out.  There were no photos of an aging Bettie.  So I wondered if her disappearance was motivated by the desire, perhaps subconsciously, to remain Forever Bettie in her public's mind.

My thinking shifted back and forth on that question over the years.  She seems to have answered it when I wasn't looking.  Some of the reports on her death say she told reporters that she wanted no photographs of her as an older person.

Here is Bettie on her career:

"I never thought of the work as shameful.  I thought it was normal. I was not trying to be shocking or to be a pioneer.  I didn't think of myself as liberated; and I didn't think I was doing anything important.  I was just myself.  I don't know any other way to be or any other way to live."

She left when she felt it was time to go and do something else.  And she did leave us a wonderful legacy of photos and films and her irrepressible spirit shining through cheap sets and trashy clothes and (unintentionally) hilarious situations.  Bettie Page was a sexually empowered woman.

Today's cheap holiday thrill:  Do some online research, rent the DVD "The Notorious Bettie Page" starring Getchen Moll.  Get your inner Bettie on--and tie up your man.

WHO KILLED MALE SEXUALITY? Part Two Goes Up Tonight

WHO KILLED MALE SEXUALITY?

An Erotic Mini-Series Featuring Death And Orgasms

(Incorporating Real Characters And Real Events Into Fiction That Includes Fake Orgasms, Forays Into Vibe Addiction And Larger Than Life Throbbing Dicks….Just Like Porn)

By Susan Crain Bakos

Part One is still up on glamwire: http://www.glamwire.com/articles/2008/12/06/sexuality-in-the-city

Part Two goes up Friday night December 12 on Sexy Whispers.

Check in Friday December 19 on Club Double for part three---and for the conclusion on Friday December 26 here on SexyPrime.

Part One ended with the little person’s murder. Between that and the beginning of Part Two: The murder weapon, a large, bloody and cracked black dildo, was found neatly wrapped in tissue paper and tied with a red ribbon in a trash can on Rivington Street, down the block from the Lower East Side Babeland store. And more!….you’ll have to wait for the book.

And so Part Two opens at an Orgasm Providing workshop at Sexy Spirits, the not-for-profit sex education center run by Anton…..