Posts Tagged ‘bathrooms’

Review: A Couple STP (Stand to Pee) Devices

July 21, 2011  |  reviews  |  5 Comments

So I mentioned that Babeland has a new Gender Expression category, and I’ve been going through many of the products, trying ‘em out. In fact, I’m behind. Mostly because of the event on Saturday and the last month of events, but also because I’ve been so busy USING these things that I haven’t made time to write about ‘em!

I still have to tell you about the double panel compression shirt and the pump & cylinder kit. Those will be next.

But for now, Babeland sent me two different stand to pee (STP) devices that I’ve been playing with.

These can be for “gender play,” but they can also just be something useful for many of us. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been in a public restroom in NYC or out in the woods camping or in some port-a-potty somewhere thinking, why don’t I have one of those STP thingers?

Now, of course, I have to remember to bring them with me AND have them on me when I head to a bathroom, but it’s a step.

Here are the two that Babeland carries. There are a few others, but these seem to be the best of the best that are available—the others are more bulky, awkward, or of questionable materials.

1. The Go Girl

Go Girl comes in pink and camelflage. (Really? Gender a product much?) And it’s called “Go Girl.” Is that necessary? Seems like they are kind of cutting out a potential part of their audience—us genderqueers and masculine of center folks—and aiming for the ladies.

Whatever, I can kind of overlook that, it doesn’t really matter if “Go Girl” is etched into the silicone plastic through which I pee.

Plus: Made out of silicone, so it’s easy to clean. Very flexible and thin, so it rolls up into a tiny little carrying case, which makes it easy to carry around.

Minus: It’s kind of hard to get a good seal, and not so intuitive to use. Definitely takes a lot of practice, though it’s possible.

Go Girl is $12 at Babeland.

2. The P-Style

Mine’s green, but I dig the orange one too. The packaging is a lot less gendered, which I like, and it comes in a bunch of colors, like white, blue, and lavender.

Plus: Easy to use. It might take a few tries (I suggest getting used to it in the shower), but eventually the seal feels secure and that’s what has been the biggest difficulty for me, in getting used to these.

Minus: It doesn’t fold up, so it’s a little bit bulky, and doesn’t really have a carrying case, so you might want to come up with something to carry it in so it doesn’t accidentally get lipstick or pen marks or something on it while it’s tossed into your bag. It’s not very easy to slip subtly into your pocket, which is too bad, but I still much prefer the way it works.

This was the clear winner, for me, of the two.

P-Style is also $12 at Babeland.

I actually have one other that is basically a medicine spoon with a hole in the end that I purchased at some wimmin’s event in the late 90s … I don’t necessarily recommend that style, it’s pretty hard to get the placement right and since the medicine spoon is a pretty small volume in the container, sometimes it can get full really quickly.

I have seen a couple of STP packers, also, and I actually purchased one when I was in the midwest this past spring. I’ll have some notes for you on that in another post, eventually. (Basically: it’s pretty rad.)

Have you used an STP of some sort? What’d you think? Is it something you carry around all the time, or use rarely? Any suggestions for other products I should try out? Which one is your favorite?

The P-Style and Go Girl STP devicees were sent to me from Babeland for review. Pick up other sex toys from Babeland, still my favorite feminist, queer, friendly, educational neighborhood sex shop.

“There’s a Man in the Woman’s Room NOT” by Kelli Dunham

July 4, 2010  |  miscellany  |  2 Comments

I can’t resist posting this. Kelli Dunham, comic, former nun, friend of mine, and nerd extraordinaire, posed a question on her Facebook page about what genderqueer folks do when needing to pee at Penn Station: go into the woman’s room, and get yelled at? Or brave the men’s room’s grime and row of urinals?

In response, a friend of hers suggested she write a catchy song, and voila, she did. Here’s the whole explanation, and the song, in the video:

Check out more Kelli Dunham online at kellidunham.com and on Twitter at @kellidunham.

If you’d like to see her live, she’s got a show coming up with Cheryl B. (who you may know as my co-host from Sideshow), Katie McCabe, Elizabeth Whitney, and Lea Robinson, aka the Famous Lesbian Comedy Roadshow* (*famous lesbians not included) at Stonewall Inn this Tuesday, July 6th. It’s the DIRTY FILTHY RED HOT SUMMER SHOW, clearly not to be missed.

you’re going to come for me.

June 20, 2008  |  dirty stories  |  18 Comments

“Harder,” she whispered. “Fuck me harder, please, please.”

In a dingy bathroom in the downstairs of a Tibetan restaurant. Her cheek against the peeling greasy paint, legs kicked apart, stockings pulled down just to below her ass, dress shoved up around her waist, in front of the filmy bathroom mirror where she could see my arm flexing as my fingers – two, three – thrust inside her. Photos of the Dalai Lama on the wall. Penny joked about her being a bad Buddhist.

But I couldn’t resist.

An hour, more, of discussion: I’d send her a BDSM checklist about possible things to play with; we spoke about how much anger came up for her last weekend when I was hitting her; we spoke of my upcoming workshop and the BDSM techniques I’m hoping to practice with her, she was especially interested in the breast rope-binding ritual.

I imagined her, bound. Wrists behind her back, whimpering.

(Witness of that moment of giving in stirs something in me that nothing else does.)

I couldn’t get the angle right. I know well enough now to know how she likes to get fucked, to know the pressure she needs to come. Palm of my left hand holding her tailbone, working three fingers inside, right hand reaching around on her clit, pressing between the two like I’m cradling her pelvis.

She was up on her toes in her heels. Hands pressed against the wall, gasping, pressing back against me.

“Goddammit,” I swore softly into her hair, her neck, biting her shoulder, pressing into her harder, faster, “you’re going to come for me. Do it.”

She moaned. Couldn’t. It wasn’t going to happen. She needs a deeper bend in her hips, bent over or legs up. Something about how the muscles stretch and open.

But oh she was open for me last night. And I love the way she lets me shove her against walls, lets me fuck her in bathrooms in restaurants, up against trees in parks, up on my roof looking at the Manhattan skyline, Prospect Park, the South Brooklyn police precinct three doors down. Cars on the BQE whirring by, her hair dishevled against dark blue sky.

She’s even more of an exhibitionist than I am. This makes me want to test her limits, and mine. To find the places she won’t go and challenge her.

What an honor, such an honor, the ways she lets me in.

We attempted to leave the restaurant smoothly, the walk of shame past steaming plates of hot food and waiters and waitresses eyeing us suspiciously. Outside I caught her hand, laughing down the East Village streets, occasionally twirling her into my arms for a deep kiss. Supple, she gave in so easily, so eagerly, so sweetly at times my knees went weak and my throat growled with power.

She knows how to make me feel strong. Which makes me want to take her down all the more.

These mid-week dates are the tease, the warm-up. They get me going and keep me hard for days until I get to fuck her, for real, bent over something, on her back, head banging the wall or falling off the bed, arms up and grabbing for the headboard behind her, pressing against something, anything, for better leverage and pressure and power, oh the way she gives in.

Like last Friday, after mojitos and making out on the roof, she walked slowly, deliberately, into my room and bent over the edge of my bed, forearms in front of her. I think she would’ve stood up fairly quickly, really, but time slowed and the desire that swelled up in me in those few tiny moments were enough to keep me going for hours.

Swiftly I came up behind her and smacked her ass. “Bending over for me, are you? Just so eager to get fucked.”

“Yes,” she whimpered, barely audible.

I shoved her panties down – cute, a muted vintage pink and cream, lacy on the edges – fast, was ready to rip them apart, her dress up above her hips, held her cunt open while I unzipped and pulled my cock out, quickly unrolled a condom, spit on my hand, thrust inside her. Fast. Hard. Not even my fingers first.

I like the noises she makes when she’s caught off-guard. Thick moans from deep inside somewhere.

And did I mention the dress? Summery, cream-colored, halter top that tied behind her neck and behind her chest, shoulders bare, two knots, skirt below her knees. I kept hold of the ties and pressed her into the bed. Head down.

Hand pressed around her hips and onto her clit, just how she likes it, slow and soft as I fuck her hard and deep, and as soon as I started working her clit harder, faster, I could feel it swell, could feel her body shuddering, and she came, fast and hard, still working my hips to stay thick inside her, until she collapsed with her low hums of oh god ohh baby ohhh.

It’s the release I crave to hear the most. The letting go. The body stores things hidden inside joints, muscles, sinewy tendons, veins. How else to get the energy, the prana, moving again than to up the heart rate, force you into all the edges of your skin, sensation everywhere, pleasure bursting from the core of you?

What an honor, such an honor, to be received. To be allowed to go inside and touch those untouched, unlandscaped places which hold secrets, soft and dark, and dangerous raw beauty.