Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Unreasonable Demands Regarding Shaving.

Dear Alan,

-It was really sweet that you shaved your pubes! I didn't even ask, but you said "Well, you do it," and I admire your willingness to be gender-blind in this matter. You look good that way, it feels good, and it makes me feel like less of a Slave to the Patriarchy for having my own shaved.

-Can you please not shave your head? Your theory on haircuts seems to be "buzz it down to the skull, wait two months, repeat." I understand that this method is low-maintenence and results in a reasonable average hair length, but you look like a crazy skinhead mountain man every two months.

-Can you please shave the parts of your beard that don't work? The front bit where it grows in thick, the goatee, that part's nice. But the side bits, where it goes up your cheeks in sad patches and tufts? That is not appealing. If your face does not want to make beard, please don't try to force it.

Dear Benny,

-Can I shave your entire body?

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

Quickie Cosmocking.

Just got February's issue. Don't have time to do a full multipage mockathon (notable: they put a photo of Heath Ledger wearing ugly clothes in their "Star Style Goofs" section. Ouch.), so I'll just transcribe one quote that really got me.

Men and women gauge kissing differently, says new research. Guys use it as a means to an end--meaning they're hoping to get sex. But women lock lips subconsciously to evaluate a guy's potential from the chemicals in his saliva and as a bonding gesture.

As you know, I only write from my personal experience, so I'll just say that I, personally, use my forked snake-like tongue to probe the pheremones from deep within my victim's oropharynx.

I'm sure my male readers will comment and confirm that they fucking hate kissing girls but they do it anyway to trick them into having sex. With their chemicals. In their saliva.

Sunday, January 27, 2008


Benny says "I'm really not attracted to fat women... I mean, uh, fat women who tie me up, that's, uh, different... but it's because I'm fat and I hate myse..." and literally stops in mid-word.

And because I am a sap and a sucker and a damn pushover, I put my hands on his belly and tell him (and it's not a lie) that I like it and it makes him look big and strong. He doesn't really believe me and I don't blame him. It's a scene I've been through more than once myself. (Well, usually without managing to insult my partner in the process, but it's Benny.)

No matter what I say, I suspect he's thinking what I always think: A lover who tells me I'm not fat is a liar, a lover who tells me he doesn't care is lowering his standards, and a lover who tells me he likes it is a damn pervert.

It's strange and touching to hear Benny be that honest. It also hurts every which way.

Scattered Alanfucking.

•Last night I had to work the graveyard shift, 11 PM to 8 AM. I went over to Alan's until 11 because he lives a few blocks from my work and it's convenient. And then I had sex with him three times. It was a tough shift after that. (Especially since I couldn't wear underwear to work because my panties were, um, not clean.)

•Okay, I am completely unable to estimate the size of objects, because Alan's penis is five inches something. The only explanations I have for thinking it was enormous are:

a) Alan is a tiny man, so it's proportionally enormous.
b) It's thick! It feels huge inside of me and I think I feel girth more than length.

•When most guys have an orgasm they thrust hard and fast until they're done. Alan thrusts faster and faster up until he comes, but at the actual moment he just pushes himself as far in as he can, holds still, and... pulses it into me. Maybe I'm just more aware of it because he's the only guy I've barebacked, but I think it's unusual. And kind of hot in its weird way.

•Alan turns red down to his shoulders during really good sex. Last night I could actually see a ragged border between red and white across the top of his chest. I looked in the mirror afterwards and the same thing had happened to me.

•Another benefit of dating a tiny man: making out and doing foreplay (is there a verb for that? foreplaying?) standing up. Most guys would end up with their dick against my stomach (or in Jon's case, my ribs) trying to do that, but Alan lines up with me rather better. We can't quite have all-out sex standing up, but we can do most everything else.

•Alan's skin is remarkably soft. I think it's even smoother than mine, and compared to other men it's amazing. It feels wonderful. He's silky.

Saturday, January 26, 2008

Scattered Cosmocking.

I'm in an easy-target mood again.

4 Things He Doesn't Dare Tell You
1. He has a stash of porn.
I know what you're thinking: "Not my man."

That's not what I'm thinking! I'm thinking about my first date with Jon, which ended with me sitting on his lap watching bondage porn until I turned around and said "let's try that." Brandon doesn't watch porn with me, but it's no big secret that he owns it. Boy's gotta jerk off to something, right?

2. He wants more oral sex.
Again, what's the big secret? Either of my guys is pretty comfortable saying "I want a blowjob," and I'm pretty comfortable saying "lie back and unzip, baby" or (very rarely) "sorry, not right now." It's a thing couples do, it's not like some horrible dark taboo.

Men are simple creatures with three basic needs: food, shelter, and blow jobs.
I know this line is a joke, but god damn it's also ravingly offensive. Men are human goddamn beings, Cosmo.

"I'm afraid that making that request would probably be the end not only of oral sex but of all sex," says Eric from New York City
Eric? Your girlfriend is a crazy bitch. (Not for refusing oral sex, but cutting him off just for asking...!?!?!) Or at least you think she is.

3. He hates it when you're more successful than he is.
Well fuck him then.

4. He's more loyal to you than he is to his buddies.
I'm not sure what to make of this one, because... seems like both guys are loyal to both me and to their male friends, and we aren't really in competition. If they say "sorry, I'm going out with friends that night," I say "okay, how 'bout Saturday?" I'm not really interested in winning them away from their friends.

14 Sex Moves You've Never Heard Of
I heard of most of these in the sixth grade.

Put a dollop of, say, peanut butter on an area where you'd like to be licked (avoiding your genitals).
God ew. I've never been into foodsex, but even if I were... peanut butter? It's sticky, oily, and frankly kinda poo-looking. Erotic!

Heat up some massage oil, and put it into a turkey baster.
OH GOD WHAT THE HELL AUGH. (Actually, I'm taking this out of context, they just want you to drip it on his skin. But I can't imagine approaching a guy--even Jon--hell, even Dan, and he owns dildos you could use in industrial construction--with a turkey baster full of oil and getting a good reaction.)

Start by stacking six scrunchies on top of each other over his package. "Then remove them one by one using your lips and tongue," says St. Claire. "As each piece is removed, it releases a little bit of pressure in his penis, which will make his orgasm more intense when it happens.
Holy crap, the sight of a guy's cock completely covered in frilly floofy scrunchy-stuff would be hilarious. Don't think I could stack up six of them very well though even if he could keep it hard while laughing.

Mix up your usual oral sex routine by having him take his above-the-neck technique below the belt... He can tickle the area with his tongue, wiggle it in a circular motion from top to bottom, and gently suck the skin.
Wait, so the entire concept of cunnilingus is a "Sex Move You've Never Heard Of"? Jesus, Cosmo.

"While giving him oral sex, slide a finger into your mouth and tickle his penis at the same time you're stimulating him with your lips and tongue,"
Huh? What? Have you ever given oral sex in your life? How big is your mouth? How small is his penis? Why don't you have a gag reflex? Or teeth?

During intercourse, you're all wrapped up in each other. So extend that carnal concept even further by literally tying yourselves together. Take a really long piece of sturdy plastic wrap (long enough to fit around your body about eight times). Then fold it in half, twist it into a long rope that fits snuggly around both of your bodies twice, and secure it with a knot at your waist so you're locked together.
what the fuck

Keep a paddlebrush, a soft scarf, and a baseball (yes, a baseball) on your bedside table. While he's on top, alternate between scratching his back and butt with the bristles of the brush, stroking him with the scarf, and rolling the baseball over his skin.
what the FUCK

For a postpassion wrap up, set up an instant-messenger account with a secret name, and tell your man to be online at a certain time. Then send him a message -- pretending to be a sexy stranger -- and recount all the dirty details of your last rendezvous together. "Not only are you confirming how amazing your sex life is, but it's also a form of exhibitionism as you brag about your sexual escapades to a 'stranger,' "
I know a better way to brag about my sexual escapades to strangers. :)

Friday, January 25, 2008

I Am The World.

I have a tendency to think of people 1% less kinky than me as "freakin' prudes!" and people 1% more kinky than me as "freakin' freaks!"

The weird feeling comes in when I realize that to a whole lot of people, I'm the freak. (I'm also a prude to a whole lot of people, I'm under no delusion that I'm the top of the perv pile, but I can deal with that.)

I overheard some classmates at lunch talking about how people who are into bondage are "sick fucks" and pretty much sexual predators. I guess if I were a Sexual Freedom Fighter I would've gone over and set them straight with a long peppy lecture on "safe! sane! consensual!" and "many normal, healthy members of your own community!" and such, but really I just moved to a different table.

It's weird though, to think of me--little ol' me, donates blood to strangers, never runs a red light, helps old ladies write their grandkids--as a scary deviant in someone's eyes. I can understand that some of the things I do might seem gross--but "ketchup on Cheerios" gross, not sexual predator gross.

Still, even if people can be shockingly wrongheaded about my completely silly and harmless personal habits, I'm not going to put my own reputation on the line in order to make some sort of grand "Civil Rights for the Ass-Whipped!" stand. And neither is anyone else with mainstream credibility, apparently.

Thursday, January 24, 2008

Scissors and Ice.

I went over to Benny's and yelled at him a bit about the "quality woman" thing, and he apologized. Admittedly both the admonishment and the apology were weakened by the fact that we had our toybags under our arms. "Tell me you're sorry or I won't hit you with this!" And then he hugged me, the bastard. Hugs from very large men are my Secret Weakness. If you're over 200 pounds and still manage to be cute, and you hug me, I am... put in a forgiving mood. As in "I'd forgive you if you fucked me right now."

So then he fastened leather cuffs around my wrists and tied me to the doorframe standing up. My wrists were high over my head (I'm 5'3" and can't touch the top of a door without jumping), so tight that I had to stand on tiptoe. I was wearing very old, very cheap pantyhose and panties. And Jon had scissors.

He knelt in front of me and I couldn't see what he was doing. I heard snips and felt metal sliding on my skin, and a sudden rush of cool air. Benny came up with the torn scraps of my panties and stuffed them in my mouth. He crouched down again and I heard and felt him cutting away at the pantyhose, not taking all of it, just making slits that stretched in wide ovals over my skin. My ass was exposed, and my pussy, and only strings remained over my thighs. Benny stroked my pussy for a moment, only long enough to get me wet, then stood up and took out a whip.

I don't know if he was gentler on me or if I've learned to take it better, but there was no pain. I could feel the smacking of leather strips on my skin and it made me moan and squirm but not because it hurt. Benny was naked and hard in front of me and I was wet between my thighs, desperate to fuck him then and there but he stayed just out of reach, a whip length away, hitting me where I wanted to be fucked.

He dropped the whip and stepped in and I wrapped one leg around him, and with my other leg stretched barely down to the floor and my arms still tied far over my head, he slid his cock into me. I came almost instantly and he stopped. He pulled out and untied me and with a little sigh of relief I dropped to my knees and started sucking his cock hungrily.

He didn't let me finish him. He wanted to be tied up. I took fifty feet of rope and did the biggest fanciest tie I've ever done. His entire body was crisscrossed with rope from neck to ankles. I attached him very securely to the bed, blindfolded him, said "don't go anywhere," and (I know this is bad but it was like five seconds okay) left the room.

I came back with a glass of ice cubes, holding them very carefully so they wouldn't clink. I took a cube, held it high over him, and squeezed it, letting just the cold drips fall on his chest. The first one made him yelp and after that he just moaned. I swirled ice cubes around his nipples and then warmed them again with my mouth. I dripped the cold water directly on his cock and even though he whimpered he didn't lose his erection. My hands were cold from handling the ice so I set it down on his belly and warmed my hands between his legs. More wonderful noises. His muscles were tense and quivering and not just from the cold. I squeezed the pre-come out of his cock and made him lick it up.

And then I finally fucked him properly. I got on him and grabbing the ropes I fucked him hard and nobody was teasing anybody this time, I kept going and he was moaning and writhing under me for what seemed like hours and when he came he screamed my name.

Afterwards I only took off the knots holding him to the bed, and with his body free but still wrapped in rope he rolled over and cuddled me. Getting him all the way untied was too much work for the moment when we just wanted to hug and kiss and laugh and nap.

Later we fucked regular, which is something we've only just started doing--we met for bondage but we have pretty damn hot sex when it's "only" sex as well. We went through about twelve positions (some of them crack-uppingly awkward) in as many minutes and ended up with him on top with his head buried in the crook of my neck and just moaning uncontrollably.

Benny loves sex. He enjoys the hell out of himself whenever we have it and I love that. I mean, most guys enjoy sex, but Benny is a goddamn enthusiast. It's great.

I showered but I can still smell him on me.

Evil Plot Backfires!

Okay, so apparently Benny was merely suffering from a proportional discrepancy with his enormous Sasquatch body, because he is somewhat over six inches. Which puts Alan at... at least seven.

This means that I have never been with a dude who was rocking less than six inches of little dude.


I guess I shouldn't post anything about "size doesn't matter," because it seems I'd have no way of knowing. I'm so spoiled.

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

The Case For Mandatory Comprehensive Sex Education.

"Circumcision? Does that mean Jewish men can't have babies?"

Evil Plot.

Boys won't let me measure their penises.

I measured my hands.

(Three inches across exactly. I have tiny hands.)

Tuesday, January 22, 2008


I went to the gynecologist today. The first speculum she tried was the standard adult size and it didn't fit at all. She tried twice--one "ow" and one "AUGH!"--and then got out the pediatric version.

The funny part, of course, is that Jon's gotten his damn hand in there. The foreplay was a bit more involved, of course, (sitting twenty minutes in a cold room wearing a paper gown doesn't put me in a, er, receptive mood) but it's still remarkable.

Another time, I blindfolded Jon and fucked him without any foreplay for myself, and he asked me afterwards "Was that your pussy or your ass?"

My little sister used to say "tight" to mean "good." It was just slang she'd picked up at school, but it really bothered me. I don't think she'd grasped the etymology.

I've often heard people talk about slutty women having loose pussies. I've never heard anyone suggest this would happen to a girl who had sex a whole bunch of times with one guy.

In the end, I think asking "how tight is my pussy?" is like asking "how tight is my hand grip?"--there's no single answer, because it's a muscle not a hole. It isn't under as much conscious control as my hand, but it's a living moving thing. It can take in a fist and keep out a pencil. It's as tight as it needs to be.

(The gynecologist also let me look at my cervix with a mirror. I think this was supposed to be a beautiful view into the Core Of My Womynhood, but it pretty much just looked like guts. Um, yay, I have guts?)

Monday, January 21, 2008

And I rest my head on Benny's hairy thigh and I think to myself, "Thank God this motherfucker doesn't own me."

Mistress Matisse, who knows a hell of a lot more about these things than I do, gets it on the nose regarding "Total Power Exchange" (TPE) relationships:

I think TPE is positioned on the idea that the submissive having any limits whatsoever is bad, and something to be overcome. I don’t agree with that idea. I have seen people who claim to practice it compare it to a parent/child relationship. They mean that in a positive way, but the logic is flawed. The role of a parent is to grow this little person into a big one and eventually send them out into the world. TPE seems like the precise opposite, in that the goal is to shrink a grown-up functional person down into someone who feels that they no power. TPE people usually insinuate - if they don't just say outright - that they feel TPE is superior to other expressions of d/s. I think putting forth the idea that the best and highest example of consensual, affection-based slavery is one that most closely mirrors real, non-consensual slavery is a mistake.

I agree completely, and there's three other things that bother me about the whole concept:

a) I am not a submissive. I am a regular human person with a fetish for being submissive. I am no more a real slave than a furry is a real dog. And while I'm a bad example myself, what with the switching and the cheating and whatnot, I really don't believe that anyone has no will of their own and can give up all their trust, unless they are completely insane.

b) If it really does exist as advertised, with no limits and total obedience, it would be a goddamn travesty to do SM play under these circumstances. If someone puts total trust in you and gives up their right to say "no", how the hell can you then turn around and tie them up and hit them? Even if you know that they like it, it seems very ethically wrong to cause someone pain without continuous negotiation. I can't imagine even vanilla-fucking someone who isn't able to negotiate as an equal.

The apologetic "it's for the submissive's good, really!" metaphors are a clue: parent-child, teacher-student. What do these relationships have in common? That's right, a parent or teacher is a total piece of shit if they have sex with someone in their care. And SM sex with a dependent? You'd get killed in prison.

c) This quote from a woman describing her own TPE relationship:

This is one of the parts that makes most people cringe when they are talking about a TPE relationship. Their argument "you can leave if you want to", is of course valid in the sense that I can walk out the door if I should be stricken by insanity. However, Leo would come after me and bring me home. That is his right. Most TPE couples create an environment where practical actions support this "unable to leave" decision that the couples made when they entered their relationship.

In our case there are a couple of things. I do not have a job outside our home. Consequently I do not have any money of my own. When I need money for some reason, I have to ask Leo for them, and he will give them to me. If I get change after my purchase, I am to give that back to him. I don’t have a car, so I can’t go anywhere other than by foot, and there is no public transportation around. So even if I should suddenly turn insane and would want to leave, that would be very difficult.

JESUS CHRIST! I guess there's a certain appeal to submission as a "get out of adulthood free" card, but... adulthood has some perks, yanno.

Sunday, January 20, 2008

Binding Alan.

I tied Alan up once. It was terrible.

Very early in our relationship, I brought my rope over to his place, and in retrospect I made a serious error of overenthusiasm--I brought all my rope. So he kinda freaked at that. And then he refused to tie me up. Just flat refused, wouldn't give a reason, just an incredibly not-open-for-discussion "no."

But he agreed to let me tie him. I didn't do anything fancy, no hundred-foot full-body harness with those fancy diamond patterns and a loop that tightens around the balls if you try to straighten your back, I just very loosely tied his hands together in front of him. He extracted about 500 promises that I would not hurt him, I would not do anything "freaky," and I would not steal his guitar (sheesh).

And then I fucked him. He said near the beginning "I don't see why it's different," and sadly, he was completely right. Besides that he couldn't use his hands, it was exactly like every other time we'd had sex, except unbearably awkward. If you tie up Benny or me, even slightly, it changes the dynamic, it establishes who's in charge and that the sex will be rough and intense. With Alan, it pretty much established that he would be baffled and unaroused. Not completely, we did manage to have sex, but it wasn't very pleasant.

I never tried it again. I guess I learned a valuable lesson about trying to make a person into something he's not. You can lead a horse to leather but you can't make it stop looking at you like that.

Saturday, January 19, 2008

AIDS Training.

As part of my nursing assistant certification, I had to take a state-mandated 7-hour HIV/AIDS training course. It was taught--literally--by two nuns. They were well-educated on the topics of antiviral drugs, the disease course, and care of AIDS patients, but a little funny on modes of transmission.

Not only did they insist that only gay men have anal sex, but they consistently referred to it as "rectal sex."

God. Ew. It makes me want to go to Brandon and offer him some good slurpy pharyngeal sex. Then maybe we can have interfemoral sex before progressing to good old-fashioned intrapelvic sex.

Thursday, January 17, 2008


Benny's looking for a "real" girlfriend. Apparently I don't count, because I was too upfront about wanting sex, thus making me not appear to be a "quality" woman. He actually used that word.

I can't object to him seeking another partner, but I can't believe his fucking Madonna/whore complex. He seems to believe that a woman has to withhold sex (and then, once she finally cracks, withhold kinky sex) to be quality. Which I don't understand, because he's got a ridiculous sex drive and is extremely kinky. So what does he want?

A woman with a geniune low libido? She'd drive him nuts. I can't imagine him being happy in an exclusive relationship with someone who will never, ever fuck him the way he wants.

A woman with a high libido who plays games and pretends she doesn't want it? Sounds healthy. I guess this is what I'm supposed to do, but dammit, why? If I want what you've got and vice versa, why does it enhance my quality to make you jump through hoops?

And I notice that he thinks he's quality because he's got a good education and a successful job, even though, shit, he gave it up on the first date! Why doesn't doing that invalidate him as a person?

I'm mad at Benny. And I'm going to fuck him anyway. I guess that really is low-quality. Maybe we can do a scene where I tie him down, strip, tease him to erection, and then very slowly and loudly explain sex-positive feminism to his stupid face.

Tuesday, January 15, 2008

3 weeks.

I went over to Alan's after not seeing him for three weeks. It was great. Warm and happy and sweet. One thing about a short guy--we're face to face during sex, able to kiss without a stretch and to rest our faces cheek to cheek.

The last time we did it, he came harder than I've ever seen before, literally shaking. He lost all control of himself. It was beautiful.

Monday, January 14, 2008


Whenever I cuddle with someone, I have to adjust my position every three seconds. It's not that I don't like cuddling--cuddles are the bestest!--it's just some sort of instinct. Preventing pressure sores, maybe.

I know it drives guys nuts, and it probably gives the impression I'm slightly uncomfortable with them, but cuddling and not moving feels like holding in a sneeze.

Saturday, January 12, 2008


I always got a sense, growing up, that the general script for sexual relations was "Men pursue, women deny." A boy asks for a date and unless he is very well suited a girl says no. She doesn't really want to date, see, but if there are enough compensating factors she'll put up with it. Then on the date the boy asks for sex and unless he is very well suited the girl says no. Because she really doesn't want that.

Hell, they even taught us this script in health class--I remember most of our "hey kids, don't fuck!" education (it wasn't strictly abstinence-only, but it was close) centered around statements like "girls should feel comfortable saying no." A lot of talk about "respect your body" and "don't let boys pressure you." These are good and important messages, taken literally, but my teachers used them to mean "don't fuck." The implication was that of course girls wouldn't want sex. Girls want boyfriends and self-esteem and peer approval and if they don't know any better, they'll endure sex to get those things.


Even as I was aware of this paradigm as a kid and teenager, I was also brutally aware it didn't apply to me. I was unpopular, ugly, and horny. I saw girls being cool by denying boys dates ("like so awesome you totally shut him down girl!"), but I didn't do any of that myself because nobody asked me out. Not once. I went on my first date in college. (When I was fifteen. But still.)

And I remember some jokes made at my expense. The boys in my math class discussing how much they'd pay to sleep with different girls. "Rebecca? Hundred bucks. Katie? Eh, seventy-five. Holly? Twelve cents!" I'm probably a crazy chick for caring what some dumb assfuck said when I was thirteen years old, but at the time it broke my little heart. I desperately wanted sex, wanted it worse than a boyfriend or popularity or anything, and I had boys and girls telling me to my face that I'd never get it.

So when I first got it, I went a little nuts. I was in love. This guy, who was way older and never did much for me besides fuck me, was a saint. I didn't know how he could swallow back the nausea long enough to touch me but I was so goddamn grateful he did. When we broke up I thought I'd never have sex again.

Well, then about six years and a bunch of other partners went by and gradually I got used to the idea that there are people who'll desire me and I'm able to have a sex life just like a regular person. (Better even. Hah.) I'm not totally over my insecurity but it's a fuckload less than it was.

But I still haven't applied the "men pursue, women deny" paradigm to myself. I've never denied without a damn good reason, never played even slightly hard to get. I have never taken for granted that a man will want me.

I've had this conversation with at least three different guys:
Him: So, do you wanna... y'know?
Me: Oh hell yeah. I just didn't want to pressure you.
Him: Pressure me? I'm a guy!

What does that mean? Men will screw anything? Men can't not want sex? You don't have to ask a man's permission? God damn, this paradigm totally sucks for men.

No, wait, it sucks for everybody.


Probably the saddest confession I will ever make on this blog: way back in my teenage years, when I was with Kevin, I used to sleep on the floor next to his bed. He told me he didn't like to share, so I lay down on the wood floor, no blanket even, just so I could be next to him all night. In the morning he'd let me back in the bed for a quick fuck.

Now that I've all growed up and got me some self-respect, I can't even share covers fairly.

Thursday, January 10, 2008

Long Night With Benny.

-He comes to the door in, indeed, a "goddamn penguin suit." It could not be hotter. His apartment has three floors and the jacket, shirt, and pants each end up on a different one. The tie is still on him when we fuck. He's got a ball gag in his mouth and the sight and sound of his muffled orgasmic moans drives me crazy.

-I'm tied to the bed face down, legs spread, hands cuffed to the headboard, gag in my mouth now. He uses three different whips on my ass and by the third one it doesn't even feel like pain anymore. I'm relaxed, accepting it. Then he takes a long thin vibrator and slides it all the way up my pussy. I come quickly and feel relieved, ready for him to untie me and say "Welp, that was fun," but he doesn't stop. He keeps fucking me with it, and I come again. Are we done now? No. Again.

Eventually it's too much, he's giving me no break, I keep coming and I can't take it, I just want to get away. I start almost involuntarily writhing away from it, scooting as far forward as the ropes will let me, trying to close my legs, and he just follows me with it and keeps fucking me with it. I start to realize I can't stop him and I also can't stop feeling it. I can't even hold back the orgasms and they're near-continuous and not even fun anymore and the gag isn't doing a damn thing, I'm fucking screaming. There are tears on my face when he finally stops.

-A bit later in the night, he tries to fuck my ass and can't--not that it's painful, but I'm shut tight and can't relax. (This happens too often, actually; I am not a butt expert and although the spirit is willing, the flesh can be... not weak enough.) I suggest using a toy and he watches me slide a buttplug up my ass. I don't think he's seen someone do this before because I hear him go "Holy shit" under his breath.

At first he just lies next to me watching my face and stroking my breasts while I wiggle the plug in my ass and gradually become able to work it in and out. When I'm ready I tell him "Make yourself useful," and put his hand on the base of the plug. He fucks me with it, first tentative, then hard and rough as he sees I can take it. At some point we lose sight of our original goal and just get into fucking me with the toy. It's not painful. It's... intense. I'm wide-eyed, panting, somewhere else. And I feel something I haven't before with buttfucking. I'm building up to something. A shaking, spasming, brutally powerful orgasm. "Holy SHIT," Benny says, aloud this time.

-For most of the night we just cuddle. We kiss. We giggle an awful lot. We are not in love and there are no rose petals. But we are increasingly deeply in like and there are a lot of very tight hugs. We say rude and cruel things to each other and don't mean them.

Good night.

Tonight I learned that yes, it is possible to have an orgasm entirely from your butt. Good times. Details later.

Tuesday, January 8, 2008

Why to never read your fuckbuddy's blog.

Because you will stumble upon a very old entry describing him serving his girlfriend a home-cooked five-course dinner with champagne on a table covered with rose petals.

And even though I understand that we don't have that kind of relationship, we're neither exclusive nor romantic and this was at least partly my decision...


...God, he wrote her poetry...


Girl Clothing.

Benny keeps nagging me to wear skirts, stockings, makeup, heels, highly frippy underwear, lingerie for Christ's sake. He wants me to get my nails done. He once, without a trace of irony, told me my pores were too big. Apparently I need to use more skin products. I explained that I already use two, if soap and water count separately.

It's funny that I'm willing to accommodate lots of bizarre fetishes, but when he says things like "you'd look good in a dress," I'm deeply offended. Maybe it's some gender expression issue, maybe it's just my personal taste, but when I'm dressed very girly I feel cross-dressed. It's awkward and embarrassing.

(Not that I dress like a man. But I'm a pants girl, you know? I can wear lace on denim, I can't wear lace on lace.)

"Spread your ass for me, bitch": Erotic, thrilling, kind of oddly empowering.
"You should really wear lipstick": Hell no, that's just wrong.

Go figure.

It's good to be back in town, part 2.

Man, I'd forgotten how much more satisfying masturbation is with a buttplug in. Why the hell did I not pack my best little friends on the trip? (God, that's a disgusting thing to call them. My best little friend is the guinea pig and I don't mean like that.)

Anyway, Benny emailed me the following:
I'd like you to really take charge and dominate me for one of the sessions. Have a plan in mind and don't give me a choice. Something tight, but spread out...and I tend to like symmetry. Also, I wouldn't be completely opposed to a little bit of pain.

I think what he's trying to say here (other than "I'm your slave--here's my orders") is that I kinda suck as a dominant. And I do. I'm indecisive, I'm insecure, I try too hard to please and not enough to punish. "Uh, I'm going to, uh, hit you real hard-like... or would you rather get, um, buttfucked? If you want?" are not the words of the fearsome Dungeon Mistress.

The problem is that he's adamant about being completely tied down for play. Which I can accept, it's his fetish, and mine too; I love doing the knots. But once he's all knotted up, the concept of "anything the Mistress wants" is way out of the question. The Mistress wants you to get up and fuck her! There's just not enough overlap between "things you can do with an immobile supine lump" and "things I deeply want to do."

Fuck. Is this my sex blog or my whining blog? There's lots of things I want to do. I want to sit on his face and tell him exactly how to perform oral sex, no guessing, no experimentation, I know what I like and will tell him exactly how to give it to me. I want to see exactly how much penetration his ass can take. I want to fuck him until I'm done, not caring if he is. I want to hit him while I fuck him, and feel him twitch. I want to stuff the gag in his mouth and pinch the very tip of his cock until I get a reaction I can hear. I want to blindfold him and stand back and say nothing until he starts to get nervous, and then hit him.

More than anything I just want to get him off his guard. He's a big tough guy, he knows I'm a little meek girl, we play in his house, I'm over-scrupulous about respecting limits, and it all makes him feel very safe. I want to scare the bastard. Make him think "I know she won't... but Jesus, she could!"

Next time I think I'll bring a knife. Not to cut him. Just to get some respect out of him.

Monday, January 7, 2008

It's good to be back in town.

Benny, sprawled on the couch, shirt and shoes still on and pants bunched around one leg. COPS on the TV. A beer in his hand. Me on my knees in front of the couch, in collar and cuffs, stockings and garters, slowly and thoroughly sucking his cock.

I never did get the hang of this submissive thing, because midway though I ask for a sip of the beer, and maybe he's a bad dominant too, because he gives me one.

For your security.

I got off the plane and there was a ticket in my bag saying "Notice of Baggage Inspection"--the TSA had gone through my stuff!

My stuff included: a ball gag, a "Waterproof Clit Exciter with Love Nubs," a hundred feet of rope, about twenty condoms, and latex surgical gloves.

Well. They put it all back where they found it. They didn't write anything snarky on the inspection note. I understood when I checked the luggage that it was subject to inspection. I'm sure everyone who works for the TSA has seen sex toys before. There's not really anything to be angry about. (Well, except the Fourth Amendment, but never mind that.)

Nonetheless I could die of embarrassment.

(Actually, I can be angry: I bet they did this because they saw sexy shadows on the X-ray, knew damn well it was just sex toys, but went all "oh, I gotta take a looksee at this!" Which is very unprofessional but very likely.

Someone should do an experiment: fly a hundred bags without sex toys, and a hundred bags with, and see what the inspection rates are.)

Sunday, January 6, 2008

Chow Mein.

Sex is like Chinese food: tastes great, but you're always hungry an hour later.

I think even if I lived with an extremely horny and accommodating partner, I'd still spend 90% of my time in a state of aroused frustration. Something in me wants to always be at least groping.

I actually managed to piss Alan off the other day; we were wrestling around, just playing, not sexual, and I made a (gentle) grab for the goods. "Don't paw me," he said, "that's degrading." He's... not wrong. I just can't help myself.

I can only imagine how much worse this would be if I were a man.

Friday, January 4, 2008

Oh no, not another goddamn orgasm.

There's a lot of resources out there for men who come too fast, or women who can't come. I couldn't find any sex tips on how a woman can delay her orgasms.

I have another one of those problems I'll get no sympathy for: I come too fast. The first time takes a little revving up, but that usually happens in foreplay, and by the time we start fucking I'm having them every couple minutes. The problem is that they may be easy but they are exhausting. After I have an orgasm, I get thirsty, sleepy, and oversensitive. I can get horny again in a moment, but my immediate urge is to get everything out of my vagina and just lie down for a minute.

This all happens maybe two minutes into sex. So I muscle through the tired uncomfortable feelings, and the sex starts to feel good again, and two minutes after that I come again. Don't get me wrong, I fucking love coming, but if the guy is really working on me and he's taking his time, it takes a lot out of me. Most disappointing: I can't give a good performance on top for very long. To have four orgasms and still keep going full force--my mind is willing to tough it out but my body just can't do it.

What can I do? I could tell the guys to cut down on the foreplay, but dammit, I like it too much. I could try to make sex less orgasmic for me, but I don't know how; I come even without any clit stimulation. I often end up finishing the guys by other means, but that's a little disappointing, and also difficult when I'm exhausted and dry-mouthed.

I know, poor baby, having uncontrollable multiple orgasms, it must be so hard for you. But it seriously does hurt my performance. I love having orgasms, but when I'm with a guy who's going to go for thirty minutes, I need some way to ration them out.

Maybe I should think about baseball.

Gay Like Me.

Today I met Aebhel and Dorkiewitch in Scranton, Pennsylvania. We had a pretty good time, and we conducted a social experiment with fucking scary results.

Dorkie looks a little dykey. Not flaming, but she's got short hair dyed funny colors and a lot of piercings and tattoos. My look is squarer but not girly; I've got wild floofy hair and I was wearing a leather jacket, black t-shirt, and boots.

(Aebhel is a flaming heterosexual, utterly unable to pass, and her role in this experiment was "invisible third wheel." In retrospect we should've given her a camera.)

So, our big daring experiment: we sat down on a bench in a shopping mall, and Dorkie and I put our arms around each other's shoulders. Nothing inappropriate, not even a PG--the way we were touching would've been downright chaste for a boy-girl couple. Hell, it wasn't over the line for cuddly platonic friends, and if we'd been blondes in skirts people might've seen us that way. But we were funny-lookin' and we were hugging, and people looked.

God did they look.

Almost everyone who passed us did a double-take. The politer ones tried to hide it and moved on. A few cool women smiled at us in a nice way.

The harshest looks came from a very specific type: fiftyish women with wrinkles but dyed hair and dieted bodies. Several of these women saw us and glared. There was real anger in their eyes at the sight of a woman touching the clothed shoulder of another woman. The worst part was when I'd look up and meet their gaze, and they'd keep glaring right into my eyes.

A lot of people acted as if we were behind a soundproof one-way mirror. "Did you see that?" they'd say to each other, loudly, right in front of us. Aebhel got up for a moment and someone asked her "Was that really two women?" It didn't seem like homophobia so much as homomazement: utter shock that there were actual real-life lesbians right here in this town. And I thought they were only in fairy tales!

Some older guys glared, but most men seemed almost unbearably aroused. A few teenage boys in hoodies kept walking by us, five or six times, trying to look casual but making obvious repeat passes. One boy about twelve went bug-eyed and gawked like he was getting his first boner. Several men got yelled at by their girlfriends for looking at us. (I'm a terrible lesbian, because some of the guy-looks really turned me on. I'm not used to getting that kind of lust out of strangers.)

The only person who actually spoke to us was a jolly-looking older guy who looked us up and down and said "Can I take your picture? You've got great... hair." We just cracked up and he went away. It wasn't clear who he was speaking to, we've both got fun hair, but it was clear he didn't mean hair.

One scary mom yanked her daughter away from us by the arm, but most parents were surprisingly nonchalant. One mom smiled at us and told her preschool daughter to "say hi to the ladies" and my heart just about melted.

Yeah, some people were cool, and only three or four gave me that truly chilling "oh shit I'm going to be dragged behind a pickup truck" feeling, but what bothered me the most was just that everyone looked. Two mildly-butch women in slight physical contact was a gigantic screaming freakshow. There were so many eyes on us. Step right up, folks, step right up, we've got The Amazing Women Who Hug Women!

We walked through the food court holding hands. Every head turned to look at us. There was a boy and girl in front of the taco stand making out passionately and kind of obscenely, bodies pressed together and hands all over each other. No one noticed them.

Thursday, January 3, 2008

Local fantasies.

Someone gave me a waterproof vibrator as a Christmas present. (I got a lot of sexually oriented Christmas presents--I'm now the proud owner of a very nice ball gag, a pair of gorgeous red leather cuffs, and a pair of boots I can't actually walk in. Seriously, "Merry Christmas, I got you a ball gag?" Freakin' awesome.) Obviously I'll enjoy it in the shower and bath and such, but late last night I started to think big. Lake Washington has a lot of secluded little neighborhood beaches that are nominally closed at night but not locked. Cold as a witch's tit right now, of course, but when the weather gets better there's something appealing about wading neck-deep into cool black waters and bringing myself to orgasm under the stars, in full view of most of the county.

Or not just myself. I could bring Brandon there and we could fuck, if not in the water then out on the dock, rough wood and cool air and hot skin over the lake, no one watching us but the salmon (and maybe, far away, a stranger with a waterfront view).

The next time I see Jon, I want him to meet me at the door in a button-down shirt and a tie. Maybe even a suit coat. This is not so we can go somewhere fancy. This is because of the soccer dads, the golf bosses, the preppily suburban WASP alphamen of my teenage years, the ones with purebred Golden Retrievers and fake rocks on their lawns, the ones who were always hiring me as a babysitter but never did fuck the babysitter no matter how bad she secretly wanted it. I'm going to tie those men down and I'm going to stuff a gag in their mouth and clamps on their nipples and I'm going to expose that fancy surburban penis (just as pink and vulnerable as anyone's) and even though I am not your trophy blonde PTA housewife I am going to hurt it and fuck it.

And this is for your fucking two-dollar tip, Mr. Peterson... no, relax, open up... you better open up that tight little hole or it's just going to hurt you... oh, is that making you hard? You like it? You're a filthy, filthy boy, Mr. Peterson.

Wednesday, January 2, 2008

Cosmocking: January '08.

I think I'm going to make snarking Cosmopolitan magazine into a regular feature. It's the most famous women's magazine, it's a tool of the Oppressors (which is to say, women with a limited and low view of womanhood), it once ran a story claiming HIV couldn't be transmitted in the missionary position, and most importantly, it's a really easy target.

So! January '08 issue! Hillary Duff on the cover! Top story "Dirty Sexy Sex"! Let's get cracking!

Page 46:
It's a strange thing, but all guys harbor a desire to be humorous. So when he cracks a joke or makes a comical observation, make it clear that you got it (and enjoyed it). Saying "That's hilarious!" should do it.
The fuck? If it's funny I'll laugh, and if it's not funny I won't. I mean, I try to be polite and all, but supporting his hi-fucking-larious ego is not my damn job.

Starting page 97, there's an article with this premise:
Cosmo offered top pleasure experts a challenge: create a novel, naughty booty move.
How do you get to be a "top pleasure expert"? (I'm more of a "bottom pleasure expert.") Anyway, all of the moves are as old as the hills and painfully tame, but two of them are entertaingly stupid:
Having a Ball
[Fuck on an exercise ball.] The exercise ball will roll out from under you if he thrusts too hard or too fast, so your workout partner has to restrain his motions--no wild bucking--which will keep his desire on a slow, super-hot boil.
1. Oh good. I hate hard fast fucking and wild bucking.
2. Considering that my partners and I are all somewhat physically awkward, I know exactly how this would end. Thud.
Sweet Treat
Ask your guy to lie on his back comfortably in bed, then take a can of whipped cream and spray him from his navel to his upper thighs... slowly lick all of it off his body.
Good Lord does it take balls to call this "novel." But every guy I've ever been with, the area between navel and upper thighs has had an awful lot of hair. It's also kind of a big area if I'm going for full coverage here. So I'd be eating about three cups of sticky-sweet cream mixed with coarse body hair. Urghh.

Starting page 101, there's an article you should really read for yourself as the whole thing is too hilariously insane to do justice with quotes. It's called "Get-Inside-His-Head Games" and it's three solid pages of retarded "what if you were on a desert island..." type questions to ask your boyfriend, along with keys to massively over-interpreting his answers. A sample:
Making Music: Ask him to imagine he's wearing a pair of musical gloves. They're covered with electronic sensors that activate when they're rubbed together. Tell him to pretend he's making a beautiful piece of music with the gloves. Then ask him to show you how he'll create the song.
...Get a sense of what he craves in the sack by sizing up his movements. If he rubs his hands together slowly and gently, try being a bit more sensuous in bed. But if he's rubbing his hands together hard and fast, you might want to show more enthusiasm between the sheets.
What. The. Fuck. Not only is this a horrible and ridiculous thing to ask an adult to do, it won't tell you anything. Brandon plays music for me (on a guitar, not on his magic imaginary glove hands) and his style of playing has nothing to do with his style of fucking. Why should it? They're two different freaking things.

On page 105, lines to get guys to use a condom (because apparently "Please use a condom" just won't do):
"I love how uninhibited I feel in bed when I know we're being safe. Rowr!"
Wow. That was already awkward before you made the noise.
"Whoa! You're big to begin with, but that thing makes you look huge!"
"What the fuck, honey, it's five microns thick."
"How awesome is it that with these, we can go all night?!"
"Oh, you mean because I won't have any orgasms?"

Page 148, in an article about "Why Love Can Make You Crazy" (the whole thing basically says that women are "naturally" inclined to turn into crazy clingy weirdos after one date):
"My first love treated me so well, I couldn't get enough of him. I'd call him tones of times a day, first to say 'I love you,' then 'I need to talk to you,' and then 'Why aren't you returning my calls?!" I didn't see how extreme it got until my aunt saw my phone bill and pointed out that I had called him 53 times one day and 68 the next!"
Holy shit, woman! Barring purely utilitarian calls ("I can't make it at six, how's seven-thirty?") I don't think I've ever called any guy more than once in a day. I mean... they have jobs and friends and stuff, you know?

Pages 150-151, "Sex Snafus That Ended Up in the ER," is too boring to be worth retyping, but I just wanted to point out that almost all of the stories have been debunked on Snopes, and some are medically ludicrous.

Finally, this isn't a sex thing, but on page 174:
Pumpkin Ginger Martini
1-inch cube of ginger
1 t. unrefined sugar
2 oz. maple syrup
2 t. canned pumpkin puree
3/4 oz. lemon juice
2 oz. Agua Luca


Nipples. (And constructive criticism.)

I'm still unclear about what, if anything, man-nipples are able to feel.

As in a lot of sexual things, there's two confusing factors:
1) Bodies are bafflingly different. What makes one guy throw his head back and gasp makes another guy go "Uh, why are you touching that?", and apparently there's no predicting it.

2) It's hard to get an honest opinion. Because usually guys don't say "Why are you touching that?", they privately think "We're naked and she's touching me, I'm not gonna criticize." Which is probably for the best, but it does make it hard to improve my technique. I honestly have no idea if I'm good in bed--clearly I'm not terrible since I do okay in repeat business--but no guy is ever going to tell me the difference between "not bad" and "fucking fantastic."

So. Man titties. Numb to the world? Massively erogenous? Only as sensitive as ordinary skin? A little sensitive but nothing special? Individually variable and therefore an unknowable mystery because no one is rude/honest enough to communicate these things?

Maybe I should hand out Post-Coital Satisfaction Surveys to my partners. "On a scale of one to ten, please rate the following factors... cleanliness... taste... customer service... nipple stimulation..."

Tuesday, January 1, 2008


I'm taking my first weeklong break from the pills and have discovered:

-I'm not pregnant! Oh my God I am so totally not pregnant! If I had any grasp of biology and probability this wouldn't be a surprise, but there's still a tiny nun deep inside my head who believes that there must be a punishment for being such a naughty girl. And a baby would be a really rotten punishment, so since I've been really rotten... I dunno, apparently these crazy little pills are able to circumvent the laws of crime and punishment. Maybe I've just got AIDS instead.

(I'm fairly sure I don't. This is all tiny-nun thinking, not actual-risk thinking.)

-I'm SO GODDAMN HORNY. I mean, I'm usually horny, but this is extra insane. I can't stop thinking about sex! I keep having vivid flashbacks to sex I've had before, and making elaborate plans about what I'm going to do when I get back to Benny and Alan. (You think they'd do a threesome? Probably not. Benny would do it for sure, he'll try anything, but Alan would hate it.)

Damn, why are my partners split between the sexually adventurous one (who is, despite occasional flashes of sweetness, basically an asshole) and the romantic one (who is, despite better physical qualifications, basically a boring fuck)? I hope that's a coincidence. I'd hate to find out that "will bring flowers, light candles" and "will do ouchie things to butt" really are mutually exclusive qualities.

They aren't for me.