I admit it. My virtue is running thin…transparent even. I want to do things that I know are wrong, but at this point, I’m one thigh caress shy of earning my own scarlet letter.
Can one earn a scarlet letter even if they’re not the one who’s doing the cheating? Is it kind of like guilt by association?
Are you all sitting there reading this wondering just what I’m getting at? Ok, let me explain.
You might remember my racy sexting adventures with my running friend that I wrote about several months ago in a post aptly titled “Adventures in Sexting and Why I Love The Art of the Flirt“, and if not, you should go read it now. you will love it, this I can assure you. Now, my flirty friend has a girlfriend. I know she exists, and while we’re only acquaintances, I can assess that she seems like a good human. I would never want to cause her any undue hurt. Despite this, I want to straddle her man and ride him dizzy, and this want is real and growing.
However, I also have a conscience that tells me acting on this thought is wrong. My inner cricket has spent a lot of time shaking his finger at me lately when these thoughts cross my mind. I think he’s due for a raise or something because he sure seems to be taking his job as guardian of my morality pretty damn seriously. Trust me, I’m not attempting to justify what I may or may not do in the future. I will do as I do, and the only one that has control of my choices is me. Here I am venting my inner “angel” and “devil” debate to you all. I’m sure I’m not the only one who wrestles with this inner dichotomy. Right? Anyone? Hello?
In this situation (and many like it) if something were to happen and down the line, our transgressions outted, I lose. I’ll be the slut, the bad guy, the one responsible for it all, no matter whether or not his part was equal to mine. That’s how it is, it’s the way it always has been. I’d be the Eve that made him take a bite of my apple, single-handedly destroying his virtue with single bound. The woman has always been the one to blame for it all since the beginning of time, and the man gets forgiven because “that’s just what men do”. Never mind that he would be equally responsible, or the master of his own choices. It’s this double-standard that I dislike the most. Once again, no matter what, the woman is the slut.
I risk losing more, even though I’m not the one who has monogamous commitments to another person. In that area I am scott free. I’m just not sure I’m willing to risk the possibility of being alienated by mutual friends, and being shamed with an invisible, though ever-present red letter “A” on my chest. Is the possibility of a seriously good romp worth it?
It would probably be most truthful to say that if it wasn’t for this risk, I’d have fucked him already. I still say it’s a wonder I have held out this long. My resistance is becoming less and less persistent. My excuses to avoid it are progressively becoming weaker and more lame. I want his mouth on mine and his cock buried deep inside me (I’m not picky on the orrifice, why choose just one?). The desire to have that is beginning to rise higher than my moral ceiling reaches.
I skirted last night with a near miss. I blame drinking without eating for the slight slip in my judgement, and now today I’m doing that think where I keep saying “I can’t believe you did that” under my breath to myself over and over again, and clutching my head in my hands in embarrassment. Suddenly I feel like I’m back in college. Still, my virtue remains intact, but the question is, for how much longer?
Wolves are monogamous creatures. I never knew this. I don’t know about you, but I kind of just expected that a creature that howls at the moon and races through the woods under the cover of a moonlit night to hunt it’s prey, would be anything but.
This news also strikes a cord of irony with me because an ex-long term partner used to identify heavily with wolves, and mostly because he figured they were unbridled creatures who answered to no one, and romped as they saw fit while the female wolves stayed home to watch the kids. He figured the wolf was the poster animal for polyamory. Hah, jokes on you, wolfie.
No, the gray wolf is one of only a handful of animals that pair-bond monogamously for life. You can read all about it right under the heading of Reproduction and Development in this handy dandy wiki.
I was 22 when I first heard the term “polyamory”. Up until then I figured there were three types of people: monogamous, cheaters, and swingers. Since then I have had a couple dozen or so (this might even be a slight understatement) of friends who identified as poly. I, myself, have even identified as poly during different points of my life. Usually this varied with each relationship I entered into.
Now, a lot of poly people will try to say that it’s completely different than swinging. Not really having known anyone that identified as a “swinger”, I have to say that from all of the many polyamorous folk I have known over the years, no matter how much they proudly say it’s different than swinging because of the emotional component, it is still looks pretty much like swinging. This is what most people call “sleeping around” in their twenties: you kind of have relationships with varying degrees of commitment, they may or may not last for very long, but then eventually you find “the one”, and settle down and get married. Some people just keep doing both at the same time. Trust me, it’s never as much fun as it sounds, or as you think it’s going to be. Also, a lot of people have a hard time understanding that the freedoms they expect in relationship are a two-way street. In other words, if it’s good for you, it’s good for me. Everyone plays by the same rules.
I keep thinking to myself that I have learned unequivocably that I am a monogamous creature. I’m not good at sharing unless I really am not emotionally invested in the person. I get jealous. Men want to point fingers at us women and make it like we’re the only ones who act jealous, but let me tell you from firsthand experience: men get VERY jealous. They are not immune to jealousy like they would like us to think.
I cannot tell you how many times I have been in a relationship with someone where we considered ourselves poly, and it was all fun and games if they were pursuing or being pursued by someone else, but the minute I was, suddenly the rules would change. Usually this meant they would find something wrong with the competing male and would either deal with this by making disparaging comments about them hoping I would lose interest, or flat out beg me not to pursue the person/relationship. It was never a reason with any solid grounds.
It was those times when I would have to remind them what was good for them was good for me. In fact, my ex-FWB even got jealous when I would go out with other male friends or potential partners, and all the while he would completely deny it! One time he called me at 11:30 at night to “see how I was doing”, when I had just told him only 4 hours earlier that I was going out with a male friend for drinks. When I didn’t answer, he called me again promptly at 9am the next morning. And when I called him on his ruse in the form of a phone call that was really meant to see if I was home (and alone) yet or not, he flat out denied it.
I get jealous. I know this about myself. I’m not going to lie or pretend I don’t. It doesn’t make me any less evolved as a person. It’s a human emotion. Own it, I do.
Still, in monogamous relationships where I have been generally happy, my mind has been known to wander, and I don’t just mean sexual fantasies. When I was dating Guitar Man for example, I really, really wanted to have sex with this guy who was in the HAI workshop we took part in on our trip to California, but I didn’t because I knew it was a momentary thing with no possibility for more, and the real possibility would be that it might ruin what we were working to build. Honestly, I still regret that I didn’t. He painted my nails for me…long story…but it was one of the sexiest experiences of my life. *sigh* Also, I’m pretty sure I hugged him while naked, but I hugged a lot of naked people that weekend, so it’s hard to be certain.
While in that same relationship with Guitar Man I also used to find all sorts of casual ways to see my ex-FWB Norris. At the time I was even going to school and had designed a project around him, so I had guaranteed myself time to spend with him. It was all very innocent because nothing ever happened, and I’m not sure I wanted it to because I have a pretty strong moral constitution, but still I needed to see him. In my head, the intentions weren’t as innocent as I wanted to pretend they were either. On the last day of the work we were doing for my project together (and just coming off the heels of Guitar Man treating me like complete shit) I straddled Norris’s erection that was bulging through his pants and kissed him until my mind told me to stop. I never told Guitar Man what had happened, let alone that I had been routinely seeing my friend.
And then there was my last relationship that I don’t speak much about. I have done very well, without much effort, to delete all memories of it from my head. It was someone I really truly loved, but still, there was FWB all the time in my head. And then, just a week before a very pivotal moment in that relationship, I ended up having lunch with Norris and then kissing him in his car, parked in a school parking lot in the corner, while it poured rain around us. It would have gone a lot further if he didn’t have people from his office calling looking for him to come handle things they couldn’t on their own. I guess I should be thankful because that probably would have been a heavy transgression on my heart.
However, the disclaimer for the above is that Guitar Man had a roving eye as well for an Australian girl at that same workshop, and the man I was last serious with was polyamorous, but only one-sided, meaning anytime I wanted a new lover he always found something wrong with them.
So, I don’t know. Maybe I am not really monogamous at all, and I am just trying to convince myself otherwise.
One of my friends told me he thought I had issues with commitment based on the types of people I chose for relationships, but I don’t think I do. I really think I have just not met the right person/s. Or, maybe if I met someone who I felt was fully committed to me, then I could be 100% fully committed to them. I’m actually a very loyal person when I feel I’m getting that loyalty in return. The question remains though, is anyone really 100% commited to one love? Does that even exist, or are we all just kidding ourselves?
I’m seriously jaded.
And sometimes, I am just a ravenous, desirous wolf who wants to howl.
When I was 18 I had sex with my step brother. I had just moved to NYC for college, and now that I was “legal”, the opportunity to make something long-flirted around, a reality, was too tempting to pass up.
Even though I had lost my virginity a few years earlier, with two different partners, I really had no real understanding of what good sex was, let alone how to be any “good” at it. My parents never really talked to me about sex (whose really do), so my sexual education really came from watching soap operas and guessing, watching one porn film and wondering “Why?”, and then filling in the blanks with anything else sexually stereotypical the pre-internet media wanted to share with me. Like many teenagers, I was just fumbling my way through without the manual.
So here, after just turning 18 two days before, I called up my step brother who lived in Alphabet City at the time, and head over to his place with all sorts of nerves fluttering around in my belly for the long anticipated encounter.
It was horrible.
It was right out of a bad porn film, and I am not free from blame there. It was a “legs over his shoulders, feet in the air, thrusting like a wayward jackhammer, bad porn girl noises” kind of awful. No orgasm, not even close…for me at least. I was so disappointed. He was 9 years older than me, so I thought I might learn something, but instead as I was getting dressed, I realized I had more questions than answers. Not wanting to keep feeling as naive and unexperienced, I went for shock value. As I was buttoning up my shirt, I cocked my head to the side, smiled, and said, “Have you tried fisting?”
Needless to say, I really had no idea what fisting really was. He was like, “Babe, you are way more hardcore than me”. So, zing! I left his apartment not feeling like a totally naieve nymph. Still, to this day, I have no clue where I came up with that. I’m guessing I must have heard it mentioned in some book or movie that had crossed my recent path.
For years, my vision of vaginal fisting was just that: “way hardcore”. I always envisioned it as something most likely painful, definitely uncomfortable, and not in the least bit pleasurable. I just imagined some man with a fist up his lover’s pussy, just slamming away. That was a total visual turn off for me. And while I love rough sex and sensory play, getting off on pain has never been my thing.
At 27 all my misconceptions about fisting came crashing down in one earth-shattering, g-spot induced, orgasm.
I have always loved being fingered while having my pussy licked. To be stroked inside, to be penetrated, to revel in the feeling of being filled, has always intensified my pleasure. Oh, I can come without it, yes, but it just makes the orgasm that much more pleasureable. It takes it to a whole other level. It’s the best of both oral and penetrative lovemaking.
I was in a relationship with a lover during that time which was really based on mutually exploring our sexual boundaries. In the course of talking one evening about things we wanted to try, he brought up fisting. I had my image in my head, but he assured me it wasn’t what I had been long imagining. A few weeks later he bought me the book A Hand In The Bush: The Fine Art of Vaginal Fisting, which I admit I only read a short bit from before I consented to trying it with him. I highly recommend it if you haven’t read it yet.
One night, as he was nestled with his face deep between my thighs he slid a finger inside my pussy, and then a second…still encircling my clit with his tongue, along my hot slit, and I was on fire for him as usual. He pushed in a third. He had nice thick fingers. I loved the way they felt filling me. He stroked me deep inside, traced his passion with each strong finger on my inner walls, and I tightened around him like a glove. It was like he was making me his instrument, and my sighs and moans were our music. My thighs were quivering with this intense pleasure that was racing though every inch of my skin. And when he inserted a 4th finger, it was such a insatiable desire flowing through me that I didn’t even realize we had reached that.
It was so primal, so deeply intense. It was a feeling I had never experienced to that magnitude before. It’s a g-spot orgasm that is like a full-body earthquake that’s an 8.5 on the Richter Scale! Imagine ladies (or gents) your most intense orgasm, and then multiply that by 100, maybe 1000. Imagine that, and you might come close to the sensations I was experincing from being filled by his hand.
We got up to 4 that time before the intensity scared me, and I felt a twinge of pain which I feared was me tearing, but really was the unfortunate nick of a fingernail that wasn’t filed down well enough. He pulled his hand out slowly, and I would have sworn he was wrist deep inside me.
Rule #1 of good fisting experiences – trim your nails down so no edges can be felt at all!
See, that’s just it. Fisting isn’t about making a fist and shoving it into your partner’s vagina like a plow. If you Google images of it, that’s all you’ll see; a bunch of hands and forearms stuffed into vaginas, but it really gives a false impression to a seriously delightful experience.
Rule #2 – Slow and steady wins the race!
Be patient and take your time. It’s slow, it’s sensual, it’s deeply intimate. If done right, you’re not inserting a fist, but rather slowly making a fist inside your partner’s pussy. That it what naturally will happen as the fingers curl the more you progress, once you get past the hardest part, which is the wide part of the man’s hand near the lowest thumb knuckle. The key to being able to get more fingers in, and inevitably the whole hand, is that you’re relaxed, and the best way for you for us ladies to be relaxed is to not feel pressured. Don’t be set on the end goal, enjoy every moment of the ride.
I have to tell you that even in the many times he and I explored this way, his hand was just too wide to fully get past that widened area of his hand. We were very close one time, very, but then he started licking my asshole that I lost all control, and I came so hard and so fast that it merited a place on the calendar. It has been known since as “BOOML” December 23, 2008. Otherwise known as “Best Orgasm Of My Life”. Let it just be said that I am by no means a quiet lover, so I am pretty sure everyone within a 50 mile radius heard me that day too. Everybody celebrate! Sorry neighbors.
Rule #3 – No matter how wet you get, use lube!
I get very wet naturally, very, so we didn’t need extra lube (or so we thought), but if you’re going to try this for the first time with a lover, I suggest definitely using a good lube. And even as juicy as I get, a little extra lube is never a bad thing. Plus, vaginas are very delicate places, so this will help prevent anything unpleasant like tearing from happening. Speaking from my first time experience, it really pulled me right off my pleasure high rather quickly.
And lastly, Rule #4 – Don’t be afraid to try something new
If I hadn’t have been open to trying this, I would have missed out on a height of sexual ecstasy that I would have not believed was possible. Be open to pushing your own boundaries, safely that is, you never know what pleasures await you.
Men, I’ll use this moment to say that having a woman stroke your prostrate with one, or more, fingers can be just as pleasurable for you. Want to amplify that pleasure? Have her suck your cock while she does it. And I promise, it won’t make you gay (haha – Seriously, why are straight men still so fearful of some equal opportunity loving’ here?) Personally, I find it very sexy to touch a lover this way, but as much as you guys love are asses, you play hard to get with us with your own Unfair I tell you, unfair!
And it should be noted, it is ok to not enjoy something. You may try fisting and not have the same experience as me. It may just not butter your muffins like it does mine, but at least you will know because you gave yourself permission to explore and experience it.
I am still waiting to explore fisting again with a new lover, and hopefully, finally be able to experience the sensation of a whole hand inside me. It’s not something I would do with every lover and it’s probably not something on every man’s sexual menu, but thanks to that one lover, it is forever on mine.
Saudade c. 2013
I feel it still
a silent thread so loud inside my skin
and I’m still unraveling with you
after all this time
A compass in the dark
I feel you out there like my north
even when I have cast you out, away,
drown your voice in the noise of life’s traffic
18 years of lovers, and you
yet still i yearn
for love spoken
that should have never been
and to walk in a world without your gravity
It’s been a long and quiet year for me as far as writing here goes, which has probably lead you all to believe that I was just another “pop and fizzle” blogger who was once passionate about writing, and writing about passion, only to have my effervescence go flat with either waning disinterest, or the laziness of allowing life to swallow my passion up and take my attentions elsewhere.
Well, neither of those could be further for the truth for me, and since the entire premise behind my blog here is unbridled truth, I’m breaking my silence.
One of the reasons I started this blog was help others feel less alone in their desires, to be a voice of sexual positivity, and a to be a champion of owning one’s sexuality and being proud of it. And while there are many stigmas associated with being a woman who unapologetically and enthusiastically celebrates her love of sex, there are just as many stigmas around not having sex.
Ironically, in the first year of my decision to blog about my erotic life which has always been so vibrant, my recent erotic life has been anything but.
Ladies and gentlemen, it has been one year and 3 1/2 months since I have had sex, and to me, that’s embarrassing to admit. This is the longest amount of time in all of my sexually-active life that I have gone without having sex with a partner, and let me tell you, I am like a powder keg of sexual tension ready to ignite. The next man I fuck had better have a mighty healthy heart because I’m going to hit his shores like Hurricane Katrina, and there will be no Red Cross in sight.
Now it started out as an intentional thing. I needed to avoid intimate relationships of any level just so I could focus on me because unfortunately, I have a past of losing myself in people, and putting myself last. That was also not an intentional modus operandi, but it was something I eventually became aware of about myself through much introspection. Well, introspection, and pattern recognition. I kind of touched on my inner questioning about that in a post from earlier this year aptly called Musings of a Gun Shy Heart. I needed time alone to work on me, which sounds so much like canned psycho-babble, but is really the most honest way to say it. I needed to put me first without distractions that might throw me back into a way of being that was not working for me.
Well, that was all well and good. Expectedly, and in some ways unexpectedly, my libido went from high, to low, and then completely did a disappearing act on me to the point where I was really getting concerned about myself. I have a very strong libido, and although it ebbs and flows like everyone else’s, it’s never been nonexistent. Honestly, that was pretty scary. I should be in my sexual prime! I started to begin to have more questions than I originally started with. I thought maybe that my self-imposed drought had brought on a biological one.
There were a couple of times that I thought to write about that, but how can I be a sex blogger who isn’t having sex, let alone one who has the libido of a blueberry muffin? As much as there is a judgement around being a whore by society if you’re a woman having lots of sex, there is as heavy a judgement about you if you aren’t having any; you must be unattractive, unwanted, discarded, or frigid. I am by far none of those things, and even if the choice to not be intimate sexually (or otherwise) was my own, it didn’t make me unafraid of those judgements being cast upon me from people who don’t know my inner story. It’s funny, in some ways I feared those judgements more than being thought of as a slut for having my sexuality being such a large part of my identity.
After about a full year without having sex I told myself it was now ok to be open to meeting someone. That was the end of July. Now that I’m totally open to meeting someone though, I still have these anxieties plaguing my psyche around my “picker” being broken. One, I need to make sure to put me first (my schooling, my goals, my homelike, my running, i.e. things that are good for me), and 2) I need to be real about what I am looking for. By “be real” I mean really know and be honest with myself about what it is I am looking for in the short term and long term, be clear about what I expect from both of those types of choices, and not compromise on things I know I shouldn’t compromise on.
Luckily for me, that hide and seek libido was only temporary. And not only did my sexual appetite reappear with a vengence, but I’ve also discovered, through some frank discussions and fun flirtations, that my more kinky desires were not totally extinguished either as I had once thought they had been! Who doesn’t like surprises like that? (Read Coffee, Sleeping Beauty, and BD/SM to get the backstory)
That all being said, as much as I am just dying for some really great sex with intimacy (real connection is an essential component of great sex) you who have been reading this blog know, it takes more than someone who just looks hot to get my panties wet. Case in point, Towel Boy. (Hmm, did I blog about him? If not, you can look forward to that story coming…ahem…soon.) I love men with strong sexual prowess that matches my own, but I also need something to intellectually spark my desire, otherwise everything else is lost on me. On occasion this can get me into trouble, trouble which I will lovingly nickname the “Don Draper” effect; an intelligent, sexually confident man, who is really completely emotionally unavailable. That being said, I’m cautious. I’m doing my best to not allow my hormones to get me into trouble.
So there you have it, my blogging hiatus fully explained. If you too are out there not having sex as much as you would like, either by choice or by happenstance, you’re not alone, and it doesn’t make you anything less than who you are: human.
When I was younger, say around 12 or 13, I loved watching talk shows. Remember Sally Jesse Raphael? Aw, yeah, one of my favorites to watch on those not so exciting after school afternoons. This one particular show Sally had on Dr. Ruth, and I have always remembered her cute, mischievous, wrinkle-adorned face, teaching me and the rest of the audience in t.v. land, in her adorable German accent, while referring to penises, “It’s not the length or the size of the penis that matters, but it’s how you use it!”
I’m sorry, Dr. Ruth, but here I stand (ok, I’m really sitting) at 37 years old to tell you that is utter and complete bullshit. Penis size MATTERS.
Allow me, blogging world, to share with you why size does matter, at least to me. Honestly, any woman who tells you it doesn’t matter is lying to one degree or another. Cock size matters, it’s just not always a negative slant on how or why it does.
Exhibit A: Chia Pet
When I was around the age of 26 I had a male friend that I was really attracted to. He was HUGE; all of 6′ 5″ tall, blonde, and in great shape. Tres Nordic. There’s a fun story here, but I’m going to get to the real meat of the subject for now: his meat. *smiles* Yes, his cock was by far the largest and most impressive in length and girth that I have yet to come across, no pun intended.
Now, I am a huge fan of fellatio as some of you may have read here on my blog. I absolutely love giving head, and I know I am damn good at it, as confirmed by many a lover. (thank you alt.sex pages, for all those tips back in 1999) However, my favorite pastime was seriously thwarted when I was in bed with him. This was the first and only time this has a) happened to me and b) that I slept with this guy. I’m no porn star deep throat, but I can relax my mouth enough to take the fullness of a man’s cock in, with this exception. I was licking and sucking away, my mouth increasingly filling with the swell of him, until finally I sat up on my knees, looked him straight in the eye and said, “I’m sorry, I just can’t do this, it’s not humanly possible”.
Hence, this man has forever been named “Chia Pet” in my lexicon of lovers because he just kept growing, and growing, and growing! Cha-cha-cha-CHIA!
The unfortunate side effect of men with huge penises is that I think they tend to rely on their cock size alone to get them by as far as bedroom skills are concerned, and while I do like a longer and thicker penis on my lovers, if you don’t know how to use it, you might as well just stop before you get started with me.
Relying on your size alone is not going to help you pass the test. That’s like thinking that reading Cliff’s Notes will provide you the wealth of actually reading the book itself! Make sure you know how to fence if your going to bring that sword to my bed! Touche!
There is a lot a skilled tongue can make up for, but you just can’t replace a man who has rhythm and finesse when it comes to pleasuring you with his man meat. Yep, I said “man meat” LOL
Exhibit B: The Tall and The Short Of It
I had been dating this rather tall, large-framed, man from Canada. We’ll call him “Big C” for this example. He was kind of bordering on fat, save for his stature.
We had been sexual partners for several months, and I almost married him due to an early midlife crisis. Thank God for the sudden awakening of common sense! (It was like thun-dah, light-ning…) Anyhoo, when I say tall think 6’4″! That is a LOT of man, but although one would imagine his body parts would be similarly proportioned, alas, they were not.
Now, he wasn’t what I would consider small by any means, just on the lower end of the median of cock sizes, and his girth was less thick. He wasn’t a pencil dick, but his cock wasn’t burly like the rest of him. He fit in my mouth well, he felt good to ride, everything seemed ok. That was until the shortest of all my lovers came back into the picture.
I was really just waiting for the right time to disengage from “Big C”. I was coming out of my pre-mid-life crisis, waking up to my inner “Danger Will Robinson, Danger!” alarm, and needed to get that guy out of my life, STAT. He was a serious train wreck, and I did not want to be riding that train when it collided with life head on! I would love to pretend this relationship never happened, but alas, it did. Of course, I’d love to pretend the relationship with “Short Stuff” didn’t happen either, but lets just say I have learned a lot in recent years, School of Hard Knocks style.
What was the point again? Oh, yes, cock size….
So, previously to this relationship with Big C, I had been lovers with Short Stuff, and the stars and moons aligned such that we were all at this same camp out one summer. Short Stuff is the shortest man I have ever been lovers with. Shorter than all 5’8″ of me, SS was only 5’6″ tall. He once told me that “tall women were worth the climb”, and he was so right.
I ended up sneaking off with Short Stuff for a morning tenting rendezvous (read as sexy time in a tent), unbeknownst to Big C. The moment I climbed on top of him and slid my pussy down over his awaiting cock, I knew. I knew exactly what I had been missing! He was long, but not overly so, and thick. I reveled in the feel of his cock filling me so fully, it was like a hand in a fine silk glove. The way his rock-hard shaft pressed out against my juicy walls, and how if I slid all the way down him his tip nestled snug against my cervix was nothing short of pure unadulterated HEAVEN! I couldn’t get enough of how he felt inside me. I was ravenous for the feeling I had been unaware I had been missing for all these months! And although one might imagine he would have been more average in size, his cock was the beast of inches that his stature lacked.
I learned two things from this tawdry sexcapade: A) Size DOES matter, at least to me. It just feels so much better to be so utterly and completely filled, and B) We are all the same height while lying down *smiles*
So, know this my male counterparts in readership land, size does indeed matter to us women, no matter how much we either are programmed to not believe so, or lead you to believe through our own omission. Your cock size matters to us whether it’s too big for us to swallow, too small for us to really get off on, or whatever it may be for us each individually. Just like you have your preferences for our breast size, or for the tightness, or lack thereof, of our vaginas, your cock size matters to us too. This is my own personal experience. As always, your mileage may vary.
In follow-up to my latest post “Reminders of An August Afternoon“, I sat down tonight to watch Take This Waltz, and was left with the following questions chasing each other around in my mind: In no particular order…
Do I choose people who I know will leave me?
Do I choose people I know I will eventually leave?
Is having multiple lovers really the answer to this, or the cause of more of these feelings of something missing?
What kind of relationships will my daughter have as she begins to grow up and out into the world?
What does lasting love look like?
Have I set a bad example for my daughter in that I have yet to find someone with whom I can find and sustain a loving partnership with?
Things I know about what I want for myself
I really don’t want to share or be shared
I don’t want to be with someone controlling
I don’t want a relationship without passion
I need intimacy and emotional connection
I enjoy sex often
The more I love someone, the more sexual I want to be with them
Physical affection is important to me
Intelligence turns me on and its important to me (it’s always the first or second thing I say when I am asked to tell someone why/how I find someone attractive)
I like someone who can walk in both worlds; someone who likes the finer things in life, but also is down to earth
I want a man who is a man, and not a boy living in the body of a 40-year-old. I do not want to be a grown man’s mother.
Honesty and integrity are valued highly by me, and I need them from anyone who would be a potential long-term partner. I give it and expect to receive it.
My health is very important to me. I want someone who values their physical health and their emotional one
What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. If you think it’s good for you, and only you, and expect something different for me, you are sadly mistaken.
Does any of this even exist?
This amazing blogger friend of mine, Fern, posted this that really touched me, first in a way that hit a tender spot and was uncomfortable to read, and second in a way that I then remembered how closely I could relate to.
This movie, Take This Waltz, well, the clip here sums my, and many others, experiences up in a few short beautifully composed moments of film. I recently saw this on the instant download list on my cable channel for new movies, and I passed it by when I read the synopsis because it just wasn’t a place I wanted to go emotionally. I was so done with polyamory, and those men in my life for whom I was not their only lover. I just was done with this storyline because I had lived it, and more than once.
I was forgetting when I was the person who wanted more, who wanted someone else. I can justify my own desires and actions away with the various things that were going on in my life at that time, how I’d been and was being treated by the person I was married to at that time, or that somehow “it’s so not the same”, but it would all be a lie. An excuse.
It was exactly the same.
I was married to a man for just over a year, separated just under the wire short of 12 months. There’s a lot of back story there, but that doesn’t matter as much as this one story in particular.
In the summer of 2011, one August morning, I was yahoo messaging with my friend Norris (you all might know him from my posts here as ex-FWB). He told me how his son had said how it would be cool to get to hang with me and my daughter again sometime. I didn’t take this at face value, as Norris was fond of asking excuses about seeing me. If he wanted to see me, he would make a reason for it, it was never because he simply wanted to. I know this because he had confessed it to me before. So, I read into this, and knowing how the kids hadn’t seen one another since they were like 9 or 10 years old, this just reeked of total fabricated excuse. Hr just wanted to see me, and I wanted to see him.
I was nervous about this because of the feelings it excited in me. I wanted to squash down the desire to see him, the happiness that he was reaching out to me, and the eager anticipation with which I looked forward to it as it eventually grew closer once I finally agreed to an afternoon together. I wanted to make excuses to get out of it at first because of the awkwardness that I knew would be there. My husband would be there. They had never met one another.
It was a late August afternoon, and we were going to spend it at the pool that is in my community. It was not very hot, but we were going to eek out the very last bit of summer that was left, and enjoy that last pool day even if the water was super cold. This would be fun for the kids, and good for us, with lots of personal space.
They were late and my husband who was very fond of naps (and pretty much a slow-moving, low-energy dude), decided to leave the pool and go back to our house for one. The Norris and his son arrived after much delay. It was late afternoon and the pool was mostly in the shade now, and fairly quiet, with only a few scattered people still resting on lawn chairs in what remained of the sun.
My daughter was in the water and beckoned the son in. This left the two of us, Norris and I, to sit at a poolside table underneath the shade of the umbrella to talk alone. I had gotten out of the pool only minutes before they walked in, and I was shaking. I thought this was due to the fact that the water was now fairly frigid, and although the air was warm, there was a breeze that was constant, and the air across my goose-bumpled skin was causing me to shiver. Then moment came when I realized that this should have passed by now, as although I was bikini clad, I was wrapped up in a large towel and should have been warmed. I then not only became nervous at being in the same space together again after so long, but anxious at the realization that my trembling was now more nerves than chill. Norris sat across from me, a safe distance between us.
We talked. Nothing said was pointed or floated on any sexy innuendo, but there it was; desire. Not the kind of desire, at least for me, that would have me holding myself back from wanting more right then, in that moment, restrained merely by circumstance, but more so desire that was the kind that is omnipresent between two people who are like souls.
That desire, that uncomfortable remembering of our past, was sitting there like a third wheel between my towel-clad shivering body, and his over-sized polo shirt and wrinkled chinos. I notice these details because this is unlike him, Norris was always well dressed, and wrinkled clothing that was too big for him was never to be seen on him, ever. I worry that I look fat in my bikini as I allow myself to unfurl the towel now that my shivering has dissipated. I relax my body into the back of he chair, cross my legs, and keep worrying he thinks I look fat.
After not too long, my husband walks through the pool gate, and begins his slow walk towards us. Norris asks if this is him, and I confirm it. And then the awkward grows.
I introduce them for the first time, hands are shaked, and pleasantries exchanged. My husband says something like, “So, Portia tells me you’ve known one another for a long time”, and the conversation continues. I remember not feeling sure how to act. As much as I was angry at my husband for many things then, I was still very much in love with him. And as much as I was married and in love, I was more deeply in love with Norris.
(I almost erased “more deeply”, but that would have been a big lie, and since I am not one for lying, I left it)
I didn’t want to not be myself with my husband, didn’t want to hold back my usual affections, but I also didn’t want to be overly affectionate in front of Norris towards him either. It’s a strange feeling when you’re trying to balance the emotions of two people, well ok, three. One, I didn’t want my husband to think I was acting strange. Two, I didn’t want Norris to feel…I don’t know what…hurt? Uncomfortable? I suppose whatever the feelings he had when we had lunch one day, many years before this, when remarked at the pictures of my then ex-boyfriend and I in Hawaii still framed and on the wall in the dining room with us, after I had tried to remind myself to take them down because I knew Norris would notice.
I felt like I was walking on a high wire above the ring, trying desperately to find the balance that would keep this whole event pleasant and sociable.
It was around 5 o’clock by this time and I decided that perhaps we should all go back to he house so I could start on dinner. I had invited them to stay for burgers and such a last BBQ ha-rah of the fading summer. The kids climb out of the pool, and we all meander back to the house.
The real mind blower came when I was in the kitchen making the salad, and Norris and Husband and both kids, were both out in the back yard at the picnic table just jabbering away together famously. My husband was getting more time to talk to the person I wanted to be talking to and spending time with.
The night was fun. Dinner was great, conversations flowed effortlessly, dessert was had and martial arts movies introduced. At one point Norris was sitting on the sofa and I sat down next to him, nt close, but close enough, and he shot off that thing like he was shot froma cannon! He offered my husband the seat. It was a large sofa, and there was more than enough room for all of us on it comfortably.
Goodbyes were made around 8:30 ish.
After the door closed, my daughter whisked me upstairs and told me “You made the wrong choice. That was the guy you should have married!”, and this just messed with me because that was the guy I wanted to marry, but he never asked.
The husband, well, later that night he asked me if Norris and I had ever slept together, and I blushed like a school girl embarrassed by the surprise questioning, and said “Yes, but that was a long time ago”. He told me he could tell the minute he walked inside the pool gate and saw us. He said he could tell just from the way we were sitting, how we were with one another. I was unsure how he could tell that from two people not even sitting beside one another, with a whole table separating them for safety. I don’t know what he saw. Maybe he made that up, maybe he really saw something I was unaware of. He said two people can’t be sitting together like we were when you’ve never been intimate with each other before. I don’t know. I didn’t see what he saw. I only felt what I was feeling. I’m not sure what the tell-tale sign was. I wouldn’t have thought, looking at us, that we were anything more than friends.
The next two weeks were pure emotional upheaval. I was getting my period and blamed my irrational thoughts on that emotional unraveling that sometimes comes with that time of the month. I told myself to take a deep breath and relax, but all I could think about was Norris. He was all I thought about, all I wanted to think about.
My husband, who I knew really didn’t love me (and that’s not a made up feeling to help me excuse my own, it just was…he was pining for his ex-wife…for the life he screwed up), was just not paying attention because it was evident that something was stirring madly inside me. I played the song that Norris had once told me made him think of me, over and over and over again on YouTube. I sang it in the shower, while cooking dinner. I was preoccupied. I was running around the track at he Y fueled by a desperate fire inside me that would not let me go, that incessantly tossed my heart about, a fragile paper heart, floating on the heat of something that was once in a way, could’ve been, but never could be now.
And he had turned me away anyway a year earlier. Norris told me he loved me, always had loved me but could never bring himself to tell me, and then after he finally told me, told me all the reasons why we could never be. What was I thinking?
I was going mad.
I needed to be alone to talk myself off this emotional ledge.
I was guilty of the very thing I hated my husband for. I made every excuse to justify how what I was feeling, thinking, wanting, yearning for was somehow different from what I hated my husband for feeling towards his ex-wife, and although yes, there are circumstances and back story here that you would probably agree that I was MORE than justified too in my thoughts, but even in the light of all that murky dark, we would both be wrong because it was all in secret, all kept neatly hidden.
I was now no different.
When I did have the chance to act though, one year earlier (and only a month before my wedding date), when he called me one night and wanted to whisk me away for a quickie, I said no. I didn’t want to either, I wanted to say hell yes, yes yes, but I didn’t. At least I have that integrity of my heart.
We are not as perfect as we would like to imagine. Our lives are not all cut and dry, clean and neat, like we would like to pretend. Our real emotions our deepest thoughts and most secret yearnings are no different, or any less unscathed than those of our neighbors. We can judge. We can sit back and say what someone has is better, or more perfect, but it never is.
I knew my husband and his previous wife long before he became my one-year husband. On the outside looking in, I thought what they shared was perfect, and how that was the kind of love I wanted. I was never more wrong in al my life. 13 years after meeting them I knew it was the FARTHEST thing from what I ever wanted in a relationship.
I’m ready to watch that movie now. I also don’t want to go there again.
So you know, my divorce had nothing to do with the events of this August afternoon, or any day after involving Norris, or my feelings for him. That story can come another day.
I don’t miss my ex-husband for a minute, but I miss Norris every day.
Lately my libido has been confusing me. I normally think I have a fairly high libido, as far as female libidos go comparison-wise, but it seems to be playing hide n’ seek with me recently. I spend much more time seeking it than I would care too. It used to be reliably omnipresent. I know these things ebb and flow, but my libido’s recent “no-show” is messing with my head (the little tiny pink one, that is).
See, the confusing thing is that I’m actually quite horny, but when I go to release those wonderful pent-up emotions via a little night time diddle before sleep, I can’t seem to find a fantasy that I can stick with, let alone one that really sets me aflame. This leads to me sort of diddling aimlessly, like paddling downstream with only one oar, and not really knowing where you’re going, i.e. extremely frustrating and not very much fun.
This leads me to missing my ex-FWB, but the sex with him really wasn’t all that great (despite the fact that my desire for him is insatiable, so I end up having to make stuff up. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t awful by any means, it just wasn’t good. It seems like a painful dichotomy to have so much sexual desire for someone you know isn’t the greatest in bed, but I guess that’s love for you. You know, I never once had an orgasm with him, faked more than my fair share, but I still loved being with him. This confuses me to this day, but I digress.
You see, I have a penchant to only really enjoy fantasizing about men that I have been with before, or may be with some day. I was never down for imagining myself with celebrities, or strangers. It isn’t what gets me off. Reality is far more exciting, or at least embellishing the reality at hand, more so than something that has no possibility of happening. To this extent, I have had extensive sexual imaginings about a gentleman in my running group, and I really have no clue if it ever would get anywhere near to happening in reality, but it sure is fun to create the vision of in my head! I guess I get off on the possibility of it. I like to imagine what his cock looks like, what it tastes like, what it would be like to ride him, what his lips would feel like, and generally what he’d be like in bed. Sometimes I feel mildly guilty or dare I say shameful for fantasizing such lucid sexual escapades with someone I literally brush shoulders with on such rare occasion, never speak to, and have weekly Words With Friends games with. LOL
You know, I am kind of picky, and it isn’t every day (or even every month) that I look at a man and feel real sexual chemistry, but this guy kissed me on the cheek at our holiday party, and I knew right then what I’d prefer to be doing with him…on top of a nearby table. Points south said “Oh, yesssssssss” This does not happen very often.
Fantasizing and reality….yeah, that’s it.
So, of the “usual suspects” in my sexual fantasy play book, I just can’t seem to pick one I’m happy with lately. In addition to being heavily turned on by the possibilities that reality in fantasy holds, I also like emotional connection.
Since I am not feeling the desire to connect with any of these men in reality, this is having an adverse affect on my fantasy life. I just don’t feel emotionally comfortable screwing even my own “Holodeck” images of them.
Lately, the ex-boyfriend from 7 years ago seems to be making an appearance in my fantasies. He’s the “Go To” fantasy guy lately because we had such fantastic real-life sexual chemistry, and I guess he’s far enough back in my past that I can only remember what he did to hurt me/piss me off, and I am not actively feeling it. I like to imagine us fucking in the shower because he looked so fucking amazing naked and wet, and we did spend quite a lot of naughty time in bathrooms together, be it our own, or friends’ bathrooms. *smiles* Plus, and I suppose this is such a girl thing to say, I absolutely cum over how the slope of his back looked; the delicious and sinuous curve of his spine from the rise of his shoulders to the dip right above the curve of his ass makes me wet just remembering how it looked glistening underneath the cascade of water from the shower head above. Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm. Yes, have some.
Still, in our final days he took the word “asshole” to a whole new level, so this eventually works it’s way into my head and kills my clit buzz.
So, no ex-FWB, no runing guy, and no ex from 7 years ago working out in my fantasies.
I just need to meet someone new. I need a little romance, and the invigorating “tet te tet” of flirting that ensues in the beginning chase. Of course, for me to really want this that has to be a brain flexing its muscles behind the brawn, otherwise it’s a no go.
To quote Huey Lewis, “I want a new drug. One that won’t make me sick”
In other news….these are my latest “me” splurge. New panties make everything better.