Introducing: The Queen’s Bedroom

Let’s face it, we became parents by having sex* and sex is usually somewhere on our minds. It’s time to be more open about “doing it” and communicate our issues with sex and all it encompasses. I want to empower women to embrace who they are as sexual beings. I want to talk about all the issues we never speak, but want to get out.

With that in mind I’ve created, with some awesome help, Queen’s Bedroom. Where you can come to talk about all those things you can’t even discuss with your best friend. Where you can come to tell your husband where to find your g-spot…where you can admit you want a threesome or admit your sex drive is gone since having kids.

Come. Sit on my bed. Giggle. Play. Don’t be afraid.

  • *and yes, those who adopt do it too 🙂

    In the Butt, Bob

    Wow. You guys sure do like the sex talk.

    In that case…email me your topics, questions, stories and we’ll just turn the whole “The Post My Mother Can NOT Read” into a series. or leave a comment.

    and yes, you can tell by the title what topic we need to tackle next…

    Third Base Ain’t What It Used To Be

    There are things in my sexual history I remember vividly. From rubbing on stuffed toys to masturbate to giving birth to two children. From seeing a boy orgasm for the first time, to learning about anal plugs and male sleeves.

    I was lucky. Anything my older cousin told me about sex wasn’t locked away in my brain and repeated as truth. I knew better. I knew better because a very long time ago a rebellious woman who taught our school district’s sex education class pulled a group of us girls OFF school property and told us the REAL deal on sex. Not the watered down, censored version of what the government and your parents and priests agreed you could know. Not the fuzzy “don’t have sex until marriage and we’re not allowed to tell you about condoms so don’t ask” discussion one Wednesday afternoon in the gymnasium. No. Mrs. D. wasn’t having any of it.

    I remember sitting at my desk, separated from the boys, while she began her very boring, very generic speech on how I may bleed from my crotch and I’ll need to know what a pad looks like. How my boobs will grow and I”ll get hair in places I didn’t realize hair grew. How one day, when I was really in love, married, and wanted to make a baby, a boy would be involved and something that looked like a tadpole would swim up me and pierce an egg.

    It was all very vague.

    All the girls in the class knew it. Mrs. D. knew it. But we sat there and listened anyway. We all KNEW there was stuff missing from this “talk”-but we girls were too shy to ask and then probably be branded a “slut” and Mrs. D. was forbidden by the law to tell us much more.

    Then something happened. I’m not sure if she could see the confusion in our eyes or if she was just sick and tired of the restrictions placed upon her…but she stopped.

    She stopped her lecture right in the middle of showing us our fallopian tubes, set down her pointer stick, and sighed.

    She walked in front of the desk and leaned on a student’s desk in the front row.

    “I’m not going to bullshit you girls. If you want to know the REAL deal with sex, and all the things you NEED to know, meet me across the street by the dumpsters after the bell rings.”

    Then she casually walked back to the chalk board, picked up her pointer, and finished her very boring lecture on my innards.

    Of course a giggling pack of us tentatively walked across the street when the bell rang. There was Mrs. D. waiting. She opened her purse and showed us a condom, she let us touch it and practice putting it on a banana. She told us about birth control pills, she told us about sexually transmitted diseases. She told us about abortion. She told us about adoption. She also told us if any of us girls needed any of these things, here was her home number and she’d be happy to help us. Then she closed up her purse, and walked back across the street to the school.

    It took me many years to realize how brave Mrs. D. was that day. She retired from teaching that very year. I have no idea if parents found out. If the school found out. If she ever got in any trouble.

    When I was in high school, I remember hearing she had passed away. I wondered how many girls she saved from teenage pregnancy by breaking the rules. How many girls she bought birth control pills for. How many girls she counseled after a boy violated her young body.

    I was lucky.

    Mrs. D. was truth in a world of lies and whispers and hushed conversations between adults. She told us the truth, and I swore I would do the same for my children.

    Not long ago, Suzanne over at CUSS sent me an email about a new book coming out, and recommended I take a look see.The author, Logan Levkoff, sent me an advanced copy of “Third Base Ain’t What it Used to Be,” and I dove in before I could throw the box away.

    Please let this be a real way to talk to your kids about sex. Please let this not be the watered down, glossed over version of public school sex ed.

    I wasn’t disappointed. Third Base Ain’t What It Used To Be is a practical parent’s guide to talking to your children about sex. From making sure you use REAL words with your small children (like PENIS and VAGINA-not wee-wee and whoo-ha) to talking to your teens about blow jobs and flavored condoms. Yes, you need to talk to your teens about blow jobs, because guess what…they are getting them and giving them.

    Logan gives you ways to approach the subject with your kids without freaking them (or yourself) out and teaches you how to keep the dialog open and honest. She doesn’t push her views on you, there is room for you to, of course, teach your children your beliefs…but she also doesn’t bullshit. She gives you the stats on abstinence only programs and why they suck. Why its important your teenage daughter knows how to put a condom on a penis. Why your son needs to buy his own rubbers. Why you should encourage masturbation. And maybe most importantly, why you need to get over your own sexual hang ups and talk honestly with your kids about all things sexual.

    One of the parts of the book I loved, in particular, was discussing ENJOYING sex with your daughters. Yes, letting a girl know and understand from a young age that sex is not a chore. Sex is not a duty. Sex is something she can ENJOY.

    WOW, what a concept. A generation of girls knowledgeable, educated with more than “vague concepts,” and prepared to be sexual when they are ready and capable of enjoyment. Not because it’s what is expected at this point in the relationship. Not to keep a boy. Not to do what all the other girls are doing. Not to see what all the fuss is about, but because she wants to. Because she knows how to have an orgasm and can expect her lover to give her one, or teach him how. She knows how to protect herself from STD’s and pregnancy.

    Holy empowerment batman.

    Logan also talks about teaching our sons respect, responsibility, and knowing their role in pleasing a woman.

    But maybe most importantly, the entire book discusses how YOU, as the PARENT, need to be your child’s MAIN SOURCE for all things sex. Did you squirm in your chair a little? Ya-you are no longer absolved by way of some 7th grade health class. Nope. You get to be Jr.’s sex educator, and let’s face it…you should be. From their little, toddler, rubbing on stuffed animal years to their “ohmygawdpleasedon’tknockupyourgirlfriendinhighschool” days. YOU get to be their guide.

    So if you are a bit out of touch with the current lingo for going down on a girl or blow job parties (uh-huh-they have them) pick up Logan’s book. She can help.

    You might even learn a few things.


    Come on over to the Huffington Post today and point and laugh with me.

    How Desperate is YOUR innerHousewife?

    The Kaiser and I are freaks. Anyone who knows us, knows we’re not normal, average, or otherwise. Yes, I’m talking sexually, so all family can close this page right now…it’s going to get very graphic.


    I’m curious, though. I have this feeling we’re not the only freaks around. My neighbors have yet to come over for a cup of sugar and a blow job, but you get my meaning here. I want to know about your sexlife. Come on, you know this is a safe place. No one will know if you leave me a comment. I just need to know that the Kaiser and I are not the only ones out there.
    Let me be more specific: We’re not going to donkey shows in Tijuana or anything…but lately we’re talking threesomes and one night stands and anything and everything under the sun. Whatever turns us both on, and whatever we are both comfortable with. And yeah, we’re comfortable with A LOT.
    Ok, stop judging me right now. We’re having fun. Remember fun? When sex was more than something you did once a week if you weren’t tired from the laundry and dishes and carpool trips. When sex was more than…how quick can we undress and do it before a child screams because the DVD is skipping downstairs. When sex was exciting and heart-pounding and really, really hot.

    We’re older, we’re more responsible, and we’re not afraid to experiment. The kids are older, capable of sleeping all night, and babysitters can sure as hell come over so we can go out. Sure I’ve no longer got the body of a 19-year old. And I have no doubt my stretch marks are just SUCH a freaking turn on…but at least I’m putting it out there.

    Go give your man a blow job. Ask him what he thinks about you bringing home another girl…maybe even use one of those stupid princess tutu’s we all have in the toy chest to tie him to your bed. Go find a DVD that you KNOW does not skip…or call a babysitter. Hell, call a babysitter and go fuck in the back of your minivan.

    If you are REALLY feeling it, take a lover. How hot is your mailman?

    You know you want too.

    Then come back and tell me-because I KNOW we’re not alone.

    When CoSleeping Ends (Part II)

    Put on PJ’s. Brush teeth. Read stories. Get tucked in. Go to sleep.

    It’s that FUCKING SIMPLE.

    My kids don’t do that. They have NEVER done that. Well, expect for the past three nights.

    Cue the choir of angles.

    Having been breastfed to bed, co-sleeping babies, our bedtimes habits are a bit…umm, lax. Throw in the usual snots and sniffles and pukes and we had a routine of children either having been breastfed, laid with, or held to sleep.

    We slowly made the transition from our bed to their beds with protests. Throw in some parental laziness and bam…four people in our king.

    Now that I’m on the mend and the kids had a few night of Mommy gone at the hospital, we’ve decided to re-impliment the “kids go to bed in their own beds” rule. I automatically assumed this would be a total failure. Which is fine. I’m tired. I don’t have the energy.

    Turns out we’re on night #3, as I type this…with kids asleep in their own beds. I nearly gave in to the Count because he has a bad cough and runny nose. But I held firm. KNOWING this could go on and on and on until they go off to college.

    People TELL me co-sleeping kids eventually leave your bed, but really you don’t believe it. You just assume they will come and go and come and come and come and come and come. And just stay. Forever. Or until they decide to marry or something.

    I am still emotional over weaning Princess Peanut. So this whole not sleeping with a kid-leg in my ribs is a little hard for me. I keep telling myself it’s fine. I keep telling myself not to get all crazy/protective/hover mommy.

    But none of that really goes away until mindblowing sex, IN MY OWN BED, with the Kaiser.

    Emotional crisis over. Cue the choir of angles again.

    Here’s YOUR chance to do the Hump

    My almost 4-year old son thinks pigs work.

    He thinks swine put on little hard hats and take a lunch pail down to the factory every day and punch a clock. It’s there the little piggies sit at desks and type on computers and make the bacon that we, the humans, eat.

    He firmly believes it’s the pig’s job to go to work and make our bacon. In his mind, the cows make the milk and the pigs make the bacon. I see the logic.
    I’m fine with this. At his tender, innocent age, I am totally fine with not correcting him. I’m not setting out to lie to him. If he were to ask, I would try to explain that Porky and Co. don’t really make our bacon, but I can’t say I would describe or travel down the “we eat the pigs” path. Wee wee wee all the way home.

    It’s this life of “half truths” or vague concepts that got my husband to thinking. Not too many days ago my other half was pondering exactly what we would tell the children if they were ever to walk in on us “doing it.”

    He thinks we need a plan. A pre-discussed discussion. He thinks we need to be prepared on the off chance the baby monitor, door knobs, locks, and overall hearing fails us and we get caught F’in like rabbits.
    At first I laughed at him. I totally brushed off the need for a game plan should an offspring interrupt us mid-hump.

    Then I thought about it. Could I really say we were “hugging?” No, because as anyone who is NOT a virgin knows, sex looks nothing like a hug.

    What do we say we were doing? We can’t really take the “making a baby route” since we’re not and then one of the kids will expect a sibling at some point. We can’t go with “wrestling naked” as I can totally see my kids then wanting to wrestle naked with us. ALL THE TIME. It would be the new family past time. Friends would come over to play and my children would want to wrestle them. Naked.

    Do we even try to explain what we were doing? Do we gloss it over with “kissing and tickling” and hope they buy it? At this age, they just don’t understand enough to really try and explain sex. Which I don’t mind doing. I have no problem with discussing sex and everything that goes with it when my children can understand. I’m not worried about my daughter. She’s just too little to realize. But my son. Oh. Boy. Did I mention he’s nearly 4? That means questions. GOOD LORD IN HEAVEN the questions.
    …but why do we have sex?

    …but why do you have to lay like that?

    …but why do you make those noises?

    …but why are you putting your penis there where Mommy pees?

    …but why does Mom have those things the police use on the bad guys? (kidding, kidding)

    All I’m saying is the actual explanation may just be too complicated for his brain, but anything else might be too simple.

    So, on the Kaiser’s advice, I am asking you-my blogging buddies, to please tell us how to you deal with a child’s questions after they actually “see” sexual intercourse???

    I have my suspicions that this entire conversation between my husband and I was just his way of hinting that we need to go have sex. And he may very well be surprised to see his hint went so far as to become a blog post. Or not. Because we all know the man gets more blow jobs than any husband on earth.

    So maybe the question should be…what if we get caught doing that??? Mommy is just checking my throat? Like the doctor does? But with Daddy’s….nevermind. Stick to answering the sex question.

    Sexual Healing

    *Mom, Aunt MaryAnn, any other family members…GO AWAY. Really. I mean it. Unless you really want to know about my sex life. Mom. This is your last warning, your baby girl is going to discuss her whoo-ha. Leave. Leave now.****************

    It had to be done, dear readers. My mother and family have been “reading the articles” so “you get more hits…is that right? hits?”

    It’s the ads there on the left. They bring out the whore in me. So much so that my Mom braves nearly reading about my amazing blow job abilities.

    Now to the matter at hand, it’s been a rough few weeks in these parts. Health wise. Green snot monsters. Diseases of the bowels. Fevers. Even some rashes.

    Yet sex with the Kaiser has been UNREAL lately. Despite the ass whuppin I gave him in fantasy football. And his sticky snot and my bacteria infested intestines.

    I don’t know who out there seems to think sex after marriage is nonexistent or minimal. I know that is the joke, but it’s not true. We just keep getting better by the anniversary around here. I’m not kidding. And it’s not easy to come up with new moves after 10 years.

    I’ll be damn if we haven’t gotten crazy lately. Green snot and all.

    Maybe that’s why I have a hard time with sitcoms and their “wife hates sex with the husband” story lines. Maybe that was true of our mother’s generation. But I think even that is outdated. Newsflash: women actually enjoy sex. With their husbands. No, really.

    It’s an old joke. And it’s time it’s retired. Because I know we’re not the only ones fucking like rabbits. Watching porn. Sticking things in places that don’t normally see sticks. Getting it on in the office, the bed, the living room.

    Or maybe I’m just feeling defensive about the state of marriage. Maybe I just feel everyone should know it can be amazing. Long lasting. Exciting. Worthwhile. Sensual. Sexy. Hot. Truthful.

    Satisfying. Powerful.

    And did I mention the hot monkey sex?