"For relief of sore muscles."

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

Dialing Chicago.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dream.

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

It's not the flu.

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

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

I love having little reminders the day after.

Goodnight Kiss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I kissed him goodnight, one last time.

"If I do say so myself."

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

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



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

Snarking Cosmo.

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

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

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

Woof.

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

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


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

I don't expect sympathy.

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

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


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

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

Marriage.

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

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


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

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

Thanks.

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

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

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

Thanks, dudes.

Welcome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He had me untied before my breathing could slow down.

"Welcome to bondage," he said.

And then we both cracked up laughing pretty hard.

Self-portrait with rope and no face.

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


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

Full Frontal Feminism.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

New Rope!

I bought new rope!


Lovely soft slinky silvery snakey rope!


Sexy rope!


Beautiful rope!

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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Birthdays.

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

"Valentine's Day."

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

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

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

"Shame."

Naked Time.

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

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

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

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

Terms of Endearment.

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

"...heh."

"Honey!"
"Aw, Punkin."

FEAR.

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

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

FUCK THAT.

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

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

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

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

And I am not fucking afraid. Of anything.

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

Shirt.

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

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

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

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

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


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

Snapshots.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(They're software developers.)

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

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

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

Hite.

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

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

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


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

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

Outside the codes.

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

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

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

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

Birthday!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taming the fantasy (to death).

I want to be raped.

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

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

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

Oh yeah. I want to be raped.

You know how it is?

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

Sister's Doin' it for Herself.

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

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

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

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

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