as of Thursday morning at 7:45 am, I just became homeless.
A wildfire called The Camp Fire, by Cal FIRE Butte County tore through or town.
It’s all gone. Everything, gone.
After arriving in town, I just had to take a Riverwalk looking for a new playground. It was a little rainy and cloudy. Wondering how I'm going to turn this place into a playground. There is a very tight steel cable attached to the concrete poles on one side, along with steps to the water, on the other side is a steep 5 fool wall. I'm guessing just a simple lock to the steel cable, keys on another pole and ask the first passer by to get the keys for me LOL
I searched the forum back and South, but could not find a thread dedicated to vacbeds. If you find one, please note it below, but for now this is the official vacuum bed thread!
Just found this on Pink News: https://www.pinknews.co.uk/2018/10/22/se...g-forever/
Maybe this technology could be adapted for lube-free rubber catsuits? Apparently it depends on 'a new polymer coating' for the rubber.
For those with a bit of a medical and or bondage fetish, here is an interesting article I “came” across... 😉
Here’s the story:
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How I Became An Orgasm Donor [link]
By Mélanie Berliet, December 4th 2013
Perched atop an exam table at Rutgers’ Imaging Center, twitching bare feet, I glance from the standard medical gown keeping me cold to drab linoleum floor to unforgiving fluorescent ceiling lights. The back wall’s landscape mural fails to distract me from the elephant in the room: A functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) machine with an offensively small cylindrical opening. I’ve volunteered to participate in a study that requires masturbating from within this behemoth while a team of scientists led by Barry Komisaruk, PhD, a Professor of Psychology and the author of several books on human sexuality, monitors my brain.
In spite of mounting anxiety, I allow Komisaruk and his colleague, Meryl Streep lookalike Nan Wise, LCSW, to enclose my upper body in a cage-like device. Within seconds, I can no longer budge my neck or head—at all. Thanks to large headphones connected to a microphone through which Komisaruk will eventually communicate with me, I am also deaf to my surroundings.
I remind myself that the aim of this experiment—to create a sensory homunculus (a map, essentially) of the female brain during climax, the male equivalent of which has long existed—is honorable and essential. But no matter how helpful my participation might be to the 24 to 37 percent of women who report trouble orgasming, the fact is that I am supremely uncomfortable, and I have never felt less sexy.
How the hell am I supposed to get myself off under these conditions?
As Komisaruk and Wise guide me into recline, each grasping one clammy hand, I try to drain my mouth of fast accumulating saliva. But the natural chin motion required to do so isn’t possible. Overwhelmed by this additional sacrifice in body functionality, I flail arms and kick up legs, a turtle on its back desperate to turn over.
“Deep breaths,” Komisaruk coaches while releasing me from headgear.
“I’m so sorry,” I clamor.
The truth is that we know embarrassingly little about female orgasm, a phenomenon that’s less easily measured than its more mechanical, splash-finale male counterpart. So when presented with the opportunity to help Dr. Komisaruk decode the female brain—and, however selfishly, to obtain some information on the inner workings of my personal sensual department—I couldn’t resist. Luckily, Komisaruk welcomes volunteers, most of whom find him by word of mouth, like I did.
A week before I trekked from New York City to Rutgers campus in Newark, New Jersey, Wise rang me to chat about my upcoming contribution to science. She explained that the data they planned to collect would be grouped with other participants’ to create a time course depiction of the areas activated at the start of stimulation, throughout build-up, and during orgasmic resolution.
“The more we know, the better equipped we’ll be to help the millions of women suffering from Female Sexual Dysfunction (FSD),” she said. “There are even potential pain-blocking applications to understanding these neural pathways.”
Visual stimulus would not be provided during the experiment, Wise said, and while dildos were permitted, a clitoral climax was preferred for the sake of consistency (most participants before me had opted against a prop).
“One other thing I have to emphasize is that you can’t move anything other than your hand.”
“I can’t move my hips? At all?” I gasped, envisioning the pelvic thrusting upon which I rely heavily when touching myself down there.
“Our heads are vulnerable when any body part budges, and even a millimeter wriggle will compromise the data, Sweetie. It’s doable, though, I promise.”
Wise was right. I was not their first guinea pig, after all. Plus, there are people out there who report thinking themselves to climax.
“I can do it,” I declared. I would just have to practice.
Seven days later, I entered Rutger’s Psychology Department somewhat proficient at playing statue while masturbating.
Wise greeted me in an oversized white blouse, hair tousled, air calm. She introduced me to Dr. Komisaruk, who, in black slacks and a blue oxford, seemed refreshingly at ease as well.
“I realize we demand a lot from our subjects,” said Komisaruk while scuttling about to collect release forms and gather the tools to shape my mask.
As I lay atop a cushioned table, Komisaruk customized sheets of white mesh plastic to match the contours of my face and the back of my head after heating them in hot water. The finished product would make a solid Halloween costume, I joked.
By that point, any reservations I had about performing the most intimate of acts in front of people were sidelined by the kinship I felt with Komisaruk and Wise, who clearly cared deeply about their research. There would be four others I had not yet met watching me through an observation window while I went about my business, but I felt good about my role in the project and those guiding me through it.
If only I had been able to preserve this sense of well-being when transferred from office to hospital.
At the Imaging Center an hour later, robbed of too many faculties in an environment neither cozy nor sensual, I continue to panic.
Freed from restraints, I hunch over to heave in and out.
“This isn’t an abnormal reaction,” says Komisaruk.
“Drink some water,” advises Wise.
Eventually, I manage to sit upright, at which point I note four pairs of strange eyes peering back at me. Suddenly, it matters how these four lab coats might see me. My special rotating hand movement! My o-face! Shouldn’t we all at least have dinner first?
At Wise’s behest, I drag myself into the observation room to rest, where a young male technician and three female students greet me. Each congratulates me on my courage. One girl who holds a copy of “Do Gentleman Really Prefer Blondes?” kindly briefs me on some of the science behind sex, love, and attraction.
How can I disappoint such a warm group so dedicated to an important cause?
Half an hour and a few sips of water later, I collect my bearings.
Positioned inside the fMRI, I breeze through preliminary exercises. I complete five rounds of kegels in 30-second increments punctuated by 30-second rest periods. It’s easy to clench and release my vaginal muscles when instructed, but I have to work hard not to do so while at rest because I’m still thinking about the motion. To distract myself, I hum “Like A Virgin.” When Komisaruk asks me to “commence nipple tapping” (another warm up) in the husky voice of an older man, I manage not to crack up.
Finally, I am told to “begin clitoral self-stimulation.”
When a few of my go-to circular motions prove futile, I begin to perspire. Again, I am the young adult struggling to decipher her anatomy. I curse my body for producing moisture in my armpits rather than my private parts, but self-loathing only leads to more sweating.
This is when I realize that negativity and self-doubt are self-defeating. To orgasm, I have to feel good. I have to get in the right mindset in spite of my current confines.
To separate myself from my surroundings, my discomfort, and my audience, I imagine some of the best sex I’ve ever had. I relive the flirtation that stemmed from instant chemistry with my current boyfriend. I remember how we couldn’t resist ripping each other’s clothes off as soon as we were alone together. How I straddled him while he looked at me with those charmingly devilish eyes. I recall the extended seconds between the times at which the tip and shaft of his penis entered me for the first time. I become wet and aroused, as I was then.
At the onset of orgasm, I raise my left hand (the agreed upon signal). When the sensation passes, I lower it, smiling.
Afterward, Dr. Komisaruk and his team thank me profusely. Immersed in the after glow of fulfillment, I am happy to have helped, and happier yet to know that I’m capable of letting go in the least promising circumstances.
A few weeks later, I return to Rutgers to review the results with Dr. Komisaruk and Wise, who point out that my scans depict neurological activation in the expected regions. This is reassuring, but the green dots speckled across my brain’s pleasure centers seem like just that in the end. Of greater note is the news that I’m a “good candidate for multiple orgasms” since I climaxed within a relatively short amount of time (2 minutes and 6 seconds).
But the real takeaway is recalling my fMRI achievement—and what it means about the elasticity of our minds and bodies. The possibilities, it seems, are truly limitless.
Haven't been posting for a long time, still lurking once in a while.
When I noticed the "nsfw picture hider buttons" I had a smile on my face. This whole site is as nsfw as it gets 😋 Why the hiding of some pictures, should hide most
This is a quite off the wall question. Allow some history first. I endeavor to make beer, the heavy "motor oil" sorts and hoppy IPA's, brews that let one know they are tasting something. Long ago I took heat for my tastes and back when it was not easy to find beers that were less than pedestrian I now relish that craft beers outsell all others now (at least in my corner of the USA.) I still know those that think Budweiser is beer... Nuff said there.
However, I have experimented with adding a "rubber" flavor and have met with terrible results. Apparently, almost all latex rubber has sulfur added to enhance rubbers natural qualities and make it stronger which is good with catsuits and rubbers. "Natural" rubber appears to be a misnomer as all attempts so far have a distinct bitterness I attribute to the vulcanization process, that of adding sulfur and apparently other ingredients. As with say Vanilla, the taste of pure Vanilla is not the same as when used as an ingredient. I have looked at "gum" rubber which by definition is pure and without additives though I admit to being at loss to determine whether this to be true. I do know Like Ra to have a broad knowledge base concerning latex rubber and assume there to be members here with chem/engineering experience far and above mine that may divine what I am attempting. I also hold that it may be impossible to add such a flavor simply by din of the nature of the material involved and perhaps this is simply erotic thought and an unrealistic pursuit.
So, I am appealing to those that certainly know more about this than I and am willing accept the idea that this may be a dead end. My appreciation for any assistance and insights.
I'm sure some of you use these camjam type cleats. The problem I'm having is that both lines need to basically be straight inline with each other. If you can't pull the line that tightens in the jam straight down it will not engage. Has anyone modified these devices or have a better one works when the line is not 100 straight down ?
