The best kind of lube to use as a butt sex beginner depends on several things: whether you're going to be using toys or condoms, whether you'll be playing in water, and of course your own body and preferences.
I'm rather new to anything to do with the word Mistress. I've always sort of referred to myself as a gay man who likes to play with boobs trapped in the body of a woman, which could be easier to sum up if I just refer to myself as a switch. I'm always for experimenting and I refuse to ever feel ashamed about anything to do with sex since it has always felt like such a natural thing. At the same time I do still know when to ask for guidance. Recently I have begun to see a nice, albeit innocent, guy. Like most people I welcome to my bedroom, I inspired honesty in him. My boytoy (as I find myself calling him) confided in me that he enjoys dominant females.
It’s a hard road for the first-time novelist.
First of all, you're confronted by a general lack of interest in fiction, unless you’re James Patterson or Stephen King.
Then there’s another Everest in your way: How do you get attention for your writing, unless you’re a serial killer, disgraced politician or a pregnant reality-show sleaze?
Of course, there’s also talent.
That’s the route Tupelo Hassman is using.
You’ll be hearing a lot about her first novel, Girlchild (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, $24). Mostly, it’ll have to do with the strong voice of the narrator, a young trailer dweller named Rory Dawn Hendrix. She’s third generation poor, growing up around a truck-stop bar and among legions of mouthbreathers.
But, of course, she has a voice, and a view of the world shaped by the Girl Scouts Handbook. If I tell you she’s indomitable, then you might think this is some Disneyesque rags-to-riches story. It is not. But it is a story told in a unique voice, a voice of a young girl who tries to work through the agonies and the ecstasies of modern life among the have-nots. Rory is a child left behind.