The Gift of Compassion
by Karin JonesWhen someone succeeds in not being an asshole when I’ve been one to them, I feel like the Grinch when he realizes the Who's in Whoville are singing at the top of their tiny lungs even without Christmas presents.
Sex, Drugs, and Letting Go
by Karin JonesI wasn’t so much having sex with this man as catapulting into the star studded universe on a magic carpet. I had an orgasm so powerful you might have thought, from the sound of it, I was being stabbed with an ice pick.
The Beauty of Body Mapping
by Karin JonesThey say if you’ve spent 10,000 hours practicing a particular skill, you’re considered a master, if not an expert. As for sex, you’d have to engage in it for two hours a day for 13.7 years or one hour a day for 27.4 years, meaning most of us who don’t have sex for a living are likely still amateurs. Add to that the constant adaptations to physical changes and different partners and we may never feel we’ve mastered sex. Welcome to the club.
Love, Virtually
by Karin JonesWhen I was sixteen, around the time my brother got a TRS-80 personal computer from Radio Shack, one of the high school teachers offered students an opportunity to partake in a matchmaking experiment. We answered a few dozen questions about our likes and dislikes, religious affiliation, and future goals, and our teacher’s mysterious data processor spit out a list of the six opposite sex students with whom we were deemed to be most compatible (when it was assumed one would only ever pair up with a member of the opposite sex).
Anal-ogies
by Karin JonesI emailed a sex writer friend not long ago to ask what she thought of the newfangled hands-free clitoral stimulators. “Are they actually effective at making you cum while you’re getting fucked?” The answer was they are hit or miss and completely user dependent, which was the answer I didn’t want because I’m still looking for the effortless PIV orgasm.
Unpacking Our Baggage
by Karin Jones The single most disgraceful moment of my adult life, when hissing snakes erupted from my flipped out prefrontal cortex and my lizard brain took control of my mouth, was the day my lover of eight months returned from his errands without the York peppermint patty I’d requested.
The Freebird Paradox
by Karin Jones A few years ago I was so moved by the biopic
Alias: Greta
by Kirsty RowanI was 23. The first thing I was drawn to were his earlobes, don’t ask me why. They were the kind that didn’t attach at the bottom, you know? The kind that were begging to be sucked. He had a piercing in one of them, and the sight of it glinting there made me lick my lips.
Invisible (Wo)Man
by Karin JonesI remained friends for a time with a man who broke up with me after confessing his Amy Adams obsession and desire for a petite ingenue. I was ultimately relieved, as I’m built like a discus thrower and he like an Elf on the Shelf. Being naked with him felt a bit creepy, as though he hadn’t quite reached the age of consent.
The Cock Whisperer
by Karin JonesAt the tender age of eleven, having never been kissed by a boy or known anything more than the musky, metallic odor of the ones who played in dirt, I stumbled upon The Joy of Sex while snooping in my parent’s bedroom closet. Paging through this original 1972 version, filled with line drawings of hirsute, naked heterosexuals doing unfathomable things my body vibrated, not with pleasure but horror, the kind of weak-kneed fear you feel near the end of Silence of the Lambs. What distressed me more than discovering that his part goes into her part, was the things they did with their mouths to said parts.