Dear Sweet Little Innocent.

My beloved but very conventional friend Julie: "So why did you and Alan break up, anyway?"

Me (after some hemming, hawwing, ineffectual "it's personal"-ing, and heavy sighing): "Well, Alan's very vanilla, and I'm not, and when he found out about just how unvanilla I was, he decided it wasn't going to work out."

Julie: "Ohhh, I know what you mean."

She does?

Julie: "You're not vanilla at all! You're like totally wacky! You're my wild and crazy silly friend, and that's not vanilla!"

Oh.

Lonely.

It's not that I want to get back together with Alan, it's just that I wish we could hang out. Well, and have sex. And I guess with sex you have to have kissing and cuddling. And as long as we're hanging out we should also go out.

...But I don't want to get back together or nothing.

I suppose the damage is done.

Alan and I are, because of this blog, probably No More.

Dammit.

I'm not sure. Probably I shouldn't be posting this or leaving the blog up. But sadly, I just don't think that liking someone as a person compensates for a total failure to meet their sexual expectations. It fucking sucks and I'm completely heartbroken but I guess in some sense it was inevitable. I'm a huge horrible pervert, he's not, and much as I want to say "it's just sex, what about us?" I have a feeling that the answer is "okay, us aren't meant to be having sex."

Dammit.

Fully clothed.

Alan is wearing tight jeans and a t-shirt with Godzilla on it. I'm wearing a tank top, a leather jacket, and a khaki skirt. I'm straddling him and we're fucking. His zipper's open and my panties are pushed aside, but besides that we're obscenely decent. The scene would be PG-13 if we weren't saying such filthy words to each other.

It's an oddly muted fuck; all the light touches are gone, the ones you don't even notice until they're missing. His hands are on my shoulders and I only feel a blunt pressure through the leather. It's a hot fuck, literally, both of us sweating hard. And although we're in private and could be naked if we pleased, there's something deliciously naughty about what we're doing. It's secret sex, hidden under my skirt, not even a flash of pink as I feel his cock slide in and out of me.

After we come we realize how hot we are and strip down, and we cuddle naked.

That cookie-tossing feeling.

All my life, when I've been about to have sex with a man I didn't know very well, I've become painfully nauseous. I've actually puked before sex with at least three guys (at least two of whom totally knew but weren't dissuaded) and even if my cookies don't come up my stomach is always tied in a knot the first few times I'm about to do a new guy. It's not conscious reluctance, it's just a physical and mental tension. A little fear, a little performance/body anxiety, a whole lot of overexcitement.

Going up to a new friend's apartment wearing matching undies is the same feeling as being on a rollercoaster slowly ratcheting up the first hill. I got myself into this because I thought I'd love it--and I still think I will--but Jesus Christ I'm scared--but there's no backing out now. (Of course I could always tell the ride operator to let me off and I'm sure he would, but I never have, because deep down I know that the fear is false, it's only a ride and once it gets moving I'll be screaming with joy.)

I miss that feeling. Going into sex with your nerves overwound can be uncomfortable and sometimes embarrassing, but it's one fuck of a rush. It's the sympathetic nervous system. Fight or flight. Pupils dilate, heart races, stomach tightens, muscles tense. Hairs stand on end and every nerve is very, very alert.

With Alan, it's long gone. He doesn't judge me, won't hurt me, is cuddlebunny close and frankly pretty predictable. He gives me nothing to fear. I certainly don't resent him for that; that would be ridiculous and I do like nice guys--but I want to feel that exhilarating terror again.

I feel a tad bit sick saying this, it's not a desire that'll serve me well if I get older or marry or have kids, but right now, I want someone new.


(I'm not dumping Alan. Just looking for a... supplementary partner.)
(And if you're new to the blog, Alan does know and approve of my cheatin' heart. He's a sweetie like that.)

Smallest touch.

Alan and I are out at a bar together, and as he leaves the table to get another drink, he runs his hand across my back as he passes and gives me a little squeeze on the shoulder.

Maybe I'm pathetic for caring but somehow that kind of tiny thoughtless touch means a lot. It's not sexual, it's not major, it's just... confirmation.

Kicked out.

"You can sleep over if you're sleeping with me. You can't stay here to hide from your problems over there. Go home and sort your life out."

It's a pretty special man who can kick me out of his house and make me respect him more for it.

Sometimes I need friends to hug me and say it'll all be okay you poor dear, but sometimes I do need a small kick in the ass and I'm glad to have a boyfriend who knows when to do it. Maybe I'm only grateful because when I was a teenager I experienced the opposite.

When I was sixteen, I had a boyfriend who would gladly take me in whenever I had problems, tell me that absolutely nothing was my fault, and let me stay with him until the problems had gotten much worse from being ignored. (Fucking me all the while, natch, but I really don't think he was deliberately exploiting my angst; he just wasn't mature enough himself to know that what I asked for wasn't always best for me.) Eventually I stayed with him so long that a missing persons report was filed on me. The police took me home.

Of course it can be taken too far the other way (anything can be taken too far) and I certainly don't want someone who always knows what's best for me. But I think it's important and in a way more loving when you can avoid being an enabler and tell me to do not what I want, but what I need.



(To not be entirely cryptic about "problems," I'm flunking out. Although it certainly sucks, in a way I'm relieved, because I've already got a college degree and a living-wage job, being out of school earning my own keep will give me more independence than I've ever had, and once the "OMG DROPOUT" dust settles, I think it'll actually relieve a lot of family tension.)

Everything we said the last time we had sex.

"Jeez, if you keep touching that you're going to get me all excited."
"Oh no, I wouldn't want that. I'll stop touching it... with my hands..."
"Ohhh."
"Jeez, I'm so selfish! I'm just sitting here with you sucking my dick!"
"Ain't selfish if I like it, baby."
"Ohhh."
"No, really, what do you want me to do for you?"
"I wanna get fucked."
"Oh you're so demanding."
"Scootch thataway a little."
"Aahh. Mmmm."
"I want you to slow down and get close to me and just grind it in."
"Ah ah ah I'm gonna come gonnacome ALAN AHHHH."
"Jeez, I could feel that."
"Mmmm... OW!"
"Sorry."
"No, don't stop."
"Ow fuck ow ahhh fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK FUCK!!!"
"Wow, I think you're done now, do you wanna..."
"No. Don't stop."
"Yeah, pull my hair... you can do it harder than that."
"Oh god, you feel so fucking big inside me."
"OW, no really, ease up there, I'm like bleeding."
"OH GOD ALAN PLEASE HURT ME PLEASE HURT ME OH GOD OH FUCK ALAAAAAN."
"Dammit, Holly, I'm gonna come! Ergghh... OHHHHHH... ahhh."
"Phew."
"That was nice."

Road Rage.

"I masturbated in the car once. I was driving up [a 45 mph road] and I got really horny and I had a bottle in the car..."

Blood.

I honestly don't remember if it was his teeth or his nails (my memory-forming skills are disturbingly poor during good sex; there have been times when having multiple orgasms has caused me to basically black out a few minutes), but Alan made a two-inch cut on my left breast. He held my face and kissed me and with a little sigh laid his cheek against mine, and then while he was fucking me he made me bleed.

I feel so proud of the mark. I keep pulling my neckline down a little and looking at it and smiling.

I love it when sex comes with souvenirs.

Fish Loves Her Bicycle.

I think I do, in fact, need a man. Emotionally, sexually, socially--I'm really not as happy when there isn't a man in my life. It's not a lack of independence; it's heterosexuality.

If "I don't need no damn man" is a feminist statement, it's not one I can make. Sure I can have my own career, buy my own house, raise my own kid, use a vibrator, and all that's better than being stuck with a really bad man; but given any kind of chance I don't want independence to become loneliness.

Well. I suppose I only want a man, and I guess that's an important distinction. I can support myself and live a life manless, and that's a crucial human right.

But sometimes I'm sleeping over at Alan's, and it's about 3 in the morning, and I wake up just enough to see him deep asleep next to me, and there's a pale orange light from the street on his bare chest, and without even waking up he snuggles up to me a little. And I could survive without this.

But I don't want to.

Sometimes Stupid Statements Sound Sexy.

Alan flushes during sex.

"You're all red."
"I wonder why that is?"
"Cause you're getting fucked."
"Mmm yes I am."

The Dance.

You start standing up. Fully clothed, facing him, and then into the traditional slow-dance pose: your arms up around his neck, his hands on your waist.

The first move is a kiss.

His hands run over your back first. Through your hair, taking up a fistful and pulling it for an instant before combing tenderly through and then moving down. His hands, then, under your shirt, running back up underneath, making broad flat strokes over your skin and your bra before moving back to unhook it. Your hands, this whole time, on his chest, feeling it firm under his t-shirt and the nipples hard.

In unison your shirts peel off, arms high over heads and held for a moment. Any hair that wasn't mussed before is now. And you can see so much of his skin and feel his scent, and you bury yourself in it as he buries himself in your breasts. His lips are soft, his teeth are rough, and for a moment all there is for you to do is hold his face and watch him close his eyes and immerse himself in the softness of your breast.

You lead on the next move. Down on one knee, hands forward to unbutton his pants, hands down to remove, hands down again for the underpants, hands forward to take the cock. Stroke. Observe. If it wasn't stiff the instant it came out, it hardens in your hands. He looks down and watches you and makes no move; you are free to set the pace. You take that cock into your mouth and then he has to react, making little noises or intakes of air, strictly in time with the rhythm. His hands come to the back of your head but apply no pressure.

If he let you it would finish here, but he doesn't; he drags you back up to his level again and kisses you deeply. Which is rather open-minded of him if you think about it. Then it's two steps to the bed and you fall back with his hands to guide you down. With a single swooping move, ideally, he removes your pants and underwear, and he sinks into you as his hand sinks down to your pussy. He strokes around the outside until you're wet and once there's wetness he strokes within until you relax open, and very often he keeps stroking after that just to make you writhe and moan and clutch at him. As he did before, it's your duty to stop him and pull him up to your level. You beg to be fucked. He obliges.

And that's the best thing in the world.

There's variations on the theme here, there's room for artistic interpretation. His mouth or hands may be on your breasts again, and your hands may be anywhere or everywhere on his body, from cupped on his face to stroking his balls. There are different positions--anything that allows him to keep thrusting deep inside you hard and fast is permissible--and you may move fluidly between them or stop for a moment and start again with redoubled strength.

You come. God, Jesus, fuck, shit, oh, yes, no, fuck, do you come.

It takes longer and it's less certain, but eventually there comes a point when his pace quickens and everything about him roughens. He thrusts harder and faster until suddenly every muscle in his body tenses and releases and coming he collapses on you. Under you. Wherever.

In the last move, you wrap your arms around one another and lie still.

"No."

Alan and I were having sex with me on top, and he reached his hand down to rub my clit.

I'm a mutant; I don't like clit stimulation. I'm okay with general crotch-area stimulation that rubs my clit indirectly, but a firm finger directly on the money button is just... too much. I think it's comparable to the way men feel about their cocks right after orgasm: it's intolerably hypersensitive.

So I said "stop that," and tried to push his hand away. He actually pushed against me kept it there, kept rubbing me in that horrible uncomfortable way even as I said again "no, stop, it's too much."

"It's not too much. You like it!"

"Please stop. I really don't like it." I physically yanked his hand out of my crotch and he finally gave up. We kept having sex, of course, and the rest of it was very nice, and I got off like five times and he didn't at all, so nyahhh.

Still I'm annoyed. It's roughly the millionth time a guy has told me "no, no, I swear you like this" when I said I didn't. The funny part is that it's almost always something ostensibly done for my pleasure--guys never want to force me to give blowjobs or anything, they want to force me into uncomfortable fingering and cunnilingus and vibrator play. If I could only get over my initial reluctance to receive pleasure, they think, they'd bring me such bliss.

I know I'm a little idiosyncratic in the way I work, and I don't blame Alan for touching me the wrong way, but I do blame him for not listening to "no."

Do other women say it insincerely? Is that my problem? Are there girls out there going "no, no, yes" or using "no" to mean "oh, that's just too naughty, tee hee"? Because if so, those girls suck and they're ruining men for those of us who know what we don't like and are just trying to communicate that.

Or if women don't do that, where do guys get this idea? Is it the media or something? There's usually some way to blame the media.

It's hardly a big deal, it was a tiny little finger move and a momentary misunderstanding. It just bothers me that a guy like Alan needs any convincing, under any circumstances, that "no" means "no."


(Benny, always happy to be on the worse side of any comparison, once actually fucked me against a "no," and not in scene or anything--we were just hanging out naked in bed and he got on me and I wasn't really ready and said so and he started anyway. Again, it was mere moments until things got sorted out, but... I could swear I was audible the first time, goddammit.)

Vanilla Boy.

Whenever I talk about BDSM, Alan squirms. (I don't ever talk about what I've done with Benny specifically, that would be sort of nose-rubbing.) His whole face scrunches up and he waves his hands at me in this frantic "no, NO" gesture. It's hilarious.

We were watching TV and the Travel Channel showed fire cupping being used in Chinese traditional medicine.
"I actually learned how to do this once," I said.
"Hmm, interesting."
"...At an SM class at the Wet Spot."
"AAAUUUGHHH!!!"

But even though he hates hearing about it, he doesn't mind me actually doing it. Which is horribly sweet.

And for all he pretends to be squeamish, he doesn't seem to have a problem with holding me down or biting me or pinching my nipples or spanking me. Apparently if there's props involved it's BDSM and thus ickypervy, but as long as you're only restraining and hurting a girl with your bare hands it's just good ol' rowdy fun.

There are bruises on my chest from my vanilla boy.

Just another lovely night.

Alan is amazing.

My nipples hurt so bad I can barely wear a t-shirt.

He offered to let me move in. Not a decision or anything, I'm not packing my bags, but a not-quite-offhand "Hey, if you're ever looking for a place to stay..." and even though it'll probably never happen it's kind of cool to think about.

Only funny observation: we are both extremely anti-PDA. At home we'll be completely draped over each other; when we go out we act like church kids on a chaperoned trip. We don't even hold hands. Usually we sit or walk about two feet apart. The idea of actually touching each other in public, even in the most innocuous of ways, is just unimaginable. If I so much as touch his knee in a restaurant I feel like I've just stripped and mounted him in front of everybody.

But in, um, a bad way.

Day and Night.

So today after work I talked to (or possibly moped on) Alan, and Jesus, I don't appreciate him enough.

Not that he's some kind of perfect Love God or anything; he's not a huge romantic himself and sometimes he ticks me off, but he basically treats me the way you'd expect a guy to treat his girlfriend. Maybe better. He's nice, and fuck, nice guys finish first and women do like nice guys. He wants to do things besides sex together, he wants to make me happy, he wants to be my friend and also a pretty good fuck.

And I can say "You know, I really like you," and rather than going OMG NO MY PRECIOUS BODILY FLUIDS he'll say back "Aw, I like you too."

And we'll kiss.

And then we made plans to go to this cool bar in north Seattle that has really rare imported boozes and after we can get late-night breakfast by Greenlake and then we'll go home and get in bed and there won't be any holding down or slapping or buttfucking. But we'll hold each other very close and trust and care for each other, and that feels almost as good as getting rammed up the ass.

Win-Win Situation.

Sometimes Alan and I have arguments about who should have an orgasm.

"But I want to give you one, dammit!"

He was a boy, she was a girl, could it be any less relevant?

One of the things I love about my relationship with Alan (and there are increasingly many, and most of them are disgustingly soppy things like "his cute widdle nose") is that he has never once tried to justify or explain anything--sex, cooking, personal habits, apartment cleanliness, sports watching, politics--based on gender. I don't think he's ever said "well, of course I'm messy, I'm a guy;" he admits that he's a messy slob, and... that's pretty cool.

Moreso when it comes to sex. I've had a lot of people tell me I'm horny for a girl; Alan only ever says I'm horny. I guess it's a small and maybe even accidental semantic thing but it matters to me. That instead of being a representative of the archetype "girl" which is clean and bored by football and likes cute things and a little reluctant about sex, I'm just Holly. There are no preformed expectations of what a Holly does, and when a Holly drinks strong unfruity things or fixes her own car or wrestles a boy into bed, it's not a deviation from a norm. I'm not a weird girl, I'm a perfectly normal Holly.

(Really, I'm not that unfeminine--I do like cute things and clean floors and I don't understand football--but that's beside the point; I don't want to be a man, I want to be whatever damn person I am and not be subject to arbitrary standards even when I fit them.)

I don't know if it's even intentional; he's never flat out said "I don't judge you as a girl" and I haven't really discussed it with him. He's just never, ever told me how I'm girly and ungirly (or how he's manly/unmanly), and he's the only guy I've been close to who hasn't.

Alan is cool.

"...A dry one?"

Alan and I were in bed together under the covers, with me stroking his cock. He closed his eyes and started to groan and move his hips into me, and then grabbed my arm hard and his body tensed and he threw his head back and moaned.

But we looked under the covers, and... nothing. There was no semen and his cock wasn't getting soft. He'd felt an orgasm, but he hadn't ejaculated.

Sadly I can't tell you that I kept going for the gold, because he kind of freaked out and asked me to stop. But I wonder, if he'd let me, what might've happened. It's possible that was just a slightly dysfunctional orgasm, but it's also possible that he was on the verge of multiple orgasms.

And how goddamn cool would that be?