rockefellerctrxmas05 005.jpg Rockefeller Center 12.05

Okay, no it’s not the year of the devil, but after typing an extra six, I decided why not type an extra six….for sh*ts and giggles..y’know.

Anyway, I have a full house (not the kind with the Olsen twins, John Stamos and Bob Saget) at my place in Brooklyn this morning, and we’re heading out to Lawn Guyland now to have brunch with the parents, exchange Hanukkah gifts and then tonight to have a small, intimate soiree. So in a typical OCD fashion I just had to write….


I’ll be writing again next year…but to anyone who’s ever read my blog or cared about my life….I hope that you’re life does what you want it to do in the coming year…and thank you for checking up on me.

See you in the ’06.

Pushing Sex (Toys)

Sonic Vibe. Ultime. Ripple. Pink Silicone Lube. Leo.

If you’re looking for a sex toy to make up for all those sh*tty gifts you got this holiday season, I’ve compiled a short list of things for you to think about.

You can purchase all your sex toys here:

And now that you have a store to buy them from, lets get started, shall we?
(for times sake I’m not going to attach any more links, but if you click on the link above and hit search, you’ll be able to find any product I’m talking about).


I prefer the hard plastic kind. These are easy to clean and feel nice on the clitty. Hard plastic isn’t jelly rubber (obviously), so you don’t have to worry about how porous it is or what chemicals its emitting factor if you plan on inserting one of these buzzies inside you, of course if you’re putting it up you’re butt and letting go make sure it has a flared base so that it doesn’t get sucked up your butthole, a.k.a. blackhole. I love hard plastic vibes because they have the best vibrations, as in they’re usually pretty powerful. While I like the pocket rocket, a small one speed, clitoral stimulator, it is a small ONE speed, CLITORAL stimulator, and therefore not necessarily the best toy for all around pleasure. For a toy with more variety, try the Blueberry Buzz, or if you want something curved to hit the g-spot, the Orchid G. They are both longer, hard plastic and variable in speedage. Or the Ultime, by Natural Contours, is another cool looking, great G-spot vibe. It’s got three speeds and it’s really pretty.

Now if soft is the way you like to get off, then go with something silicone. Yes, it’s a bit pricier, but it’s also a ton more sanitary, and, in the long run, those extra $30-$40 dollars could save your life (okay, probably not, but who knows?)

Wash your vibrators with soap and warm water and store them in a safe place, away from children and pets.


Again if you are going to buy a dildo, and it’s not going to be used as a gag gift, go silicone. You can throw it in a pot of boiling water to sterilize it, or you can clean it with soap and water. It’s soft, sanitary and comes in pretty colors. Two of the more popular ones are the Leo and Woody, and I’d say go with the Leo over the Woody, it’s a bit longer. If you’re a size queen, check out Johnny (and I’m not just saying that because he is my boyfriend, well not that Johnny, and there’s no “h” in my Jonny’s name anyway).

Butt Plugs

If the someone who the butt plug is intended for is really nervous about using a plug, go with something like the Little Flirt. It’s small, it’s silicone, but the truth is it’s so small you might as well use your finger. I like the Ripple for a first timer, has that beaded effect, or the Ripple 2 if you can take it a bit larger. I also like the shape of the Severin, and it comes in a couple of sizes. The Ryder is supposed to stay in place more often than some of the others. Now as for plugs, again Silicone is my top choice. The plugs usually come in a number of colors, but if you have a fear of doody, go with something black or dark, because then it won’t show up as much. Get it? Got it? Good.


All good butt toys, and lots of other toys, need lube. Silicone lube can react with silicone toys, so if you’re planning on using the two together, you should seriously think about putting a condom (or as I like to say - condoming) your toy, so that it stays in pristine condition for years to come. A water based lube without glycerin - my fave. is still Sensual Power, but a lot of people like Sensua Organics because it claims to be organic, and others like the thickness of Maximus - is probably the safest bet, and the easiest to wash off sheets (silicone lube doesn’t always wash off, trust me). There are lots of water based lubes with glycerin too, like Astroglide, ID, and Probe but glycerin is a sugar, and therefore some women find discomfort in using these lubes - especially women ultra sensitive and prone to yeast infections. Vaseline and Oil based lubes are totally out, unless you’re in a fluid bonded relationship where there’s no latex involved. And no crisco - it’s too thick, messy and although probably a nice feeling lube, not the way I’d want to go. And no, it’s not condom compatible.

Let’s Share

Now, if you’re looking for toys to share, or toys for boys, go with the Petal Ring, Sonic Vibe or the Blue Dolphin Vibe. These are vibrating cock rings, meaning that they’ll hopefully prolong his erection while providing vibration to your clit and his shaft, or your butt and his shaft, depending on your sex and the type of sex your having. You can also use nipple clamps to heighten sensitivity for your little buds, or any vibrator can feel good on him as well. I like the little finger Fukuoko for the two of you because you wear it on your finger, and it comes with three separate sleeves so you can share a sex toy without fully sharing a sex toy. It feels real nice around the rim of your butthole or on or around your clit, or any other place that is sensitive to vibration. Oh yeah, and for really powerful stimulation or a really good back massage, and yes, I’m serious about the back massage part, try the Hitachi Magic Wand or the cordless Acuvibe. They both pack a mean punch.

So, that’s a start…. ah, just a start. There’s so much more out there when it comes to sex toys, but there’s only so much time I have to write this morning. I worked at Babeland for four years, so you can always email me with any other questions, needs, wants, desires, cravings, etc….and I’d be happy to help.

After all, for four years I was the neighborhood dildo pusher.

Back in Black (well, at least attitudinally)

I don’t know if it’s the fact that I feel like everybody else who’s off this week is actually getting paid to be off this week, or that I’m supposed to be getting my period, or that I’d been surrounded by this overly gregarious, Xmas-r-us type family for the past five days, but something about being back in New York makes me feel sad, lonely and utterly unproductive. Well, not unproductive in the sense of just lying in bed, as I’ve been out and about all day, but unproductive in the sense of having to get all this work done, meaning school work and a column, and I’m not at all in the mood to do any of it.

I’ve been reading Middlesex and realizing how simply fair my writing is. It’s not good, bad or ugly, it’s just mediocre at best, or even if it’s better than some, it’s still never going to be as good as others. I didn’t write and research a book for nine years before it got published. I won’t ever write a book that will eventually win the Pulitzer Prize, and I didn’t write a book that has lots of facts that make the fiction seem less fake, or one that uses beautiful words with humor and sadness (and yes, all of this has to do with Middlesex). In fact, I realize I didn’t even write a book, or attempt to write a book yet (that’s New Years Resolution #2, after NYR #1, but I don’t want to share that until I can admit that I’ve followed through with it). And I know bad writers have written books, and that I can do it, and not care about how I write, but once in a while I want to be an incredible, poetic and passionate person. That’s one of the things I really want to do, and I can’t motivate to get it done right now. And now in less than three days, a last minute idea has come to fruition and a friend that I haven’t seen in over 18 months will be gracing me with her presence, and while I know we’ll motivate each other, I also know that this means I won’t really motivate to get things done for another few weeks. But I’m not complaining because I am so totally stoked to see her, even though after rereading this it sounds like I am.

I mean that’s not so bad, right?

I think one of the things that I’m sad about now is that for the last few days I was part of this family, and it felt really nice to be part of a family that I wasn’t born into. Not because I don’t love my family, although if you’ve ever seen us in action you know that at times it’s debatable, but it’s just that this was the first time in a long while that I’ve been asked into a family, been brought in to a family because another member of the bloodline wanted me to be there. I think that this past week brought me closer to Jonny, a lot closer than I expected it to bring us. We didn’t argue much, not until the last day at the airport, but that’s another story entirely, and one I’m not ready to share, and even then we weren’t arguing about petty grievances (well, he may disagree, but I don’t think so), and I didn’t get sick of him, or need much alone time, like I had (not the sick of him part, the alone time part) in Philadelphia. And I had been sort of grumpy before I left, and then, being there, I wasn’t grumpy at all. His mother talked a lot, and I actually stayed quiet a lot more than I usually do, but there was no amount of talking that got us in trouble with each other. And that was nice. And it was nice not to have to worry much about money, or loud noises, cell phones or email (I had no reception and no Internet) or not sleeping in the same bed together. Because as the 12 months of our relationship turn to 13, I’m getting antsy about that part. But that’s also another story for another time. And yes, that’s one I’m willing to tell again and again.

But for now, I’m still not in the mood to talk much. I’m hoping I’ll wake up in the mood tomorrow, because there are a lot of people I’ve been meaning to call, and just haven’t because of this not wanting to talk thing. And I have other things to do, like more writing, and a New Years to plan, and a friend coming to visit.

And these are things to look forward to. And I know this. And I know I am the master of my domain, it’s just that sometimes I let the hormones take over the house.

Ah, blog…

jamye_santacon.jpg A pic of me as Santa…like they say, better late than pregnant *unless of course you’re trying to get pregnant, than this phrase actually sucks big balls

I’m back and I’ve been inspired to write a short thingamajig, having just flew in from Missouri, and stealing a really bad joke, boy are my arms tired. It’s been a trip (literally and figuratively) and having just checked my emails I was surprised to receive a number of fantastic messages from people I’ve never physically met…and then I realized something.

I’ve learned so much from this blog and my life this past year. And one email inparticular made me realize what it was that has helped me get through the times that I’ve needed help getting through those times we all have to get through at times (how many times can I say times in a sentence? - I think that was five), and all of a sudden I wanted to write it down.

I’ve learned not to let the future dictate how I feel in the present because I can’t do anything about the future right now, as I live in the present, even though I can help maneuver where I’d like the future to go, I still can’t guarantee that it’ll ever get there. But with the desire to do whatever it is I want to do, I can try my hardest…and that’s all I can ask of myself…ever…

What a long strange trip it’s been, yes indeedy, and no helium balloons, bands with two lead guitartists or twirly, smelly people were involved in this process *at least not this time.

Striking Out

What will Santa do if the trains don’t run?!

I should have checked the news before I headed to the subway this morning, but I was in a rush to make this 9:30 Pilates mat class at my gym. The streets of Williamsburg were relatively quiet, and I didn’t take the hint when I heard the man in the van say “anybody need a ride.” Instead, I just kept walking towards the subway. It was cold, the kind of cold that makes your nose numb in under three minutes, the kind of cold that makes it hard to feel the snot as it forms a long string that starts at the point between the two nostrils, and I just wanted to get warm, and get fit. But the police tape around the entrance to the subway spoke volumes, and I was not about to pay for a ride into the city so that I could use the gym. That would be obsessive, and as an out of work person, I can’t be obsessive about the gym.

So, I came home and panicked. I have an 11am flight tomorrow, which means I have to get a taxi around 9AM, prime rush hour time for a city with no public transportation. I know people have places to go and other people to see, but this is the first time I’m going to meet my boyfriend’s family and I don’t want to be late and miss the plane. And I didn’t do my work this morning, because I had to make sure we had a ride tomorrow.

Hours later I had a backup plan, a friend with a car. I wish most people were that lucky. And today I didn’t have to go into an office, so what must have felt like a free day for so many other people, or a nightmare for those who did trek into work, just felt like a weekend to me (that’s when there are more people on the streets, in the stores, etc.) And now, tonight I must finish packing. I’m heading over to my boyfriends soon (and thank the goddess that he’s a short walk from my house) so that we can struggle through this mess together.

Oh, and because I met the author and she was so incredibly nice, smart and social and because I can’t put the book down, I must say, if you’re looking for something dark, disturbing and beautifully written, please buy a copy of Twins.

Oh yeah, one more thing… don’t miss me if I’m not around for a while. Apparently there’s no internet access at the house I’m staying in in Missouri. But if I find some, trust me, you’ll hear about it.

Don’t call me Sweetheart

I hate it when somebody, especially a male somebody, calls me sweetheart. I hate it when a male somebody, especially a male somebody in a position of authority, a male somebody who I can’t stand up to because it’s not in my best interest, calls me sweetheart when all I really want to say back to his term of non-endearment is “Don’t ever fucking call me sweetheart you asshole.” Instead I say nothing, because I know that retorting, making some silly, snide comment, a task that I’m good at, would surely hurt me, and although it wouldn’t physically hurt me, it could hurt me financially. But the term sweetheart is degrading, and it’s insincere and it’s obnoxious. Still it’s something that us “sweethearts” deal with on a semi-regular basis. In the state of California that would be sexual harrassment, at least according to my friend L. but here in New York, where it would also be considered sexual harrassment, I’m not going to do anything more about it because, without saying more, I just can’t.

And yes, that gets my panties in a bunch.

And then I come home to a very nice holiday card from my grandmother - a woman who has known me all 31 years of my life - and she spells my name wrong not only on the envelope, but on the card, and on the small, but sweet check that she’s written for me. How can she, after knowing me her whole life, spell my name Jayme, and not Jamye? I was born with the awkward spelling, it should be the only spelling she knows. And I’m upset, because not only did a male call me sweetheart, but my grandmother can’t even spell my name right.

And then, in the nicest gesture yet, she also mailed an identical check to Jonny (the boyfriend) but because we grew up with different religious backgrounds, she decides to point this out in the memo line of each check. While I get a Happy Hanukkah (she can spell that correctly), he gets a Merry Xmas, and I feel as if she’s trying to tell me that there’s something different about us, and that she knows it’s because he’s not Jewish..but I’m not all that practicing myself, so why does it matter anyway? Or maybe I’m just reading into things, after all, I haven’t been the same since I was called sweetheart by some male authority figure this afternoon.

The Village Voice

Me and Jonny.

Rachel Kramer Bussel wrote a piece in the Village Voice called Home for the Holidays, and Jonny and I make an appearance. Woo hoo!

Not all our answers made it into the column, but we’re in the fifth paragraph, although it doesn’t hurt to read the whole piece. I also said that we would most definitely be having sex at his house because there’s not much else to do in a small town in Missouri, but if anyone hears of anything to do in or around Brookfield MO, be sure to drop me a line, as all I’m planning on doing is reading, writing and learning more about my man and his family (oh yeah, and having sex). He asked me to take this trip with him in June (if things were going well, that’s how he prefaced it) and now, six months later, I can’t believe we leave on Wednesday.

I’m only nervous that I’ll say something stupid. Otherwise I’m totally psyched.

A thought on Songs

Across the street from where I live: SHIFT HAPPENS. CHECK YOUR PARADIGM.

Just popped into my head:

If you had to pick your all time most significant song, what would it be?

Now, I guess I’m supposed to answer my own question, but the truth is, the question just popped into my head, not the answer. I have favorite songs, and songs for occasions past and future, but I don’t think there’s one most significant song. So maybe it was a dumb question, but I’ve decided that today’s blog is a - what’s that word again - oh, yeah, an attempt - at spontaneous writing.

Having just read Lisa Carver’s memoir, Drugs are Nice, I’m copying a technique that she used, but not a technique that she created, which is all about sitting down for some specified amount of time and just writing to write, right or wrong. Whatever comes out, comes out, no editing, no spelling and grammar checks (although to be fair I will and at this point have gone back to add some italics and to make sure I don’t look like an idiot), but as a writer, I don’t feel like I exercise myself when it comes to my craft, so this morning I’m exercising my writing gene. It might be wiser to get myself to the gym, having eaten way too much at the yummy all-you-can-eat-fixed-price Indian restaurant Vatan last night, but no, instead of having to actually get on a subway and head into the city on a weekend, although what’s a weekend when you’re un(der)employed?, doesn’t sound all that appealing right now. Besides, I’ll have to steel train it later tonight, so I’m not in the mood to make another trip in, even if it is just one stop on the L train…whatever.

Okay, going back to songs - well, I’ll never (I can’t believe I’m going to admit this), listen to Right Here Waiting by Richard Marx again without thinking back to my 15th summer, one spent in Boulder, Colorado and then in Los Angeles, California (a total of six weeks time)- across the country from my then boyfriend, who spent his summer in upstate New York as a camp counselor at a sleepaway camp. It was our song, and I played it over and over that summer as I dreamed about the time we’d be together again.

Or, if I were to ever have one of those wedding things (a thought I’m still on the fence about) I’d like the song that represents our union to be Ben Harper’s Forever…I’m not talking about a year, no not three or four, I don’t want that kind of forever in my life anymore…But, now, even writing that sounds silly - because can a song represent how we feel or think, when we can’t even be sure how we feel or think from one moment to the next? Are we always looking for ways to describe our lives through words (as a writer I’m going to say for me, yes, that’s often what happens), and do songs do that for us?

I’m not going to pretend to have the answers, although I have my own version of the answers.

Instead, I don’t want to talk about it anymore (yes, that’s a song reference, anyone? anyone?)

Free Time and Furballs

My oldest friend in the world had her first baby, and yesterday he got part of his penis chopped off. When I told my mother that I wouldn’t circumsize my son, she told me that she’d have it done behind my back. Now I know that wouldn’t happen, but still why are we so hung up on the idea that cutting off a boy or man’s foreskin makes him somewhat cleaner? If he washes with soap and water he should be clean. This is a picture of me, her and Baby G. after the life changing experience. Oh, and he is one of the cutest, if not the cutest, newborn baby I’ve ever seen.

I want to say I have all this free time on my hands, because I want to write a book, and have had some ideas about what it is I want to write about for a while, but instead I have other projects to work on, and therefore the book proposal keeps getting pushed back, and what that really means is that I don’t have all this free time on my hands - at least that’s the conclusion I deduce from the above rambling….

And I haven’t been on this computer for the past few days, which in and of itself seems incredulous, but I committed myself to my last cat sitting job ever (unless of course you’re one of my friends and I already know your cats). This was for two cat brothers, George and Grover, and while the names sound cute, Grover was not. The most feral cat I’ve ever met, Grover tried to attack me - and I’m talking full claws and fangs - not once, but twice, in my two night stay at the apartment. And there was constant hissing, that every so often turned itself into snorting, something I had never heard a cat do. The first time it happened, I thought that the little beast had eaten a pig. Anyway, the second attack was so scary that my heart was racing and I was shaking, and in running away from this little, black ball of evil, I banged the part of my arm in between my fingers and my elbow (is that the forearm?) into the metal post of the family’s canopy bed, causing a very deep, very black and blue mark. The next day when I opened the door to enter the apartment and that same vicious little venom monster was standing on the counter, hissing in my face and his black fur was all on end. Now, I could understand if I had done something to hurt him, but I was there to feed him, not fight him, and he didn’t care. I dreaded going into the apartment for two days, and even had dreams about the cat. But I had so much fear of this fur ball, and that made me sad because over the past few years I have grown to truly love cats, and even, at one time, until my good friend L. kidnapped him indefintely while I was experiencing my year of living freedom, owned one myself.

But that wouldn’t be what the book was about. I’m not going to write a book about cats. It’s really not my expertise.

Of course, what makes one an expert on anything? Is it study, or experience or simply because they claim to be?

Pistil Magazine and then some…



© Copyright Jamye Waxman M.Ed.