I’ve been reading dirty books for the last forty-five years or so, and in that time I’ve seen more than a few loss-of-virginity scenes. Most of them are pretty obnoxious, frankly, and I’ve thought so since I was a virgin myself. The most common sin is making too much of a woman’s virginity, one way or another: having the characters value it too highly, making it it too much of a plot point, having its loss be too traumatic or too dramatic or just in general too much of a patriarchal MacGuffin. If I am going to enjoy a good literary deflowering, I want the young lady to both take some agency in the matter and to have a good time. Imagine my surprise at finding a surprisingly passable defloration in Spurs and Satin, which is a fluffy quick-read cowboy romance by Vanessa Vale:

“Oh my God, Jackson,” I panted. “I…I had no idea.”

He kissed the birthmark on my inner thigh before lifting his head and grinning. He didn’t loosen his hold, but looked up the length of my naked body. His usually pale eyes were dark and stormy, his mouth and chin glistening with what I now knew was my arousal. I could feel it on my swollen, heated flesh and down my thighs.

“That’s only the beginning.”

I sagged into him at those words and he carefully lowered me down to the ground, my dress spread out beneath me. The soft grass was like a cushion, and having Jackson above me propped up on one hand beside my head made me feel safe and protected, as if he were the only thing in the world. He was. I couldn’t see anything but him, his smiling face and broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the world.

I glanced down our bodies and saw his cock was even bigger than before, the fluid at the tip dripping down the blunt head. Lowering my hand, I touched it. It bobbed against my fingers and Jackson hissed. I pulled my hand away and looked at him, worried.

“Did I hurt you?”

He shook his head. “To the contrary,” he replied, his voice deep and rough. “Don’t stop, love.”

The reassuring look in his eye had me gripping him in my palm.

“Harder.”

His growl had me squeezing him, although I couldn’t get my fingers to wrap all the way around his ample thickness.

“Slide your hand up and down.” I did. “Cup my balls with your other hand.”

He continued to tell me what to do, for I had no idea what to what he was referring. At first. Between those words and his body’s response to my touch, I quickly learned what he liked. His cock was so hard, yet as smooth as silk in my palm. It pulsed and filled with blood. My hand became damp from the fluid at the top, making me glide up and down him with ease.

“Enough.” He pulled back from my hold and sat back on his heels.

“I wasn’t doing it right?” I bit my lip, worried that I wasn’t skilled enough to please him.

His hand came to my cheek and his thumb slid back and forth. “You’re doing it just fine. It’s too good, love. I want to be inside you when I come. I want to fill you with my seed, mark you as mine.”

I nodded, for my desire had not diminished when he’d made me come with his mouth. I parted my legs for him and braced for his massive size to push inside me. “I’m ready.”

The corner of his mouth tipped up. “No, you’re not, but don’t worry, I’ll get you there.” He lowered his head and kissed me, his mouth gentle, his tongue slipping in deep to meet mine. I tasted myself, and the idea of being so intimate with Jackson very, very arousing. I had no idea it could be this way and I all but melted beneath him, my body becoming soft and pliant. His tongue retreated, then plunged in again, all the while his big hand joined with mine. Slowly, he raised it over my head where his other hand claimed it and held on to it. I was pinned in place with nowhere to go. I could do nothing but accept everything—and anything—Jackson decided to do to me.

I was his.

For once, I could let everything go. In this moment with him, he was in complete control. I couldn’t worry that he would find my body unappealing. I couldn’t worry about what I’d done in the past. I couldn’t worry about whether I was pleasing him. I could do absolutely nothing but accept Jackson’s attentions and return them as ardently as I could. I belonged to him and he was telling me so without any words.

As he kissed me, his free hand slid down my arm and lower to cup my breast, squeezing it as his fingers plucked at the turgid nipple. I gasped against his mouth.

“Like that?” he asked, his mouth hovering over mine.

My eyes slipped shut as he didn’t relent. “Yes,” I breathed.

He tugged a little harder and there was a sharp bite of pain. My eyes flew wide and my back arched. “Jackson!” I cried, not because it hurt, but because it morphed into something incredibly pleasurable.

“Like that more?”

“I shouldn’t,” I replied, confused as to why my core softened and dripped with arousal at the pain and pleasure combination.

“Yes, you should. It just means you aren’t as mild as you thought. You might be able to fool the others, but not me.”

“Jackson,” I countered, but couldn’t say more for he’d moved on to the other breast, giving it the same rough treatment.

“I’ve longed to hear my name from your lips sounding just like that. Just wait until I get inside you, then you’ll do it again. And again.”

I didn’t doubt his ability to make me beg. I was far from mild. I was absolutely wild beneath him. As his hand slid down my belly and dipped between my thighs, I was lost to anything but him. A finger parted my folds and dipped inside.

“You’re dripping wet.”

“Jackson, please.” I did beg. I did. Putting my feet firmly on the soft grass, my knees came up and I parted my legs for him. He quickly took advantage of this position by shifting so his hips were cradled within mine. This also had his cock settling against my inner thigh. One slight shift of his body and he’d be pressing against me. One slight thrust of his hips and he’d be embedded fully within me. The idea had me lifting my hips.

“This, Hyacinth.” He held up his hand and I saw my wetness glistening on his fingertips. “This is for me.”

“Yes,” I replied.

He lifted his fingers to his mouth and licked my essence off. “So sweet, spicy, too. Just like you.”

His words, the way he talked to me, he didn’t hold back. He didn’t maintain a safe reserve for mild Hyacinth Lenox. He wouldn’t stand for that, for he was seeing the real me—the me I hadn’t even known. Hyacinth Reed. How he knew I’d become aroused by touching myself, or by his dark and dirty words, his seamy actions, I’d never know. I didn’t really care, just that he would soon fill me, for my inner muscles clenched down in anticipation.

He was big, so very big, but I wasn’t afraid. Never with Jackson.

Placing his other hand beside my head, he shifted his hips and I did feel his cock nudging at my entrance. The hot feel of it, so hard and demanding, had me gasping.

He looked into my eyes. “There’s no going back, love.” He pushed forward ever so slightly and we both groaned. The broad head spread my lower lips so very wide and it opened me up, stretching me so much more than one of his fingers possibly could.

“I’ll be gentle this first time, but I like it rough and I know you will, too.”

The idea of him taking me as he wished had me clenching down on the tip of his cock.

He slid in a little further easily because of how slick I was.

My eyes closed and I tensed at the tight, burning feel of him filling me. He was large, so very large that my body was struggling to accommodate his girth.

“Look at me, Hyacinth.” His deep voice had me doing as he bid. “You’re so tight, but it’s your maidenhead that’s making it uncomfortable.”

I shook my head. “You’re so big.”

He grinned. “I am, but I’ll fit. We’ll fit perfectly together. I can feel your maidenhead and once I break through, you’ll see.”

I licked my lips, trusting him in this. “It’s yours, Jackson. Take it. Take me.”

Heat flared in his eyes—I recognized it now—at my words. He didn’t wait, couldn’t wait. The way his neck was corded and his jaw was clenched, his holding back, his keeping himself still while only slightly embedded within me was costing him. He was being gentle and cautious and I hadn’t even realized it. I knew now and so I decided to move things along. He’d been right. I didn’t want gentle. I wanted Jackson.

I took hold of his bottom, tight and firm beneath my palms and pulled him forward just as I lifted my hips. The action had him breaching my maidenhead and embedding himself to the hilt inside me. I stiffened at the intense feel of him, the sharp bite of pain at the tearing deep inside me.

“Jesus, Hyacinth.”

Jackson didn’t move as he stroked his hand over my face.

“You were…you were taking too long.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he replied.

I gave him a soft smile in reassurance. The pain was receding quickly, but the stretching and feel of him deep inside me was not. My inner walls clenched down on him, testing the feel.

He hissed. “Don’t do that.”

My eyes widened at the bite to his words.

“No, love. You can do that anytime you want, but right now, I’m on the edge. You feel so fucking good and I need to move, but I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

“You won’t hurt me,” I promised. “Please.”

Slowly, he pulled back and the slight friction of the motion had my eyes widening even further. “Jackson!” I cried.

“Ah, like that?”

I nodded.

“Then you’ll like this even more.” He pushed back in, filling me up once again. The sensations of his cock stroking over places deep inside me had me squirming.

“Ah, ah. It’s my turn to move.” He said no more, but began sliding in and out of me, slowly at first, and then setting a rhythm that had me lifting my hips to meet him. I couldn’t remain still. The sounds of our flesh slapping together, the sounds of my wetness filled the air. This wasn’t a simple tumble beneath the sheets. It was wet and slick and sweaty. Primal. The way my body responded was just the same. It was as if it knew what to do, how to respond to elicit every bit of pleasure from the joining. Jackson knew what to do, shifting his hips when he all but rammed into me had him stroking directly over my clit. I couldn’t keep from crying out as it became too much. While he’d made me come before, I’d never had something inside of me. I’d never known it would be so much better. When I came, it was like fireworks and lightning and bone melting pleasure all rolled into one. I couldn’t help the scream that escaped, caught on the wind and lifted to the heavens, just as I felt.

My inner walls gripped Jackson’s cock, pulling him into me as far as he could go and wanting to keep him there. I swore he grew thicker and longer as his motions became more erratic. I knew his pleasure had taken over, just as mine had, and he was driven by his own release. I’d recovered enough that I could watch him, his face tense and the need to come tantamount.

With one last plunge, he came on a growl, his seed filling me. I could feel it deep inside, hot and spurting. We were joined in the most elemental of ways and I didn’t want to move, didn’t want the moment to end. While Jackson was lost in me, I was forever his. As he’d said, there was no going back. And I had no interest in doing so

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I don’t know the story behind this photo so I made one up. It’s 1966 and you’ve been drinking your way across Europe. Now, suddenly, you’ve got yourself a pretty French girlfriend who lives in a tiny 5th-floor walk-up apartment. She says she works as a shop assistant, and maybe she does, but she and all her friends dress and act like they’re on the stroll. Do you care? You emphatically do not; she’s beautiful, she’s sweet, she’s enthusiastic, she’s uninhibited, and she tastes delicious!

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She’s an alpine beauty, and quite impervious to the cold:

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In this scene from Villa Rosa by the infamously-pseudonymous faux-Victorian erotic author Richard Manton, the viewpoint character has been spying on a young Spanish woman and has discovered her habit of frequent furtive masturbation. That’s all he needs to take ruthless sexual advantage of her:

I went up to the attic floor of the villa soon after ten o’clock. On the way, I stopped in the hallway at the foot of the stairs. From the stand where coats were hung and walking-sticks lodged, I drew a slim leather switch, about two feet long and with a rounded ivory handle. A good many visitors to the Villa Rosa went riding in the park or on the beach. I did not intend to use the switch on the Spanish girl, merely to carry it as symbol of authority over her.

Quietly, I went up the stairs to the top floor. The chink in the wall between Margarita’s room and the bathroom, which I occupied as my observation post, was ideally placed. One had a view of the bed and, indeed, across the room to the dressing-table and its mirror. There was a swish of material. Margarita was just closing her bedroom curtains for the night.

So I watched while she went through her preliminaries and then stretched out on the bed, lying on her side with her back to the observation hole as before. Her sleek and soapy-wet backside again gave a smooth and flawless gloss to the paler olive-skinned pride of Margarita’s rare contours, making her show the heavy swell of her arse most suggestively. She began to writhe gently on the fingers between her legs, the Hispanic tan of her bottom-cheeks glossy with moisture surged fuller and fatter, then contracted inwards in the slow voluptuous rhythm of her self-arousal.

Though her warm Spanish temper and her feminine pride would have been insulted by the comparison, Margarita’s bare arse and hips were performing horizontally in a manner that a harem belly-dancer or a striptease girl would have envied. The swelling out and clenching in of Margarita’s bottom-cheeks, the tensing and slackening of her thighs on the saddle of her own fingers, offered the viewer tantalising half-glimpses. As the thighs relaxed, one just saw the dark-haired sex before her legs tightened upon it shiveringly. As the full Latin tan of her rear cheeks swelled out, there was an exciting but shadowy hint of the forbidden valley between them and a dim but definite image of the tight little vortex of Margarita’s arsehole.

I allowed her to work herself up to the point where desire was stronger than shame. Then I opened the little door behind her without a sound and moved softly across the room. Even so, it was surprising she did not turn. When I reached her, I understood why. Margarita was already breathing hard with her exertions. This, plus the creaking of the bed, concealed my approach. With a mingled feeling of excitement, triumph, and tenderness, I slid my hand down and covered her own, whose fingers were plunged between her legs.

There was a gasp and a stifled cry of panic from Margarita. She went tense and frightened, clutching both her hands to her loins now as if this would conceal and protect her more effectively. She was so shocked that she could not even bring herself to turn her face to me! Instead she dropped her chin to her chest and refused to look up. I laid the riding-switch down quietly on the table by the bed.

“Have you been playing with yourself long, Margarita?”

“No!” Still it came as a gasp of fright. “I was not. It was not that!”

I stooped over her, stroked back the lank black hair from her face and kissed her gently. But in her dismay the Spanish girl flinched even from such gentleness.

“You must not lie to me, Margarita. That will only make matters worse for you. You make love to yourself every night before you go to sleep. Don’t you, Margarita? I’ve been watching you for the last ten minutes, seeing the things you like to do to yourself. On the first night of our journey I watched you through the window of the hotel bedroom, from start to finish. I think you had your climax that night, didn’t you? But now I must teach you a lesson. You’re too old, Margarita, to be like a little girl playing alone with her toys. Aren’t you?”

“No,” she gasped helplessly. “It was not that!”

“Must I send for Mano or one of the others, Margarita?”

The dismay of it appeared like a slow dawn in Margarita’s face. I stroked back her dark hair for her.

“Must I, Margarita? No? You would rather I rewarded you myself, here and now?”

Margarita’s own feminine instincts served her well. If only she could exhaust my own passion first, surely I would not then hand her over to the others.

I suppose it was a confusion of thoughts that made Margarita reach out and take my hand to hold me back from fetching Mano. But I also suspected that it was a long time since this firm-featured Amazon had known anything but her own caresses between her legs. Perhaps it was the need for a man that made her protest as she did. I moved closer to the bed and sat down.

“Please!” Margarita’s voice was quiet but intense in her prettily-accented English. “Please do not tell the others what you saw!”

In the lamplight I looked down at Margarita’s firmly rounded chin and well-cut features, the tall brow and the dark hair swept back. She had turned on her side towards me so that I could see her tautly-muscled belly with its triangle of dark hair inadequately covered by one hand, the opening of her legs and the smoothly moulded strength of her thighs.

So that she would not misunderstand, I took her hand and led it to the front of my pants, where she must have felt the erection hard and taut with excitement. To my surprise and delight, Margarita unbuttoned and released the stiffness. She began to circle it with her hand and excite it.

“Must I deal with you myself, then, Margarita?”

“Yes!” Her assent was quick and fierce, as if she was committing herself before she could think what it meant or change her mind.

I was naturally intrigued by the thought of Margarita sacrificing herself to save her reputation. The offer was quite irresistible. I drew back from her and went across to the door of the room. I turned the key in the lock to prevent interruptions. Then I switched on the main light in its ceiling bowl of frosted glass and flooded the room with a soft radiance. The bedrooms of the Villa Rif had been decorated in the modern manner. The curtains and the silk covers were gathered in palest pink, the panels of the walls picked out in dove gray. Even the pale satin-wood of the dressing-table and the wardrobe echoed the plain uncluttered design.

I lay down with Margarita and began to put her to the test. There was a directness about her passion that corresponded to the bold look of her dark eyes and firm features, the tall brow with the black hair swept back from it. Margarita’s lips and tongue responded to the first kisses. I heard her breath coming in sighs of pretended longing, her thighs and hips squirming as she smoothed herself against me. Margarita put on this performance willingly to save herself. Presently I drew away from her and slipped off my pants. I showed her the hard-headed state of the tool that was waiting for her and caught her fierce dark eyes with a smile.

“Are you ready to pay such a price? Are you, Margarita? I think you may regret your rashness in a while.”

“Yes!” It was a gasp that conveyed defiance rather than submission. I took it as that.

“Then I must really put you to the test, Margarita. Turn over on your belly for me.”

She hesitated only a moment. Then she slid over the pale pink silk of the bed-cover and lay on her belly. I pushed the two pillows under her to raise and broaden the proud rear-cheek swell her firm olive-tan presented.

I looked at the rear view of her in the light from the bedroom lamps. Now I drew my finger down between the cheeks of her bottom, feeling the humid warmth of her there. I murmured in her ear, assuring her for the first time what I was going to do to her. Her buttocks tightened together in alarm but she uttered no protest.

“You understand, Margarita? You must pay a forfeit beyond what your boy-friend might expect or even your bridegroom on your honeymoon night.”

So Margarita lay on her belly over the pillows, her sweep of dark hair brushed aside.

“Keep your face that way, Margarita. Watch yourself in the dressing-table mirror. I know you like to do that when you make love to yourself. Do it now as well.”

There was no reply to this. She was naked below the singlet-hem at her waist. I stood up by the bed and then stooped over her, so that the hard cherry touched her lips while I bowed my head over Margarita’s bare Spanish bottom and the rear of her thighs.

“Play with it on your tongue, Margarita. Open your mouth a little more.”

The hardness touched her lips. When Margarita hesitated to obey, I needed only to remind her that Mano, or Anton would put her to hard use and then whip her bare bottom-cheeks afterwards. So the pleasure which she had consistently refused to her boy-friends was now performed without further demur for a man she scarcely knew. I fondled the smooth olive-tan cheeks of the Spanish girl’s firmly voluptuous young bottom. I parted them and admired the tight inward dimple of Margarita’s behind. Where the proud sallow cheeks curved in together, the intimate pallor of the skin assumed a tint of yellowed ivory.

“Use the tip of your tongue on the rim, Margarita. Tickle the vent with it as well.”

While she obeyed me, my own lips touched the cool sallow smoothness of her bare thighs, at the rear and close to the top. While she drew on me inexpertly but instinctively, my tongue tasted her feminine moisture. I kissed the slight heaviness of Margarita’s olive-skinned bum-cheeks.

“Turn over on your back now, Margarita,” I said presently. “Lie like that and open your thighs a little.”

She wriggled round and lay as I suggested. But there was doubt in her steady brown eyes. I had no intention of rewarding Mano by making his female pupil pregnant. I lowered myself on to her, slipped my hot stiffness between the tops of Margarita’s thighs and felt the cushiony flesh close lightly on either side. I rode like this for a while without penetrating her. The result was that Margarita’s most sensitive folds of flesh—already humid from her own fondling—were tantalisingly roused. I rode her like this enjoying the sight as well as the feel of her strong young thighs. At last she gave a strange falling cry, like a climber slipping back into an Alpine gulf from a toe and finger hold. More hard exclamatory cries, sharper and quicker, from the depths of her throat. And at last a delicious quivering of the thighs that held my stiffened manhood and the firmly-muscled belly on which I rested.

“Now turn over again, Margarita,” I said softly.

She did so slowly and dreamily. Did she half-guess what I intended? Margarita had come off and she must have known that I would find a way to do the same. She twisted her face, brushing her black hair clear, and looked at me over her shoulder as she lay there.

I sat on the edge of the bed and took the slim leather riding-switch from the table. Its smooth ivory handle was about the size and thickness of my thumb, round in its length and rounded at its tip. I reached for the wet soap that Margarita had used when lathering herself and spread the handle of the switch with it. She began to squirm a little but I held her firmly round the waist with one arm, looking down at the sallow cheeks of Margarita’s bottom until she lay still again.

“Must I send for the others, Margarita? I shall have to unless you show me what a good girl you can be.”

I parted the rear cheek-swell and pressed the rounded end of the ivory handle firmly until Margarita yielded under the increasing pressure with a muted cry of alarm. Then I exercised her bottom in this simple manner for five or ten minutes. At the same time I kissed her lips and eyelids, her ears and neck, my other hand manipulating her between her legs until she grew restive with a new arousal.

After ten or fifteen minutes of watching Margarita’s rear approach stretched round the smooth insertion of thumb-sized ivory, I arranged her a little more carefully on her belly over the pillows. I continued to exercise her a little longer, hearing the slippery soapiness of the movement and the faint suction of the makeshift ivory phallus moving in her. There was an extra suggestiveness in Margarita submitting to the handle of the whip, the symbol of punishment and authority as well as passion. Now my other hand stroked the voluptuous Latin tan of Margarita’s proud buttocks as if to calm her while I drew the ivory handle clear. She turned to me over her shoulder. With the collar-length of her black hair swept clear, there was now a fierce directness in her dark eyes, as well as the firm set of her chin, her wide-boned cheeks and clear brow. Margarita never once pleaded to be spared her ordeal. Nor did she even plead that I must be gentle with her. At the time, I assumed Margarita was a realist who knew that promises to be gentle are always broken in the tyranny of release. Later I understood that she perhaps hoped I would not use her gently.

However, I employed the ivory whip-butt again and saw it enter with soapy ease. I continued it slowly until I saw the first sign of Margarita’s backside moving in a furtive rhythm by contraction and slackening of her buttocks. At last she was responding to the excitement of her nerves in this dark and forbidden area of feminine sensitivity. The first morbid arousal had begun to plague her. It was the antidote that female anatomy provided against the ordeal of being ravished in such a place. She would have denied her state of excitement if I had teased her about it. But I could see the quicker pulse in her throat and I knew that Margarita’s heart must be pounding with anticipation at what was about to happen to her. I cannot tell you whether that anticipation was frightened or eager, or perhaps a little of both. In her present confusion of thought and feeling, I doubt if Margarita herself was quite sure!

I knelt astride her and touched the cherry-head between the sleek tawny swell of Margarita’s rear cheeks.

There was a moment of narrowness and difficulty, the erection being more bulky than its ivory imitation. I murmured softly in Margarita’s ear, assuring her that she could take it if she tried. I smeared a little more pulp of wet soap where there was such tightness. Presently, under the pressure of the smooth head, there was a single muted cry. I felt Margarita yield and was gripped by an elastic tension, in which I sheathed myself slowly, but firmly and deeply. I allowed a minute or two for the Spanish girl to get used to the feeling of so large an intruder in such a place.

“There—is that better now, Margarita? Are you used to feeling how big it is, in such a tight place? Does it really make you feel any more uneasy than having a normal weight to carry there until you can release it? But this time you will not be the one who can decide to relieve yourself of it.”

There followed a whisper of soapiness in a firm but gentle rhythm. I paused from time to time while still in place, so that I might prolong the enjoyment. At last it was Margarita who stirred again first, now the initiator of her own continued submission to this freak of a man’s passion for her.

In the mirror, I was able to admire the reflected face of the sallow-skinned Amazon who lay bottom-upwards over the pillow and endured that form of ravishing which symbolised her bondage in the Villa Rosa. It was provoking to look in the glass and see the image of the Latin beauty of Margarita’s sturdy womanhood being used this way. The firm resolute lines of her face were clearly shown, the intense dark eyes still held their steady gaze. But I had only to move a little harder and deeper to make Margarita bury her face on her folded arms, hiding the gnawing anxiety. At each sinking to the hilt, I could feel the tension of alarm in the line of her naked hips and thighs. But as I rode closer to the finish, it was necessary to move faster and deep all the same.

Margarita’s bottom pressed bravely upwards. I slipped my hands under her, holding her breasts and turning them as I rode her. In my passion I kissed her shoulders and neck with sharp love-bites. Mad with desire for her, I felt myself bursting with the quantity of passion.

I warned Margarita of what was to come and saw her wad her mouth with the corner of the pillow and bite hard upon the padded cotton to stifle her cries. Then I released a first pulse of passion. I smacked the olive tan of her robust firm thighs and raked the flanks of her hips with my fingers. The vent let out its warm passion into the depths of Margarita’s bottom. It was an ecstatic release, in the knowledge that she could not refuse as much as I chose to give her.

My commands to her ended in a gasping and shuddering. Yet as Margarita stirred and began the cautious movements to expel the limp intruder, her lightly squeezing contractions caused it to harden again. Margarita gave a cry of dismay as she felt its stiffness restored and her tightness still fully stretched by it. I smiled at her in the mirror. The movements began again, slowly and almost teasingly.

My second tribute was paid after a longer and more leisurely session. I was with Margarita from an hour before midnight until an hour after. When at last I drew out and the tight little bulls-eye went urgently small and tight, the effect of the soaped intruder made it necessary for the Spanish girl to go hastily to the next room and bolt the door. When she returned I was sitting in the chair. I commanded her to turn her back and bend over so that I might see she was in a decent state. I need not have worried. As she bent with the full cheeked swell of her bottom’s Spanish tan, I could see and smell—from the Palmolive perfume—that Margarita had washed herself like a well brought up daughter of the bourgeoisie.

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“There’s one thing I don’t understand about straight people”, says Silicone Slinger. Her comments are technically directed at straight women, but the legendary uptightness of straight men probably isn’t completely irrelevant here: