Sunday, December 30, 2007

Single-serving friends.

The problem with one-night stands is that when they're bad you realize you shouldn't have done it at all, and when they're good you realize just how little you can get done in only one night.

I think I'm not cut out to be a slut. It's not a mushy feelings issue per se, it's more like... seems like a shame to find a really good toy and only play with it once, you know?


(Not a toy. A... augh, how does one acknowledge a sexual partner's humanity without sounding like one has the mushies for them? A dude.)

Saturday, December 29, 2007

Everything you always wanted to know about EVIL GAYS.

I'm at my Grandma's house on the East Coast for the week. Doesn't mean I won't get laid, just that it will require stunning feats of dishonesty. It's not my fault that I'm 22 years old yet my family still won't take "I'm going OUT. To see a FRIEND." for an answer.

Anyway, Grandma has the original 1969 edition of Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask). This was one of the first sex books I ever read. Maybe the first. And although it was apparently liberal for its era--it's pro-masturbation and oral sex and birth control and whatnot--many parts of it are full-on insane. Not just biased, although it certainly is massively sexist and homophobic, but actually insane.

Some excerpts below the cut.


My favorite passage in the entire book:

There is even a subcategory of homosexual known as the “S and M.” This is the one type of gay guy the others fear. Rarely will any homosexual knowingly pick up an “S and M.”

“S and M”? What does that mean?

Technically, sadist and masochist. Literally, trouble. Those who combine homosexuality with sadistic and masochistic aberrations are among the cruelest people who walk this earth. In ancient times they found employment as professional torturers and executioners. More recently they filled the ranks of Hitler’s Gestapo and SS.

How does an “S and M” work?

They specialize in luring other homosexuals to their apartments, trapping them, and torturing them.

You know, Jon and I are both "S and M"s, and we are both Jewish. I thought this was coincidence, but no! It's because we're Hitler, so we both want to beat up a Jew!

On the joys of the behinder side:

The anus was designed as the terminal end of the gastro-intestinal tract—it is not really prepared to receive the erect penis. This in itself provides certain formidable mechanical obstacles which must be overcome before this brand of homosexuality becomes possible. In contrast to the vagina which is tremendously elastic (as it must be to accommodate the infant’s head at birth), the anus hardly stretches at all. However, determined assault by the homosexual penis, general amounts of lubrication, and intense pain on the part of the “recipient” ultimately results in “success.”

Oh honey, "the anus hardly stretches at all," I have some pictures to show you.

God, the days when you could write a book without doing any research whatsoever into the things you were talking about. Let's hear more about those wacky homashexuals:

Most homosexuals find their man-to-man sex unfulfilling so they masturbate a lot. Much of their masturbation centers around the anus. The question, of course, is what to use for a penis. The answer is often found in the pantry. Carrots and cucumbers are pressed into service. Forced into the anus, lubricated with vegetable oil, they give some homosexuals what they seek.
Egg white is also considered a good lubricant. Sometimes the whole egg in the shell finds itself where it doesn’t belong. Sausages, especially the milder varieties, are popular.
The homosexual who prefers to use his penis must find an anus. Many look in the refrigerator. The most common masturbatory object for this purpose is a melon. Cantaloupes are usual, but where it is available, papaya is popular.

The funny part, to me, is the implication that straight men don't masturbate in ludicrous ways. Well, that and the statement that papaya is "popular," as if men were sitting around in gay bars in 1969 recommending fruit-fucking styles to each other. Shameless!

Say, what about gay bars?

The first visit to a gay bar is quite an experience. Superficially, it seems like any other cocktail lounge. Men and women sit at the bar and mingle freely at booths and tables. There is the usual background of conversation with male and female voices balancing each other. Then it slowly begins to sink in—the entire room is filled with men!
The feminine whispers, the high-pitched laughter, the soft sighs, are men’s voices. The cocktail dresses, the tight black outfits, are worn by men. Even the trim, middle-aged matron entering the ladies room (one sign says “Queens”) is a man.
The sexy babe in the tight miniskirt owes her womanhood to two pounds of foam padding, a pound of make-up, and a lot of wishful thinking. In the daytime “she” parks cars.

It makes me almost wonder if, at some obscure point in history, a place like this ever existed. It would be kind of awesome if it did. (Also, parking cars is apparently a very masculine occupation. God knows I couldn't do it; my vagina would get caught on the stick shift and I'd menstruate everywhere and then I'd probably start crying.)

This is in the chapter on prostitution:

A blow job, as it is known in the trade, is fast, easy, and clean. No linen to change, no washing up to do (except for a swish of anti-septic mouthwash), and if the girl is crafty, she doesn't even have to get undressed. As one lady who should know puts it, "I could do B.J.s all day without working up a sweat."

If you exist, unnamed lady who should know, I think you're doing it wrong.

I know I masturbated to this passage as a kid:

What's an exhibition?
The popular term is stag show. Most of them take place in hired halls packed to the rafters. They start with pornographic movies and work up to a grand finale. The show may begin with a strip-tease and some go-go dancing. Then one of the girls may have intercourse with a dog. As the pace accelerates, two girls simulate homosexual intercourse with each other--usually mutual cunnilingus. (The girls never really do it. They are homosexuals and are unwilling to show their true feelings in front of men. The customers never know the difference.)

As a climax, one of the girls has intercourse on stage with a volunteer from the audience while the other goes home as a door prize to the holder of the winning ticket.

This is... this is just completely fictional, right? I guess I can picture it happening once in some podunk strip club but he makes it sound like a nationally touring event on the scale of Barnum & Bailey's. (Also, if I were going down on a girl who'd just had sex with a dog, I would probably fake it too.)

His idea of a typical obscene phone call:

Victim: Hello?
Obscene Caller: (heavy breathing).
V: Who is this? Who's calling?
OC: That doesn't matter. How would you like to get laid?
V: (Screams) You must be out of your mind!
OC: No, I'm not. I'm just going to come over and get into you.
V: (Screaming) Leave me alone! What do you want? What do you want?
OC: All I want is to get my hands into your pants--that's all! (Heavy breathing)
V: (Hysterical) My God! My God!

I admit that OC there is way out of line, but wow, V is just a tad high-strung, don't you think?

And finally, he manages to describe a sex act that I've never even seen on the Internet:

Occasionally a woman may have an unusually large clitoris which reaches as much as two or more inches in length when erect. If she happens to be a lesbian and her partner spreads her legs widely, the clitoris may just penetrate the vagina. What would be a disgrace to a man is a delight to a woman. Lesbians with this anatomical quirk are in great demand.

I remember reading this when I was eleven or twelve and being vaguely dismayed that I was so poorly hung.

The really scary part is that apparently this book was revolutionarily liberal in its day--and its day was during my parents' lifetime. I wonder which current sexual attitudes will be considered insane in forty years.

Thursday, December 27, 2007

Unprotected.

Last night Alan and I fucked skin on skin. It was the first time for both of us. There was so much fear.

You're sure you're on the pill? You've been taking it every day? You've been tested, right? For everything? What about your other partner, has he been tested? For everything?

Years and years of "safer sex" (because it's never safe!) have left us terrified of the toxic power of semen. A single drop, applied anywhere between a woman's navel and knees, will lead inevitably to babies and diseases. And a penis must never ever ever touch a vagina, even for a moment, or Horrible Things will happen. More than once there's been some minor accident and I've felt skin on skin down there, and I've literally recoiled.

This is all medically correct, of course. You really can get pregnant/diseased from semen that's merely near your vagina, or from a penis that's not ejaculating. In both cases it's an outside bet, but it does warrant consideration; I knew a girl who had three abortions and couldn't understand why, because "Yeah we didn't use condoms, but I never let him come in me!" So our precautions are based on good sound logic, except that over the years it's become a visceral fear of each other's bodies.

Last night we fucked through our fear. We had a long awkward talk about oral contraception and urethral/vaginal swabs and blood tests, and then we went and did the forbidden. We risked each other's lives. We had unprotected sex and he came in me.

It felt so fucking good. I've never heard a man moan like that.

Tipping point.

There's a moment in Alan's fucking when he stops playing with me and he starts using me to come. His rhythm shifts from soft-hard-tease-hard to HARD-HARD-HARD-HARD. His eyes stop looking at me and fix on something a thousand miles away. He stops touching me and starts holding on to me. And he starts making the noises.

Raw, wordless, animal noises. Earlier in sex he might go "oh yeah," or "mmm", or "ahh," but those are words even when they're not. Past the tipping point it's nothing I can really type. It's "uhuhuhuhuh," it's "eerrrrmmm," it's "aaaauuufff," but those look ridiculous and it's not. Maybe from the outside it would be; who knows? There's a reason we don't videotape our sex.

I talk about my partners' quirks sometimes like I'm this dispassionate observer. I'm not. Today I noticed a big ugly abrasion on Alan's leg. "What happened to you?" I asked.

"You don't remember?" he said. "Last time you were here, when you had me up against the wall, you were scraping me on something. I should've stopped you, but you were, you know..."

I know. Past the tipping point.

God, I don't even remember it.

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

Random Urge.

I spent all of last night (when I wasn't working) fantasizing about giving Alan a really long blowjob while he just kicked back, watched TV, and drank beer. For all the "lol perfect woman!" stupidity of the fantasy, it was amazingly vivid.

Too bad for him being out of town. Life's unfair.

EDIT: He's back. Partay.

Monday, December 24, 2007

Quantity.

I've noticed that penis-enlargement emails often also advertise products to increase your semen volume. I thought this was completely ridiculous until I met Benny.

Benny comes more than other guys. Probably twice as much as every other guy I've been with. He comes for a startlingly long time, squirt after squirt (more than once I've thought he was done and stopped, only to feel dumb when he frantically whispered "keep going" and there was more) until there's about a quarter-cup of jizz splattered around. Sometimes I go down on him and I end up swallowing and spitting.

Is it the best thing in the world, does it make other men seem inadequate, is it worth taking unapproved Nigerian medications for? Course not. But it is pretty fun to watch. Or feel or taste. I always think it must be a fantastic orgasm. It goes on for so long.

Really, though, I think I like it less for what it is, and more for being one of those private biological quirks that you can only know about someone by fucking them. It's like the birthmark on Alan's butt shaped like Australia; I get no particular pleasure from the thing, but I get tremendous pleasure that I know it. I can look at these men when they're out in public and properly dressed and I can think "Hey! Australia-butt!" and it makes me happy in some way I can't quite quantify. It's a small kind of ownership, maybe.

Everyone walks around with these small secrets. Sometimes I look at strangers and try to guess theirs.

Sunday, December 23, 2007

"Hir" does nothing for me.

Sometimes, when I'm already in a dreamy sort of mood, just the words "he" and "she" can be a thrill. The man I have a crush on, he... and those two letters tell you that this person is a man and therefore has a cock and balls and sometimes that cock gets hard and sometimes a little clear fluid seeps out and when you lick it up and use your tongue to swirl it around the head you will feel that cock pulse just a little in your mouth.

It's things like this that put the lie to the idea of jading. That once you get fucked in the ass with a whip handle in your teeth like a pony's bit you won't still sparkle a little to see someone cute give you the merest smile. That when your sex and your fantasies are harsh and extreme you won't still doodle hearts in your notebook. Sex isn't skiing; you can do the harshest black diamond on the mountain and still feel your heart in your throat going down the kiddy hill.

I get turned on by the words "lick it until it's clean, bitch," and I get turned on by the words "he and she."

Thursday, December 20, 2007

I forgive you, really.

I wish Alan wouldn't apologize for having orgasms.

"Oh yeah, oh yeah, OHHHHHHH... oh no, crap, I'm so sorry."

He'll say this even if he's been going for fifteen minutes and I've come three times. I need to convince him that I don't need a man who can fuck indefinitely.

In fact it's rather frustrating when a man lasts for hours. I love to watch guys come. I hate to hear them say "uh, it's not you, but it's been two hours and I just can't get there, maybe I better just finish myself off." And I really really hate to hear "oh forget it, it's not gonna happen, just let it get soft and I'm going to sleep."

I know it's not necessarily my fault but it always makes me feel cruddy.

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

So close to romantic.

Alan:
"I'd never pay for sex."
"Aww..."
"Because I like money more than I like sex."

Benny:
"It's okay that you are, but I'm not seeing anyone else."
"Aww..."
"I mean, I'd like to..."

Squeamishness.

Man, I keep looking through my google referral logs and cum swallowing is by far the number one query. Or specifically, distaste for cum swallowing. The most heartbreaking search string was "how to not really swallow cum." Damn... my only suggestions are close-up magic or honest communication with your partner. And that's just when I'm trying to be sensitive. My real knee-jerk reaction is "Why on Earth wouldn't you?"

But I think I'm doomed to never understand this, because I'm just not very squeamish. Confession: if a partner ever wanted me to drink his piss, I would. It wouldn't even be that much of a humiliation thing; it would just be a liquid. (I don't think I'd eat shit, though. Partly for health concerns, partly because I'm a little squeamish. As for merely getting shit on... well, it's not hot to me but if it was really important to him and he could convince me it wasn't a hateful act... mayyybe.)

It helps in sex, I think, to not think that the human body is disgusting. Well, of course, most sane people don't, not overall, but I have heard a lot of people call genitals and anuses disgusting. I joke sometimes that "boy parts are icky," but honestly I think cocks and balls are beautiful. Not just beautiful for what they do to me, but... nice to look at, nice to touch. I don't close my eyes when I put my mouth on a man's cock, don't pretend it's something else. When I say "I love the cock," I don't mean "I love boys" or "I love sex" (although both are true)--I mean I love the actual physical cock.

And the pussy. And the tits. And the asshole. And the entire human body, inside and out, wet and sticky and salty as it may be, is beautiful. A pussy is not an unpleasant thing that must be endured to pleasure a woman--a pussy is fucking awesome.

I don't want to sound like I think I'm the only person on earth who believes these things. I'm sure this is no revelation to most people. But it seems like we have these cultural in-jokes that girls think cock is ugly, boys think pussy is icky, everyone thinks asshole is icky. And that's so messed up.

Sunday, December 16, 2007

Just another night with Benny.

The razor burn was still ugly when Benny saw it, but he's not a squeamish man; he tied my legs open, spread rubbing alcohol on the burn, and slapped it in. I screamed angry obscenities at him and he dipped his finger into my pussy to show me how wet the pain had gotten me.

He slowly eased two fingers into me, then three and after a few minutes, four up to the knuckles. He's got big hands; all he had to do was curl his fingers a little, barely flutter them inside me, and I shook and moaned and disappeared into blinding maddening ecstasy.

As I finished coming I was seized by a powerful urge. I grabbed Benny by the back of the head, and as he drew his fingers out of me I kissed him hard and deep, not at all sweetly, fucking his mouth with my mouth. We kissed for a long time, rough, sexual, pressed together so hard I couldn't tell where I ended and he began.

Some time later in the evening, I pulled Benny into a tight hogtie--elbows tied together behind his back, knees tied tightly together, wrists and ankles tied to each other, face down and totally immobile. (I kept nervously checking his breathing because big guy prone with elbows back is positional-asphyxia-riffic, but he was fine.) I slipped on a latex glove, lubed up the fingers, and spread his cheeks. I went slowly, just stroking around his asshole, until he started really wanting it, started making little pleading noises and tilting his ass up at me. I slipped one finger in, and with surprising ease a second, and bent them forward until I felt the small hard gland inside him. He groaned deeply.

Some time later than that, we were lying in bed under the covers with nobody tied or hurt, just side by side stroking each other's groins until I wanted more than stroking and slipped his cock into me, still on our sides and slowly gently fucking for ages. He rolled me over and fucked my ass just as slow and gentle, kissing me and holding me until he came in my ass.

And finally, when we were both completely spent, pussy and ass and cock tender, nipples sore, muscles aching and skin raw, he looked me in the eyes and said "I'm awfully glad I found you." And I went all gooshy inside.

Saturday, December 15, 2007

Augh!

Date with Benny tonight. Last time he didn't enjoy that my crotch was stubbly so I endeavored to get a truly clean shave for him tonight. I overdid it. Took off half my skin and now my "bikini zone" is an unholy hell of the nastiest razor burn you ever saw.

So my question, if anyone can answer it before 4 PM Pacific time: is there anything I can do? Lotion? Ice? Heat? Benadryl? Advil? Cover it with makeup and when it inevitably gets rubbed off, scream "look what you did to me"?

Here I am trying to be all "this girl has prepared herself for your enjoyment, Sir," and it's gonna end up more "that's not an infection, I swear, I'm just a moron."


(We don't ever actually talk like that, I just think it's funny. I'd really be saying "Shaved myself for ya, dude." Because we may be sadomasochists but we are also extremely dudely.)

Friday, December 14, 2007

Toys.

I own far too many sex toys.

• A really cheap little flogger. It's stingy as hell because the tails are too small, and I'd really like a bigger one, but... it does the trick. It's meant to hurt, right? It certainly does that.

• A generic cylindrical vibrator that I don't use much. It's too skinny to be fun in my pussy, no base so I'm scared to put it in my butt, and awkwardly shaped to use on my clit.

• A bullet vibe. This is the go-to toy for a quick simple orgasm, the "no fancy crap, I just want to get to sleep" vibrator. Goes nicely on my clit and gets me off in less than five minutes. Unexciting, reliable.

• A... thingy. It's this(NWS) ugly sonofabitch, whatever the heck that is. Anyway, it's fucking amazing. It's thick and it pushes on my g-spot hard and one time Jon tied it into me and left it in for like a half hour on full blast.

• Two buttplugs. One's small and real easy but only sorta fun; one's way too damn big and takes a five-minute slightly painful project to get in but hoooly shit when it's in. I've never had the self-control to have it in and not masturbate to orgasm instantly. It feels great when I do though. I can feel my ass pulsing when I come.

(That buttplug is how I learned my orgasms were real. For the longest time I thought that my orgasms were too quick, too easy--no girl gets off in two minutes from just barely being touched, so I must just be mistaking something else for orgasm and giving up before the real good stuff. But the feeling of my ass involuntarily spasming around a buttplug is unmistakable. I really do come that much, that easily. Fucking awesome.)

• Rope. Two hundred feet, in two different thicknesses, every inch of it soft and shiny and strong and filled with endless possibilities. Everything above on this list gets me off; rope gets me on. Sex toys are arousing and all that, but only rope is fascinating. It's a skill I'm still learning, it's a way to cause pain and pleasure, it's a way to hold someone's entire body the way I want it without me lifting a finger. It's sexy to tie, it's sexy to be tied in, it's sexy just to have around. It's... I think it's safe to call it a fetish, yeah.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

Anal Paradox.

Finger in butt = ugh.

Penis in butt = ooh.


I think this has discouraged a tragic number of people from trying butt play. Because if something as small as a finger is so uncomfortable, anything bigger must be worse, right? Wrong. I'm not quite sure why, but it's completely wrong. A finger up your ass feels like a really unpleasant poop; a cock up your ass feels like a tight hard fuck. Strange but true.

Cuddles.

I'm a fan of cuddles. I sometimes worry that there's something possessive or emotionally needy or demanding about asking a boy for too much cuddling, but mostly I just think it feels good. Boys are warm and firm and their willingness to touch me constitutes a kind of quiet acceptance that I don't get enough of.

Okay, so I'm a little needy. I don't spend the whole time asking "but do you really think I'm pretty?" or anything horrible like that. Mostly it's either unrelated little things from our lives or it's silent nuzzling.

I can't fall asleep cuddling. It makes me very sleepy and comfortable, but when I get to the point of actually sleeping I've always got some part of my body squished or bent back or too warm, and I have to roll over into a little Island of Solitude to get any sleep.

Cuddling with Brandon is great, but cuddling with Jon is wonderful because he's so damn big. (Tall and wide; not super fat, just large in a big square doorway-filling way. Trucker-shaped.) I can just sink into him. He puts his arms around me and I'm enveloped. I can disappear inside him.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Size.

To answer the perennial Truth or Dare question: size matters tremendously if you're a double hand amputee. Otherwise, eh. All things being equal I'll take bigger over smaller, it feels a little nicer and it makes more positions work. But it's hardly a make or break. The vast majority of my sexy time is spent on things besides intercourse anyway. And a smaller cock sure will get further into me. (Well, proportionally further.)

Kevin's the only one I ever actually got a ruler out on, and good God we nearly needed a yardstick: eight and a half inches. I couldn't really take the whole thing, it would hit my cervix in any position, but as long as he could hold back that last half inch, Christ it felt so good.

Alan's not in that league but decently endowed; six and a half inches, seven? Big enough to have some nice heft to it, not quite porn-grade. He's on the extreme "shower" end of the grower-vs.-shower spectrum; it's that big when it's soft too. I always enjoy that when we're hanging around naked. Gives me something pleasant to look at.

Benny is below average. Maybe it looks like less because he's such a big guy, but I'd eyeball it at about five inches. He's the only guy I can truly deep throat right down to the balls (then again, he also pushes me harder...) and still thick enough to make me squirm when he fucks me. I'm not complaining, just... noticing.

The funny part is their self-perceptions. Alan is always a little self-deprecating about it, telling me he's not that big, you know, I shouldn't be saying "Give me that big cock" because it's nothing special, really. Benny is absolutely insistent that he is going to slam me with his enormous cock and that I will have to take the whole thing.

Somehow I manage.

Monday, December 10, 2007

My Hobby:

Putting lurid sexual fantasies through Babelfish until they are awesome.
The three of us, who are in the room, take our shots, turn off the light. First, I want to kiss you. I embrace you and I your clothes. We deal in the first place. Let's chew play with him and his puncture, but we are not letting them come to him, it even closer. I shall see below, and eat her cat in the chest. We are both on your face, it is sitting on his cock.

Then it is him, and to do so in the ass to eat, while my cat. We approached the bottom, and he can win. He started me, as I expressed my fingers until their skins, as much as you can. We offer arrival.

At the end, I am going to suck the tap until it happens, because I would like to share with him about my face and chest. I would still attached, I know I can lick the entire territory.

Saturday, December 8, 2007

Addicted.

I just figured out how to do LiveJournal-style cuts so I can make really long posts without drowning my front page in a Wall of Text! Very exciting! I think I'm going to kick off this new ability by taking the Sexual Addiction Screening Test. Note that sex addiction is not recognized in the DSM. Further note that online sexual addiction resources are rarely more than three clicks away from the word "Savior." I'm just saying.

The marvelously scientific and unjudgemental "SAST", with my snotty answers, is below the cut.


1. Were you sexually abused as a child or adolescent?
Nope. I was physically and mentally abused (well, we just called it "beat up and yelled at") a little here and there, but no one ever did anything to my Swimsuit Area. Sometimes I feel like I'm the only person I know who can say that.

2. Did your parents have trouble with sexual behavior?
Probably, but not that I ever wanted to know about.

3. Do you often find yourself preoccupied with sexual thoughts?
Who the hell doesn't? But even by "post-pubescent human being" standards, yeah. I mean, most people don't have an entire blog devoted to their sexual thoughts.

4. Do you feel that your sexual behavior is not normal?
I don't think it's typical. (Although it may be closer than I think; I've noticed the prevalence of secret weird fetishes to be damn near 100% sometimes. Probably my only real deviance is talking about it.) But I don't think my sexual behavior is abnormal in the sense of broken, just in the sense of statistically uncommon.

5. Do you ever feel bad about your sexual behavior?
Well, sometimes. Not often, certainly not every time. But ever, yes. I also occasionally feel bad about my behavior in every other area of life, because I have feelings.

6. Has your sexual behavior ever created problems for you and your family?
Yes, I did use to be a teenager. It's not creating any big problems now though. Shouldn't an addiction test be asking about "currently" or "frequently", not "ever"?

7. Have you ever sought help for sexual behavior you did not like?
I've sought help with sexual behavior I didn't like...

8. Has anyone been hurt emotionally because of your sexual behavior?
More because I stopped sexual behavior with 'em, really.

9. Are any of your sexual activities against the law?
Fewer since Lawrence v. Texas, but I believe that consensual beatings are still considered assault. (I think the rationale is less about persecuting BDSM and more about giving abusers fewer excuses, but the end result is the same--a bruise is a bruise no matter how bad she was beggin' for it.)

Of course, this question says more about the law than it does about me; if they outlaw kissing, do you become a kissing addict?

10. Have you made efforts to quit a type of sexual activity and failed?
Nope! I've never made efforts to quit any type of sexual activity!

11. Do you hide some of your sexual behaviors from others?
It would be pretty fuckin' gross if I didn't.

12. Have you attempted to stop some parts of your sexual activity?
Nope! But is that because I'm not an addict, or is it because I'm just so deeply addicted?

13. Have you felt degraded by your sexual behaviors?
But I like it that way...

14. When you have sex, do you feel depressed afterwards?
Only if there are no cuddles. (There are usually cuddles.)

15. Do you feel controlled by your sexual desire?
Naw. Influenced by, maybe. Entertained by, certainly.

16. Have important parts of your life (such as job, family, friends, leisure activities) been neglected because you were spending too much time on sex?
No. This is the first question on this whole test that strikes me as legitimate--if you're fucking so much you don't even go to work, you probably do have some sort of problem.

17. Do you ever think your sexual desire is stronger than you are?
I don't know, we've never really opposed each other. My sexual desire says "hey, let's go get laid," and I say "good idea!"

18. Is sex almost all you think about?
No.

19. Has sex (or romantic fantasies) been a way for you to escape your problems?
Oh shit, we're including romance in here? That's a sex addiction too? Wanting to be loved? You heartless bastards!

And basically no; I've used sex as a distraction from minor worries, but not as a way to blot out the world.

20. Has sex become the most important thing in your life?
No.

21. Are you in crisis over sexual matters?
I wasn't until I started this test.

22. Has the internet has created sexual problems for you?
Only opportunities...

23. Do you spend too much time online for sexual purposes?
Define "too much"! Seriously, this quiz seems entirely devoted to determining how guilty you feel about sex, rather than how much you actually have. Try applying that standard to alcoholics--"You don't feel bad about it? Then drink up, buddy, you're fine!"

24. Have you purchased services online for erotic purposes (sites for dating, pornography, fantasy and friend finder)?
I've paid for porn a couple times. Usually regretted it. Not because of my addiction, because it sucked.

25. Have you used the internet to make romantic or erotic connections with people online?
Of course! How is that any more addicted than any other way of connecting with people?

26. Have people in my life been upset about my sexual activities online?
No, but I do use some judgement in who I tell about my sexual activities online. I mean, Mom doesn't really want to hear about it...

27. Have you attempted to stop my online sexual behaviors?
Yours? No. I don't wanna know. Sheesh.

28. Have you subscribed to or regularly purchased or rented sexually explicit materials (magazines, videos, books or online pornography)?
And this is the part of the test where I break and say fuck you, this isn't a sex addiction test, this is just a sexual activity test. Yes, I have purchased sexual materials. What the fuck does that tell you about me? I don't buy them every day! I don't spend the baby's medicine money on porn! How the fucking fuck is something like this diagnostic of an "addiction"? Would you call someone an alcoholic if they ever bought beer? Jesus Christ!

29. Have you been sexual with minors?
Not since I stopped being one myself. Gah, I can't believe a question like this has the same weight as questions about "do you ever think about sex ever, even slightly?" Because being a little sexually obsessed and molesting children are just two different points on the same continuum, aren't they? (No they fucking aren't. Pedophilia isn't a symptom of being too darn sexy, it's a totally separate kind of sick.)

30. Have you spent considerable time and money on strip clubs, adult bookstores and movie houses?
"Considerable?" But no, I haven't. They're awfully unfriendly to lone women.

31. Have you engaged prostitutes and escorts to satisfy your sexual needs?
Nope.

32. Have you spent considerable time surfing pornography online?
"Considerable?" But yes.

33. Have you used magazines, videos or online pornography even when there was considerable risk of being caught by family members who would be upset by my behavior?
Well, not in front of them. But anyway, if the people in my house don't like porn, that's their problem. If my sister hates horror movies and I watch Evil Dead II when she's not watching, am I a horror addict? Or just considerate?

34. Have you regularly purchased romantic novels or sexually explicit magazines?
Romantic novels? Am I a sex addict because of Jane Austen now? Sexy, sexy, sexy Jane Austen.

35. Have stayed in romantic relationships after they became emotionally or abusive?
Uh? But no.

36. Have you traded sex for money or gifts?
No. I've given sex to people who gave me gifts, but I'd like to think that it wasn't a direct exchange, thanks.

37. Have you maintained multiple romantic or sexual relationships at the same time?
Yep. You got some sorta problem with that?

38. After sexually acting out, do you sometimes refrain from all sex for a significant period?
Just long enough for the bleeding to stop...

39. Have you regularly engaged in sadomasochistic behavior?
Yep. You got some sorta fuckin' problem with that?

40. Do you visit sexual bath-houses, sex clubs or video/bookstores as part of your regular sexual activity?
Gosh, this question doesn't smell even slightly homophobic... and no.

41. Have you engaged in unsafe or "risky" sex even though you knew it could cause you harm?
No. Point of personal pride.

42. Have you cruised public restrooms, rest areas or parks looking for sex with strangers?
Jeez, and I thought that last one was homophobic. (Admittedly this is pretty damn ooky for any sexuality, but it's such a gay-male stereotype that it feels like it was put in specifically for them.)

43. Do you believe casual or anonymous sex has kept you from having more long-term intimate relationships?
That's actually sort of a tough question. But I've been having long-term intimate casual sex... how does that work?

44. Has your sexual behavior has put you at risk for arrest for lewd conduct or public indecency?
Well, fortunately there weren't any cops at that beach... or that parking lot... or that campus quad...

45. Have you been paid for sex?
This is the same question as #36.


So I entered all my answers (which, you notice, are "no" on most of the really bad ones) into the dumb website, and... I'm a sex addict! I should seek help immediately! Or I might never know the loving light of Our Savior.

It's all funny until I realize that some people take this crap seriously. The idea that someone could sell this "having sexual feelings is pathological" bullshit for real money, and use it to destroy real families, is sickening.

D'oh.

Not Levora. Aviane. (generic for Alesse; 0.1 mg levonorgestrol, 20 µg ethinyl estradiol). Because it wasn't actually Levora the doctor prescribed, it was Lutera, only she wrote it wrong as "Luvera," which isn't even a real drug, so the pharmacy was like "huh?" and then they ended up substituting it instead of just correcting it and then there were a whole bunch of phone calls and fuck if I know, at least this stuff appears to be birth control of some sort.

I would not be entirely surprised if upon taking this stuff, my seasonal allergies are cured and I have a baby.

Friday, December 7, 2007

Controlled.

I just stated on the Pill. (Levora, 30 µg ethinyl estradiol and 0.15mg levonorgestrel, I've anecdotally heard that it's less likely to cause side effects than some other types.)

Slip off all you want, condoms, I'm babyproof. (I actually made the appointment before the incredibly minor incident, just because I wanted to be generally sure I wouldn't get pregnant. I'd definitely get an abortion if I did, but I really don't want to go through that.)

If it lowers my sex drive, I'm quitting. That's not really a lolhorny joke--I value my sex drive, and since the whole point of contraception is to have sex, low sex drive is one side effect I wouldn't accept. I like being horny, and I'm not giving that up for anything.

Ugly.

It may be surprising to the 0.1% of my readership that doesn't know me personally, but for all the fucking I do, I'm kinda ugly. I'm moderately overweight (and all in the belly, not in the tits and ass, so you can't even call me "curvy"), and I don't really make up for it in the face. I'm not comedy ugly, but if you saw me on the street and thought about it, you might figure I don't get laid much.

Of course, the truth is I get as much sex as I have time for. Brandon confessedly likes 'em chubby (oh, so he does have a kink, sort of--that's reassuring), and Jon doesn't really like the way I look but can accept it for the sake of a clean-living, intelligent 22-year-old who can take a flogging like a champ.

The guys are pretty damn ugly themselves, not that I care. I don't really go for good-looking. It's not sour grapes or low standards; it's just different standards. I may overlook beer bellies and odd-shaped faces, but I'm a merciless snob for funny, independent, and smart. And it's only gotten more so over the years. As the average lean muscle mass of my lovers has approached zero, the proportion of them with articles in national publications has approached one.

Call me a rationalizing uggo, but I've never found that my partner's appearance affects my sexual experience. Once I'm naked with someone, it's physical skills that matter. I don't have a more intense orgasm because I'm looking at a pretty face. (Half the time I'm looking at the pillow or the inside of a blindfold anyway...) I've fucked skinny and I've fucked fat, I've fucked track star and I've fucked web designer, and you know what? The fat web designer knows what to do with his hands.

I don't really worry about my appearance with the guys anymore. On our first dates I was insane about it, oh my God they'll take one look and very politely tell me "I'm just not feeling that connection", but then both our first dates ended in sex and invitations to second dates. After that I felt a little more sure of myself. It's only now, when I'm faced with meeting more new people, that I'm insecure again.

I'm smart. I'm funny. I'm a good driver. I'm good at medicine. I've got a little shelf full of movies with my name in the credits and literary journals with my poetry in them. I fuck like there's no fucking tomorrow. I'm all that and a bag of chips, man. But I ain't pretty. And sometimes I feel like pretty is everything.

Too damn bad I had to be a chick, huh?

Thursday, December 6, 2007

Oops.

The condom came off. Alan and I were fucking around, trying different positions, and at some point we noticed that things felt different. Pull out, look down, oh shit.

Well. He didn't come in me. We've both been tested for STDs. I just finished my period (less than four days from the start) so I'm probably not fertile. This may be a stupid-ass decision, but I'm not going to bother with Plan B when the odds are so low. I'm pretty damn sure I'm fine and nothing will happen.

As you can tell by all the protesting-too-much, I'm a little worried. I'm in that worry sweet spot where you'd feel stupid and neurotic doing something, but you feel all unsettled doing nothing.

I'll say this for modern sex education: it sure as hell can instill some healthy fear into you. As much as I love the cock, I've grown up being told that it's a dangerous thing. You can get pregnant if he doesn't come. You can get pregnant on your period. You can get pregnant from only once. All of these things are technically true. But I don't know how true. In an effort to keep the idiots from going "I can do it without a condom all the time if he don't squirt up in there!" or somesuch, they've left me with no sense of probability. Penises get you pregnant, end of story. I think it's incredibly unlikely in my case. I just wish I had some idea how unlikely. Roulette unlikely? Keno unlikely? Lotto unlikely? Probably somewhere between Keno and Lotto.

They ought to sell those damn things with waterproof tape or something. Maybe a cock ring. The kind that goes behind the balls. Ain't no way that puppy's going anywhere.

Wednesday, December 5, 2007

Sounding.

Phonebuddy Bruce just told me that he uses a sound on himself. I am impressed.

For anyone who doesn't know, a sound is a thin metal rod that a man inserts into his urethra. (NWS and a little queasy: a rather extreme example.) I've heard descriptions of the sensation ranging from "agony" to "an intense orgasm, only in slow motion." I've never heard anyone call it subtle.

I take back every whine I've ever had about doing everything. I've never met Bruce, but between this and his unabashed enthusiasm for being buttfucked (by women! he's not at all bisexual), I desperately want to play with him or someone like him. Something about the idea of a guy being penetrated is hopelessly sexy to me. Maybe because I know what it's like, maybe because I feel like it's more dominating, maybe just because.

I know better than to try to talk a guy into it or (yeek) spring it on him. But one of these days I am going to fuck a man in the ass, and before I die I am going to put a thin piece of metal into a man. I just have to find the guy who likes it. The only one I know is in Chicago, but if there's one thing I know about the human race it's that they're all kinky little bastards in one way or another. (Except Alan. Go figure.)

Someday I'll find my penetration-loving boy, and I'll get my wish. I just want to see the look on his face.

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

How to swallow cum.

My google search logs contain the following phrases:

dudes that swallow cum
"how to swallow cum"
cum though my nose
how to blowjob when you hate cum
how to make swallow cum
how to swallow cum
i don't like to swallow cum
swallow cum
what happens if i swallow cum
what happens when you swallow cum?

Apparently I am a semen-ingestion authority. The terrifying part is that at least some of these are from different people.

Well, to answer the main questions:
-You swallow it like you swallow any other substance. There is no skill. If you can eat, you can probably manage to swallow about a tablespoon of harmless, only mildly bad-tasting, hideously emotionally loaded fluid. Just fucking swallow.
-If you don't want to swallow (or if the person's STD status is positive or unknown), just fucking don't swallow. In the STD case you should be using a condom.
-Nothing at all happens. Sheeeesh.


(I never know what those girls expect the answer to be. "You gain forty pounds and you grow body hair and you get pregnant and get AIDS and then everybody knows what you did you filthy whore and you're ruined!", presumably.)

P.S.: It's spelled come, dammit.

Stormy Weather.

It snowed while I was working the graveyard shift. I got my last patient woken up for the morning and when I went outside the world was white. Unlike everyone else in Seattle, I can drive on snow, but I live fifteen miles and two steep hills from where I work. Benny lives less than a mile away. Safety first.

He opened the door half-asleep, and the first thing we did was stagger to his bed and fall asleep together. Sexy? Yes. It was, because there's few things sexier than waking up together.

Around noon I woke up, quite naked, cuddled up against naked Benny. There was a storm roaring outside, the wind howling down the hillside, snow and rain falling in turns. Benny was big and warm. For a while I just basked in him, every limb entwined, soaking up the heat. I started moving my hands over him, sleepy and languid, just stroking his body, his big meaty chest, his big meaty belly, his big meaty cock. Mmm.

I love morning hardons. They're so innocent. He didn't even mean to get it up and there it was, all ready for me to stroke it and suck it and he was barely awake by the time he was filling my mouth with his come.

We didn't get out of bed until two. Until he was ready to fuck again he kept me busy with his hands, kneading my breasts, slapping my thighs and ass, sliding fingers into my pussy. He can make me come faster than anyone with those hands--he gets three or four fingers inside me and bends them forward hard and I can't last thirty seconds. Except that I can, because he won't stop and I just come again and again and fucking again and my whole body was arched back and shaking and it was fucking amazing. Eventually I had to beg for him to stop because I was exhausted. He held me down and made me come one more time for spite's sake and then let me rest.

I didn't rest long. There's a fine line for me between utter sexual exhaustion and being desperate for more, and I crossed that line in about... twenty minutes? Coulda been fifteen. I got Benny hard again and started riding him. His bed has metal bars for a headboard (they make good tie points) and I was grabbing the bars for leverage, slamming his cock into me as hard as I could. I was already far too sensitive from what he'd done with his hands and it felt like more than it was, almost more than I could take, but I'd told myself I was going to make him come and by God I was not going to stop fucking him until he did. It was a good while later and we were both covered in sweat but he did, bucking and moaning and shoving me down onto his cock with his hands on my hips.

We showered, because we were pretty darn gross, and went to IHOP for brunch. (It was too late for brunch... brinner?) The special was "Pancake Surrender" and Benny ordered me to get it. I did. It was delicious. (We don't have the sort of relationship where he orders me what to eat, but you gotta make an exception for Pancake Surrender.)

We got back to the house. Benny took me into the living room and stripped me naked again, tying my hands behind my back and blindfolding me. He put clamps on my nipples and started hitting my breasts with the flogger. When it hit flesh it hurt; when it hit the clamps it FUCKING HURT YOU FUCKING BASTARD FUCK YOU. I don't really do verbal submission. More a defiant, swearing, standing-tall-in-the-face-of-pain submission. My feet were unbound and I could have just walked away. At one point it was too much and I almost did. Benny told me, "Get back here and stand still," and something in his voice was dark and terrifying. I did as he said and didn't walk away again. I just stood there and screamed.

After a long while of that he laid me face down on the couch and brought my feet up to my hands behind my back, hogtying me. It's a scary position just to be in; it's a really scary position to be horsewhipped in. It's hard to gauge time in a situation like that but I don't think I've ever taken a longer whipping. I wish I could say something like "but all the pain turned to pleasure", but it fucking didn't. It was pleasure but it was also pain, full strength, not muted by masochism or anything so tidy. It felt exactly like being hit with a goddamn horsewhip. It just also felt like something deeper and more amazing than the best orgasm of my life.

I was crying when he untied me. I wasn't angry at him--hardly!--just so overwhelmed with everything that I had to cry. He held me until I was myself again. For almost an hour after, we just lay together naked, nothing sexual, just talking and rolling around half-wrestling and a whole lot of tickling and giggling and kissing.

And after that we got to the buttfucking, which I've already described on the last post so I needn't repeat myself, right?

I went home and slept for thirteen hours. The snow was all melted when I woke up again.

Sunday, December 2, 2007

Assfucked!

Welp, today I lost my anal virginity. (My last "virginity" of even slight consequence. I guess I'm a Woman now. I feel so different.)

I was hilariously nervous, so I did it the most controlled way possible--tied Benny to the bed, hands out of my way, hips too tightly bound to thrust up at me--got him hard, lubed him up, gritted my teeth, and... it slid right in and felt rather nice. No pain, no poo, and to be honest, it felt surprisingly similar to getting fucked the regular way. It was good. He liked it too. It was fucking tight.

It gets talked up so much in some sex advice places. Enemas beforehand. One finger, two fingers, three fingers. Breathing exercises. Analgesic lube. Go so very very slow. An inch an hour. Space shuttle launch. When really... all I did was lube him up and slip him in and ride him good.

I didn't do it to any sort of completion (mostly because the position was awkward--buttfucking a guy from above is the fast-tempo squat exercise from hell), but next chance I get, I'm sure as hell going to.

And soon.

Saturday, December 1, 2007

Eventually I'll have nothing to lose.

When I get famous

cure cancer

I'll write my autobiography

and put all the sex stuff in.

Just a roleplayer.

I was reading some online BDSM communities and I was shocked how much discussion there was on this point: "It's not a real punishment if the slave wants to do it. Only spank them if they hate being spanked!"

...Wha? As my grandmother would say, "I'm not doing this for my health, buddy." (She's from New York, she's not the sweet knitting type of grandma.) If I want to be spanked you should spank me, and if I don't, you fucking shouldn't! There's no greater good to work towards here. It's sex.

Of course there's some unavoidable doublethink in BDSM. I certainly do say "oh no, please don't make me do that" (sometimes even without the sarcastic inflection) to Benny. Hell, sometimes I even say "make me do something I don't want to do." That's not winning any logic awards. Still, there's always underlying consent and enjoyment. The pretense is that he's mean to me because he's the big scary master, but in the real world, he's mean to me because I dig on it.

I guess I'm not a real submissive. All I can say is that I don't want to be. Not only would I not like punishments that didn't make my panties wet, but I would be pretty emotionally devastated to be sexually punished for anything in real life. I've hear people say that in a real dominance relationship, the BDSM makes the submissive a stronger person, but... if Jon hit me for losing my job, or for failing a class, or even for something more minor like saying something offensive or not making him dinner... I'd cry my way to the police station.

Treating submission like it's a game doesn't make me insincere. It makes me sane.



(I'm also not a real submissive because occasionally I tie Benny up and finger his ass and make him eat my pussy and bring him to the very brink of orgasm before backing off and leaving him to writhe, but that's beside the point.)

Mom.

I casually mentioned sleeping over at Alan's to my mom. I didn't think it would be a problem--she knows we've been together for several months and she's never given me any sort of "wait for marriage" speech.

"Oh," she said, "does he have a separate room or something for you to sleep in?"

I'm usually pretty demure discussing sex with my parents, but I couldn't help giving her a look. The look you give your dad when he tells you something is "what you kids would call 'radical'."

And then it got all awkward.


(Writing this blog has changed me. A few months ago, I would've averted my gaze and stammered or made up some lie about sleeping fully clothed on the sofa. But writing about sex every day has gotten me a lot more comfortable talking about it without giggling and blushing.)

Friday, November 30, 2007

"For relief of sore muscles."

You know you're having a tough week when you use your "back massager" on your actual back.

Dialing Chicago.

I've been fucking Bruce longer than Brandon or Jon, but I've never met him. He called me up out of the blue one day and we talked for hours and ended up having phone sex. Bruce was a sweet guy and although I'd never done it before, phonefucking turned out to be great fun. We've been phonebuddies for more than a year now.

It's a very difficult kind of sex. Because there's no way to establish a rhythm, no chance to do the same thing over and over until it works; you have to be constantly thinking of new acts and different scenarios. It's like having to write erotica in real time, with relatively low quality standards but insane speed-of-creativity expectations.

On the plus side, you can lie your ass off. "Oh baby, I got the chicken's entire upper body up there now... ooh, oooh... it's almost stopped thrashing..." Or "yeah, so there I was, thirteen years old, and the cheerleaders told me they were going to 'make me a woman', and then the first one started oiling her forearm..."

It's been a surprisingly intimate experience. Bruce went from telling me how hard he was gonna shove it up my ass to calling me when he needed moral support after crashing his car. We've been following each other's lives as well as sex lives. I know that he likes anal penetration (mine and his! ooh, that's fun) and I also know that he used to be in the Army but now he's studying for a chemistry degree while waiting tables at a steakhouse.

It's amazing how far he's been able to push me physically from two thousand miles away. I experienced my first (dildo) buttsex and my first (self) fisting under Bruce's highly specific direction.

The frequency of our little chats has gone down since I've gotten serious with Brandon and Jon, but it hasn't stopped. Sometimes there's nothing more fun than curling up in bed with the IP phone (no long distance charges!), putting on a big warm bathrobe I will claim to be skimpy lingerie, and dialing Chicago.

Thursday, November 29, 2007

Dream.

I dreamt that I was in a motel room naked on a bed with two men. One was normal-looking, even cute, and the other was deformed--giant and covered in tumors, something like the Elephant Man. I tried to start kissing the normal man, but the strange one pulled out a huge, horrifically malformed penis and tried to hold me down and rape me with it. I started screaming and woke up.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

It's not the flu.

I had a sore throat today, and for the longest time I couldn't figure out why. I wasn't congested, I wasn't feverish, I hadn't swallowed anything painful...

...Oh. Right. That's why.

I love having little reminders the day after.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Goodnight Kiss.

Went over to Alan's tonight, but due to a horrible misunderstanding ("I thought you were going to bring a box!" "I thought you had a whole bunch already!") we only had one condom. God damn did we get some mileage out of it though. Just pushed me down on my back and went at me missionary for twenty-five goddamn minutes. I couldn't count how many times I came. I just remember the deep groan and powerful jerks when he did.

For several hours, we just hung out, naked of course, cooking (we salvaged some Thanksgiving leftovers into a damn good turkey chili), and watching Intervention while drinking. "Thosh shtupid alcoholicsh! They'sh fuggin up their LIVESH!"

At the end of the night, he hugged me and I kissed him goodnight. That felt awfully good, so I kissed him again. And one more time for good measure.

"Oh, okay, you gotta stop, you're getting me turned on here."

"Oh no, I wouldn't want that." Suddenly I shoved him up against the wall and kissed him hard. We were both fully dressed but I dropped to my knees, yanked his pants down and started sucking his cock as hard and fast as I could, relishing the feeling of it sliding into my throat and the little gasps he was making above me.

We ended up in the bed, still nearly dressed, pants around our ankles but shirts on; I was wearing my leather jacket and boots. He shoved his fingers up my pussy as I wrapped my hand around his cock and we were belly to belly, face to face and making out passionately as we handfucked each other. My moans were going up into his mouth as he made me come.

I dropped my mouth to his cock again and he turned around, burying his face in my pussy and then using his fingers again as he lapped his tongue over my clit and I came again, dammit, shaking and screaming and the poor boy hadn't even had one yet.

Finally it was just him on his back in the bed, my hands pinning his wrists down by his side as my mouth frantically worked his cock, and he started groaning and squirming, thrusting up with his hips to the back of my throat until at last he filled my mouth with his come and I swallowed it down.

I kissed him goodnight, one last time.

Monday, November 26, 2007

"If I do say so myself."

I think one of my main assets in bed is that I'm really good at making the person fucking me feel like they're incredible in bed.

Not deliberately, mind you, I'm just... easy to please. And rather vocal about it.



(Man, sometimes even I'm embarassed about the shit that comes out of my mouth when the slider gets pushed from "polite appreciation of partner's skills" to "random swear words and monosyllables." Although the other day Alan did tell me "I want to shove my pussy in your cock... wait, no...", so I'm not the only one who has trouble there.)

Snarking Cosmo.

I'm in an easy-target sort of mood. (I'll break my agonizing nearly-two-week dry spell tonight and then we can go back to horny details.) And Cosmopolitan sex tips (second page) are the very easiest of targets.

1. "Gosh, being wet and slippery with you does nothing for me, honey... unless the water smells like grandma's perfume, then it's hot as hell."
2. He'll practically bust out of his pants laughing if I say that. Also if I jam my hand in there only to find that I can't reach his cock. "No, no, honey, I dress to the left."
3. That doesn't sound even slightly awkward.
4. "Oh baby, oh baby, you make me so tachy"
5. Actually, not bad ideas, except that the pretend-it's-a-hotel theme is pretty goofy. If I'm pretending my room is something it's not, by God it's going to be a spaceship.
6. Technically, it's 2-D, just mapped to a cylindrical surface. But, yeah, the idea's okay.
7. It's gotten to the point where when Brandon sees me revving up to an orgasm, he puts his hand over my mouth, so that he might have a hope of ever making eye contact with a neighbor again.
8. Solid ideas, although the idea that this is groundbreaking news to someone breaks my heart. Also, I like the metal ones.
9. Creeeeepy.
10. Wait, uh, so I'm just supposed to sit there and huff on it for a while? Huh.
11. That's not a tip, that's a basic position. You can't just give reverse cowgirl a stupider name and make it a "tip"! Geez.
12. Okay, now kissing is a tip.
13. HAHAHAHA. (Not that I don't dance naked when I'm alone. But it doesn't make me more body-adjusted, it makes me more ridiculous.)
14. "So, um, baby, are we going to do it? I mean, today?"
15. If you can carefully control your breathing at that point, the battle is already lost.
16. I was with this until they got to pasta. I guess tortellini maybe, but ugh, can you imagine trying to sexily hand-feed someone spaghetti?
17. Okay, now being an obnoxious attention whore is a tip.
18. No, sleeping with other people is how I get the having-an-affair thrill. Much more effective.
19. This one is actually kinda hot.
20. Pillows? Jesus, if I'd actually bought the magazine and paid four bucks for "The best sex tips ever!", I would be so pissed to find out that freaking pillows are a tip.

I should do a list of "Holly sex tips", but the experience might be humbling.

Sunday, November 25, 2007

Woof.

I've attempted doggy-style (that's an icky name, by the way) sex with three different men and not one has succeeded. I'm not sure why. Am I doing it wrong? Or is it possible to just have anatomy that doesn't work that way?

Lots of other positions, including some fairly tangled ones, don't do me wrong. It's just that I really like the idea of being on my hands and knees with a man seizing me from behind... and not the part where he goes "uh, honey, I can't get it in from here."


(The physical problem seems to be that no matter which way I put my hips, my vagina goes up and down instead of back to front. I can't tell if this is because I'm positioning myself wrong or because my vagina naturally points in a strange direction.)

Friday, November 23, 2007

I don't expect sympathy.

"Hi babe, it's Holly, just wondering if..."
"I'm down in Tacoma with my parents for Thanksgiving. I'll be back up on Monday, see ya then, kay? Bye hon!"

"Hey, it's Holly, are you..."
"Oh hi Holly, I'm in California right now for Thanksgiving. How's the weather up there?"


How did I ever go more than a year without sex? Suddenly I can't take a week. (The Wednesday before last, Jon tied me down on my knees and held my head down on his cock for as long as I could go without breathing. But that's just so much misty memories...)

Should I admit I masturbated three times today? Is that sad? I mean, I had the day off, and Black Friday made it impossible to go a lot of places, and... I have a really really high sex drive. I could resist, but there wasn't a reason I should. Other than how embarrassing it would be if I told the Internet about it. But I'm used to that.

Marriage.

My parents didn't marry until a couple years ago. They've lived together for thirty years, worn rings for each other, raised me and my sister together, shared their finances, gone to PTA meetings together, and all that. But for twenty-eight years their relationship had no legal standing.

...I guess that means they should've been practicing abstinence? Instead they not only threw away their purity, they added to the population of poor unfortunate out-of-wedlock babies! Tsk, Mom and Dad, TSK.


I'm against gay marriage. I'm also against straight marriage. I just don't think that there should be penalties and rewards--or any kind of legal recognition--of private relationships. I may end up doing it someday if it's financially advantageous, but it's wrong. Not just to gay people but to single people, to people in bad marriages, to people who love more than one person, to people who love one person of the opposite gender but still don't benefit from making it legal.

I'm still going to have a Jewish wedding, of course. (My parents did, thirty years ago.) Defying The System is one thing; defying a Jewish grandmother is... suicide.

Thursday, November 22, 2007

Thanks.

I can't move right now. That's not some kinky bondage thing; it's my sister's cooking. She put two sticks of butter in the mashed potatoes. A stick of butter on the turkey. A stick of butter in the pumpkin pie. I think I just ate a pound of butter. It was amazing. My sister's awesome.

So I'm thankful for... butter. No, no, this is my sex journal. Butter is sexy. Mmm.

I'm thankful for good friends, good lovers, and the two boys who've been both to me over the last several months. I'm thankful for kisses and hugs and spanks and fucks. I'm thankful for backrubs and home-cooked soup and stories about Grandpa's times in the War. I'm thankful for waking up together at 11:00 on a Sunday morning and realizing we don't have a damn thing to do until 2:00. I'm thankful for teaching me and pleasing me and listening to me and holding me.

Thanks, dudes.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Welcome.

The first time Benny tied me up, I had my underwear on. I hadn't brought my toybag, so we were stuck with what he had--toy handcuffs and about five feet of clothesline. (N00b.)

I was nervous, and made two things clear--no hurting me, no taking off his underwear. Not on my first time. I was green enough to be making dumb little "don't steal my wallet, kay?" comments.

He laid me down in the middle of the bed, on my back, and handcuffed me to the headboard. He tied my feet, spread, to the foot of the bed.

And all he did that first time was touch me. He started at my feet, stroking them, gently petting and massaging him way up my legs and at the top of my thighs, when I was already dying for him to just stop everything and fuck me, he just barely skimmed a single finger across the surface of my panties and moved on. He stroked up my belly almost reverently, over my breasts with only a quick squeeze to make me gasp, and ended at my face, his fingers in my mouth, and I carefully sucked and licked each one.

His hands went back to my breasts, grabbing them again, feeling my nipples hard through the bra and stroking them, bending down to lick at the exposed tops of my breasts.

Then, his body entirely on top of mine, he reached his hand down between my legs and didn't go under my panties but rubbed me hard through them. There wasn't a lot of technique but he put pure muscle on my cunt and I came quickly.

He had me untied before my breathing could slow down.

"Welcome to bondage," he said.

And then we both cracked up laughing pretty hard.

Self-portrait with rope and no face.



Small tits, big arms, a hogtie Houdini would break a sweat on, and goodwill towards men.


Oh, and if you stop breathing I know five different ways to fix that.

Full Frontal Feminism.

I just read Jessica Valenti's Full Frontal Feminism, an eminently reasonable and plain-spoken explanation of why young women today still need feminism. It's written from a very down-to-earth, mostly heterosexual (but not heteronormative!) perspective, and it manages to be non-academic without being stupid, if you know what I mean and that's not a common feat in this type of book.

In the past, I've been a little wary of feminism, because my initial exposure was way too academic and way too unrealistic. No, I don't feel that my life is unbearably suffused with phallic energy, and no, I don't believe that the world used to be a utopian matriarchy, and no, I don't think that having sex with boys--including nasty filthy sex, including sex on camera--is betraying the Sisters.

Fortunately it turns out that these things are not necessary to be a feminist. What is necessary is a desire for honest equality, and the understanding that it hasn't happened yet. To be honest it's the second part that I was slower to get to. I mean, I hold a job, I go to school, I vote, nobody ever says to my face that "you can't do this, you're a girl", so what was the big deal? Beer ads?

Actually, yeah, beer ads are a small part of it, but the main thing is a pervasive cultural mindset. It has very real, very obvious effects like women earning less than men and women being denied contraception and given abstinence education. And just the general idea--the feeling you can get from media and politics and casual conversation that men are people and women are a weird subcategory of people. It's everything from talk about "women voters" (men are just voters) to the reason this site doesn't feature my face and last name. (Not that a man could, but someone who didn't talk about sex could. And anti-sex sentiments are directly connected to anti-feminist ones.)

So I guess I'm a feminist because I'd like to be a person, not just a woman. Yeah, we're closer to the ideal than we were in the 1950's; no, we ain't nearly there yet.

And I'm also a feminist because I like to fuck, and I resent everything and everyone that would make that a secret shame. I fuck not to make marriages or babies but simply to fuck, and I am sick and fucking tired of the government and beer ads and my friends and fucking Cosmopolitan telling me there's something wrong with that.

I love men. I love them as partners and as friends and as people. I just want to be 100% certain that I'm people too.


(At least 50% of the people who read this know my face and last name. And home phone number for that matter. But it's the principle of the thing, okay?)

Monday, November 19, 2007

New Rope!

I bought new rope!


Lovely soft slinky silvery snakey rope!


Sexy rope!


Beautiful rope!

I just say "yes" and talk about Alan, but I'm a coward.

"So, do you have a boyfriend?" my coworkers ask me. They're just making idle chitchat. But to give the honest answer ("Two!") would make people extremely uncomfortable and could lose me my job if it's seen as an inappropriately sexual disclosure.

("Girlfriend, actually" probably wouldn't get me fired, but I bet it would lead to awkwardness.)

It's such an intrusive question anyway. Not that I mind sharing with the world, but when people clearly don't want me to share too much... then why are they asking me about my sex life?

Yeah, "boyfriend" is as much a social thing as a sexual one, but if I say I have social relationships with two guys and leave the rest tastefully implied, I still don't think that's gonna fly.


Why is a girl with one boyfriend dating him, and a girl with two boyfriends fucking them?

Saturday, November 17, 2007

"How To Swallow Cum, Even Though You Hate It!"

This is kind of insane.
Mean snarky comments on some of the weirder ones:

2. "Sharp sensation"? I've never blown someone who ejaculated Drano.
5. Yes, it would be far more comfortable to do something that will make the blowjob last five freaking hours.
8. Ewwwwwww. It does taste kind of like mucus I admit, but is "sweet mucus" really an improvement there?
18. Won't it come out my nose?
22. Good God, they're trying to make receiving blowjobs into an entire lifestyle. "Sorry, I can't have that, it's not on my blowjob diet."
36. This explains that scene in Spider-Man.
42. This is awesome.
47. Urk.
61. And if your scrotum was full of donuts, this would make sense!
63. No one tell Jon about this one. He likes to do this kind of shit. I mean, I like it, but still. He doesn't need more ideas on how to push my gag reflex.
77. And while you're at it, try not to get any semen down your duct of Bellini! It's a bitch to clean it out of there.
82. Semen is alkaline because the vagina is acidic. (Ladies: if you find yourself fizzing after sex, this is why.) It has to be or babies would not get conceived. So no, "bleachiness" is not possibly something you can correct. It's a feature, not a bug!
97. URK.

Anyway, I never really needed a special diet or technique, because I'm not high-maintainence and prissy and disgusted by healthy human biology just pretty laid-back about it. The only goofy thing I tend to do is kiss him right after. Because I like my boys to be unprissy as well.

Sex is like camping--it's a lot more fun if you don't care how dirty it gets. No one likes that one girl who puts makeup on in the tent and whines when there's no place to plug in her hair straightener.

Birthdays.

"Wow, seems like everyone has a birthday in November. What's nine months before that? February? Why are people fucking in February?"

"Valentine's Day."

"Oh, good point. It seems like there's that, and then there's a lot of people conceived in the summer. Nice fucking weather in June and July."

"I wonder if we could correlate July conceptions with fenced back yards..."

"Not everyone thinks the way you do, Holly."

"Shame."

Friday, November 16, 2007

Naked Time.

When I go over to Alan's house, we haven't seen each other in days, maybe even a week, so of course we have to have sex right away. The first time is quick and utilitarian. But afterwards, if we're not planning to go out, we don't get dressed.

We just spend the next several hours together, ass-naked, hanging out. (Heh... "hanging out.") We read, cook, watch TV (we're big on schadenfreude reality shows like "Intervention", or anything of the format "World's Deadliest... Caught on Tape!"), play video games, nap--always naked, always in physical contact.

It's a nice feeling, not really a sexual one, but incredibly primally nice, to have warm skin pressed against your own. It's worth savoring. It's also a little arousing. At the end of naked time we have a lot of sex.

I guess you could do that every day if you were married. I wonder how many people do though. There's probably some cooling-off period after which you start wearing clothes or it's just gross.

Terms of Endearment.

"Cocksucker."
"Asshole."
"Slut."
"Pervert."
"Whore."
"Pig."
"Cum dumpster."

"...heh."

"Honey!"
"Aw, Punkin."

Thursday, November 15, 2007

FEAR.

I got photographed for something called "The FEAR Project", about sexual assault. I didn't really mean to; they had a tent up and were actively soliciting passerby, explained very briefly that I'd be Fighting For The Sistahs and shoved a model release in my hands and a lens in my face. Smile, snap, thank you ma'am.

A few weeks later I saw the final display (which didn't contain my picture, they photographed a zillion people and only displayed about twenty photos), which consisted of various community-member portraits interspersed with text about how "sexual abuse affects us all." It's not that I disagree, but... the title of the project, combined with the shots' tendency to show people looking scared or hurt, kind of bothered me. Because these weren't portaits of sexual assault victims, just of people. The message seemed to be "we are all afraid."

FUCK THAT.

I am not afraid. Not because I live and work in safe neighborhoods, not because I take Krav Maga and carry mace, not even because one of my closest friends is a Washington State Patrolman (and avid gun collecter). It's not situational like that. It's because... I could get grandiose, but frankly it's because I'm just stupid enough.

I'm stupid enough to put my vulnerabilities out of mind and live my life as if I were in a First World country with internal peace and the rule of law. I'm stupid enough to think that fear is an assault commited upon me only if I allow it. I'm stupid enough to think that going out and speaking my mind and being sexual are fundamental rights, and if I wouldn't let them be outlawed by the entire government I'm sure as hell not letting some goon (who may not even exist) scare me out of them.

And I'm stupid enough to think "I'm only going to live once, and won't I feel stupid about all those missed opportunities if it turns out I die of a heart attack?"

Maybe I should be afraid. Maybe a little caution would save me a lot of pain and humiliation someday. Hey, isn't walking with a male escort or shutting up about your stupid kinky sex life an awfully small sacrifice compared to what an assailant or a stalker could do? But fuck it. I'm not talking about should. I'm talking about am.

And I am not fucking afraid. Of anything.

Seeya later, I'm gonna go swimming with alligators now.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Shirt.

When I was very young, a friend of mine told me that the first time you have sex with a guy, he gives you his shirt. It's a ritual, she said.

I haven't discovered any guys who know this ritual, so I've just had to steal their shirts.

Well, not steal. Borrow. Borrow and invariably sleep in, basking in their scent. Every guy I've been with has had a very distinct smell. It's not something you can notice until you're sex-close and they're all sweated up, but smells are as unique as faces. Alan's is smoky and deep, the smell of vice; Jon's is alkaline, very like semen, explicitly sexual. Kevin's was pure sweat, a runner's stink. (Alan wears Old Spice and Benny wears Axe, which is... so thematically perfect it shouldn't be real.)

I give the shirt back, but when I do, it's got my own smell on it. A little interest on the loan.

The heaviest flannel jammies in the world aren't half as warm on a cold night as the dirty cotton t-shirt of That Boy I Like.


P.S. Stingray: you ruined my rope. A pox on your house.

Monday, November 12, 2007

Snapshots.

It's all reducible to still frames. There was motion in reality, but it was mostly back and forth, and there were words, but they were mostly stupid. I mean, they seemed hot at the time, but if you read a transcript back to me now, I would want to hide in a hole.

Me, facing an undecorated white wall, fully clothed, him seizing me from behind.

Me, on my knees, vibrator shoved up my cunt and held in place with rope, cock down my throat, a whip landing harshly on my back. Silently telling myself "You like this kind of thing. You asked to do this. I think you're even liking it right now."

Me, bent over his knee like a naughty child, being brought to orgasm by the most subtle motions of his fingers.

Him, now, hogtied wrists to ankles, leaned forward on his knees, mouth buried in my pussy as I lean back on a plushy couch and just relax with it. I can't get off on it, true, but that just means it can last as long as I'd like.

Him, sitting on that couch now and tied to it, me straddling his knees like a lapdance, except that this lapdance is no tease, no pantomime of what could have been. Believe me, buddy, it is.

Me, bent over the arm of the couch, whip landing on my ass, losing count of the strokes, panicking, screaming "Stop, stop," and he doesn't, that wasn't the safeword and we both know it, and I'm saying it clearer and calmer, using the authoritative voice I use on violent patients,"No. STOP." but that still isn't the safeword and he doesn't.

Me, still shoved down over that armrest, his whole hand inside me, a kind of pain in itself but not one I'd stop for the fucking world and he doesn't even have to do anything, God it's ecstasy just from the tiny movements of my hips and it doesn't fucking end.

Both of us, lying on the carpet side by side and hand in hand, kissing, giggling, teasing each other about the goofy shit we just did, kissing some more and promising to do it all again next time.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

(They're software developers.)

"Welp, I better wash up before I go out with the guys."

"Yeah. Wouldn't want them to smell all that pussy on you."

"Honey, these guys don't know what pussy smells like."

Hite.

I've been reading Shere Hite's The Hite Report about female sexuality. It's interesting, but I'm amazed how little of it applies to me. One of her major points is "most women don't orgasm from intercourse," and then there's a ton of testimonies from women who don't and a long explanation of why they don't and a lot of ideas of what would make a woman orgasm. And it means nothing to me except that I'm in the minority.

I come during sex. I come from sex, with no special attention on my clit. I have orgasms while I'm getting fucked, because I'm getting fucked. And I don't even like receiving oral sex that much. (I wouldn't say no to any you've got lying around, but it doesn't get me off. It's too gentle.)

It's amazing how many women don't have orgasms at all. I have one, on estimate, every other day, and average maybe four or five each time I'm with a guy. I am an orgasm factory. And apparently a freak of nature. I can't pretend to be upset about that, but it's strange to think about. I always assume my experiences are the experiences anyone could have if they just tried.


P.S.: Does anyone know how to do a "cut" in Blogger (posting a long post behind a link)? There's a really interesting in-depth survey at the end of Hite's book, and I'd like to go through it with my own answers, but it'll be be extremely long and I don't want to stuff all that on the front page. How could I do this?

P.P.S.: Also, does anyone know how to wash rope? Mine's starting to smell kinda... well-loved. Like the Velveteen Rabbit. Only horrible.

Thursday, November 8, 2007

Outside the codes.

I wish our words for emotions weren't package deals. I wish "love" meant "really like." Because I love Alan. I don't want to be with him forever and I don't want to marry him or have his babies. I just love him in the sweet, casual, almost fuckbuddy way we have things now. I wish I could say "I love you" and not have it mean "I want to own you."

If women are always watching out for sexually-predatory men, men seem to always be watching out for love predator women.

I'm not hunting a man. I'm not setting a trap with pussy as the bait. The pussy is its own reward, and it makes me so fucking happy. Happier than "empty" sex is supposed to.

I don't love my fuckbuddy boyfriend because I've lost my boundaries. I love him for being my fuckbuddy.

Birthday!

I'm twenty-two years old today! Hot damn!

Had some hot damn pre-birthday sex, too. Alan is the Lotus Elise of lovers--he only does one thing but he does it really, really, really well. No cargo space, no cupholder, no bud vase... just straight vaginal missionary done within a tenth of a millimeter of perfect.

We got in bed. He gave me almost no foreplay; I don't always need it. Knowing I would see him tonight and and thinking about it all day was the foreplay. (And so, in its own way, was the discomfort from starting when I was a little unready. I kinda dig that.) He just slammed his cock in me and that was that. I hooked my legs around his thighs, pulling myself up to him, doing my damndest to fuck him from underneath.

And we just fucked. There's nothing to tell you about, no bizarre adventures; just good hard steady fucking and I kept coming but it didn't fucking stop. The first time I came I went limp and panting for a moment but he didn't break his stride and I had no choice but to recover fast and keep going. But each time I came was harder than the time before. Until finally, maybe the fifth time, I started coming and didn''t stop. It just kept going, an endless explosion, an instant of pure bliss dragged out for thirty seconds until I collapsed completely, unable to even speak.

He never did come. (Well, that time; we'd had less remarkable sex earlier in the evening, but he missed out on a second orgasm.) I feel kind of bad about that. I couldn't go on with the sex and he couldn't finish in my mouth or his hand. He told me he didn't mind though, it was worth it just to see me. I'll take him on his word there.

I couldn't find my panties afterward. Had to go home commando. It's just as well though. When I come back to pick up my undies, I can make him do that again.

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

Of course, sex is a mutual decision and not something the woman makes the man "earn." Right?

I've worked 33 hours over the last three days. 33 goddamn hours of lifting and turning and pushing and pulling the hundred-plus-pound dead weights we call "our valued customers." (I kid! I love sick crazy people! They're my best friends! Actually many of them are very sweet. But it doesn't make them weigh less.)

Tonight, I'm finally off work, and I'm going to go spend the night with Alan.

If he wants sex, that boy is going to backrub like he never backrubbed before.

Tuesday, November 6, 2007

Taming the fantasy (to death).

I want to be raped.

Okay, now, I don't want to be raped by a stranger, they might have diseases or something and they might smell funny and they might not be cute. So it should probably be someone I already know. Someone I'm already sleeping with, really.

And I don't care if it hurts a little but I'm not that good a masochist so I don't want it to hurt a lot, and I definitely don't want it to, you know, do damage. So I guess we could fight a little but when it comes to the actual fucking he should just be kinda rough. Of course I'll have no control over the situation because he'll be forcing me to bend to his will, but his will should be to fuck me good and hard but be very careful about it.

And the whole resisting thing I think might be creepy, so I won't overdo it. I'll just play at resisting a little bit, kinda wrestle with him, but make it real clear I'm giving in and I actually like it. Otherwise I'm just going to hurt both our feelings. Also I need a safeword of course, and if I have any little adjustments he needs to make in the middle of my rape he should listen to those. And afterwards we'll cuddle of course, just to reaffirm that it was all play and there's no hard feelings.

Oh yeah. I want to be raped.

Monday, November 5, 2007

You know how it is?

I very often have the feeling that I'm faking an orgasm at the exact moment that I am also having an orgasm.

Saturday, November 3, 2007

Sister's Doin' it for Herself.

Masturbation is interesting only because it's everything about sex that doesn't matter. It's all the physical pleasure and release that I can going to get out of a sex act, but it lasts ten minutes and means nothing. I don't come out of it happy, or affectionate, or laughing. Just sleepy and suddenly disinterested in whatever I was using as porn. (I've actually thrown good porn away during that "Now this is boring and slightly disgusting to me!" post-orgasm time. Very stupid.)

And for all my near-compulsive sexual explorations with partners, I masturbate in exactly the same way I did when I was twelve years old. Lying face down on a mattress, left hand cupped over clitoris, right hand on left breast, thrust hips against hand until porn becomes boring. It only works that one way. I can't do it sitting up, I can't do it on my back, I can't do it with my right hand.

So there is a physical difference between masturbation and sex. A guy can get me off in near to any position and with a wide variety of techniques. And frankly, even if I don't like him it still feels better. Sex and selfsex are different things for reasons that have nothing to do with fuzzy emotions, they have to do with the difference between a quiet sigh into my pillow and a fullthroated scream over his shoulder. I don't know why.

I just wish it worked the same way for guys. Obviously they do get something out of it, at least visually and mentally, but I've had a few tell me that getting their dick worked feels almost the same no matter what's doing it.

Male readers, please tell me "WHAT THE HELL THAT'S TOTALLY NOT TRUE" because otherwise I'll feel so sad for men.

Monday, October 29, 2007

Like a shark, can't hold still.

Is it possible to have the same sex and still enjoy it? Can you do it with no novelty in technique or dynamics and get anything out of it?

I'm asking because my unconscious answer seems to be "no." I'm on a treadmill (or, less generously, a slippery slope) of sexual acts. If I was spanked last week, this week I want to be beaten. And the next week horsewhipped. Which will lead me, in about two months, to "We haven't tried disembowelment-play yet, honey..." (Everything is okay if you follow it with "-play.")

I have an iota of common sense, so that won't literally happen, although I may go further in the direction of disgusting and degrading than is good for me. What will happen is that I'll hit the wall. I'll get to the point where I've exhausted the possibilities and I can't have sex that I haven't had before.

Then I'm going to have to do one of two things (probably a bit of both, actually):

1) Learn to enjoy things besides novelty. There's phsyical pleasure and intimacy and you don't build up a tolerance to those. The seventy-eighth time you see a man's eyes roll up into his head and feel his muscles inside and out of you tighten and throb for an instant before exploding into orgasm is just as good as... not the first, maybe, but just as good as the third or fourth, and that's still pretty damn good.

2) Realiize that you can't cross the same river twice. The gross mechanics may be the same, but the fine details and the mental/emotional trappings never are. The moments never repeat. "I gave him oral?" Been there three hundred times.
But:
"I looked up and saw his eyes had been locked on mine. I also saw he was starting to lose his balance. I carried him down to the floor with me and as I got back into my rhythm of breaths and thrusts he seized my ass and pulled my cunt over his mouth..." That kind of thing is new every time.



There's a well-known sex/BDSM club with a relatively low skeeve factor in town and I've visited a couple times. I suppose I should join but I just never make the commitment. Partly because the median age is kind of "hi there, dad," but partly because I don't want a community. I like being a little furtive, a little unhealthy, a little freaky. Nothing ruins the illusion of being an outlaw like going to a "spanking enthusiasts social."

Sunday, October 28, 2007

Prisoner of Love.

I got to Jon's house, said hi, and started taking off my boots.

"Take off your socks too," he said. I did. "Face the door and take off all of your clothing." I did. "Hands behind your back."

He handcuffed me, then blindfolded me, and started to lead me up the stairs.

One of these days I'll learn to take these things seriously, but that wasn't the day. "You've got all your friends up there, don't you?" I asked. And as I walked up the stairs slightly awkwardly, him pushing me along and me acutely aware that if I tripped I would land on my face: "This is just like summer camp!"

It was just like summer camp, because when we got upstairs, he had me stand still and for a second there was nothing. I couldn't hear him or feel him. Then suddenly he knocked me backward, and I fell down... about three inches and landed on a mattress, giggling my fool head off.

After that he switched my handcuffs out for rope and clamped up my nipples and beat me and fucked me and all that. But it was those first few moments, stumbling along blind and naked like some sort of sexy war prisoner, that stick with me. Not as the sexiest, but the most fun. There's something about the combination of childish roleplay and real vulnerability (and delicious, uncertain anticipation) that makes me feel just so damn lucky to have experienced it.


Unrelated Comment: People who express their sexuality through capitalization are D/dorks.

Saturday, October 27, 2007

Casting the first stone.

"Come on, why are we judging her? You and I, we've both put things up our asses."
"Yeah, but not five Sharpies..."
"...And not on the Internet."

Thursday, October 25, 2007

Hitting the wall.

The difficulty with keeping a personal sex blog, I'm finding out, is that sex isn't really all that interesting. How many variations can I find on:

"I went to a dude's house and we smooched then took our clothing off. Then he touched my breasts and I touched his penis, then he touched my vagina. Then he hit me some because I'm psycho. Then he put his penis in my vagina, then took it partway out, then put it all the way back in, a whole bunch of times until we were done. Then I had angst."

As far as acts, there's really only so far I go. (Well, I did get forced to eat my own menstrual blood last night [seriously, no joke], but do you really want to hear about that? Possibly you do. There was nothing physically unpleasant or horrifying about it at all except for the little voice screaming "WHAT HAVE I BECOME?!?" in my head. I think there's a tiny nun in there.) It's not possible for me to do anything that hasn't been done before, and unless you're eight years old and homeschooled it's not possible for me to do anything you haven't heard about before.

But sex was never about acts. Sex is about people and emotions and politics and creativity, and those are very deep wells, even within the boundaries of my own little life. "Hey he got it up my ass" may not be interesting, but "why do we feel the way we do about asses?" has endless potential.

Or maybe I should just post moar tits.

Laid-back friendly casual whipping.

Benny got some new toys. A very mean and pinchy set of nipple clamps (holy crap do I love that feeling), and a riding whip. It's like a riding crop, except that on the end of it, instead of a flat slapper, there's a little knotted string. It huuurrrts.

The first time he used it on me tonight was too much. He tied me spreadeagle, blindfolded me, messed around with me a bit to get me good and horny, put the nipple clamps on me, and laid into me... rather gently at first but even a little bit of that whip is a lot. It was the first time that I was glad we had a safeword, because I was yelling "No no no," "Please stop," just instinctually. I didn't mean it, or I'd have used the safeword. I just couldn't help saying it. And eventually, far too soon, I reached the point where I couldn't take any more. I wasn't physically worn out, I was just too freaked. I'd been yanking on the bonds, rolling as far away as I could within a tight spreadeagle, making horrible faces and noises and feeling far too much fear.

(I can't believe the above paragraph is real, by the way. A year ago it would have been a mere fantasy I never expected to realize. Five years ago it would've been horrifying.)

He stopped, of course, and we had a good time doing other things. Afterwards, though, I wanted to feel that whip. I suggested something we'd never done before.

"How about we don't do all the bullshit? Don't tie me up, don't make me submit, I'll just take my clothes off and you'll whack me with it, okay?"

I've long been a fan of hanging around chatting and idly fucking, but this was idly whipping. He was sitting on the big king bed and I was on my stomach beside him, and for something like a half hour we just talked and every few seconds he would swat me on my back or ass or the soles of my feet. It didn't hurt less, but being more free meant I could take more. It was heavenly.

We laughed at the long red welts on my ass and then we made more of them.

Anticipation.

"I might get laid tonight" is a much, much sexier thought than "I know I'll get laid tonight."

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Young Love.

When I was fifteen, my twenty-one-year-old boyfriend told me he loved me. In hindsight I still believe it. It wasn't a very mature and healthy love, certainly (I tried to run away with him, it ended in missing person reports and restraining orders), but I really don't think it was a lie. He was my best friend and he was a giant creep, but he wasn't a liar. I loved him. Goofy fifteen-year-old "me an mah bf is soulmates!" love, but it felt real.

When he broke up with me (three months after the drama, no mere court order can keep a teenage girl from her Twoo Wuv), it was possibly the most humiliating moment of my life. I screamed, I threatened suicide, and I tried to seduce him into staying with me. It was Crazy Chick Greatest Hits. He had to literally pull my hands out of his pants and push me away to break up with me.

I met back up with the guy once when I was nineteen. We spent a weekend together in bed and then went our separate ways again. We didn't mention the love or the craziness at all the whole time. I didn't get "closure" (fuck, I still faintly miss him; it doesn't make me cry at night but now and then I think that I'd still take him back any day), but it didn't make me feel worse. At least we got to part on amicable grounds with a nice hug and kiss instead of hideous histrionics.

Am I over him? No, or I wouldn't be posting this. I'm dating other guys and I'm getting on with my life, but... man, I still believe it was love. There was a lot of sex mixed in (we took each others' virginities and fucked like crazy bunnies every time we saw each other for the next nine months or so) (he had a goddamn NINE INCH COCK), but I don't miss that. The guys I'm seeing now are more skilled and sophisticated about it anyway. The only thing they can't do for me is tell me they love me. And there are good, sane reasons for this--Jon is just a fuckbuddy, Brandon has only known me about three months--and I don't really want them to love me. I just want to be loved.

Wah wah wah. I also want to be a doctor and have kids and buy my own house, and I'll wait for love and work up to it just like I'm working up to those things. Love is one of the big rewards in life and shouldn't be quick and cheap. At my age I have no more right to cry about being unloved than I do about not owning a corporation.


Why is all this going in my sex journal? I promise the next two entries will be nothing but steamy fucking with nary a girly whine. By way of apology.