Sex in the Box

Today's blog is a guest post from Salad Closet. I stumbled upon it, fell in love, and contacted Ms. Closet about appearing on my site. If you like what you read, click here and subscribe to her blog. Enjoy...

Dildos are awesome. Unless, after you buy it, you absentmindedly leave it in your car overnight. Then it’s just a cold piece of rubber and as soon as it makes contact with your skin, your whole body shuts down, like the screen on an old television set. 

Blip.

A dildo needs to be warmed up prior to use. I find that rolling it in a heating pad works well. After an hour or so, it’s perfect, just like the real thing, only there’s no sweat dripping into my eyes and I don’t have to endure all that pressure on my chest.

I flip myself over, but only if I want to (and I do want to, sometimes).

What the dildo lacks in substance it remedies with peace of mind. When I’m done with it, I simply put it back in its box, which is far less complicated than the real thing. Uncomplicated is all I’m really going for right now.



I have to put the dildo in a box because if I put it under my bed I’m afraid my dog is going to find it and I don’t want her to get into the habit of chewing up dicks. I’m not swearing off the real thing altogether and I just had the carpets shampooed.

I love men, not just their dicks, but the way their brains work and stuff. Everything’s all neat and tucked away into little compartments inside their heads. When they need to have a thought they just reach in and pull one out. That one-thought-at-a-time shit has always blown my mind. They make it look so easy.

My brain is like a fucking Ping-Pong tournament. I don’t have nice neat compartments for my thoughts. If thoughts were things, my brain would look like a hoarder lives up there. My orgasm is buried under a bunch of pizza boxes and yard sale bargains and chicken bones. When I go looking for it I get distracted by that lamp I was going to refinish, or the photos from that camping trip I took back in ’05. Man, I was a lot thinner back then. I wonder if I still have that shirt.

So I created a compartment of my own to store my orgasm for easier access. It’s filed under “C” in a box by my bed. The “C” stands for Confidential. I even wrote Confidential on the lid with a sharpie. It’s a long word and I overestimated the amount of space I had to write it, so the letters get smaller and sort of trail off at the end. I’m sure that’s symbolic of something.


Relationships are a lot of work and I’m lazy. Every once in a while I browse the profiles of men on match.com, but I can’t seem to find enough enthusiasm to justify a thirty dollar investment. That’s pretty sad considering I’d essentially be bringing in a profit after the first date. The dildo was on sale for $19.95 and I already own a heating pad. It seemed like a better deal to me.

My romantic intentions are so low right now that I’ve questioned my sexuality. Until I remember that a relationship with a woman takes just as much effort and that’s what I’m trying to avoid, effort. I love having relationships with both genders and I’m good at them, for the most part. But as soon as a hint of romance creeps in, the final rounds of the world championship Ping-Pong tournament begin inside my head.

I wish I could have more intellectual conversations with men. I like spending time with them, but I’m afraid if I show too much interest in what they have to say, they’ll think I’m coming on to them. Maybe I’m just being paranoid. Or maybe it’s because every single time I have ever shownany interest in what a man has to say, he thinks I’m coming on to him. I’m over generalizing and that’s not fair, but I totally get why some women are just bitches all the time, to everyone.

I think men and women would interact more effectively if we were all required to wear a sign around our necks announcing our intentions. My sign would read, Sex Is in the Box At Home.  At home would need to be in big letters since the box reference might give people the wrong idea. I’d probably underline it too, just to be sure. Then I could walk up to the guy wearing the, I Have a Girlfriend and I’m Loyal sign (I’m loyal would need to be underlined, twice) and we could just have a conversation and connect as two human beings.

Once, I was having this great intellectual conversation with a male friend of mine. We were texting back and forth about consciousness and the meaning of life. It was deep and I was totally into it. I love the way he thinks. He was telling me about a guy, a scientist or something, who developed this theory that we are all living in a SIMS-like world with some computer geek controlling our every move. Then we started debating the existence of free will. I asked him to text me the link so I could read about it, which he did, along with a picture of his dick. My reaction was the same as the dildo that had been left in the car overnight.

Blip.

I found myself scrolling back through the texts trying to figure out what on earth I could have possibly said that made him think I wanted to see that. Don’t get me wrong, it was a fine dick and all, just totally out of context. If it was the other way around, and I had sent him a random photo of my boobs in the middle of a conversation that had nothing at all to do with sex, I think he would have been pleased (and not just because my boobs are awesome, though that would certainly be a factor). 

It amazes me that men can get aroused just by looking at a naked woman. Not even a woman, just a piece of a woman – a body part. I can’t do that. While I can appreciate it on an aesthetic level, a lone dick does nothing for me sexually. Nothing. I need to know what that dick is attached to. That dick has to have a passion for something, or at the very least, a job. And it has to be in context. You can’t just flash your dick during a Ping-Pong  tournament. Balls go everywhere when you do that.

From what I understand, men can have sex with women they don’t even know and aren’t even attracted to. Some of them can even look her in the eyes while they’re doing it. And I don’t think it’s intentionally mean or cruel on their part. Their abilities are limited to accessing only one thought at a time and the fucking file is stored nowhere near the consequences file. It’s both a blessing and a curse, I suppose.

The only time I can have sex with someone I’m not physically attracted to (sober), is when I’ve been in a relationship with them for several years.

Dildos are awesome and all, but the reason they have not gained the popularity they deserve with women is because they’re not attached to anything. Dildos lack a back story (they also lack a proper handle, but I’ll save that for another essay). If I don’t know the story behind the dick, I either don’t want to fuck it or I have to make shit up so that I can tolerate fucking it. The majority of my masturbation time is spent just lying there making shit up. Since I’m lazy, and it takes a while for rubber to warm up, it works out perfectly, for me at least.

Most back stories are both created and reconciled in women’s bathrooms. That’s why we all go in there together, to help each other out, especially when the bar’s about to close.

I’m envious of men for their ability to focus on just one thing at a time. They are true masters of the present moment, which is probably why you never see a female monk in Tibet. Women are not capable of having just one thought at a time. In fact, we’re not capable of having just one of most things, orgasms included.

A Ping-Pong tournament may be frustrating when you’re trying to think, but when you’re having an orgasm, it’s like the fucking Fourth of July down there. Plus, I’d have to climb the Himalayas to get to Tibet and I’m way too lazy for that.

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