Celebrating Feminist Smut in 3D

2009 trophy

I’ve been reminded that it’s the Good For Her, 2012, Feminist Porn Awards in a couple of weeks. So to mark the upcoming festivities I thought I’d do like James Cameron did and dust off some old material, give it the 3D treatment and then pass it off as something new and exciting. I actually think I did a better job than Jimmy C. No boats for me though but there’s always the chance I’ll get a chilly reception and sink.

At the moment I’m a little short on poems and blog ideas so I’ve decided to go back to April 2010 and pull out a post I wrote about the Feminist Porn Awards. In that post I proposed a theory on why, between 2006 – 2009, they used butt-plugs as their winners trophies. It was written in the form of a two-person conversation. So now it seems the obvious thing to use my latest toy, Xtranormal, to tell it in a more lively and animated fashion.

Because it’s Monday.

I woke with that momentary confusion of who and where I was. But as last night’s dreams faded away, and I felt H’s body pressed warm and loving against my back, I settled comfortably into my customary conscious self.

So let me introduce myself. I’m Ms Sarah S, mother to daughters P. and F, wife to H, working mum and… The ‘Who’ train of thought was quickly met at the station by the ‘When’ and I smiled into my pillow as I happily realised that it was glorious Monday morning once again.

H doesn’t work Mondays so he can sleep in for as long as he likes. So it’s up me to rise and ensure that the family’s day commences in an organised and timely fashion. This means getting myself ready for work, taking care of any other domestic duty that the first day of the working week may bring and then dealing with our darling girls and their recurring Monday-itus.  This means dragging them from their beds after countless calls, forcing them to eat a proper breakfast and then making sure they have everything before shooing them out the door to catch the bus.

But I like Mondays… No, I love Mondays, so I don’t mind.

While he doesn’t have to get up the alarm has done its job and woken us both from our sound slumber. I could tell H was awake because while his body hadn’t moved his arm was sliding, like a weighty shadow, over me to make for the nearest breast. From long experience of his groping hands I knew that this wasn’t an invitation or announcement of intent, but more a case of ‘Breast in reach so I’ll grab it, as you don’t know when the next one will come along.’ The masculine equivalent of a ‘Good-morning,’ an ‘I love you’ and ‘Nice tits’ all rolled in to one.

But we have no time for that now.

So I pluck away the hand that’s now pillaging its way towards the other breast and roll out of bed. But sleepy men who molest their wives first thing in the morning must be punished. So after a quick trip to the loo I come back into the bedroom and kneeling on the bed I lean down and give him a soft kiss on his cheek and wish him ‘Good-morning.’ I stay like that till his eyes open he’s had a chance to briefly focus on my naked breasts displayed before him through the gaping neck-line of my Jessica Rabbit nightly. When his eyes widen with interest, but before he can react, I slip off the bed, put on my robe and head out into the hall ignoring the muttered obscenities behind me.

When I enter the kitchen, with that naughty grin still on my face, I’m met by the hungry roars of a Polar Bear and a Walrus. Well I suppose that’s the sounds our two cats are trying to make to let me know they are hungry, and shouldn’t I be doing something about it, NOW! If you are wondering why they are named Polar Bear and Walrus, the best I can do is to say one is white and the other grey. Any other explanation would have to come from my daughters. When they told me the names they wanted to use I just nodded and smiled. As long as they didn’t use H’s mothers name again like they did for the previous pet, which caused an uproar, then I was fine with it. Before you ask, no the previous pet wasn’t a she-dog… it was guinea-pig.

I feed the cats who show their appreciation by trying to trip me up by twining their way around my ankles. I manage to put on the coffee without falling on my face and watch the fearsome twosome tear into their Whiskas; as the gurgling coffee-maker fills the kitchen with a rich warm aroma.

We must have elves because no matter how much I tidy before going to bed there always a mess in the morning. So while the coffee percolates I clean up and make the place tidy. Not tidy enough for my guinea-pig of a mother-in-law but certainly presentable for a drug bust.

I’m just kidding about the drug bust. Librarian humour is an acquired taste according to H. I’m sorry; did I not mention that I’m a school librarian?

When the coffee-maker’s done I pour myself a mug and let its heat warms my hands. I walk to the kitchen window and watch the sun rise over the river and hills that back on to our humble home. I love this house and I love this view and could spend an age standing here watching the ducks in the shallows or the sheep on the far bank and hills. I consider it my private little paradise. Ok, so private is not the most fitting word to use after the odd passing angler has copped an eyeful while I’ve wandered around the kitchen naked, but it’s still my little paradise.

What could be better than coffee, cuddly cats and beautiful vistas? Monday mornings of course, but the other three are very close.

But enough of staring out the window at the world. So I head off to my ‘cubs’ caves and make the mornings first call to rouse my daughters before I head towards the shower. You don’t need to know what happened in there, do you? All I’ll say is that there was a great deal of off-key singing, thankfully drowned out by the hot and invigorating spray.

My ablutions complete I make the second call on my ‘sweeties.’ They haven’t moved of course and give me obligatory grumbles from beneath the covers, which I politely ignore. Then I’m back to the kitchen to fix us a ‘fast breaker’ of a meal that will hold them over till lunch, or the first vending machine in the school cafeteria.

I’m just serving up as they stumble in looking like, well like, teenage girls who just got up.  There are more grumbles and mumbles and they greet my cheery ‘Good-morning” like a pair of vampires facing sunlight. I only start to see their naturally sunny dispositions after they’ve filled their tummies with porridge, toast and two cups of Twinings finest. They eye my mug of coffee but know I won’t let them have any. That’s a bad habit they’ve got from their father and are only allowed to partake of when I’m out of the house and can’t tell them no.

Once feeding time at the zoo has finished and they’ve scampered off to shower and dress I tidy away the breakfast things. I could get them to do this of course, but taking into consideration the asking, reminding and threatening, I find doing it myself saves me so much more time and effort.

Anyway it’s Monday morning, as I stack dishes into the dishwasher, so I don’t mind.

Breakfast out the way means it’s time I got dressed. This is easy for me as every school day I wear the same style of long flowing skirt and button-up blouse. I look like the quintessential English school librarian, but without the glasses. Everyone complains that what I wear is boring and uninteresting, but I like it. I work in a school library for goodness sake so I’m not supposed to look fashionable or sexy. In a school with adolescents boys long skirts are obligatory, or spend a career with your knees welded together so as not to accidentally give the little dears a thrill. The one concession to my supposedly drab ‘school uniform’ is my eclectic collection of silk scarves that brighten my look, and my lingerie that brightens my mood.

As I rummage through my knicker-draw I glance across at the bed and the big lump lying beneath the covers. In a mock whisper I ask if he’s awake and receive a muffled but positive response.

Since it’s Monday, oh happiest of days, I decide to go for the good stuff and pull out the Agent Provocateur bra and knickers; black of course. This particular set H bought for me this year on his birthday. On that occasion we spent a lovely weekend in Birmingham and a good two hours on the fourth floor of Selfridges before he shelled out quite a bit of dosh for these frillies. He does so love to buy me lingerie on his birthday. He’s like a kid on Christmas morning when he gets it home and unwraps it, and when I say it I mean me, after I’ve tried it on and done a fashion parade for him. This inevitably leads to great birthday sex and because I love him, and it is his birthday, I do my best to be most accommodating.

Oh god, that’s got me blushing because it reminds me of what I got on my birthday. Which I’m certainly not telling you.

I slip off my robe but before putting on my lovely black undies I take a minute to critique the body reflected before me. Not too bad for a working mother of two who is way too close to her fortieth? Of course not what I was at eighteen, but who is? I do try to take care of myself and the school pool ‘after-hours’ helps to counter the inevitable ravages of time and too many of those orange flavoured Kit Kat’s. Striking what I hope is a sexy pose I glance back at the lump in the bed hoping for a positive response to the naked woman standing before him, but typically he’s under the covers and it looks like he’s scratching himself, or at least I hope that’s what he’s doing.

Not that he ever complains. He once drunkenly paid me the compliment, in his eyes at least, by saying that if we were ever sent back in time to fight cyborgs and Skynet he’d be chuffed to run around the place naked with me looking for clothes. If you’re wondering what I’m talking about it’s a reference to the Terminator film which H is a fan of and which he refuses to watch with me again after I said that the third one was best.

Looks like this yummy-mummy, my girls say I’m too young to be a MILF, will have to go unappreciated for now. But I don’t mind, its Monday.

I dress quickly as I hear the girls thumping about calling for me. Thus begins the search for ‘stuff’ that they didn’t bother to put away, so have no idea where it is, but expect mum to wave her magic wand and make it reappear.

But I don’t mind, its Monday.

After searching, finding, organising, instructing, hugging, kissing and wishing them a great day at school I finally get them out the front door and off to the bus stop.

I close the front door and take a moment to enjoy the blessed silence. I do love them with all my heart… But kids?

I think about one more mug of coffee but decide to leave it for H. I then head down the hall to our library to grab everything I’ll need for work. Ok, I know it’s not a real library and just the room with the PC and all the bookcases, but I’m a librarian so a room with that many books is a library to me. Checking and double checking I have it all I drop my case by the front door, all ready for when I leave.

I look at my watch and seem ok for time. I fill the cat’s water bowls and head back to the bedroom to apply some lippy and fill in those almost, but not yet, forty-year old wrinkles.

I sit at the big dressing table that was a wedding present from my parents. It’s a huge old antique with draws and space enough to keep tidy the feminine necessities of a dozen women. The wood work is only matched by the size of the mirror that soars regally over it. The whole thing sits opposite the foot of our bed so I can see the lump that is H reflected over my shoulder as I apply the last touches to my make-up. When I’m sitting here H says he’s reminded of the Phantom Of The Opera pounding away on his organ. I’m not sure I appreciate being likened to a deformed monster, but I do love this monstrosity of an antique.

One last check to make sure I don’t look like a painted clown… there we go, perfect or as close as I’m going to get.


One more thing to do before it’s off to work, because it’s Monday.

I stand; push in my seat, then reach down to grab the hem of my skirt. I pull it up over my back and then using a hair clip I pin it to the collar of my blouse. Not the greatest of looks but if I just bunch it around my waist it’ll crease. I’ve found that this is the best way to expose my bum to H with the added advantage of leaving my hands free. After giving myself a little wiggle to make sure the hair clip won’t fail I run my hands over my hips and then slowly slide my knickers down my legs till gravity can take them and they fall to my ankles.

Opening a draw I take out the bottle of Booty Lube. I do so hate the word ‘booty’ but I do love what it does to my botty. I place it on the dressing table next to me and it’s joined presently by the cutest little pink Butt Plug. It’s a glass one that H and I picked up at a shop in Canada while on holiday one year. He never lets me forget that while I dragged him into the sex toy shop and bought it, I made him carry it back through customs in his suitcase in case we were searched.

One more item goes by those two. A little square packet that will help to make sure there’s ‘no muss, no fuss.’ Not that I’m worried about H’s little boys getting in, as he had himself ‘fixed’ years ago. I’m more worried about the little buggers getting out and making a run for it down my thigh while I’m taking a class of kids. As a loving lady I don’t mind a little leakage but as a librarian I do think there’s a time and place for everything, and a gusset full of cum is not appropriate for school.

When I’m all done and ready I look in the mirror and see him getting out of bed and coming towards me. I did used to wonder how he knew when I was ready as he’s always hidden away beneath the covers. That was until he told me it’s the sound the glass Butt Plug makes as I put it on the dressing table. It makes a certain click and while it’s only a small noise, to him, it sounds like a clarion call. When it sounds he’s ready to go so we can play out, once again, our naughty Monday morning ‘Have a great day’ performance.

He’s certainly ready to go, as in very naked and very hard.  I watch in the mirror as he stops behind me and can feel his hard cock poking gently between my bum cheeks. He places a large warm hand on my left hip to unnecessarily anchor himself as he leans around me, sliding the heat of his groin over my right hip so to lean in and pick up the lube and my lovely pink toy off the dressing table.

The feel of his skin and warmth of his body react with my own and what was a tingle of anticipation that’s been smouldering all morning, since I woke and realised it was Monday, roars to life. My skin prickles and my breathing becomes heavier. My bra which perfectly fitted my just minutes ago seems a tad too tight and the lace in the cups deliciously abrasive against my now hard nipples. All this and he hasn’t even touched me. But the sensation between my legs was the centre of my attention. There was such an abundance of heat and wetness that with just the slightest encouragement would make the long slick slide from deep in my twat to coat my inner thighs.

I do hope you’ll forgive me for using all these wicked words. I do try to behave properly most of the time, but as H has pointed out on several occasions’ wantonness is quite prevalent in the nature of lady librarians.

I feel his hand on the small of my back. Not pressing or demanding but merely touching and politely asking. So I lean forward and adjust my stance till I’m grasping the edge of the dressing table and offering myself up for what’s about to come.

I stare into the mirror and watch myself watching him. He holds up the toy so I can see him anoint it with lube and make it all ‘slidey-glidey.’ For something that’s designed to pierce one’s arse it’s a gorgeous piece of art and I really regret sometimes not being able to display it to our guests. But my dream of a coffee table displaying masturbatory machines as well as magazines shatters and I bite my lip to stifle a cry as he presses his fingers between my cheeks and gently but firmly forces that cold and slippery goo into my arse.

First one finger, sliding in and out, coating my most inner flesh with an abundance of lubrication to open me up and make the second fingers entrance only the slightest bit uncomfortable. In and out, round and round, stretching and relaxing my arse to the point where any discomfort is turned to pleasure as my thrusting, back on to his fingers, can’t but help to show. A this point I’d be ready and receptive for a third but the fingers regrettably retreat from that ‘dirty’ tight hole, that’s now not as tight as it was. A naughty private hole that a good girl shouldn’t let a boy play with even if they are their husband.

As his fingers leave and without being asked I reach for a box of tissues and hold them up so he can pull out a few. I return the box, and resume my tight grip on the dressing table, as he meticulously cleans his fingers.

But he doesn’t make me wait. He grabs a cheek and pulling it open I feel him press the end of the slick toy against my most private of holes. It slowly slides in getting bigger as I consume its length. This was the reason he didn’t give me the third finger. For while three would have made the toy easier to take it wouldn’t be as much fun. I drop my head and without hesitation bear down. My wanting body responds and my muscles relax and feel it slide, or is it sucked, all the way into me until I have the base nestled between my cheeks. I feel no pain but take a moment for my body to adjust to this invasion. The pressure lowers and I am left with that wonderful feeling of complete fullness.

I lift my head and smile at the mirror announcing my readiness for more. He leans over me and gently but lovingly places a kiss on my cheek.

He shifts his stance and I take some of his weight upon my back and shoulders. One bracing hand takes its place next to mine clenched on the wood in front. The other moves to my chest and after a brief and teasing squeeze of my breasts and pinch of the nipples it slowly trails down my front to disappear under my skirt.

But I needn’t worry where it’s gone as his thick strong fingers part my inner lips and thrust into my aching wet and welcoming twat. He breaks the silence by whispering in my ear, “Mmmmm, nice cunt library lady.”

Embarrassed I drop my head for a moment and feel flushed cheeks blaze brighter. But at the same time my twat instantly reacts by gushing with wetness. His use of the C-word always has that effect on me. I can’t say it myself as my mother raised me too much of a lady to say such a bad, bad word. But I love it when he utters the ‘naughtiest of naughties’ because it’s always followed by glorious pleasure, beautiful lovemaking, great sex or just plain and simple fantastic fucking.

I may not say the C-word but I can certainly say the others.

My head shoots up and I meet his eyes once again in the mirror as his fingers slip deeper into my twat and find that special spot. He gives it a couple of teasing strokes that has me humping at his hand and demanding deeper, harder, fast and don’t ever stop. I can’t help but moan my approval at pleasures radiating from my twat.

While I’m sure my mother wouldn’t approve of the use of such words, I can’t help myself and have to utter what I want.

‘Finger fuck my twat, please!’ I beg.

I love our sex life and adore making love to H. But if there’s one thing I could do all day it’s have his, or my own, fingers thrusting in and out of my twat. I really shouldn’t tell you this. But yesterday while the kids were away and he was sitting in his favourite chair watching the England game. I stripped naked and with just a blanket around me to keep off any chill I went and sat on his lap. I found the most comfortable spot with my legs dangling over the arm of the chair while I snuggled my head and upper body into his strong warm shoulder. Grabbing his hand I guided it between my thighs and just lay there as he massaged my clit and stroked hard and rough fingers in and out of me. He’s a very understanding man and never hushed me once when my orgasm drowned out the games commentary. I could have laid there and be fingered fucked till the cows came home, or at least our kids.

It’s not just the orgasms, or that I feel totally feminine and sexy. Finger fucking puts me in a warm fuzzy place where I’m completely content and happy. I wonder if it’s how a baby must feel when they just lie there contentedly suckling on a pacifier.

When I was a girl and just starting to blossom my family moved to a new house and I was given the most wondrous of bedrooms. Well actually it was an ordinary bedroom, but what made it wondrous was that one whole wall was made up of floor to ceiling mirrors that acted as doors for the closets. This meant that apart from having a room that looked twice as big as it really was I always had a very tidy room as I had huge closet space to through my toys and clothes in.

But the life changing benefit of my magical mirrored bedroom was that I spent most of my formative teen years constantly seeing myself. As I developed, matured, grew into a young woman I was a voyeur to my life and I absolutely loved it. Looking back now as an adult I’m quite fortunate that my body always being on display didn’t cause some sort of neurosis about body image. But I was lucky enough to mostly love who I was and who I grew into.

I remember dressing up in my mother’s clothes and doing fashion shows in front of those mirrors and dancing to cheesy pop songs of the day. In fact I loved those mirrors so much that when my Grandmother had to leave her large home due to illness, and after a lot of begging, I was lucky enough to get the large mirror that hung in her sitting room. I hung on the wall above my bed and facing my mirrored closets so I could sit and watch myself watching myself, watch myself… You get the picture.

As I grew older I would stand in front of those mirrors naked and critique my body. Twisting and turning my reflection trying to make some parts bigger while others smaller. All childish fun of course until I discovered the pleasures of masturbation and then those mirrors allowed me to enjoy the thrill of being both voyeur and exhibitionist at the same time.

Many a night I’d sit in front of those mirrors with lit candles scattered across the floor, and on a nice comfy bean-bag I’d explore the wonders of my body. I started a life-long love affair with my vagina that’s continued till this day. Through practice, and I mean a lot of practice, I had the best of times with my fingers and all manner of objects deep inside me. That’s not to say that I don’t come from clitoral stimulation, but I’m just more inclined to ‘C-word fucking than clit flicking.’ I did go through a time when I thought there was something wrong with me because all my friends, when discussing wanking, described how they needed their clit rubbed to get off. Luckily my worries were put to rest by a short but passionate relationship with my piano teacher, but that’s a story I’ll tell you another time.

I think it was around this impressionable time when my love of mirrors and finger fucking became imprinted on my budding sexual psyche. I’m well aware that my fetish to see myself have sex has followed me through to adulthood, and marriage, but it’s a mild form of kinky and H doesn’t seem to mind. Oh, and because I know what you’re thinking. Mirrors… yes. Webcams and video… no.

When I finally had sex, at age seventeen, some of my best experiences were in front of those mirrors. Boys of a youngish age are not well-known for their sexual skills and have a tendency to, shall we say, be a little hasty. But in my bed with my boyfriend on top of me pumping hard between my thighs all I had to do was stare at our tangled bodies fucking in the reflection of those mirrors and I came, and I came hard, no matter what.

All these thoughts and more flash before me as his fingers send me over the edge. I desperately hump, thrust, fuck myself on to his fingers driving them deeper into me to make this feeling last as long as possible.

He’d been teasing at the start by taking me close and then pulling back. But his thick long fingers fucking inside my twat gave me what I wanted and when I came that hand was all that stopped me from falling to the floor.

I truly loved this but I was not alone.

H’s right there with me warm and strong against my back, breath hot against my ear and cheek, and with the unmistakable feel of his hard cock sliding teasingly between my cheeks and burning hot against the small of my back.

I finally catch my breath and smile as our eyes meet in the mirror. I reach for the condom and hold it out offering it to him. But he does not accept and gives a negative shake of his head. I smile and wave the condom at him again, but he shakes his head again. I repeat my action and so does he. It seems we could go on like this forever with no agreement being reached.

So in the end I give in, like I willingly do every Monday morning.

I drop the condom on to the dressing table and hand him the lube. While he takes care of preparing his cock for me I open a draw and pull out a panty-liner for later use. Like I said before, no muss no fuss.

I fixate on my reflection as he slowly pulls the toy from my arse leaving me with that open and empty feeling. But that’s soon gone as he steps up and my emptiness is filled with the hot hard length of his cock. The toy has done its intended job and he slides into me with only the faintest feeling of being stretched, and he stops only when his thighs press firmly against my bum. I love this is wonderful feeling of being bent over like this with my love deep in my arse. It makes me feel so sexy and naughty.

He leans forward and I groan anticipating the fucking to come, but it doesn’t and he’s merely leaning in to grab few more tissues to wipe his hands. He’s such a neat and conscientious husband for not wanting to get lube all over me while he fucks my arse.

But time is precious and I do have a job to get to. So he grabs my hips and starts those slow shallow strokes which quickly become harder and deeper thrusts as he senses my body’s willingness to take more. I gaze into the mirror and watch his body thrusting into me while my own rhythmically shudders in response to those thrusts.

His thrusts are becoming almost urgent now and I can tell that the happy conclusion is not far off. So with his hands clamped almost bruising to my hips and anchoring us I release my grip from the edge of the dressing table to slip my fingers into my twat and match thrusts with those hammering away at my arse.

It doesn’t take long for me to come with fingers deep inside being squeezed by the shuddering contraction of my tight twat. I ride the pleasure continuing to jam my fingers deeper and desperately trying to keep focus on my reflection so I can delight in watching myself come.

My orgasm and its resulting muscular contractions have the added benefit of making my arse tighter for H and I’m afraid it’s too much for the poor dear. I watch his face screw up in that pleasure-pain expression and feel him slam deep into me with one last thrust and hold me tightly to his groin as his body shudders and fills my arse with his cum.

For a brief but beautiful time the world fades away and there is only H and I reflected in that mirror and it makes me so very happy.

He leans closer and I turn my head feeling his stubbled skin as our mouths seek each other for the first kiss of the day. He pulls back so we are cheek to cheek once more with eyes meeting in the mirrors reflection.

‘Good morning Sarah… I hope you have a lovely day at work, and don’t let those little monsters get to you,’ and with another quick peck on my cheek it’s time for Monday to begin.

He eases his softening cock from my body and I clench my muscles to avoid a mess. He gives my bum a loving smack and then asks if there’s any coffee left? To my positive response he gives me a smile and a ‘I love you’ that doesn’t involve groping my breast. He then turns and I watch in my mirror as his beautiful naked form wanders off to the bathroom.

Ok Ms Librarian it’s time for work.

I straighten up and only now feel the slight ache of tired muscles in my legs and back. But that’s a small price to pay for some Monday morning love. I grab a few tissues to clean up down there, prideful of the wetness sticking to my thighs. Now for that messier problem that I solve by holding more tissues between my cheeks, relaxing, and letting nature take its course.

Clean and tidy as any librarian can be after getting her arse fucked over a dressing table I now turn to the task of making myself once more modestly clothed. I reach for my knickers waiting patiently at my feet and pull them up and attach the panty-liner in case I still have some of H’s love left inside me. I release the clip holding up my skirt and let it fall demurely around my legs and with a final quick look in the mirror I’m fit for public viewing.

Who would know that this frumpily dressed librarian with the happy and rosy glow in her face had it put there by her husband’s cock in her arse? I can happily live with the answer of no one; especially if they work at the same school as me. Looking at my colleagues faces on a Monday morning I’m fairly sure I’m the only one getting this happy start to the week, although I could be wrong about Roger F. the Math teacher who always has a smile on his face.

I look about the bedroom and it is a bit of a mess. A bin full of tissues, a toy to clean and the bed hasn’t even been made. But I’ll leave that to H who’s got all day to tidy, while I have a school and a library to get to.

So calling out a ‘Goodbye’ to the sound of the shower I grab my purse, keys, phone and the case by the door and head off to work gloriously happy on this marvellous Monday morning.

“The answer to bad porn isn’t no porn. It’s more porn!” – Annie Sprinkle

Print I have a question. Why does the Feminist Porn Awards have a butt plug as their logo? I suppose I could email them and ask, but that seems far too easy and would short-cut my meandering theorising.

The most obvious answer is that up until 2010 the actual, physical, award given out at the ceremony:

was a clear glass butt plug mounted on a small pedestal with an engraved brass plaque that read “…Feminist Porn Awards.” – Tristan Taormino 2006

So the question then becomes, why is the Feminist Porn Awards trophy, a butt plug?

Butt plugs and porn do go very well together, and one does compliment the other. But does it really say, feminist porn? One of the criteria for what makes a winner is that, “It depicts genuine female pleasure.” Now I’m not saying women can’t enjoy having things stuffed up their bottoms, but if we are talking about female pleasure wouldn’t the most obvious thing to represent feminist porn have something to do with the vulva.


Family Tree Glass

I was thinking of a trophy looking something like this, but larger and mounted vertically on a plinth.

But then I went back to, “What makes a movie a Feminist Porn Award winner?” and read this statement:

It expands the boundaries of sexual representation on film and challenges stereotypes that are often found in mainstream porn.

Does that mean that the vulva is the stereotypical sexual representation, and the butt plug symbolises the shift beyond mainstream boundaries? Or am I just reaching, and making things up. Talking out of my arse. Maybe I need a butt plug?

I’m sure that there is a simple and valid answer to, “Why a butt plug? But let me tell you the one I made up, off the top of my head. To get the answer we have to go back to 2006, to the day of the inaugural awards ceremony and listen to a conversation that took place in an office at Good For Her.

“Hey, where are the award trophies for tonight’s ceremony?”

“What trophies?”

“What do you mean, ‘What trophies?’ The trophies you ordered for tonight’s Feminist Porn Awards.”

“Ummm… weren’t you doing that?”

“No! I was getting the plaques engraved with the names of the winners and categories. You were ordering the trophies that they go on. So where are they?”

“Ummm… you sure you weren’t doing that?”

“No, that was you!


“Oh my god! Please tell me you are joking? Please tell me that you did not forget the most important part of the evening?”

“Hey, didn’t you say at that staff meeting in the pub, that it’s not the winning but the taking part, and it’s about celebrating the role of women in the porn industry, and that guy by the bar had a nice tight…

“Yes, yes, yes! I did say all that after a few too many Appletini’s. But it’s still an awards ceremony, and we do have to give out something to the people when they come on stage.”

“I could nip down the florist and grab a bunch of… Now there’s no need to give me that look.”

“I can’t believe you screwed this up. You had one thing to do for this, one thing… If you weren’t my sister’s only child, God rest her soul!”

“What do you mean by that? She isn’t dead.”

“When I get through with her, payback for lumping me with you, she will be.”

“Now that’s not very kind.”

“What are we going to do? If this was an awards night where the majority of guests were men I’d suggest getting them all drunk, and then give them balloon animals and hope they don’t notice. I could really do with an Appletini right now”

“Did you know that women who drink face more health and social problems than men who drink?”

“That in no way helps us.”

“I’m just saying. Anyway I’m sure we can find something to give them. What about a vibrating cock-ring? I like those, they’re fun. You’re giving me that look again, and it’s still not nice.”

“No! Cock! Rings!”

“Ok, what about one of those giant dildos.”

“Are they the ones that remind you of a lighthouse?”

“Yeah, one of those.”

“There’s going to be a lot of press there tonight, and while we have nothing against the penis per se, a bunch of women waving around giant glow-in-the-dark dildos does not really say feminist porn.”

“Well what about give them some DVD’s? We had a new bunch just come in.”

“Are you a complete fool? You want to give copies of DVD’s to the people who produced the DVD’s in the first place, as award trophies?”


“Shut up, I’m trying to think. We need something that looks good, says porn and doesn’t get us fired.”

“What about…”

“Don’t even think about suggesting gift certificates, or I’ll walk down to McDonald’s right now and fill out a job application form for you myself.

“I like their nuggets.”

“Please be quiet. I’m trying to save both our jobs here. If you remember you are still on thin ice with the boss over that fiasco at Christmas.”

“But it was a brilliant idea, everyone said so. Snow globes in the shape of butt plugs for the holiday season, and I got them at a very good price.”

“Yes, we all thought it was a great idea until we saw that your butt plug snow globes didn’t have any snow in them. We couldn’t even sell them as regular toys, because they were as safe to use, up the bum, as a Coke bottle.”

“Coke bottles are fun. I remember this one time…”

“Stop right there! I don’t want to hear. Hang on don’t those snow globes have wooden bases?”

“Yeah, they do. It has…”

“That’s it! Ok, here’s what we’ll do…”

So that’s how I think the Feminist Porn Awards came to give out butt plugs to the winners. All we need is for someone, who won that first year, to check under the plaque and see if it says “We wish you a Merry Christmas, butt a Happy New Year – Good For Her.”

EDIT:  I would just like to say congratulations to all who participated in the Good For Her Feminist Porn Awards.  As a heterosexual male, I may be a little biased, but I think you have the greatest job in the world, ever.