Ah, now I'm back in the comfort zone. Katy Perry on the cover! All I know about Katy Perry is that she kissed a girl and she liked it, and big whoop! A gajillion chicks kiss girls and like it, honey, don't act like you invented it! Her outfit could not be worn in public without extraordinary amounts of double sticky tape!
The Mars company has introduced its first new candy bar in 20 years, and it targets women. The hot pink package contains two 85-calorie bars, and they're calling it Fling. Just don't tell your guy you had one at the office.
It makes sense that low-calorie means woman food, because women are pretty fat. Just look at their collective bodies, for chrissakes. That gender is headed straight to porkerville.
When a guy says he doesn't know why you're mad at him, deep down, he does.
Oh God Cosmo. Why would you do this? The consequences could be hideous!
Anyway, the "guess why I'm mad" game is moronic whether he can or not. Grownups use their words.
A guy's lying if he says he doesn't manscape.
There are more guys between heaven and earth, Cosmo, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. And some of those guys, well, you could shear them and make a sweater.
["guy poll" results] What girlie look do you most go for?
The girl next door: casual, not a ton of makeup, ponytail -- 76.1%
...The fashion plate: cutting-edge outfit, the latest haircut, trendy handbag -- 6.9%
This is only funny because it comes after sixty pages of ads and editorial on how to become the fashion plate.
Get Hit On All the Time
This article is great. I'd type up the whole thing if I could. It's a big list of body language moves--hilarious when performed together--that you should do while sitting alone at a bar or party so guys will come up to you. Dangle a shoe off your toe! Cradle your boobs! Expose your throat! Drop your chin! (Those two weren't sequential in the original list.) Make an "OK" sign over your crotch! Lean on the bar! Point your belly button at the guy you want! Expose your wrists!
The one thing that isn't on the list is pointing your face at the guy you want, and subtly using your lips and tongue--this is proven by expert research, it has to do with brain hemispheres and pheremones--to freakin' talk to him.
Going to dinner with your guy usually means forking over a lot of dough... unless you feast on complimentary samples. Head to a grocery store that gives out nibblers (Costco, Trader Joe's, Whole Foods). Then hit up a wine shop during a tasting night. For dessert, stop by an ice-cream parlor and ask to try a bunch of flavors.
Cosmo, the magazine for... hobos?
Think about the hottest days of summer, when you're walking around and your thighs stick together--that's pretty much what it feels like for your guy when he tries to enter you when you're not wet. And psychologically, dryness can have an even more negative and traumatizing effect on his libido.
Well, the poor dear! I didn't realize this was all about him! I guess I never realized how uncomfortable it was for him because I was too distracted by all the agonizing pain!
(Also: boxer shorts.)
Q: A few months ago, my boyfriend brought up the idea of role-playing, and I was into it. At first we kept our roles generic, but the other night, he suggested we be my friend and her boyfriend. I said that would freak me out, and to his credit, be backed off. But does this mean he's thinking about my friend when he's having sex with me?
A: Ya think?
If a girl has it all going on--an incredible job, a hot boyfriend, countless pairs of killer shoes--it's easy to resent her so much that you refuse to be her friend. If you were a wolf, you'd know that was a big mistake. The alpha wolf may be top dog, but he always has a beta wolf who serves as his number two. In return, the beta gets the best food, the right to mate with the hottest females, and respect from all the other wolves.
Well, that's very comforting, except that actually alpha wolves don't let anyone else mate. The beta wolf may have the best odds of sneaking something behind the alpha's back, but now we're taking the metaphor to new and fascinating places.
(Also, the alpha-beta-omega model of wolf packs was based on captive packs of unrelated individuals and it turns out that in the wild, wolf packs are more often families in which the "alphas" are the mom and dad and the subordinates are their offspring. And the subordinates avoid breeding not because of hierarchy but because they're waiting to do that after they split off from the pack and meet an unrelated wolf. But now I don't know what the metaphor is saying except you shouldn't have sex with your relatives.)
[On opening lines.] "It's really loud here--let's go someplace quieter to talk. My friends can meet us later."
That's not an opening line, honey. That's a closing line.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Monday, July 13, 2009
Oh, THIS is why people think I'm crazy when I say I'm kinky.
Good lord, there are some serious chucklefucks in my supposed community.
My sub and I do not, of course, wish to reveal the gritty details of our relationship to our vanilla friends, so we are subtle, but at the same time it is frustrating[...]
Last night we were at a fan-based literary discussion group and my slave was very outspoken in heated discussions, and I enjoyed hearing her opinions. She is the first one to admit that if she is not interrupted she could keep talking all night, and so from time to time if I wanted a word in I did just that, interrupted her. We have agreed it is my right to do so. Well, this one woman was very offended and told me to, "let her finish!" more than once. When this happened my slave was the first to say, "No, it's ok!" to the woman and, "Yes, sir." to me. When the formal discussion had finished, the woman approached me and tried to give me a piece of her mind about respecting women, etc. I held my ground and told her I have a great respect for women, that this was between myself and my wife and that she should kindly butt out of our relationship, but the fact that she confronted me in the first place took me by surprise and left me annoyed.
I really don't understand this kind of thing. Now I know I'm not really such a super submissive, my idea of dominance pretty much comes down to that you should hit my butt (when I say, as hard as I tell you to) and tell me to suck your dick (when I already feel like it). But I can understand the concept of one person taking charge of a relationship. I can understand showing extra respect and deference to your husband, even in public, because he's your Dom.
What I can't understand is the idea of BDSM as a "get out of normal society free" card. You don't interrupt people like that. It's rude to the people listening as well as the person being interrupted, and it doesn't make you look like the boss so much as a big ol' assface. And it's not even very dominant; conversationally stomping on your sub doesn't mean you control her, it means you're a loudmouth. I guess the dominance is that she doesn't bite his head off afterwards? That's some really finely tuned command there.
And if a guy gave me the "this is between my and my wife" speech after something like that, it would give me the creeping heebie jeebies. Not because I'm some naïve vanilla rube but because that's abuser-speak. Although to be fair, I don't know how you would explain something like that forthrightly. "Oh, don't worry, that's just our fetish, and we like to practice it during book club in front of everyone," I guess.
I think it bothers me more than anything that this guy can't even understand why normal people would be upset by this.
BDSM (even that weirdass 24/7 D/s thingymajig) isn't wrong, but it isn't always right either. It's a thrill, it leads to the best sex and sexiest relationships and deepest release of weird subconscious things that I know, but it's not carte blanche. You can't turn off your ethics and social skills because "it's my kink!" Being a kinky motherfucker and a decent human being isn't that hard.
God, I should get beat up more. Even as I kind of mock it, I'm realizing that I'm also itching for it. But I won't do it in front of some poor unsuspecting book club and then answer their concerns with "oh no, that's just his way, you don't understand, please don't make any trouble."
My sub and I do not, of course, wish to reveal the gritty details of our relationship to our vanilla friends, so we are subtle, but at the same time it is frustrating[...]
Last night we were at a fan-based literary discussion group and my slave was very outspoken in heated discussions, and I enjoyed hearing her opinions. She is the first one to admit that if she is not interrupted she could keep talking all night, and so from time to time if I wanted a word in I did just that, interrupted her. We have agreed it is my right to do so. Well, this one woman was very offended and told me to, "let her finish!" more than once. When this happened my slave was the first to say, "No, it's ok!" to the woman and, "Yes, sir." to me. When the formal discussion had finished, the woman approached me and tried to give me a piece of her mind about respecting women, etc. I held my ground and told her I have a great respect for women, that this was between myself and my wife and that she should kindly butt out of our relationship, but the fact that she confronted me in the first place took me by surprise and left me annoyed.
I really don't understand this kind of thing. Now I know I'm not really such a super submissive, my idea of dominance pretty much comes down to that you should hit my butt (when I say, as hard as I tell you to) and tell me to suck your dick (when I already feel like it). But I can understand the concept of one person taking charge of a relationship. I can understand showing extra respect and deference to your husband, even in public, because he's your Dom.
What I can't understand is the idea of BDSM as a "get out of normal society free" card. You don't interrupt people like that. It's rude to the people listening as well as the person being interrupted, and it doesn't make you look like the boss so much as a big ol' assface. And it's not even very dominant; conversationally stomping on your sub doesn't mean you control her, it means you're a loudmouth. I guess the dominance is that she doesn't bite his head off afterwards? That's some really finely tuned command there.
And if a guy gave me the "this is between my and my wife" speech after something like that, it would give me the creeping heebie jeebies. Not because I'm some naïve vanilla rube but because that's abuser-speak. Although to be fair, I don't know how you would explain something like that forthrightly. "Oh, don't worry, that's just our fetish, and we like to practice it during book club in front of everyone," I guess.
I think it bothers me more than anything that this guy can't even understand why normal people would be upset by this.
BDSM (even that weirdass 24/7 D/s thingymajig) isn't wrong, but it isn't always right either. It's a thrill, it leads to the best sex and sexiest relationships and deepest release of weird subconscious things that I know, but it's not carte blanche. You can't turn off your ethics and social skills because "it's my kink!" Being a kinky motherfucker and a decent human being isn't that hard.
God, I should get beat up more. Even as I kind of mock it, I'm realizing that I'm also itching for it. But I won't do it in front of some poor unsuspecting book club and then answer their concerns with "oh no, that's just his way, you don't understand, please don't make any trouble."
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Edge.
I begged him to make me come, and I don't know why, because when he did it would be over. As long as we stayed like this, bodies entangled from toes to hair, his fingers buried in me and just barely moving, it could last forever. My whole life in a bed, bent back onto my elbows and the balls of my feet, hips circling endlessly, tasting his sweat and mine. I could feel his cock hard against my thigh, his lips on mine not kissing but just breathing into me, and his fingers, oh God his fingers.
And the only thing I could say to him was that he should make it stop?
He wasn't listening anyway. He knew what he was doing. When I went faster he went slower, riding out the bucking of my hips, giving me not an inch more or less no matter how I thrust myself down on him. He pinched my nipples, bit my neck, but not quite enough. I was half a second away for minutes on end.
Finally I begged for his whole hand, and he gave it to me, not gently. When his thumb just started to slip inside it was finally enough, finally too much, and when he could no longer hold me off he didn't hold back. He fucked me with his hand and it hurt and I was coming and it was so fucking much, so fucking good.
I was in a daze afterward, laughing, kissing him over and over, curled fetal, babbling like an idiot, laughing at myself again.
And all told it still didn't take twenty freakin' minutes, sheesh.
And the only thing I could say to him was that he should make it stop?
He wasn't listening anyway. He knew what he was doing. When I went faster he went slower, riding out the bucking of my hips, giving me not an inch more or less no matter how I thrust myself down on him. He pinched my nipples, bit my neck, but not quite enough. I was half a second away for minutes on end.
Finally I begged for his whole hand, and he gave it to me, not gently. When his thumb just started to slip inside it was finally enough, finally too much, and when he could no longer hold me off he didn't hold back. He fucked me with his hand and it hurt and I was coming and it was so fucking much, so fucking good.
I was in a daze afterward, laughing, kissing him over and over, curled fetal, babbling like an idiot, laughing at myself again.
And all told it still didn't take twenty freakin' minutes, sheesh.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Religion.
I've become increasingly aware in recent months that I'm going to have to work out some sort of religious beliefs. I'm not really sure what my family believes--we're Jewish, but that's more our culture than our religion, I never hear any of my relatives actually mention God like a real thing. You have a Bat Mitzvah because it'll bring the family together and give the kid a sense of belonging and accomplishment and the elders a sense that their traditions are being passed on, but you don't really have it for God. Even the funerals in my family don't mention God much.
Which leaves me adrift, and a little too aware of my own vulnerability to fate and mortality to ignore the issue entirely and just be a secular agnostic by default. For a while I was one of those "magical sky man, hurrr" Internet Atheists, but that ends up as arrogant and obnoxious as any hellfire evangelical--it's really just about cherry-picking the worst in religion as a justification for ignoring subtler possibilities. Science and religion aren't adversaries, and taking a side--either side--makes you a jerk.
It's enough to make me believe in the snake-god-puppet Glycon.
Which I do. My current tentative, confused stance is that I should believe in everything. Everything, not just Jesus and the Buddha but also Tinkerbell and Spring-Heeled Jack and artichokes and Br'er Rabbit and Paris Hilton. Everything that there is an idea of exists. I don't know if God made the world in seven days while cleverly disguising everything as billions of years old, but I do know that the Creation exists. Saying "it's all in your mind" of something ignores an extremely important fact (the only certain fact)--my mind exists. A mental image isn't some ephemeral thing that doesn't "really" exist; mental images are all we freakin' have.
At the same time obviously the billions-of-years thing works better if you'd like to prospect for oil rather than the totally real and valid mental idea of oil. Our perceptions of the physical world are fairly consistent and science is the reasonable way to understand and predict those consistencies. But saying the physical world is all there is doesn't fit with my ability to have mental images--with my ability to have a "mental," or for that matter a "my," at all. Evolution can explain the existence of a sociable bipedal mammal sitting here typing; it doesn't explain why that's me. "Me" exists on the same level as Jesus and Tinkerbell, and that's why I can't discount their existence. I'm not sure if they can change anything in the apparent physical world (although, hmm, I can), but I know absolutely that they affect me.
I hope this makes some sense. I feel the need to clarify that I'm sober. I have no idea how to translate my ideas into practice. I still don't know what's going to happen when my body dies.
And may Barney Rubble bless you all.
Which leaves me adrift, and a little too aware of my own vulnerability to fate and mortality to ignore the issue entirely and just be a secular agnostic by default. For a while I was one of those "magical sky man, hurrr" Internet Atheists, but that ends up as arrogant and obnoxious as any hellfire evangelical--it's really just about cherry-picking the worst in religion as a justification for ignoring subtler possibilities. Science and religion aren't adversaries, and taking a side--either side--makes you a jerk.
It's enough to make me believe in the snake-god-puppet Glycon.
Which I do. My current tentative, confused stance is that I should believe in everything. Everything, not just Jesus and the Buddha but also Tinkerbell and Spring-Heeled Jack and artichokes and Br'er Rabbit and Paris Hilton. Everything that there is an idea of exists. I don't know if God made the world in seven days while cleverly disguising everything as billions of years old, but I do know that the Creation exists. Saying "it's all in your mind" of something ignores an extremely important fact (the only certain fact)--my mind exists. A mental image isn't some ephemeral thing that doesn't "really" exist; mental images are all we freakin' have.
At the same time obviously the billions-of-years thing works better if you'd like to prospect for oil rather than the totally real and valid mental idea of oil. Our perceptions of the physical world are fairly consistent and science is the reasonable way to understand and predict those consistencies. But saying the physical world is all there is doesn't fit with my ability to have mental images--with my ability to have a "mental," or for that matter a "my," at all. Evolution can explain the existence of a sociable bipedal mammal sitting here typing; it doesn't explain why that's me. "Me" exists on the same level as Jesus and Tinkerbell, and that's why I can't discount their existence. I'm not sure if they can change anything in the apparent physical world (although, hmm, I can), but I know absolutely that they affect me.
I hope this makes some sense. I feel the need to clarify that I'm sober. I have no idea how to translate my ideas into practice. I still don't know what's going to happen when my body dies.
And may Barney Rubble bless you all.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
How long it takes.
I just saw a TV show that kept saying "men take two minutes to orgasm, women take twenty." Like it was some established thing. I've also heard three and thirty.
On average, maybe? I've never done a survey. One of my friends has never had an orgasm, so factoring her into the average, women take infinity minutes to come. Myself, I don't think I could possibly hold out for twenty minutes unless you're measuring from the first kiss or something.
Actually, that makes me wonder when you measure from. Are we talking from the start of sexual activity (whatever that means), or from the start of genital stimulation, or from the start of short-strokes intense genital stimulation? Because really, having an orgasm takes me about three hours if you count dinner and drinks.
That's facetious. But it's not facetious to say that when you get to the short-strokes, I'm going to come a lot faster and more reliably if I know you better--so dinner and drinks really were part of reaching orgasm. Fuck, if you count everything that contributes, sometimes it's taken me two years to reach orgasm with a guy. And slutty as I am, it's never taken so little as twenty minutes. If I've never laid eyes on you before and you just walk up and start the G-spot stimulation--well, that's more a thought experiment than a sexual experience, but I'm guessing it would be just a bit harder to relax. I don't think most guys could do it in two minutes like that either.
It seems like the "ten times as long" platitude gets around less because of validity than because it reinforces stereotypes. Men are simple and slutty, women are unfathomable and frigid. Making a man come is merely a matter of consenting, making a woman come is a painstaking skill. Men give it up easy, women make you work for it. Woman, she is a meeestery. (Or if you want to be sort of feminist about it, "female sexuality is very complex.") A woman who gets off pretty fast just from plain old fuckin' doesn't fit that paradigm. And a guy who doesn't come from a couple minutes of straight-up cock-stroking every time--shit, maybe he's gay or something.
Anyway, all this is like saying "men weigh 180 pounds, women weigh 120"--maybe it's just an obnoxiously narrow social expectation or maybe it really is valid statistically, but either way I wouldn't take it shopping.
On average, maybe? I've never done a survey. One of my friends has never had an orgasm, so factoring her into the average, women take infinity minutes to come. Myself, I don't think I could possibly hold out for twenty minutes unless you're measuring from the first kiss or something.
Actually, that makes me wonder when you measure from. Are we talking from the start of sexual activity (whatever that means), or from the start of genital stimulation, or from the start of short-strokes intense genital stimulation? Because really, having an orgasm takes me about three hours if you count dinner and drinks.
That's facetious. But it's not facetious to say that when you get to the short-strokes, I'm going to come a lot faster and more reliably if I know you better--so dinner and drinks really were part of reaching orgasm. Fuck, if you count everything that contributes, sometimes it's taken me two years to reach orgasm with a guy. And slutty as I am, it's never taken so little as twenty minutes. If I've never laid eyes on you before and you just walk up and start the G-spot stimulation--well, that's more a thought experiment than a sexual experience, but I'm guessing it would be just a bit harder to relax. I don't think most guys could do it in two minutes like that either.
It seems like the "ten times as long" platitude gets around less because of validity than because it reinforces stereotypes. Men are simple and slutty, women are unfathomable and frigid. Making a man come is merely a matter of consenting, making a woman come is a painstaking skill. Men give it up easy, women make you work for it. Woman, she is a meeestery. (Or if you want to be sort of feminist about it, "female sexuality is very complex.") A woman who gets off pretty fast just from plain old fuckin' doesn't fit that paradigm. And a guy who doesn't come from a couple minutes of straight-up cock-stroking every time--shit, maybe he's gay or something.
Anyway, all this is like saying "men weigh 180 pounds, women weigh 120"--maybe it's just an obnoxiously narrow social expectation or maybe it really is valid statistically, but either way I wouldn't take it shopping.
I'm kinda sick, gonna be brief.
The best thing a guy can do in bed with me, bar none, is like what I'm doing to him. There is nothing you can do with your fingers that feels as good as a really sincere moan of enjoyment.
Yeah, most everyone likes getting laid, but there's a difference between guys who don't think it's a bad way to spend an evening, and the surprisingly small proportion of guys who are fucking into it. Expressiveness is obviously a factor, but I don't think that's all there is. Most guys are fans, but some guys just love sex.
Those guys are the best.
Yeah, most everyone likes getting laid, but there's a difference between guys who don't think it's a bad way to spend an evening, and the surprisingly small proportion of guys who are fucking into it. Expressiveness is obviously a factor, but I don't think that's all there is. Most guys are fans, but some guys just love sex.
Those guys are the best.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Anniversary.
I shouldn't get too explicit about this here, but: as of the end of this week, I will have made my year. One full year on the street. I've seen five people die, been assaulted three times, and crashed twice. I've gotten a lot of free food and made a lot of new friends. I've learned far, far more about my city, its places and its people, than I ever knew before.
It's changed me. Some. On one level, I'm physically stronger, mentally quicker, emotionally stabler than I ever was before, and I've gained reams of knowledge and miles of perspective. But most of the time I'm the same goofy slutty childish asshole I was going in.
I'll have to move soon. I haven't really thought this through as much as I should have, but I've gotten about as far as I can go on this career track in this area. It's been fun, I like this city, but I can't stay in this job forever, it's entry-level and I'm getting about ready to advance. I don't know--at all--where I'll be going. Boston? Any new city will be a shock, it'll take a lot of money and work and time just to get back to the standard of living I have now, but at least I know a few people in Boston and I've got some history there. Anywhere else I'd just be throwing darts at a map.
This is hardly a declaration that I'm moving to Boston. If I do it'll be months from now and I might not at all. I might move to Spokane. Or Anchorage. Or, fuck, I don't know, Albuquerque. I hear Albuquerque's nice. Don't know anyone there, but I only know two or three people in the other places so it's a pretty close running.
Right now I don't have to decide yet. What I do have to do now is exercise and study and save money. I can't live like I'm done growing, because I'm not. I'm getting ready for something better. I have to make myself better.
Man. I'm tired just thinking about this. It's been crazy. It's going to be crazier.
It's changed me. Some. On one level, I'm physically stronger, mentally quicker, emotionally stabler than I ever was before, and I've gained reams of knowledge and miles of perspective. But most of the time I'm the same goofy slutty childish asshole I was going in.
I'll have to move soon. I haven't really thought this through as much as I should have, but I've gotten about as far as I can go on this career track in this area. It's been fun, I like this city, but I can't stay in this job forever, it's entry-level and I'm getting about ready to advance. I don't know--at all--where I'll be going. Boston? Any new city will be a shock, it'll take a lot of money and work and time just to get back to the standard of living I have now, but at least I know a few people in Boston and I've got some history there. Anywhere else I'd just be throwing darts at a map.
This is hardly a declaration that I'm moving to Boston. If I do it'll be months from now and I might not at all. I might move to Spokane. Or Anchorage. Or, fuck, I don't know, Albuquerque. I hear Albuquerque's nice. Don't know anyone there, but I only know two or three people in the other places so it's a pretty close running.
Right now I don't have to decide yet. What I do have to do now is exercise and study and save money. I can't live like I'm done growing, because I'm not. I'm getting ready for something better. I have to make myself better.
Man. I'm tired just thinking about this. It's been crazy. It's going to be crazier.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Hitting.
Hitting in relationships bothers me. Oh wow, what a courageous and novel stand, I know. But I'm not just talking about blatant abuse. There's two kinds of hitting I see a lot that don't really reach the level of domestic violence but still bug the shit out of me.
1) Girl hitting. "Tee hee, I'm just a little girl and he's a big strong boy, when I get angry it's just a cute angry and when I flail my fists at him it's just cute little blows!" I know an unfortunately large number of girls who think it's just fine when they get frustrated in an argument--generally not a serious emotional argument, but a disagreement--to sort of ineffectually whack at the guy and think it's funny. Like a goofy cartoon "snap out of it, sillypants!" head-bonk. Only real.
First, you're discounting your own power. The idea that girl-hitting is okay hinges on the idea that girls are harmless. Maybe you're not as strong as him, but even if you're tiny (tiny girls do seem to have particularly poor hit-inhibition), you could do some damage if you tried. You could leave a mark. Respect that. Your fists, even small untrained fists, are weapons, and you don't goof around with weapons.
And second, you are, in anger, touching someone in a way they don't want to be touched. The fact that it doesn't do real damage doesn't make it all okay and adorable. Violence isn't just about injury, it's also about violation, and cute little "ooh you rascal" swats, when unwanted, are a cute little violation. It's not okay for him to hit you as long as it doesn't really hurt--so it's not okay to hit him. Ever.
2) Dom hitting. I've experienced this one. He's so used to hitting you during sex and giving playful swats or full-on "punishments" for "infractions," that you're out of role and you genuinely displease him and he spanks you. (Or you're just walking around and he sneak-attacks, which is not morally offensive but is very annoying.) The problem here is pretty self-evident, I think: a sub's consent isn't carte blanche, and sexy-hitting should have absolutely nothing to do with real hitting.
Like the girl hitting, dom hitting in my experience is usually meant to be silly and not physically dangerous. He's not deliberately being cruel, he's just failing to realize that the difference between a little spank for being such a dirty slut and a little spank for sass mouth is huge. It may hurt the same or less, but it's crossing the consent line. And it's scary. A lot scarier, I think, than he realizes. I've ditched guys over this; if I can't trust a guy when we're out of role just messing around, how can I trust him to tie me up?
The bottom line is basically don't hit people even a little bit unless they have very specifically and explicitly asked for it. It's a pretty easy rule to remember I think.
1) Girl hitting. "Tee hee, I'm just a little girl and he's a big strong boy, when I get angry it's just a cute angry and when I flail my fists at him it's just cute little blows!" I know an unfortunately large number of girls who think it's just fine when they get frustrated in an argument--generally not a serious emotional argument, but a disagreement--to sort of ineffectually whack at the guy and think it's funny. Like a goofy cartoon "snap out of it, sillypants!" head-bonk. Only real.
First, you're discounting your own power. The idea that girl-hitting is okay hinges on the idea that girls are harmless. Maybe you're not as strong as him, but even if you're tiny (tiny girls do seem to have particularly poor hit-inhibition), you could do some damage if you tried. You could leave a mark. Respect that. Your fists, even small untrained fists, are weapons, and you don't goof around with weapons.
And second, you are, in anger, touching someone in a way they don't want to be touched. The fact that it doesn't do real damage doesn't make it all okay and adorable. Violence isn't just about injury, it's also about violation, and cute little "ooh you rascal" swats, when unwanted, are a cute little violation. It's not okay for him to hit you as long as it doesn't really hurt--so it's not okay to hit him. Ever.
2) Dom hitting. I've experienced this one. He's so used to hitting you during sex and giving playful swats or full-on "punishments" for "infractions," that you're out of role and you genuinely displease him and he spanks you. (Or you're just walking around and he sneak-attacks, which is not morally offensive but is very annoying.) The problem here is pretty self-evident, I think: a sub's consent isn't carte blanche, and sexy-hitting should have absolutely nothing to do with real hitting.
Like the girl hitting, dom hitting in my experience is usually meant to be silly and not physically dangerous. He's not deliberately being cruel, he's just failing to realize that the difference between a little spank for being such a dirty slut and a little spank for sass mouth is huge. It may hurt the same or less, but it's crossing the consent line. And it's scary. A lot scarier, I think, than he realizes. I've ditched guys over this; if I can't trust a guy when we're out of role just messing around, how can I trust him to tie me up?
The bottom line is basically don't hit people even a little bit unless they have very specifically and explicitly asked for it. It's a pretty easy rule to remember I think.
Glamocking!
I don't have the new Cosmo yet! Tragedy! But I do have Glamour (Shouldn't that be "Glamor" in the US?) and that's basically the same thing! Sandra Bullock on the cover! I can't argue with plaid!
Going to work without makeup: 49% say it's a DO, 51% say it's a DON'T.
Where do these people work? Because if you're a face-to-face sales rep or something, then maybe you have to. But I'd guess more than 49% of people work in jobs that don't require the "businessy" look--either no one cares what you look like (IT tech, maintenance worker) or the professional standard isn't heels-and-hose based (nurse, police officer). And then, well, what the heck? Wear makeup if it makes you happy for some perverse reason, and if it doesn't... don't. You don't owe it to the world to emphasize your sexual characteristics when you're just at fuckin' work.
Makeup is a nice little option to add to your appearance if you wish. But women who feel "naked without it" give me the heebie jeebies. Do you really look that bad?
(Side note: these women's magazines always seem to assume all their readers have a particular kind of job. Something office-based, upper-middle-class, business-casual, not heavily dependent on a technical skill, nine to five, and heavy on the office politics. It's almost like they think we're all... hmm... magazine editors.)
How to tell him to get better clothes: ...You lie next to your peacefully sleeping boyfriend. After making sure he's down for the count, you sneak over to his dresser, shove a couple of particularly awful items in a bag and hurry out the door.
NO. Do not do this. Do not fucking destroy someone else's property because it offends your aesthetics. It's not cute, it's not mischievous, it's not funny, and it's not something you fucking do. Maybe he hates some of the things you own, you know that? Would you like your stuff to just disappear with a tee-hee and a "now we can get you things I like"? I don't fucking think so.
How to talk to the sexiest guy at the party: ..."Are you a model? Or did I have sex with you in college?"
How to make the sexiest guy at the party awkwardly mutter "uh, nope, uh, don't think so" while backing away so fast he may trip over something.
Don't show [a date] photos featuring your most attractive friends.
I agree that subjecting a date to a wacky cameraphone slideshow of people he doesn't know isn't a great move. But the "most attractive" part is creepy. Am I really supposed to be so damn insecure that I need to shield him from the sight of women prettier than me? Shit, he's going to leave your control in a couple hours, and then he might look at ANYONE! OH NOES! BLIND HIM!
Hey, it's OK! ...to think the fireworks were a wee bit excessive. Ooh, aah, how many small countries could that have fed?
Well aren't you just a bundle of fun.
(And this in a magazine promoting $172 jean shorts and a $268 skirt.)
Yes, This Woman is a "Mail-Order Bride"
So wow. Wow. There's a whole article on a woman from the Ukraine who met a much older and richer man on a marriage brokerage website and moved to the US to marry him, and he spent about $20,000 on "the process" and "expenses." But they really love each other and she's very independent and very happy, it was just an unconventional way to meet.
Which may be true. But nonetheless the article is kind of unsettling. She talks about going to the US and getting citizenship in a lot more detail than actually liking or having a relationship with the guy; her opinion of him seems more like "well, given the choices, not unacceptable" than "my love." And the "his story" sidebar reads as seriously evasive--he had a couple bad dates and then he just spontaneously decided to fly in a Ukranian lady on a whim, you know, like anyone might. What a wacky lark that worked out so well!
Hell, I believe them when they say their relationship isn't domineering and they're both happy. But it's still creepy.
Maybe it's just the photo. The photo is priceless. (And not just because of Evil Pop Art Mickey.)
CC put it best: "Oh, I've seen this photo before. In nursing home ads."
Yeah.
(I'm not talking about age so much as the intersection of the worshipful/befuddled upward gaze and the "isn't he cute? almost like a person!" downward gaze. Although at least the nurse is actually looking at her elderly client.)
Put on a 2 percent salicylic acid lotion from the drugstore. ...Or dissolve an aspirin tablet (salicylic acid in solid form) in a bit of water to form a paste, apply to the breakout and rinse after three minutes.
CHEMISTRY FAIL.
This is how the orgasm fairy tale goes: you meet Prince Charming, and the very first time, he knows exactly how your body works. There's some kissing, some foreplay, some moaning and, after maybe 10 minutes of intercourse, bam--a shattering climax for two. Angels may even sing. If your sex life fits this description, kudos. If not, this story is for you.
Welp, guess this story isn't for me then! Ciao!
Going to work without makeup: 49% say it's a DO, 51% say it's a DON'T.
Where do these people work? Because if you're a face-to-face sales rep or something, then maybe you have to. But I'd guess more than 49% of people work in jobs that don't require the "businessy" look--either no one cares what you look like (IT tech, maintenance worker) or the professional standard isn't heels-and-hose based (nurse, police officer). And then, well, what the heck? Wear makeup if it makes you happy for some perverse reason, and if it doesn't... don't. You don't owe it to the world to emphasize your sexual characteristics when you're just at fuckin' work.
Makeup is a nice little option to add to your appearance if you wish. But women who feel "naked without it" give me the heebie jeebies. Do you really look that bad?
(Side note: these women's magazines always seem to assume all their readers have a particular kind of job. Something office-based, upper-middle-class, business-casual, not heavily dependent on a technical skill, nine to five, and heavy on the office politics. It's almost like they think we're all... hmm... magazine editors.)
How to tell him to get better clothes: ...You lie next to your peacefully sleeping boyfriend. After making sure he's down for the count, you sneak over to his dresser, shove a couple of particularly awful items in a bag and hurry out the door.
NO. Do not do this. Do not fucking destroy someone else's property because it offends your aesthetics. It's not cute, it's not mischievous, it's not funny, and it's not something you fucking do. Maybe he hates some of the things you own, you know that? Would you like your stuff to just disappear with a tee-hee and a "now we can get you things I like"? I don't fucking think so.
How to talk to the sexiest guy at the party: ..."Are you a model? Or did I have sex with you in college?"
How to make the sexiest guy at the party awkwardly mutter "uh, nope, uh, don't think so" while backing away so fast he may trip over something.
Don't show [a date] photos featuring your most attractive friends.
I agree that subjecting a date to a wacky cameraphone slideshow of people he doesn't know isn't a great move. But the "most attractive" part is creepy. Am I really supposed to be so damn insecure that I need to shield him from the sight of women prettier than me? Shit, he's going to leave your control in a couple hours, and then he might look at ANYONE! OH NOES! BLIND HIM!
Hey, it's OK! ...to think the fireworks were a wee bit excessive. Ooh, aah, how many small countries could that have fed?
Well aren't you just a bundle of fun.
(And this in a magazine promoting $172 jean shorts and a $268 skirt.)
Yes, This Woman is a "Mail-Order Bride"
So wow. Wow. There's a whole article on a woman from the Ukraine who met a much older and richer man on a marriage brokerage website and moved to the US to marry him, and he spent about $20,000 on "the process" and "expenses." But they really love each other and she's very independent and very happy, it was just an unconventional way to meet.
Which may be true. But nonetheless the article is kind of unsettling. She talks about going to the US and getting citizenship in a lot more detail than actually liking or having a relationship with the guy; her opinion of him seems more like "well, given the choices, not unacceptable" than "my love." And the "his story" sidebar reads as seriously evasive--he had a couple bad dates and then he just spontaneously decided to fly in a Ukranian lady on a whim, you know, like anyone might. What a wacky lark that worked out so well!
Hell, I believe them when they say their relationship isn't domineering and they're both happy. But it's still creepy.
Maybe it's just the photo. The photo is priceless. (And not just because of Evil Pop Art Mickey.)
CC put it best: "Oh, I've seen this photo before. In nursing home ads."
Yeah.
(I'm not talking about age so much as the intersection of the worshipful/befuddled upward gaze and the "isn't he cute? almost like a person!" downward gaze. Although at least the nurse is actually looking at her elderly client.)
Put on a 2 percent salicylic acid lotion from the drugstore. ...Or dissolve an aspirin tablet (salicylic acid in solid form) in a bit of water to form a paste, apply to the breakout and rinse after three minutes.
CHEMISTRY FAIL.
This is how the orgasm fairy tale goes: you meet Prince Charming, and the very first time, he knows exactly how your body works. There's some kissing, some foreplay, some moaning and, after maybe 10 minutes of intercourse, bam--a shattering climax for two. Angels may even sing. If your sex life fits this description, kudos. If not, this story is for you.
Welp, guess this story isn't for me then! Ciao!
Thursday, July 2, 2009
I'm not sorry.
Sometimes during sex you do have to apologize. You're dealing with sensitive areas both physical and mental, you're going to fuck up, when you've fucked up it's nice to say sorry. That's okay. But people apologize too damn much during sex. (I know I do. Sorry about that.) They apologize for things they shouldn't.
Saying "sorry" can make someone less upset with you, but it can't make them happier. "Sorry I bonked you on the nose there" soothes the indignity of the nose-pain a bit, but "sorry you didn't have more fun" doesn't create any fun at all. And when you apologize for things that didn't bother the other person in the first place, you draw attention to those things and you sound insecure as hell.
So here are a couple things not to apologize for.
1) Your body.
They're fucking you, aren't they? Unless they're putting on a blindfold and handling your bits with tongs, it's pretty safe to say they find you attractive. Going "sorry, I have a big belly" can only go two ways:
-They actually kinda liked your tummy, but now are sad that you don't feel the same way.
-They didn't love your tummy but didn't mind it since the rest of you is so damn cute, and now you've drawn their attention to it.
Not only do the outcomes suck, but so does the implication: that your body is something you're doing to them. "Look out, I'm going to be fat at you!" Horseshit. Only the sleaziest teenage boys think that being attractive is a duty to others and being ugly is an offense or dereliction. If your body's somehow a problem, at least realize it's only your problem.
2) Malfunctions.
So he didn't get hard, you had weird pain and had to quit, she didn't get off, you came in ten seconds. Sucks for both of you.
So here's your options:
-Fix it. Take a rest and go a little easier this time, let your fingers finish what your cock started, ask her how she likes it and do just exactly that.
-Forget it. Welp, no sense going on if it's not fun anymore. Wanna watch a movie and cuddle? We can try again later if we feel like it, or not if we don't.
-"Sorry sorry ohmigosh that was terrible sorry."
3) Your limits.
Big one for me. "I'm really sorry, but I just can't get comfortable with crowbar blows, it must be such a letdown for you, sorry." Even if it's not crowbar-play, even if it's spanking or giving blowjobs or having your feet touched, you shouldn't apologize for a decision you're not planning to reverse. Maybe it really does disappoint them, but apologizing won't help and it makes the limit seem less firm.
The worst limit to apologize for is who you'll fuck/play with. Giving a polite no is nice; giving an apologetic no is annoying and misleading. Are you actually, literally sorry you won't fuck them? If so, it won't help them to know that. If not, don't lie.
I'm sorry for things I did and I know were wrong and you'll feel better if I say it. If it's not my fault, if I still stand by my actions, or if "sorry" will only be salt on the wound, then I'll be nice, but I won't be sorry.
Saying "sorry" can make someone less upset with you, but it can't make them happier. "Sorry I bonked you on the nose there" soothes the indignity of the nose-pain a bit, but "sorry you didn't have more fun" doesn't create any fun at all. And when you apologize for things that didn't bother the other person in the first place, you draw attention to those things and you sound insecure as hell.
So here are a couple things not to apologize for.
1) Your body.
They're fucking you, aren't they? Unless they're putting on a blindfold and handling your bits with tongs, it's pretty safe to say they find you attractive. Going "sorry, I have a big belly" can only go two ways:
-They actually kinda liked your tummy, but now are sad that you don't feel the same way.
-They didn't love your tummy but didn't mind it since the rest of you is so damn cute, and now you've drawn their attention to it.
Not only do the outcomes suck, but so does the implication: that your body is something you're doing to them. "Look out, I'm going to be fat at you!" Horseshit. Only the sleaziest teenage boys think that being attractive is a duty to others and being ugly is an offense or dereliction. If your body's somehow a problem, at least realize it's only your problem.
2) Malfunctions.
So he didn't get hard, you had weird pain and had to quit, she didn't get off, you came in ten seconds. Sucks for both of you.
So here's your options:
-Fix it. Take a rest and go a little easier this time, let your fingers finish what your cock started, ask her how she likes it and do just exactly that.
-Forget it. Welp, no sense going on if it's not fun anymore. Wanna watch a movie and cuddle? We can try again later if we feel like it, or not if we don't.
-"Sorry sorry ohmigosh that was terrible sorry."
3) Your limits.
Big one for me. "I'm really sorry, but I just can't get comfortable with crowbar blows, it must be such a letdown for you, sorry." Even if it's not crowbar-play, even if it's spanking or giving blowjobs or having your feet touched, you shouldn't apologize for a decision you're not planning to reverse. Maybe it really does disappoint them, but apologizing won't help and it makes the limit seem less firm.
The worst limit to apologize for is who you'll fuck/play with. Giving a polite no is nice; giving an apologetic no is annoying and misleading. Are you actually, literally sorry you won't fuck them? If so, it won't help them to know that. If not, don't lie.
I'm sorry for things I did and I know were wrong and you'll feel better if I say it. If it's not my fault, if I still stand by my actions, or if "sorry" will only be salt on the wound, then I'll be nice, but I won't be sorry.
Garden.
Flowers are just plants fucking. For the longest time I thought that was funny, maybe even ironic.
Now I understand that it's beautiful.
Now I understand that it's beautiful.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Fitness.
I've heard the following argument many times, many places:
"Men can impregnate many women at once, which means that they'll be naturally driven to increase their evolutionary fitness by fucking around!"
The problem with this argument is that fitness isn't measured in conceptions. It's measured in descendants. Spreading your genes as widely as possible doesn't institute them in your species unless the carriers of those genes live to adulthood and produce grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Maybe you can impregnate and dump five single mothers in the time it would take to get your wife pregnant once, but if a single mother is ten times more likely to miscarry or have a child die or have the kid grow up too unhealthy to reproduce prolifically--the real stud is the one who stands by his woman. (And the smart woman, having some choice of her own in the matter, doesn't make babies with a man who doesn't seem like he plans to stick around.)
Or not. Maybe the single mom is pretty damn self-sufficient and she's only a little more likely to screw up. That would make it worthwhile for men to spread their seed. How much benefit fathering provides varies by species, and in humans it varies tremendously by era and culture. I don't really know which side of the equation early humans were on. My point is only that it isn't a given that causing the most pregnancies necessarily implies the most fitness. Many times, as in seahorses or wolves or penguins, the dad who stays and works spreads his seed further than the dad who just throws sperm around.
Also, whether fathering matters or not, having the most children doesn't always lead to the most fitness; having twenty kids miserably fighting for scraps of food may get you fewer grandchildren than raising five fat and happy little critters. A pregnancy isn't the determiner of fitness and neither is a baby. A great-great-great-great grandchild is.
This is all really theoretical. I haven't done the research. Maybe in humans (and more importantly, historical humans) fatherhood value is low and optimum family size is high, in which case spreading the seed really is the right strategy. (I doubt it, though; enough human civilizations seem to have independently developed and stuck to systems of faithful pair bonds that I'm guessing that's what's natural for people.)
But you know what? We're not strategizers. We're not slaves to instinct. We're fucking people.
Maybe you could raise sixteen children well enough for them to reproduce, but very likely you'd rather raise two or three with the resources for them to be happy and educated as well as fit. And maybe you could ditch a pregnant woman and breed again, but likely you'd rather find a woman you can love and be happy with. It might be an accident of evolution, as misguided as a bee fucking an orchid, but our brains are too big and our emotions to complicated to run on instinct.
We're lowering our fitness and increasing our humanity.
"Men can impregnate many women at once, which means that they'll be naturally driven to increase their evolutionary fitness by fucking around!"
The problem with this argument is that fitness isn't measured in conceptions. It's measured in descendants. Spreading your genes as widely as possible doesn't institute them in your species unless the carriers of those genes live to adulthood and produce grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Maybe you can impregnate and dump five single mothers in the time it would take to get your wife pregnant once, but if a single mother is ten times more likely to miscarry or have a child die or have the kid grow up too unhealthy to reproduce prolifically--the real stud is the one who stands by his woman. (And the smart woman, having some choice of her own in the matter, doesn't make babies with a man who doesn't seem like he plans to stick around.)
Or not. Maybe the single mom is pretty damn self-sufficient and she's only a little more likely to screw up. That would make it worthwhile for men to spread their seed. How much benefit fathering provides varies by species, and in humans it varies tremendously by era and culture. I don't really know which side of the equation early humans were on. My point is only that it isn't a given that causing the most pregnancies necessarily implies the most fitness. Many times, as in seahorses or wolves or penguins, the dad who stays and works spreads his seed further than the dad who just throws sperm around.
Also, whether fathering matters or not, having the most children doesn't always lead to the most fitness; having twenty kids miserably fighting for scraps of food may get you fewer grandchildren than raising five fat and happy little critters. A pregnancy isn't the determiner of fitness and neither is a baby. A great-great-great-great grandchild is.
This is all really theoretical. I haven't done the research. Maybe in humans (and more importantly, historical humans) fatherhood value is low and optimum family size is high, in which case spreading the seed really is the right strategy. (I doubt it, though; enough human civilizations seem to have independently developed and stuck to systems of faithful pair bonds that I'm guessing that's what's natural for people.)
But you know what? We're not strategizers. We're not slaves to instinct. We're fucking people.
Maybe you could raise sixteen children well enough for them to reproduce, but very likely you'd rather raise two or three with the resources for them to be happy and educated as well as fit. And maybe you could ditch a pregnant woman and breed again, but likely you'd rather find a woman you can love and be happy with. It might be an accident of evolution, as misguided as a bee fucking an orchid, but our brains are too big and our emotions to complicated to run on instinct.
We're lowering our fitness and increasing our humanity.
You has a flavor.
"Does my pussy taste good?"
"Uh... um... well, I mean... I wouldn't put it on my hamburger."
I am suave.
But I do hate the "does it taste good?" question, whether asked of pussy or come. Because, really? Crotch tastes like crotch. It's nothing personal, doesn't mean you're not a clean or sexy person, but if I wanted strawberries with crème fraîche I wouldn't be looking for it in anyone's genitals. The natural flavor of clean healthy groin is nothing to be ashamed of, but c'mon, it doesn't taste good.
So what? I still love to go down. Saying a pussy doesn't taste like delicious food is like saying that your Himalayan expedition didn't have portable DVD players--who cares, that's not what you came for. If I can lick and nibble your most sensitive places and make you moan and squirm, do you think I care what it tastes like?
"Uh... um... well, I mean... I wouldn't put it on my hamburger."
I am suave.
But I do hate the "does it taste good?" question, whether asked of pussy or come. Because, really? Crotch tastes like crotch. It's nothing personal, doesn't mean you're not a clean or sexy person, but if I wanted strawberries with crème fraîche I wouldn't be looking for it in anyone's genitals. The natural flavor of clean healthy groin is nothing to be ashamed of, but c'mon, it doesn't taste good.
So what? I still love to go down. Saying a pussy doesn't taste like delicious food is like saying that your Himalayan expedition didn't have portable DVD players--who cares, that's not what you came for. If I can lick and nibble your most sensitive places and make you moan and squirm, do you think I care what it tastes like?
Monday, June 29, 2009
Excuses.
I'm not sure if I'll ever write a Big Threesome Sexy Post. It's hard to be sexy when my own feelings are more on the "hmm, conflicted emotions" side than the "ooh baby hot tight wet" side. I liked the guy more than I should've and knew the girl less than I should've and although physically it was a kick in the pants, the part of me that thinks too much still thinks it was... weird.
Anyway! Random personal revelation time!
I have masturbated literally as far back as I can remember. I'm not sure if I had orgasms before puberty; the realization that "suddenly it feels real good for a second and then I want to stop and at the same time there's a bunch more wet stuff" was an unnervingly gradual one. As was the realization that I was masturbating at all; for a long time I knew what masturbation was and I knew that I moved in certain ways that felt good and helped me sleep, but I simply didn't connect the two. Masturbation was all dirty and desperate and what I did was just a simple little pleasure. But I've always done "what I did." I have memories of drinking warm milk from a bottle and masturbating.
I'm honestly not sure if that's normal. Most people I've talked to say they started at a double-digit age, but little kids do seem to mess around plenty. Maybe it depends what your definition of "masturbate" is. At any rate, whether I'm a freak or I have billions of cohorts in this, I've been a horny little bastard my whole life.
I'm proud of that.
Anyway! Random personal revelation time!
I have masturbated literally as far back as I can remember. I'm not sure if I had orgasms before puberty; the realization that "suddenly it feels real good for a second and then I want to stop and at the same time there's a bunch more wet stuff" was an unnervingly gradual one. As was the realization that I was masturbating at all; for a long time I knew what masturbation was and I knew that I moved in certain ways that felt good and helped me sleep, but I simply didn't connect the two. Masturbation was all dirty and desperate and what I did was just a simple little pleasure. But I've always done "what I did." I have memories of drinking warm milk from a bottle and masturbating.
I'm honestly not sure if that's normal. Most people I've talked to say they started at a double-digit age, but little kids do seem to mess around plenty. Maybe it depends what your definition of "masturbate" is. At any rate, whether I'm a freak or I have billions of cohorts in this, I've been a horny little bastard my whole life.
I'm proud of that.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Guest Post: Bruno!
Bruno here. I’ve been horny and lonely recently, and this memory keeps forcing its way to the surface. Holly liked it, and I hope you will too.
G and I had met briefly once before, but kept intermittent communication during the intervening months. I thought she was hot, and was looking forward to seeing her again during a weekend camping trip. After a day spent in the same small group, we ended up sitting next to each other around a bonfire. For a while it was loud and stupid, but when the sky threatened rain and everyone else went off to bed, G invited me back to her cabin to have another drink.
I didn’t know what to expect, but was happy to follow along. We walked over, and while she was in the bathroom I retrieved a couple bottles from the fridge and set two folding chairs facing each other on the gravel outside.
She came out and we talked for a while through intermittent waves of drizzle, but eventually I decided to kiss her. She seemed surprised but not disappointed. “So you’re a kisser,” she said.
She told me that she’s a bad girl, that I should avoid girls like her, that I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I’m an adult, I said, and I can make my own decisions and take risks if I like.
G is fairly petite, and I’m fairly strong. When she sat back as if to deny me the chance to kiss her again, I plucked her from her chair and put her in my lap. We resumed kissing, and I used my new position to give her neck some attention,
The lights were on inside the cabin, and at least one person saw what we were up to. I decided not to care; the lights went out eventually, giving us what privacy we could have while outside in the dark.
Having received tacit approval for kissing her neck, I tried to kiss G’s breasts. “You’re not going to stop, are you?” she protested. I just grinned.
I wish I could remember more of what happened next, but I was drunk and it was hours past midnight. Somehow, G offered me a deal: If the drizzle became a real storm, we would make love in the rain. She held her arms over her head and closed her eyes as if lying back on a bed. “Because I’m a massive whore,” she said.
I should add that I didn’t really expect her to honor the offer. I thought we’d give up before the weather changed, there would be a discussion of whether the rain was sufficient, or she’d change her mind.
But the damp rustle in the leaves over us intensified until we had water running through our hair. It was my turn to be surprised when G turned to straddle me and began clenching her thighs against my hips as if trying to coax my cock from my shorts.
I took her shirt and bra off to play with her breasts, and she took my shirt off. Before long she had her pants off, and then she unzipped my shorts.
I had to set her down on the folding chair in order to get my shoes and shorts off, and that was the position we stayed in for most of the time. I’m fairly girthy and she’s small, so getting inside her was a bit of a challenge, but eventually I succeeded. G threw her head back and grunted appreciatively.
My last lay had come months earlier; it shouldn’t have been a surprise that I didn’t last long, but I was disappointed. I came on her stomach, then immediately went between her legs, nibbling her clit and massaging her g spot with two fingers. She writhed and sighed, and when she slowed down I stopped.
We stood on the gravel with rain pouring over us and kissed. I got aroused again almost immediately, which she encouraged by pumping my cock with her fist. Then she jumped into my arms and straddled me again. I picked her up and changed levels as we made out -- way off the ground to kiss her pussy, lower to get at her breasts, lowest to penetrate her again.
And then she was back in the folding chair. While I crouched over her and thrust, our damp skin slapping and her breasts wobbling, her areolas barely visible in the darkness, she dropped her head back until I couldn’t see her face and moaned more loudly.
After a few minutes, she pushed me away with her thighs and lay on the chair seat panting. I leaned over to kiss her while jacking myself off, but she encouraged me to relax and not force it. I wasn’t doing anything I was uncomfortable with, but I didn’t know how close I was to coming again, either.
We got dressed as best we could. G’s pants were too wet for her to get them on again, so she was only in her underwear when we went inside. The half-asleep guy on the couch may have noticed, but didn’t say much.
G found a dry pair of pants, and we cuddled on a more private couch for a while. She told me I was adorable and amazing, how much she’d missed sex; she wanted to visit me and show me some tricks. Eventually we went back to our separate beds.
In the morning we hugged goodbye. Since that, we’ve had almost no contact.
I’m disappointed, of course, but part of me can acknowledge that it would be futile to attempt to replicate that rainy night’s emotions. Locking them in time keeps them unique.
G and I had met briefly once before, but kept intermittent communication during the intervening months. I thought she was hot, and was looking forward to seeing her again during a weekend camping trip. After a day spent in the same small group, we ended up sitting next to each other around a bonfire. For a while it was loud and stupid, but when the sky threatened rain and everyone else went off to bed, G invited me back to her cabin to have another drink.
I didn’t know what to expect, but was happy to follow along. We walked over, and while she was in the bathroom I retrieved a couple bottles from the fridge and set two folding chairs facing each other on the gravel outside.
She came out and we talked for a while through intermittent waves of drizzle, but eventually I decided to kiss her. She seemed surprised but not disappointed. “So you’re a kisser,” she said.
She told me that she’s a bad girl, that I should avoid girls like her, that I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I’m an adult, I said, and I can make my own decisions and take risks if I like.
G is fairly petite, and I’m fairly strong. When she sat back as if to deny me the chance to kiss her again, I plucked her from her chair and put her in my lap. We resumed kissing, and I used my new position to give her neck some attention,
The lights were on inside the cabin, and at least one person saw what we were up to. I decided not to care; the lights went out eventually, giving us what privacy we could have while outside in the dark.
Having received tacit approval for kissing her neck, I tried to kiss G’s breasts. “You’re not going to stop, are you?” she protested. I just grinned.
I wish I could remember more of what happened next, but I was drunk and it was hours past midnight. Somehow, G offered me a deal: If the drizzle became a real storm, we would make love in the rain. She held her arms over her head and closed her eyes as if lying back on a bed. “Because I’m a massive whore,” she said.
I should add that I didn’t really expect her to honor the offer. I thought we’d give up before the weather changed, there would be a discussion of whether the rain was sufficient, or she’d change her mind.
But the damp rustle in the leaves over us intensified until we had water running through our hair. It was my turn to be surprised when G turned to straddle me and began clenching her thighs against my hips as if trying to coax my cock from my shorts.
I took her shirt and bra off to play with her breasts, and she took my shirt off. Before long she had her pants off, and then she unzipped my shorts.
I had to set her down on the folding chair in order to get my shoes and shorts off, and that was the position we stayed in for most of the time. I’m fairly girthy and she’s small, so getting inside her was a bit of a challenge, but eventually I succeeded. G threw her head back and grunted appreciatively.
My last lay had come months earlier; it shouldn’t have been a surprise that I didn’t last long, but I was disappointed. I came on her stomach, then immediately went between her legs, nibbling her clit and massaging her g spot with two fingers. She writhed and sighed, and when she slowed down I stopped.
We stood on the gravel with rain pouring over us and kissed. I got aroused again almost immediately, which she encouraged by pumping my cock with her fist. Then she jumped into my arms and straddled me again. I picked her up and changed levels as we made out -- way off the ground to kiss her pussy, lower to get at her breasts, lowest to penetrate her again.
And then she was back in the folding chair. While I crouched over her and thrust, our damp skin slapping and her breasts wobbling, her areolas barely visible in the darkness, she dropped her head back until I couldn’t see her face and moaned more loudly.
After a few minutes, she pushed me away with her thighs and lay on the chair seat panting. I leaned over to kiss her while jacking myself off, but she encouraged me to relax and not force it. I wasn’t doing anything I was uncomfortable with, but I didn’t know how close I was to coming again, either.
We got dressed as best we could. G’s pants were too wet for her to get them on again, so she was only in her underwear when we went inside. The half-asleep guy on the couch may have noticed, but didn’t say much.
G found a dry pair of pants, and we cuddled on a more private couch for a while. She told me I was adorable and amazing, how much she’d missed sex; she wanted to visit me and show me some tricks. Eventually we went back to our separate beds.
In the morning we hugged goodbye. Since that, we’ve had almost no contact.
I’m disappointed, of course, but part of me can acknowledge that it would be futile to attempt to replicate that rainy night’s emotions. Locking them in time keeps them unique.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Sex Versus Death.
I don't know why people talk about infinity as terrifying and unfathomable. It's finity that blows my mind. The idea of something happening for the last time. Ever. I can't wrap my head around that. One day I'll go out in the rain and it'll be the last rain I feel. I'll watch a movie and it'll turn out that it was my last movie ever. The simplest sensations of being alive, the experience of seeing a color or hearing a sound, are things I won't have forever.
And that's why I love to fuck.
Because when I get fucked, and it's good, it's transcendent. When I'm with someone I like and everything's right and I come hard enough... if I can only be alive for so long, that's about as alive as I can be. It's the best thing my mind and body know. It's not just pleasurable, it is pleasure.
This is why anti-sex rhetoric, or the promotion of joyless sex, piss me off so much. Because sex isn't a minor thing; fucking up sex is fucking up joy. Fucking up life.
When Cosmo tells you a stupid sex tip that will ruin your night, when an ad makes you feel too ugly to fuck, when a teacher tells you premarital sex makes you a bad person, it's taking away something you'll never get back. It's a small thing, it's just one bad night out of maybe ten thousand potential sex nights, but ten thousand isn't that much when you consider it's all you'll ever get. There's no ten thousand and one. I want to make it count.
Around the fourth or fifth orgasm, sometimes I get stupid. My head gets fuzzy and my muscles get spazzy. I'm just that happy. I'm just that lucky. Some people die without ever being that happy.
I don't mean to say sex is the only way to get happy, or even the best way, and I don't mean to say that it's always best to have the most sex. Obviously.
What I mean to say is that when you only get so many minutes of life, joy matters. Joy, in one form or another, spiritual or intellectual or altruistic or received directly through the genital nerves, is the only thing that matters. Good sex brings a hell of a lot of joy. And that, ultimately, is why sex matters.
Fucking is a fine thing and worth fighting for.
And that's why I love to fuck.
Because when I get fucked, and it's good, it's transcendent. When I'm with someone I like and everything's right and I come hard enough... if I can only be alive for so long, that's about as alive as I can be. It's the best thing my mind and body know. It's not just pleasurable, it is pleasure.
This is why anti-sex rhetoric, or the promotion of joyless sex, piss me off so much. Because sex isn't a minor thing; fucking up sex is fucking up joy. Fucking up life.
When Cosmo tells you a stupid sex tip that will ruin your night, when an ad makes you feel too ugly to fuck, when a teacher tells you premarital sex makes you a bad person, it's taking away something you'll never get back. It's a small thing, it's just one bad night out of maybe ten thousand potential sex nights, but ten thousand isn't that much when you consider it's all you'll ever get. There's no ten thousand and one. I want to make it count.
Around the fourth or fifth orgasm, sometimes I get stupid. My head gets fuzzy and my muscles get spazzy. I'm just that happy. I'm just that lucky. Some people die without ever being that happy.
I don't mean to say sex is the only way to get happy, or even the best way, and I don't mean to say that it's always best to have the most sex. Obviously.
What I mean to say is that when you only get so many minutes of life, joy matters. Joy, in one form or another, spiritual or intellectual or altruistic or received directly through the genital nerves, is the only thing that matters. Good sex brings a hell of a lot of joy. And that, ultimately, is why sex matters.
Fucking is a fine thing and worth fighting for.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Not Worth It.
(I should be blogging about that threesome. It was all sexy and shit. But I'm tired and sore and grouchy and would not do it justice. Sexiness later. Moping now.)
I think I've finally decided that CC is just not worth it. He's cute as fuck, he's exactly my physical and personality type and he makes me laugh my ass off all day, but... he's also kind of crazy. In ways that, while not friendship-killing, could make dating miserable.
He's over-sensitive and unpredictable. CC's psyche contains a myriad of Secret Sulk Buttons which are fucking invisible until you hit them, and when you do you're in for at least an hour of stony, averted-eyed "Hhmph. I'm fine. It's nothing. Hhmph." I'm an insensitive clod myself and have a bad habit of poking at known boundaries, even thick-skinned guys end up having to tell me "hey, that's really not an okay thing to joke about" a few times, but even if I weren't a jerk I don't think I could navigate CC's vast constellation of invisible shifting boundaries. And even if he weren't sensitive about random petty things, I don't want to date someone who goes into sulks instead of saying what the fuck's going on in his head.
Also, his reactions to me have crossed the line from "flirty" to "mixed messages," and then crossed a second, much thicker line into "batshit." It's okay to be huggy-jokey sometimes and want to keep it professional other times; it's not okay to decide these times at fucking random and freak the hell out when I guess wrong.
Don't get me wrong, the day we get unpartnered I'm still going to try to fuck him. I just don't think I have any interest in ever dating him.
Thank God, right? Wanting what you can't have is very romantic and titillating and all, but it's pretty dumb compared to plain old having.
...Although I do still need to work on that part.
I think I've finally decided that CC is just not worth it. He's cute as fuck, he's exactly my physical and personality type and he makes me laugh my ass off all day, but... he's also kind of crazy. In ways that, while not friendship-killing, could make dating miserable.
He's over-sensitive and unpredictable. CC's psyche contains a myriad of Secret Sulk Buttons which are fucking invisible until you hit them, and when you do you're in for at least an hour of stony, averted-eyed "Hhmph. I'm fine. It's nothing. Hhmph." I'm an insensitive clod myself and have a bad habit of poking at known boundaries, even thick-skinned guys end up having to tell me "hey, that's really not an okay thing to joke about" a few times, but even if I weren't a jerk I don't think I could navigate CC's vast constellation of invisible shifting boundaries. And even if he weren't sensitive about random petty things, I don't want to date someone who goes into sulks instead of saying what the fuck's going on in his head.
Also, his reactions to me have crossed the line from "flirty" to "mixed messages," and then crossed a second, much thicker line into "batshit." It's okay to be huggy-jokey sometimes and want to keep it professional other times; it's not okay to decide these times at fucking random and freak the hell out when I guess wrong.
Don't get me wrong, the day we get unpartnered I'm still going to try to fuck him. I just don't think I have any interest in ever dating him.
Thank God, right? Wanting what you can't have is very romantic and titillating and all, but it's pretty dumb compared to plain old having.
...Although I do still need to work on that part.
Monday, June 22, 2009
"Don't worry baby, it's less-lethal!"
Drew stungunned me!
It actually wasn't the worst. On the ol' 0-10 pain scale, maybe a 5? Worse than a handslap, but not as bad as something that, y'know, hurts. I give the sound and sight perfect 10s for horribleness though. Hearing that *CRACKSNAP* and seeing GODDAMN LIGHTNING is way worse than the actual shock.
I wish I could say "yep, I just manned up and did it," but the truth is that right after declaring I wanted to do it, I came down with a pretty bad case of the cowards and had to be kinda coaxed into it. Fortunately Drew is inhumanely patient and trustworthy in these matters and if you want the perfect man to hold your hand and run 300,000 volts through your ass, you couldn't do much better. (Why you would want this is a question I have never satisfactorily answered, but at this point I'm fairly comfortable with just accepting that I do.)
I'm really glad I did it. Even though the act itself was kind of pointless, the fact that I went back and faced something I feared, something I had regretted not doing, means a lot to me. I faced something I was terrified of and found that it's--not painless--but not an unfathomable pain. That's an important thing to learn symbolically and something I'm still working on. It's the difference between "if I fail, it's the worst thing ever" and "if I fail, it's bad, but the consequences are finite and I'll still be alive at the end."
Sometimes submitting can teach you how not to be life's bitch.
It actually wasn't the worst. On the ol' 0-10 pain scale, maybe a 5? Worse than a handslap, but not as bad as something that, y'know, hurts. I give the sound and sight perfect 10s for horribleness though. Hearing that *CRACKSNAP* and seeing GODDAMN LIGHTNING is way worse than the actual shock.
I wish I could say "yep, I just manned up and did it," but the truth is that right after declaring I wanted to do it, I came down with a pretty bad case of the cowards and had to be kinda coaxed into it. Fortunately Drew is inhumanely patient and trustworthy in these matters and if you want the perfect man to hold your hand and run 300,000 volts through your ass, you couldn't do much better. (Why you would want this is a question I have never satisfactorily answered, but at this point I'm fairly comfortable with just accepting that I do.)
I'm really glad I did it. Even though the act itself was kind of pointless, the fact that I went back and faced something I feared, something I had regretted not doing, means a lot to me. I faced something I was terrified of and found that it's--not painless--but not an unfathomable pain. That's an important thing to learn symbolically and something I'm still working on. It's the difference between "if I fail, it's the worst thing ever" and "if I fail, it's bad, but the consequences are finite and I'll still be alive at the end."
Sometimes submitting can teach you how not to be life's bitch.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Posting in bed with Drew and his girlfriend.
And all I can think to do (I mean, other than both of them) is play the Candyman game.
Eurosabra, Eurosabra, Eurosabra!
Eurosabra, Eurosabra, Eurosabra!
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Self control.
Sharing room with grandma tonight. Don't masturbate.
Rrrggh.
No, she is not "really asleep so it's okay." Don't masturbate.
Rrrggh.
Going into bathroom.
EDIT: Got up. Grandma was in bathroom. !!!
Rrrggh.
No, she is not "really asleep so it's okay." Don't masturbate.
Rrrggh.
Going into bathroom.
EDIT: Got up. Grandma was in bathroom. !!!
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