The Huffington Post | By David Moye Posted: 05/22/2013 4:44 pm EDT | Updated: 05/23/2013 3:14 pm EDT
Losing your virginity — a once-in-a-lifetime event — may soon become a weekly affair.
Australian filmmaker Justin Sisely became a controversial figure last year when he began filming Virgins Wanted, a documentary film project where a man and a woman auction off the rights to first access of their private parts.
It was originally supposed to be a feature-length documentary. Now, Sisely is promoting it as a reality TV series, which is set to debut at MIPCOM, an entertainment trade fair in October in Cannes, France.
“It is now a factual series,” Sisely said to The Huffington Post by email. “We have signed a distribution contract with a leading global multi-national distributor of television content.”
Are you kidding me? All of the scientists are men. Just another attempt to control the lives of women. Let them decide if they want their libido enhanced. They’re afraid of, “crazed binges of infidelity.” ” Researchers worry about creating an orgasm-hungry nympho.” Is that not what men want. Bring on the pill.
By jennifer-wadsworth@blog.timesunion.com (Jennifer Wadsworth)
Worried that the “female Viagra” could work too well? (Photo via Gabriel Delgado / Wikimedia Commons)
Women looking to get their freak back may soon be able to pop a new breed of lust drug: Lybrido.
But scientists developing the desire pill sometimes called “female Viagra” confided in one writer an unusual worry. They fear the libido-booster may work too well.
(And the problem with that is …?)
Journalist Daniel Bergner, whose story on the still-being-developed wonder drug was published last week in the New York Times Magazine, says researchers worry about creating an orgasm-hungry nympho. Yeah, the author expressed surprise at that, too.
“More than one adviser to the industry told me that companies worried about the prospect that their study results would be too strong, that the F.D.A. would reject an application out of concern that a chemical would lead to female excesses, crazed binges of infidelity, societal splintering,” Bergner writes. MORE
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Tomorrow are the semi-final and final rounds of the 2013 Scripps National Spelling Bee. Talented orthographers aged 8 to 14 will be tasked with spelling difficult words such as last year’s winner, guetapens, or the winner from 2012, cymotrichous.
However, many of us still have difficulty spelling even the simplest of words. We asked our followers on Twitter and fellow Reverbers what kinds of words still trip them up. MORE
Calm down, ladies. When a man wants his own space in the house — be it a cave, garage, bar, media room, billiards hall, woodshop or bowling alley — it’s not a red flag indicating that he’s rebelling in your relationship, trying to avoid you or shirking social commitments. In fact, having one’s own personalized space is actually necessary and important psychologically for everyone.
“Space is very important for regulating emotions,” says Sam Gosling, a University of Texas at Austin psychology professor and author of Snoop: What Your Stuff Says About You. Gosling studies how space is a powerful mechanism for evoking our emotions, and he’s seen firsthand how having your own space, decorated by you alone, can positively affect emotional well-being. “It’s incredibly important to be in one’s own space and resonate with who one is,” he says.
You wake up in an unfamiliar room, missing a button or two, with a few stains on your shirt that you’re hoping are food-related. The last thing you remember from the night before was downing that fourth shot of Cuervo. Okay, so you blacked out. But what exactly does that mean?
There are probably 100 or more websites and forums where people relate stories of themselves and others who are blackout drunk or intoxicated. When I retired early in 2002 and decided to write and consult, I often hung out on Friday nights with a group of family members and long-term friends. Because I lived a considerable driving distance away from the regular watering hole, I rarely went to the after bar parties at a wealthy group member’s house that was basically set up to like a private resort. There was a hot tub that included a spillover waterfall into an oddly shaped pool while music played throughout the area by numerous outdoor speakers.
By mid week stories were often related to me of skinny-dipping, sex, nude dances on the outside bar and several other illicit activities. The stories were often told in a hushed cryptic whispered voice were anyone would conclude several parts were missing. What I didn’t know is the missing parts and fragmented stories were the result of the group being blackout intoxicated while still conscious. And yes, you can remain totally conscious while blackout intoxicated but will simply have no short term memory.
I made notes of these juicy stories we all want to know about but rarely comment to wanting to know. Along with these and other stories it was my intention to someday write a book about life’s illicit moments. You know, those times and things we do that we guard revealing to anyone like the government protects Fort Knox. However, in the end I realize the book could never be written.
Here, I will relate two of the stories from personal observation that occurred in 2003. At a later date, I will expand this article to include other observations and stories personally related to me. As usual, for these kinds of issues the names have been changed. Practically all members of the group are keenly aware of these events.
One male member of the group would frequently urinate wherever he was when the urge overwhelmed him. The most notable occasion was an evening where they were doing tequila shots for nearly 45 minutes. It would not be unusual for them to whiz through an entire bottle in 15 to 20 minutes necessitating the retrieval of another. One evening a small group of us was startled when we heard a woman’s voice yelling “stop it.” We all shuffled through the sliding glass doors to see her slapping and pushing her husband who was urinating between a chair onto the wall in the family room. It took a few members of the group 30 minutes to clean the mess in the chair was removed and placed temporarily outside. I might add that it was an expensive La-Z-Boy. The next day the individual has no recollection of his action.
On another evening, my wife and I decided to stay over for the night as we were drank too much to drive home. After another round of shots, my wife went to bed while I remained outside with a female member of the group smoking and drinking Grand Marnier. We were startled when another member of the group walked into the sliding glass door attempting to come back outside. I will refer to this lady as Mary. We walked over to help her but she insisted she was okay and staggered through the door to the outside patio area. She walked over to a grassy area by the wooden stockade fence unbuttoned her short pants, squatted and started to urinate. Mary was staring right at us as I looked on in amazement. Evidently, the other lady had seen this on numerous occasions and was not surprised. However, we both shot forward a step when Mary slipped on the dew covered grass onto her back but continued urinating. We walked to the edge of the patio and looked down at her, deciding if we should help.
This wasn’t just a person who slipped and fell but instead an individual lying in a puddle of her own urine. In the end, we did help her and the other lady gave her a shower, washed the clothes and put her to bed. I was told the next morning, the Mary was found sleeping nude in a lounge chair on the patio. To this day, Mrs. urination has no recollection of that evening’s events or the 100 other blackout escapades.
Here are a few other shortcakes of various events
A lady named Carla had a minor vehicle accident, hitting several bushes a few blocks from her house. She did not remember the accident and had few recollections of the police officer placing her in his car. While everyone typically encouraged Carla to state over, she would routinely slip out of the house without telling anyone. On many occasions she was found asleep in her car.
When Carla was not slipping out of the house undetected, she usually wandered off to an empty bedroom and passed out. She typically was found lying in a bed nude with all of the lights on and the door opened. The other ladies would conduct a Carla search if she was missing for 10 minutes or longer.
On one occasion, no one could locate Carla’s clothes until the next day when they located in the bathtub sopping wet, including her belt and shoes. I was told, one of the shoes was filled with water and a bar of soap was resting on top of her blouse
On one occasion when there was a ladies night out at my house, I came home around midnight to discover all of them on the back patio area, drunk, topless and showing off their breasts. My investigation revealed that one of the ladies whom had recently received breast implants was asked by a few others if they could feel her breasts. This led to a mutual topless comparison exhibition and topless dancing.
Oh, I forgot to mention the night I found Carla asleep sitting on the commode.
Rafe Biggs has launched Sexability, an organisation to help people with disabilities cope with sex. Picture: via Facebook
A PARALYSED man has found a new way to enjoy sex, learning to orgasm when a woman caresses his thumb.
Rafe Biggs, 43, from California, was left quadriplegic after breaking his neck when he fell from a roof.
He lost all sensation below the waist and feared he would never again be able to experience sexual pleasure.
But a year after the accident he experienced an orgasm when a girlfriend sucked and massaged his thumb.
Mr Biggs, who now regards his thumb as a “surrogate penis,” told the Sun: “I felt this build-up of energies and felt I was getting closer and closer to orgasm.
“When I did it – it was amazing. I never thought it would be possible, but massaging and sucking on my thumb, feels a lot like my penis used to feel – it’s really hot.”
“What Rafe is experiencing is a ‘transfer orgasm’ – where another place on the body gives the same sensation. He has significant reduction in pain after a session.”
Some cities have a litter problem, some suffer from high crime rates and others might have a lack of affordable housing. And then you have Dubai, which for the last several years has been facing the unusual problem of high end sports cars being abandoned and left to gather thick layers of dust at airport car parks and on the roadside across the city.
If you’ve ever been to Dubai or anywhere in the United Arab Emirates, you will have noticed they have a serious car culture out there, with a particular preference for the latest and greatest in high-end super cars. MORE
“Sir, look at me—did you have any shoes on?” asked the emergency medical tech. “Were you wearing shoes when you were struck?”
“Huh?” I wondered, a little dazed. “What’s with the shoe obsession?”
Let me back up. My family and I moved from Chicago to Asheville, North Carolina last autumn, ostensibly to get closer to nature. Mostly, this has been great. We still have an urban center we can walk to, but the woodland behind my house hosts all manner of flora and fauna. We’ve traded rat-infested dumpsters for trash bins overturned by bears; instead of skyscrapers, we now have mountains. Unfortunately, mountains don’t have lightning rods.
Yesterday, I was sitting in my studio office—basically a converted garage—while a thunderstorm brewed outside. After wrapping up a conference call with some of Ars’ finest, I was getting ready to dive back into work when the storm really picked up. “Ahhhh,” I thought as I leaned back in my chair to stare out at the strange greenish light against a purple-clouded backdrop. “So beautiful!”
At that moment—and this part is a little foggy—a bright arc of electricity shot through the window and directly into my chest. I’m not sure whether the arc originated from the sky or the ground, but it knocked me out of my chair. I hit the concrete floor and bounced back up to my feet, which were shuffling at top speed into a bookshelf. I remember thinking, “OK, going to die now. Do not fall down. Do not pass out.”
I’ve read that being struck by lightning is akin to a being hit by a huge defibrillator. I’m not sure about that—but it did feel magnitudes worse than the time I touched an electric fence as a kid.
I stumbled out of the studio and toward the house where my wife and children were staring out at me in horror. They had seen the flash and heard the tremendous crack that comes with a nearby lightning strike. My son Felix said the flash was so bright that he thought it had gone through the kitchen. As I staggered into the house looking like a wide-eyed psychopath, everyone knew something had happened. “I, I, I… think we need to call 911!” I stuttered.
At this point, I still couldn’t sit down, so I paced the house like a coked-out fratboy, clutching my heart while my wife Kris spoke with 911. “I’m sorry, did you ask if he had shoes on?” she said, then directed the question to me. It turns out there’s something of an obsession with shoes and lightning, the predominant belief being that rubber soles offer some insulating protection against the current. But as Kyle Hill writes in a blog post, “If lightning has burned its way through a mile or more of air (which is a superb insulator), it is hardly logical to believe that a few millimeters of any insulating material will be protective… I tend to believe that there would be little effect from whatever is on the bottom of your feet.”
By the time EMTs arrived in a siren-wailing ambulance (to the significant delight of my two-year-old), I was feeling much better. Still soaked in adrenaline, I felt no pain. The EMTs took my vitals and urged me to go to the hospital for testing. I declined, promising to call my doctor if anything weird started to happen. I mean, my grandmother was struck by lightning twice—how bad can it be? I didn’t have any burn marks, nor did I end up with a badass Lichtenburg scar. I was like a pirate with no peg leg or eyepatch.
I spent the rest of the day in a state of foggy confusion and realized that I may have developed a bona fide new phobia. As more thunderstorms rolled into the area last night, I gathered groggy children to the center-most area of the house and created a makeshift pillow raft to sleep on. I even woke a sleeping toddler;only a madman does this.
Neighbors blocks away later told my wife they heard the enormous boom and knew it was very close. “That would be my husband,” she replied.
To describe the experience as surreal is an understatement. I’m not sure how things worked out the way they did. I was on a concrete floor surrounded by electronics, which was something like a worst-case scenario. Remarkably, even the laptop and monitors just a few feet away from me survived.
Today, my whole body is sore—even my organs ache in a hard-to-describe way—but I feel lucky to have walked away unscathed. There’s a fine line between awe and terror. I have now been inextricably nudged to the right of it.
