Hilarious emails from a detail-oriented lady who did exactly what a sex columnist told her to do.
Date: July 15, 2005 1:40:15 PM EDT
Dear American Vixen,
Thank you for your enlightening article, "Loving Your Bod While It's Gettin' Some Lovin'." Like many of the women profiled in your article, I have recently begun to suspect that my negative body image is impacting my sex life. I often find myself distracted from the heights of sexual ecstasy by the vigorous wobbling of my thighs, for instance. I took your confidence-boosting pointers to heart (I'm one of your biggest fans!), but I’m a little unsure about the outcome.
On Friday, my man was caressing my torso and began to unbutton my jeans. I turned the lights to full blast so he could feast his eyes on my womanly bounty. "Touch me where the love handles spill out over my waistband," I said in a breathy whisper. While astride him, I called his attention to the fetching way my breasts bounced up and down, sometimes colliding like two heavenly orbs. On Tuesday, I asked him to smooth lotion on my calluses while singing "I'm F*ckin' You Tonite," by Notorious B.I.G. and R. Kelly.
For the past few nights, he's taken to showering immediately after dinner and falling asleep around 8:30. He says he's overworked and stressed out, but I'm beginning to wonder if my newfound confidence is putting him off. On Sunday, I plan to conquer my issues surrounding my stretch marks and the flabby undersides of my arms. If he doesn't respond, is it time to kick him to the curb?
Dear American Vixen,
An extremely detail-oriented person, I always follow your directions to the letter. So last week when my hombre and I began our regularly scheduled Sensual Time with full-body massages, we used the kumquat-eucalyptus oil featured in your May issue. The oil may have been partly to blame for what happened next, but I would also strongly advise your readers to undertake a course of stretching before attempting the "Enhanced Alpine Cowgirl" position featured on page 45 of your Extreme Summer Fun issue.
As instructed, I was riding my hombre in the reverse cowgirl sex position, pinching his left big toe with my right hand and reaching around with my left hand to stimulate his sensitive perineal area while yodeling at the top of my lungs in order to optimize my breathing. But just as we began to glimpse its shimmering apex around the corner, our lovemaking came to an unwelcome climax—a massive spasm that nearly dislodged one of my vertebrae. I was forced to take two personal days to recuperate, and, needless to say, my hombre’s manhood withered like a leaf of lettuce in the noonday sun.
I was still dedicated to mastering each and all the sex positions in the issue, but a mutual outbreak of hives the following day curtailed our scheduled activities even further. My hombre would not even attend Sensual Time yesterday, even though our skin has mostly healed and I am able to walk around without assistance.
Your September travel issue arrived today, but we’ve put off trying the "Airborne Ninja" and the "Tandem Bicycle Blowout" until next month. I fear we might be suffering from a crisis of confidence. Any recommendations?
Cowgirl Gone Mild
Dear American Vixen,
My guy and I are creatures of habit, and though we're mostly pretty comfortable, I sometimes sense that he's getting a little bored. So when I saw your article on role-playing for long-term couples, I thought it might be worth a try. I decided a realistic portrayal would be all the more erotic; why play an inauthentic French maid when I could observe my next-door neighbor, M., a genuine French female, up close?
For four days, I concealed myself in M.'s yard, studying her every move. I adopted her hairstyle and many of her alluring mannerisms—the smoldering looks of abject hatred, the je ne sais quoi, the dangerously volatile hands—but there still seemed to be something missing. It had to do with the texture of her skin. Even through binoculars, however, I could not identify the various creams and potions on her dresser. So I found it necessary to force entry—in the dark of night, bien sûr—for the sake of my research.
It is worth mentioning that though M. seems in other respects a fairly solid citizen, her driving style is highly erratic—even dangerous—and she often yells French curses at innocent passersby. So why a woman who is so obviously a danger to the community should be allowed to roam free while little old me is shackled with an unfair and highly inconvenient restraining order is somewhat of a mystery.
American Vixen, please help me clear my name. And also, if you could, please speak to M. on my behalf. I know that if I could borrow her Christian Louboutin pumps and matching alligator clutch for just one night, I would truly capture her spirit.