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The Cougar

November 30, 2009 Arrow, Diary No Comments

She found me on MySpace back in 2006 when I was in my mid-twenties. “Hola!” The subject line read — she’s originally from Chile. “Saw your pics….liked them…”

The e-mail was innocent enough, but this 35-year-old woman’s profile photos consisted of one headshot and four close up shots of her huge breasts in various t-shirts. The pieces were coming together.

We continued to e-mail back and forth on the site, usually late at night, occasionally catching each other on instant messenger. Without saying it directly, we were always reading between the lines, flirting and teasing.

It took about a month before we actually met. I was dog-sitting for a friend in her neighborhood. I let her know and she eventually made a visit past midnight. We greeted, hugged, chatted and eventually my head was in her lap. She massaged my head and I made it up to her voluptuous breasts. We kissed, continued to feel each other and she unzipped my pants, to check me out. Then she asked if we could go upstairs.

Being at my friend’s house, I hesitated. But it was a naughty moment and a dirty thought, so I gathered some clean sheets and made up a bed on top of his. We kissed, got naked and it wasn’t long before she straddled above me, lowering herself onto me.

There’s something about meeting someone in real life for the first time and then having sex that night. It’s just… so… raw, naughty, exciting.

That zeal for the moment made me so hard, so long-lasting, we did it intensely four times in a row with the only rest between to slap on a fresh condom.

It was the first time I talked dirty — probably ’cause it was a dirty (but not filthy) night. As we went doggy style, I would pull her hair, she would moan and then start speaking in Spanish.


Care to chat? Leave a comment and follow me on Twitter at @Arrow405

The Virgin

November 23, 2009 Arrow, Diary No Comments

There was that movie about kids back in the 90s, it opened up with a guy talking about fucking virgins and then moved to a scene where he convinced a virgin girl to have sex with him. It didn’t interest me, I never finished the movie.

The whole breaking a girl in thing is weird to me — I just have no desire.

Back in my last year of college, I befriended a freshman girl and then met her East Coast roommate. Soon, the roommate and I were hanging out a lot, dating, kissing, fooling around all that jazz and then one night…

“Should I get a condom?” I asked, shooting two birds with one stone.

“Yes” she replied, wide-eyed, but confident.

I prepared, straddled her, spread her legs apart and right before it happened: “wait, I need to tell you something.”

Yes, she was a virgin. Oddly exciting, but not really. I really wanted to get it out of her. “Are you sure this is what you want? Are you really, really sure?”

Of course she was, it was her first year of college. In 2002, a virgin at 18 is a late-bloomer. We fucked in my bed and when I came, she asked what was wrong.

“Nothing,” I smiled, everything was quite well.

We continued on to round two, but being her first time, she was getting worn out down there. We moved on to the shower for a break, tried positioning ourselves in there for more fun, but that shower was built for midgets, so to the bathroom counter we went. She leaned over, I fucked her from behind. She then sat on the counter and I stood and fucked her from there. Once again, she was getting a little sore down there.

I say “fucked” a lot here because that is what it was. No passionate love-making or even sex, it was an 18-year-old girl who wanted to party… and well, fuck.

She wasn’t a hussy and actually, she met a guy soon after who she dated for about 5 years. They moved to NYC together, but last I heard, she is single again.

I’m still not interested in virgins and I presume at my age, meeting a woman of similar years would not be a virgin (if she is, then we are just entering weird territory). And for me breaking in a young 18-year-old again — probably not going to happen, and that’s fine with me.

Cowboys, Celebrities & Walking Contradictions

November 22, 2009 Adora, Diary No Comments

“You only fuck celebrities,” said an ex-lover of mine, who was trying to get me to sleep with him again one lonely night last winter on the Santa Monica Pier.

“That’s not true,” I replied. “I have only been with two or three men who happen to have notoriety in some worlds, and one of them was really just a friend who wanted me to join in on a threesome.”

The truth is, prior to that night my romantic history of the last two years could have been chronicled on imdb.com. However, this was not something that I was consciously aware of, nor did I want to make it a habit. I lived for passion and excitement, and the men I was spending time with provided that.

I’ve never cared about money. I’ve been with the most starving of artists to the highest paid actor in television. At the end of the day, the bottom line is always the same. When it comes to matters of the heart, the heart is all that matters.

A man’s fortune won’t stomp through the city with me hand-in-hand, exploring endless possibilities for love and adventure into the night. And a man’s fame won’t brush my hair out of my face, look deeply into my eyes, and take me in his arms like I am quite possibly the most precious and desirable thing he has ever touched.

So where and when did my taste for loving so hard and long in Los Angeles arise? I suppose it started with my affinity for cowboys and the Wild West.

I have always believed that whatever we fall in love with as children, we continue to love as adults. We may forget what these things are, but when faced with reminders, the love rushes back with a vengeance.

I was obsessed with horses when I was a little girl. In addition to dancing until a pool of sweat surrounded my shoes on the dance floor, and skating until my quads turned to jello, horseback riding made me feel free.

Who better to ride with than a cowboy with grit and sensitivity, someone to kiss the fire and salt off my lips, caress my spirit and shoot straight from the hips? I thought I found my cowboy not too long ago when I dated a man who played such a character in an early ‘90s flick. But it was just a movie. It was just a fairy tale. Mr. sensitive cowboy was not a real person, and my Golden Globe boyfriend was simply playing a part.

It’s quite possible that I’ve spent my entire life looking for someone to take his place, the cowboy character not the actor. The thing with cowboys is they are often trouble, something not unfamiliar to me.

I was somewhat of a wild child during adolescence. I used to roam the streets in the bad parts of my hometown until 4:00 a.m., carrying a pint of Jack Daniels, a can of Mountain Dew, a pack of Marlboro Reds, and a jack knife. I hitchhiked and I stole things. I spray painted Pink Floyd lyrics on the wall of my high school gym. I lost my virginity at far too young of an age in a cornfield across the street from the engineering plant where my Dad worked.

That phase of my life lasted for only a brief period of time, but the urban angst and appeal to chaos stayed with me for many years. My friends in college used to say my attraction to rebels and misfits sprung from my desire to “nurture and save all the lost cowboys.” These are the same confidantes who nicknamed me “Vixen,” and said I was a femme fatale – so smooth and in control of every guy who dared pursue me. Looking back, I suppose I did come across that way. Like that Flaming Lips song, “I thought there was a virtue in always being cool.”159627088_a05470f092

However, I was really just one giant walking contradiction, as so many individuals with such brazen bravado are. I have never been smooth or in control. And I wasn’t always a wild child. There was a time when even I was a rainbow-unicorn-pink-muffin girl. Underneath the Hollywood battle scars, she is still in there, and she’s looking for someone daring enough to understand her wild child, her Vixen, and her pink muffin girl.

I don’t want to “save all the lost cowboys,” but I love the idea of riding alongside and lying in the arms of just one.

Here’s the catch. I am horrible at relationships. I either give too much or not nearly enough. I either dive in head first, or I walk along the edge of the water, while my reflection and my lover both stick their tongues out at me. I am not the slightest bit domestic. I don’t cook. I don’t clean. And you can forget about asking me to fix anything around the house. An ex-boyfriend of mine once called me the “consummate bachelor.”

“You’re practically a guy,” he said one night as I opened my pathetic excuse for a refrigerator, which occupied one item – a bottle of vodka.

I lack staying power. I’m a workaholic. I make mistakes – a lot.

But I have loved deeper than my depth, and I don’t think there’s anything I wouldn’t do for the chance to love and run free with Adventure’s Son.

So what’s a girl who is so clearly a tragic yet hopeful walking contradiction to do?

The only answer I can surmise is, keep her eyes opened and her heart aware of someone who could possibly be a walking contradiction as tragic and hopeful as her.

No actors or rock stars, please.

Image by Kevin Zollman.


November 16, 2009 Arrow, Diary 5 Comments

I was 21, she was 39.

I met her up at a Mexican restaurant over margaritas in Northridge. If only we were the same age and she didn’t have two kids, we could have been a couple.

Our second “date” was at her place. She made me pizza with Trader Joe’s dough, she kicked my ass at Scrabble, I played some piano for her. Then the clock struck twelve and it happened to turn into St. Patrick’s Day. I smiled and jokingly said, “kiss me, I’m Irish.” Under her breath, she went, “finally,” and leaned over.

We made out on the couch, but soon were on the floor. I massaged her back as we kissed and that made her hot (she said so). She took off her shirt, but we soon made our way to her bedroom. She lit candles and I went down on her, writing the alphabet with my tongue, eventually getting deeper, making hips swerve unintentionally.

Soon, that moment came, it was a beautiful moment too. The condom was on and I was on top of her. Outside, I was confident, inside myself, I was ecstatic. I was about to make love to an older woman, a woman who was funny, who looked like Sela Ward combined with Sheryl Crow, a woman of great intellect and adventure — I was her first young guy, as she was my first older woman. The moment I was inside of her, I said to myself, oh my god, this is actually happening. It was amazing.

We danced in bed, against the wall, screaming hard, riding on top. At one point, in a moment of inspiration, I grabbed the candle and spilled the candle wax over her breasts. She yelped, but it was hot, more than literally.

Then we spent an hour on the floor, 69ing, passionately.

After three hours of tantalizing sex, we came to a rest, tired, satisfied and in amaze. She said she was surprised and wasn’t expecting that great of a time and endurance and I was happy I could please.

The only sad part was no morning sex, she had to kick me out that same night. Her ex was coming over early in the morning to drop off the kids and there was no need for this kid to be there when that happened.

I drove home that night on the 101, still hard as a rock, thinking about what happened. That moment, when I first entered her — it was beautiful. Will I ever feel that again?

Care to chat? Leave a comment below and follow me on Twitter at @Arrow405

My Name’s Simone And I’m Giving Up Vanilla

November 12, 2009 Diary, Simone 2 Comments

Yesterday was a sexy, but very strange day.

Arriving at the West L.A. office suites of my gynecologist for my yearly exam, I was prepared to spread ‘em. Shaved, showered, and smelling sweet, I was led to my room by a dark haired, tan skinned, male nurse.

“Take everything off then put on this robe, opening at the front,” he instructed, professionally.

“Everything?” I asked. He nodded. I wondered what he was thinking. Did he find me attractive? Did I find him attractive? He flashed me a smile, then was gone before I could finish the thought, a neat pile of hospital gowns laying on the examination table next to me.

I dutifully disrobed. Slipping on the loose-fitting garb, I hopped onto the table ready for action, sitting and swinging my legs like a school girl.

In walked my doctor, an attractive early 30 something woman with long, curly black hair. We exchanged the usual pleasantries and discussed my recent birthday (29!). She updated my daily vitamin intake and sexual history. We spoke of her pregnancy and breast tenderness. Giggling like old friends, I was feeling comfortable.

My naked body was about to be examined, by an attractive, newly pregnant female doctor. Maybe it was the oxytocin radiating from her (they say people pick up on pregnant women’s vibes, often feeling a surge in feel good hormones), or the fact that it’s my most fertile time of the month, but there was something fascinating and even stimulating about this trip to Pap Smear Land.

Soon my feet were in the stirrups and my butt pushed to the end of the table. Doc fiddled with the warmed speculum for what seemed like an abnormally long time, until finally she exclaimed, “All done, would you like to take a look?”

“A look?” I asked, truly ignorant.

She grinned as if she were talking about a rainbow she’d just seen out the window and said, “Yes, I have a mirror here and if you sit up just slightly you can have a gander at your parts, up to your cervix.”

I sat up as instructed, legs still spread. She did indeed have a white vanity mirror in hand and was looking down admiringly at my displayed pink butterfly.

What followed were some gentle adjustments to the mirror until I could finally see deep into… myself.

Now I’ve watched some porn and I have to say, compared to the punanis I’ve seen thanks to the small screen, I’m beautiful — all pink and smooth and glistening, even on the inside.

We smiled at one another and I lay back. She seemed disappointed that I’d had enough, but the position was like a nude pilates work out and it was time for a deep breath.

She collected her instruments and left the room. I dressed. Went about my day, replaying this titillating incident in my mind.

Much much later, I decided to tell someone: My male roommate (of all people) and his friend, who were sitting on the couch drinking beer and talking football.

“Wanna hear an interesting story?” I prompted.

“Yesss,” they echoed in unison and I recounted the above, with no need to embellish the already poignant details.

This got us talking about porn and something I’d never before heard about.

“I’m surprised she didn’t have you sit on a Sybian,” laughed roomie’s friend.

“A whaaa?” I’ve seen traditional porn yes, but I’m far from versed when it comes to its bells and whistles.

Before I could object we were transfixed on my roomie’s computer screen, searching images on YouTube.

We started with Carmen Electra in a plaid skirt sitting atop such a contraption while Howard Stern egged her on, begging that she increase the speed to orgasm potential. After a few minutes, all three of us, were ready for nudity.

Finally, we settled on a strip tease by a stick-thin northern European looking model with the hottest body I’ve every seen (diet started today, thank you very much). Even I found myself slightly aroused with images of earlier dancing in my subconscious as a taut gorgeous body writhed on the screen.

While none of this was typical in its arousal building potential, it’s certainly got me to thinking. Perhaps the vanilla fantasies I’ve subsisted on for so long are in need of an update. Mirrors? YouTube? There’s a whole world of fun things out there. Hello late twenties sexual peak–it’s time to explore.

I’m Arrow, Veteran Online Dater

November 9, 2009 Arrow, Diary 2 Comments


I have a penchant for online dating. That’s not to say I meet women in real life–I would say half of my dates are from real life, the other half virtual–but there’s something fun about the whole online thing.

The anticipatory butterflies are worth it for one. That might sound hellish for some, however, the highs and lows they carry can be quite the ride. In your mind, you always hope for the best, whether it’s a date or something that should clearly be read between the lines. But as all things online go, things are not always what they seem.

A few examples to illustrate.

The Good: A date in Agoura Hills with a woman my age a few years ago when I was in my younger 20s. I drove out there, we went for food, a movie and came back to her place. We began to fool around and at some point I slipped in that I’d always wanted to pleasure myself in front of someone. I’m not sure why I said that, but I somehow knew she would be receptive. She was more than that, she was extremely excited. She cuddled aside me to watch from my perspective while occasionally nibbling on my ear. I came as she watched and she was soon wet, fingering herself. I went down on her, bringing with me her rabbit. She tasted sweet, unlike any other woman I’ve ever been with (her secret was her kumquat intake as she had a tree in the backyard). Her hips erratically moved about and she moaned until she came. Although she brought out a condom just in case, we were both satisfied and never had sex.

The Bad: Sometimes things don’t work out so well. After speaking online with a young hippie college girl with dreds for a few weeks, I made the trek out to Claremont to meet up with her. From the moment I saw her, it just felt uncomfortable. Her photos were not what she was in real life and honestly, I was not attracted, even if I tried. I attempted to be courteous and hang with her for awhile, but I lied when we were in her dorm room, saying I had never done this before and couldn’t go through with it. Eventually I left and the 60-mile journey to home was my mission.

Years later, I met an older woman online and convinced her to meet with me that same night. Eventually, I made it over to her Santa Monica home around 2 a.m. Needless to say, when she opened the door wearing elastic-band tiger print pants (I’m sure they felt comfortable), I knew this was bad news. Her photos were from a different era, that’s all I’m saying. Since I made the trek out, I decided I would hang out for awhile, but that may have been the wrong move. Another wrong move, let her give me a massage. I mean, hey, I love massages, who is to give a good one up? But the problem was is that she got weird and began to claim my back was “so muscular and hot.” That was kind of odd. I said I had to get going and she tried hard to convince me to stay. I couldn’t wait to get home.

The Odd: I met a beautiful and booksmart Mexican lesbian from San Bernardino who was wanting to test out men… again (she had only one previous experience). We planned a day for her to come visit me and she literally wanted to have the “knock on the door, let’s just fuck” experience. I gave her a tour of the apartment and apparently that was too much dilly-dallying–she asked if we were going to “fuck or not?” Yes, ma’am. I got naked and she didn’t, as she wore leggings with a hole in the right spot. She was submissive, making me do all the work, but luckily, she did give some signs of life with her moans, a clue that things were going somewhat right (as far as I could tell for a lesbian). When it was done, she kissed me goodbye and said “thank you for giving me faith in men.” I never heard from her again.

Over the years, I’ve learned how to spot and avoid the bad and unneeded odd eggs. Nothing’s full proof, though. This summer, I kept on coming across a profile of a woman who by all appearances and words, seemed quite quaint. Definitely cute and smart, but I was hesitant to contact her because I thought she would be too straight-laced and boring of a person. Still, she was online at the same time I was once and our chat went well. After we met, it was obvious that I was colored a creamy white vanilla compared to her. I’ve never met someone so out-of-control hyper and wild than her. It was a mix of crazy good, dramatic bad and odd behavior.

Care to chat? Leave a comment below and follow me on Twitter at @Arrow405

Image from Remko van Dokkum.

Golden Boy to Golden Dreams

November 8, 2009 Adora, Diary 2 Comments

Hello my delicious interwebs.

I hope you’re thoroughly enjoying sexandthe405.com. I’m sure you are. How can anyone not just love sinking their teeth into one of AV Flox’s salacious creations?

In my last diary entry, I mentioned that I’ve recently been reacquainted with the possibility of “falling in ridiculous mountain-moving spellbinding love, and not with danger, but with innocence.” I haven’t been able to expound too greatly on the subject with words, but I feel I’m at a point where I’d like to dissect and share how my rebirth came to pass. It happened during my recent leave of absence from Los Angeles, which was both heartbreaking and groundbreaking.

It all began when I met Christian. He possessed the first new set of hungry, eager, and irresistible eyes to enter my realm fresh off the heels of the Post-Chance Era

We met on a rainy night in May. The streets were so wet that all their colors slipped into the sky, along with my relentless shades of purple. When Christian opened the door everything changed. The shape of my heart finally made sense again, and even the darkest parts of the city looked yellow. 

It was a simple scenario of boy meets girl. Christian was younger than me, not by enough years for either one of us to feel strangely about our courtship, but just enough that he was not the slightest bit romantically jaded–such a refreshing treat. (My darling AV Flox would refer to him as “a fetus.”)

The carnal attraction between us was palpable. Never in my life have I been as aroused mentally and physically by a man, while fully clothed and rolling under the covers like a little kid. He was so present–more present that I have ever been. And he made me moan louder than any Chance encounter or jilted ex-lovers ever had.

Christian and I were very different people, but at some point in time we were of the same place, a safe harbor of calm blue waters, where in an instant a tidal wave of heated passion would pulverize all social graces. I used to think he saw me as some dark eccentric Hollywood heroine. To me, he was a golden boy sent from my guardian angel to save me from my old ways. Christian helped me remember a part of myself that had been lost for many years. He opened a gateway that exposed a soft vulnerable side I no longer thought I had. It was terrifying and exhilarating. It made complete sense, and it was absurd.  For lack of a better phrase, it was sweet surrender.

The stories I shared with him about my time in different cities, especially Los Angeles always sent his head spinning. He would say things like:

“What do you mean there were multiple orgies going on in the next room, while you were signing contracts?!” 


“So after you said that you wouldn’t have a threesome with the guy, he refused to finance the project?  That’s ridiculous!”

One night while we were driving along the coast after an ideal day of music, food, and dancing, he grabbed my hand and looked at me with the purest, simplest, most gorgeous expression. I pulled over to the side of the road, and we started undressing each other, as the stars gleamed above us and the waves crashed next to us.

In some other little ditty, we were Jack and Diane. We were Benny and Joon. We were Harry and Sally. But in this world, we were two people on different journeys.

He is off sailing the seven seas becoming a man. And I am back in Los Angeles, finishing the business I started when all my dreams were still in front of me. I don’t know if I’d have the gusto to do so had I not met Christian, the one who made everything shiny and new again with his gentle hands, boyish enthusiasm, and strong Midwestern arms and shoulders. Thanks to him, I reached down into my bag of tricks and found some forgotten dreams, which I’m now determined more than ever to turn into gold.

Loving Long and Hard in Los Angeles

November 3, 2009 Adora, Diary 2 Comments

My name is Adora Flame.  I am here to share with you my dear Internets, my mischievous little voyeurs of all that burns deep within the hearts of feline spirits and between my divinely mouthwatering thighs, the sins, wins, losses, and lessons learned from loving long and hard in Los Angeles.

My first LA love, the angry yet lonely young man that he was, married someone else three months after we parted ways for the umpteenth time.  After a love triangle with his roommate, five years of stormy break-ups and earth-shattering make-ups, three cities and a trillion frequent flier miles, oceans of passion, rivers of ecstasy, 365 favorite positions of the day, and multiple underground sex clubs, my ex (the ex of all exes) ran into the arms of another woman, who had just broken up with her long-term partner two months prior to our split.

I was too shocked to feel resentment when I heard the news.  I was too certain we had always been doomed from the start to feel anything at all when he and his wife divorced a year later.  In the interim, I went through men like tissues.  If there was an inexplicably endearing and flagrantly dangerous man in sight, odds are he was glued to my side for three months, the general duration of the courting period, which is fun and light before someone gets frightened and runs for the hills.

Then one night I met Chance.  He was a rock star – a beacon of hope to any romantic young woman in search of a soldier with grace and heart, a cowboy with poetry, and a majesty to all lost boys.  I had been collecting his albums since I was in high school.

Arpeggios punched and vibrated the walls inside my favorite Sunday night venue, as the man in question lit my cigarette, and told me we’d change the world together.

“You’re one smart motherfucker, aren’t you,” he said as more of a declaration than a question.

“Yes, yes I am.”

It was at that one moment, and not one second sooner that Chance had me. He knew I intellectualized every encounter and exchange with relentless skepticism. He knew glitter and gold failed to stimulate my senses and only sharpened my defenses.  He was attractive, but not gorgeous.  He was charming, yet sincere.  He was powerful, and he was insane.  He ruled the world, but he was alone. He was a tragic king, and he had the passion and balls of an amphetamine-induced Shakespearean superhero on Cialis. He had me at “smart motherfucker.”

By our third 48-hour long date, we were already talking about what we’d name our first child.

“Jack,” he said. “I like the name Jack.”

Then came the three B’s – the booze, the babes, and the bourgeoisie.  I thought I could handle it, and perhaps I could have.  However, I convinced myself I was incapable of being the iron-willed matriarch my girlfriends in college said I was.  Because behind all my blazing bravado, I am not made of iron. I talk hard and I play strong, but everything on the inside is soft.

I didn’t think I could ever live in his world without feeling like I was sacrificing who I really was.  I couldn’t be a rock star’s lover because I couldn’t play second fiddle – not to his fame, not to his fortune, and not to the countless groupies who wanted a piece of him.  He knew all of this, but then one night, as we lied down wrapped in each other’s arms on the floor of his recording studio, he asked me to try.  And so I did.

A few weeks later, after having a colossal argument over a horrible misunderstanding, we made plans to go to his ranch in Montana the next day.  That evening, he was arrested.  He was arrested and his handlers wouldn’t let anyone, even me, near him for weeks.  He went to jail for  three months, and then moved to New York to be closer to the east coast fashion mogul he had been seeing before he went to the big house.  (Yes, he was seeing her the same time he was seeing me.  No, I didn’t know about her.  Yes, I should have seen it coming. No…I didn’t.)

I had a fulfilling and free-loving life in Los Angeles before I encountered Chance, because I didn’t know what it was to be in love and feel that in spite of all the chaos, maybe just maybe love could conquer all.  All my time in LA after that experience was the “Post Chance Era.”  I didn’t date anyone for a year.  Eventually, I left LA for outside reasons, only to be beckoned back six months later.

While I was gone, I became reacquainted with the possibility of falling in ridiculous mountain-moving spellbinding love, and not with danger, but with innocence.  It’s a beautiful dream that I don’t want to lose.

Now that I’m back in the City of Angeles, I have decided that I’m not leaving without soaking up this newfound lease on passion and romance with each and every pore and loin I possess.

Please join me on this journey. It’s going to be the joy ride of my life.


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Gamers Won’t Be Seduced, Will Stare At Random Cleav Instead

That Steam allows the objectification and sexualization of female characters in a variety of its games but refuses to accept a game about actually engaging with women in a more interactive fashion is astonishingly backward.

FetLife Is Not Safe for Users

That the site doesn’t take measures to protect user content and has shown incompetence or negligence in regard to user privacy, all the while prohibiting victims from warning others about predatory behavior creates an environment where it is nearly impossible for members of the community to take care of themselves and one another. By enabling FetLife to continue espousing a code of silence, allowing the spinning self-created security issues as “attacks,” and not pointing out how disingenuous FetLife statements about safety are, we are allowing our community to become a breeding ground for exploitation.

Why You Should Vote No On Prop 35

Should people who benefit (parents, siblings, children, roommates!) from the earnings of “commercial sex acts” (any sexual conduct connected to the giving or receiving of something of value) be charged with human trafficking? Should someone who creates obscene material that is deemed “deviant” be charged as with human trafficking? Should someone who profits from obscene materials be charged with human trafficking? Should people transporting obscene materials be charged with human trafficking? Should a person who engages in sex with someone claiming to be above the age of consent or furnishing a fake ID to this effect be charged with human trafficking? What if I told you the sentences for that kind of conviction were eight, 14 or 20 years in prison, a fine not to exceed $500,000, and life as a registered sex offender?

Pretty and Calls Herself a Geek? Attention Whore!

If you are a woman, you might be given a chance to prove yourself in this community. Since there is no standard definition of what a “geek” is and it will vary from one judge to the next anyway, chances of failing are high (cake and grief counseling will be available after the conclusion of the test!). If you somehow manage to succeed, you’ll be tested again and again by anyone who encounters you until you manage to establish yourself like, say, Felicia Day. But even then, you’ll be questioned. As a woman, your whole existence within the geek community will be nothing but a series of tests — if you’re lucky. If you aren’t lucky, you’ll be harassed and threatened and those within the culture will tacitly agree that you deserve it.

Cuddle Chemical? Moral Molecule? Not So Fast

Zak’s original field, it turns out, is economics, a far cry from the hearts and teddy bears we imagine when we consider his nickname. But after performing experiments on generosity, Zak stumbled on the importance of trust in interactions, which led him, rather inevitably, to research about oxytocin. Oxytocin, you might remember, is a hormone that has been linked previously to bonding — between mothers and children primarily, but also between partners. What Zak has done is take the research a step further, arguing in his recent book, The Moral Molecule, that oxytocin plays a role in determining whether we are good or evil.

How to Avoid Pissing off a Stripper

Let’s talk about the strippers. Whether they like to be half-naked or not, whether they enjoy turning you on or not, there’s one thing they all have in common: they’re working. Whether you think that taking one’s clothes off for money is a great choice of career is really beside the point (is it a possibility for you to make $500 per hour at your job without a law degree? Just asking). These women are providing fantasy, yes, but that is their job. And as a patron of the establishment where they work, you need to treat them like you would anyone else who provides a service to you.


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AV Flox

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Eros and Desire Scholar:
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Scientific Consultant:
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East Coast Liaison:
Jackie Summers

Barbie Davenporte

Read about the contributors we've had over time on our staff page.

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Sex and the 405 is what your newspaper would look like if it had a sex section.

Here you’ll find news about the latest research being conducted to figure out what drives desire, passion, and other sex habits; reviews of sex toys, porn and other sexy things; coverage of the latest sex-related news that have our mainstream media's panties up in a bunch; human interest pieces about sex and desire; interviews with people who love sex, or hate sex, or work in sex, or work to enable you to have better sex; opinion pieces that relate to sex and society; and the sex-related side of celebrity gossip. More...