Everything gets better.

As I may or may not have bothered to mention, I've started classes in nursing school.  Classroom prerequisites this year, two years of nursing classes and clinicals, and if all goes well, I'll be 28 when I become an Actual Real Nurse For Real.

The weirdest, and best, part of going back to school as an adult is how terrifying the professors aren't.  I always used to think of professors as bosses who wanted me to work and could fire me, or (much worse) parents who wanted me to be good and could punish me.  They're not.  They're working for me. I don't mean that in the sense of "you're working for me, so give me an A," but in the sense of "you're working for me, so give me the knowledge and skills I'm buying from you."  My Microbiology professor isn't an authority over me; he's someone who knows more about microbiology than me so I'm paying him to tell me about it.

I still need a good grade, of course; and I still have some anxiety about that.  But it's nothing like the anxiety I felt as a teenager.  It's a matter of "I'll learn the stuff and I'll tell them what I learned," not of facing judgement.  I wouldn't say that school is easier now--but it doesn't scare me.

---

Sex with Rowdy last night was amazing.  Amazing like a drug, amazing like the physicality of it didn't even matter any more--I was flying.  I slipped into a state where everything felt good.  He fucked me and it felt good; he kissed me and it felt good; he bit me and it felt good; he touched me and it felt good. I was moaning and squirming every time he did anything to me, and he did oh so many things.

We didn't have sex this good a year ago.  We had good sex, but it wasn't like this.  We didn't know each other's bodies and minds well enough.  It's the difference between driving a good car--and driving your good car, the one where you know exactly how tightly it takes every curve, exactly how it responds to every gram of force on the pedals.

Our sex just keeps getting better.

I was still flying when I fell asleep, his whole body wrapped around mine.

---

Yesterday, I went and got a cup of coffee between classes.  I asked the coffee lady for a medium drip coffee, she told me "that'll be a dollar thirty," I gave her a dollar thirty, and I took my coffee and went to class.

I know this sounds like a really, really pointless story.  But what struck me is how easy it all was. Specifically, how much easier it was.  Even such a minor transaction used to be fraught with weird anxiety for me--anxiety I would never admit to, because how can you admit something like "I have great difficulty with the social nuances of buying a cup of coffee"?

I didn't know what kind of coffee I was supposed to order, or how I was supposed to phrase the order. Should I call it "java" or "joe" to show I was a cool, experienced coffee drinker, or should I use precisely the name on the menu?  Were there certain drinks that only dorks ordered?  Would it be rude to act chummy with the coffee lady, or rude to not act chummy with her?  If I fumbled my change and she got impatient with me, did that mean she hated me?  Could I ever show my face again at the coffee stand if I made the coffee lady hate me?

These goofy-ass things tormented me when I was about eighteen.  It feels almost magical that they don't any more.  Not by figuring out all the secret social codes, but by figuring out that there aren't any secret codes, I became one of the cool, experienced coffee drinkers.

I can order coffee in total comfort now.  It's a wonderful feeling of power.  Eighteen-year-old me would never have believed it.

---

I'm taking Human Growth and Development right now.  The professor's in his late fifties or early sixties, and told us that in his experience, each stage of life is better than the last one.

So far, it's true.

I don't get bullied any more--I take for granted that I won't get bullied any more--but that's the least of it. As I've gotten older, gotten more established in my relationship, gotten more perspective on the world, gotten more comfortable in my body and my life, everything has gotten better.

The biggest secret we keep from young people is that being an adult is actually pretty freaking awesome.



Also, I can have pizza whenever I want.  I don't even like pizza that much though. We have secret adult foods that are better than pizza.

Sex anyway.

2005: I have sex with a guy, and it's miserably futile; try as I might, I just can't get him off. I keep going, sinking into desperation as my vagina gets sore so I use my mouth, and I start gagging so I use my hand, and my hand makes him sore so eventually he just tells me to give it a goddamn rest already. I sit around awkwardly, feeling like a useless failure, as he jerks himself off. He doesn't particularly enjoy it but just does it for relief. I wonder if I'll ever have the sexual skills to get a guy off properly, inside me and under my power.

2011: I have sex with a guy, and he doesn't come during the penis-in-vagina part of the sex. We separate when we get to a good ending point and I hold him and make out with him while he jerks himself off. I whisper in his ear how hot it is to feel his muscles tense as he pleasures himself. And I'm not kidding; I start masturbating along with him and then slip the fingers of his free hand into my pussy. The feeling of my muscles clenching around his fingers sends him over the edge and he comes explosively. We fall asleep entwined, satisfied.



Having mechanically perfect sex with your bodies in perfect unison is overrated. Knowing how to have good sex anyway, how to create an experience that's sexy and sweet even when someone has a limp dick or dry pussy or trick hip, is tragically underrated.

Anatomy of a Scene.

Rowdy and I are at a play party. We start flirting, playing around, him pulling my hair, pinching my breasts, shoving me up against the wall and kissing me. He tells me to go get the flogger.

We sit on the couch and talk before doing anything. Our negotiation is brief, because we know each other well and have played before. I tell him I want a flogging; he asks if he can punch me too, and I enthusiastically agree. He asks if he can spank me, and I say I'm not really into that. If we were new to each other, we'd clarify more--he already knows that I can't take heavy pain and prefer to be hit on the back and shoulders more than the butt, that I like it when play gets sexual, and that I love being bitten.

We go to a St. Andrew's cross in the playspace, a seven-foot-tall wooden "X" shape with metal loops to attach ropes or cuffs. I undress. Rowdy takes two coils of rope out of his bag and ties a knot around each of my wrists, then ties them up to the cross. I end up facing away from him, into the cross, my arms stretched high over my head and outward in each direction. It's a longish process and to be honest I'm a bit fidgety, even distracted, looking around at my surroundings, passively holding my wrists for his convenience but not emotionally taken up into the scene yet.

Midway through tying me he uses the ropes to hold my wrists over my head and kisses me, and that helps, though.

Then I'm tied, and he starts out with just his hands, running up and down the length of my body, warming me up, waking me up to the feeling in my skin. It's sweet and sensual and gentle, and at the same time just a little frightening, knowing he's priming me to fully feel what comes next.

What comes next is the flogger. The first time it lands on me it's soft, just a dusting, soft flexible leather gently stroking down my back. The next time is not quite as soft. Soon the flogger is landing hard and fast on my shoulders, my back, my ass and thighs. It's not truly painful--I'm not much into heavy pain--but it's a constant pounding, a warm slap into my muscles each time the tails land on my skin.

And then--WHAM--I'm in subspace. It's that strangely detached place I go when I'm high or heavily drunk, when I'm under hypnosis, and during intense sex; I'm aware of everything that's going on and can think about it lucidly, but my reactions are not lucid and there's a powerful sense of otherness to the experience, a folding in on myself, a shift to an emotional parallel universe. I'm nearly limp in the ropes, and aware of my limpness, but unable or unwilling to compose my body. I can sort of babble out words with great effort, but without that effort I just moan. For reasons I can't possibly explain, it's wonderful.

The character of the blows changes in my mind, then. I'm no longer experiencing them physically but as a lulling sensation, a periodic thump at my brain, a feeling at once sustaining and intruding upon my trance. Now and then one stings a little too much and I can feel that on my skin, but the ones that are just right, and that's most of them, are not blows at all. They're words, pulses, thoughts, something abstract. They're feelings.

At some point I guess Rowdy puts down the flogger. He comes up close behind me, his whole front against my back, kisses me, and punches me. I have a great back for punching, broad and strong, with big meaty muscles over my shoulderblades. Perfect for catching a fist with a lovely thump. These impacts hit me harder than the flogging, physically and emotionally, and I grunt with each one, almost roaring. It is not a sound of surrender. It is a sound, despite my hands still tied over my head and my body obediently receiving the blows, of fighting. I'm roaring and Rowdy is roaring back, growling at me as his fists pound into my back.

There just aren't words for some things. It's... good. Let's go with good.

But too soon my back starts getting bruised and the punching can't go on forever without crossing the line into real pain. So Rowdy comes in close again, sets his teeth on my back, and bites down hard and holds. It hurts, and it's wonderful, and it's the first thing that edges completely over the line into sexual pleasure, and I'm about to come just from having my back bitten. It feels like my back is coming.

On the second bite he rubs my pussy while he bites me, and then I come the regular way.

Finally I say--babble--that I've had enough. My face is slumped forward into the rough wood of the St. Andrew's cross. Rowdy runs his hands up and down my body, then his nails just barely graze me and I gasp, and he kisses me and unties me. I'm half-aware and giddy as he helps me down.

We lie down on a mattress and cuddle for a long while afterwards. At first I'm just flying, maybe even more so than while we were playing. His body feels warm and wonderful against mine. Then again, everything feels warm and wonderful. I am deeply, deeply inside myself mentally, and yet I'm acutely sensitive to every touch and every word. It's a long and delightfully gradual process to come back to Earth, to where I can walk and talk and do stuff and pretend to be a normal person.




So when I say half-jokingly that "my boyfriend hits me," this is what I mean. It's a carefully constrained and constructed process, far more complicated inside and out than just hitting, and the end result is nothing like just hitting.

The end result is the complete bliss of mind and body.

How to have sex on the Brooklyn Bridge.

(Note: Do not have sex on the Brooklyn Bridge. This is illegal, and if you are witnessed by nonconsenting people unethical, and just a fucking sketchy thing to do. I am not responsible for your actions or how the NYPD might feel about them.)

1. Timing is important.
Sprite and Rowdy and I had just spent the night at a fetish party; they had jackets over their shiny black fetishwear, and I'd taken the vest off my Girl Scout uniform. It was 5 AM on a Sunday morning, clear but cool, and though the car traffic was as bustling as ever on the bridge, we had the raised pedestrian path all to ourselves. We walked up from the Manhattan side to the midpoint without seeing a soul.

2. Have accomplices.
We were supposed to be attending an event up there, but due to some sort of complicated miscommunication the only other people who showed up were a kinky couple we'd met at the weekend's parties. We hung out a bit, talked, and then the man got out his flogger and his partner bent over and he flogged her right on top of the Brooklyn Bridge.

At which point I leaned over the railing, hiked my skirt up, and asked if I could have a few swats myself. Oh, and I could, and it was lovely.

And then at some point, after a little more fooling around and some just sitting and talking, at about 5:30 when there weren't even joggers out yet, they brought up the idea of having sex on top of the Brooklyn Bridge, and started egging us on. It didn't take much egging. They gave us a condom and stood lookout. (Although they were mostly just looking at us, which is not technically "lookout." Lookin, more like.)

3. Dress for success.
I was wearing a skirt (in the official Girl Scout colors, naturally) that I'd pinned up to be short for the party, and I took out the safety pins. It was long enough that I could mount up on Rowdy and only look like I was committing a little bit of PDA to passerby. On the "whoa kids, get a room" level, certainly, but not on a "whoa, they are literally having intercourse right there" level. Not completely obviously.

4. Work fast, but have fun.
Rowdy sat on a bench, unzipped his fly, and took out his cock. I straddled him, spread my skirt out, pulled my panties aside, and we kissed and rolled the condom on and I slid down on him.

And I took it all in. Yeah, yeah, that's what she said, but I mean the whole scene. The cars rushing below us, the East River black and quiet far below us, the chill of the wind, and the million lights of New York City glowing all around us. The kinksters watching us and snapping pictures. And Rowdy's cock, deep inside me as I ground down on his lap, gasping in pleasure.

We switched positions and he did me from behind, bent over the railing, looking down at the traffic. It was too cold and too furtive for either of us to finish, but it was good. We stopped and kissed and cuddled on the bench.

5. Finish with bagels.
As the sun came up over Brooklyn, we ate bagels on the bridge. Yum.

Cramp.

I'm on my hands and knees, getting fucked. It's going great, even by my exacting standards--I've spent probably the last fifteen minutes riding between plateaus of "this is so good I don't even want to spoil it by coming" and peaks of "wait, yes I do." My friend is fucking me hard and deep and a little rough--earlier in the night we did some really sick nasty play and even though now we're just fucking regular, some of the erotic charge of the play is still with us.

Right now I'm at one of those peaks, or maybe a plateau of peaks. I'm just coming and coming. I'm screaming, moaning, sobbing, making these deep guttural noises that are probably intensely embarassing but I'm miles past caring. I don't even feel the fucking in my pussy anymore-it's my whole body that's getting fucked, his cock setting off decious little explosions way deep in my guts. I just keep coming and it's better than anything.

Then my right calf muscle cramps. Not mildly. It spasms into a rock-hard locked-shut knot and I can't move my leg and it's call-an-ambulance painful. Since I'm already in a mindset of enthusiastically verbalizing sensations, I outright scream in pain. Sex is done for the night. I massage out the lump and take Motrin and go home.

Balls.

About last night.

Last night was a five-way cuddle pile that turned into a three-way fuck pile. It was awesome. I'm going to call my partners Rowdy and Sprite, for entirely idiosyncratic reasons. I don't think I can get things in chronological order, but the pieces are delicious.

-My clothing is gone. I think someone else took my clothing (a blue cotton dress, if "someone else" is reading; my email is in the upper right so please let me know) and now I have no clothing to go home in. Fortunately I can borrow some.

-There are seriously twelve kinky people in Boston, tops. I can't take my pants off in this town without seeing someone I already know from a totally different venue. Which is sometimes disconcerting but mostly great, because when it's cool people who keep popping up, it's nice to be part of a community like that.

-You know what's awesome? Tying Sprite down, teasing her, and then fucking her boyfriend on top of her--that's kind of awesome. Then Rowdy and I both fucked her. Because we aren't inconsiderate.

-More for the "I never" list: fucking a guy while a girl fingers his ass--wow did that get a delightful reaction out of him--and fucking him while she fingered me. Like, both in my pussy at once. Like wow.

I have been writing about sex for four years. "Like wow." That's all I've got. Like WOW, y'all. But Rowdy was the guy with the Coke-can cock, so like being stretched as far as I possibly could and then being stretched that little bit and with the exquisite dexterity of a finger. Like wow.

-To be honest--maybe brutally so--this is the first time a threesome has really worked for me. I've had ones before that were fun, but this was no-reservations awesome happy fun. I think it was because it was the first time I've had good chemistry with the girl as well as the guy. Because I like Sprite, like like her, pretty much as much as I like Rowdy. When you're fucking the girl to please the guy, it's just not the same as when you're fucking them both. A triangle is so much more comfortable than a V.

And every time we had sex, it really was three ways. It wasn't "me now her" (although at one point we did rock-paper-scissors for firsties), it was "me and her and him and us in a big happy sexy tangle."

-At one point we were flipping through Cosmopolitan's list of sexual positions and reenacting them in giggling naked but non-penetrative fashion. Cosmo doesn't do threesome positions, though. There's exponentially more. At one point Sprite was in my lap getting fucked, at another I was rubbing her clit from the front while she got fucked from behind, at another I was sucking Rowdy's cock while I fingered Sprite, and all through the night we were just rolling around over each other and kissing and cuddle and oh it was awesome.

-I'm loud when I come. Like real loud and real enthusiastic and kind of... intense, so I've been told. And the amazing thing was that while I was fucking Rowdy and coming my brains out and thus moaning and screaming all over, Sprite started getting into it. Really into it. Like masturbating just watching us and talking dirty to me and moaning just about as hard as I was. It was hot as fuck.

-Total number of empty condom wrappers in the pile at the end of the night: ten. That's accounted for by just one guy. One very impressive guy. Rowdy's got some stamina. The way the ocean's got some water.

-Alright, I have clothes! They're not entirely appropriate to my gender or size, but I am not naked! Alright!

Motivational Mismatch.

I guess I should be defending/clarifying myself on the bisexuality post--I'm not criticizing actual bisexuality, I'm not literally saying guys should be pressured into party-bi behaviors either, I'm just a bit annoyed by the social pressure and "everyone thinks like a heterosexual man, right?" assumptions that can sometimes put women in situations where they're uncomfortably going against their sexual orientation--but eh. I'd rather think about last night.

It wasn't anything super kinky. We fucked and slept and fucked some more. We went through, I think, about eighty-three positions--not in the "okay, now I want to try The Naughty Folded Elm Tree" way, but in the organic "hey, why don't you try putting your legs over here... ooh, like that" way. It was by turns cuddly and athletic, and always... happy. I love happy sex. There was something so delightfully straightforward about it. Also he had a cock like a goddamn Coke can.



"In sex ed, they told us that sex could lead to herpes, AIDS, babies,low self-esteem... but they didn't mention backrubs."
"Oh yes. Sometimes there are backrubs."
"They should mention that in class. Teach the controversy."

I topped a boy and I liked it.

(Men! Tell me about your orgasms!)

So tonight was interesting. Tonight I topped.

I used to top Benny, but this was a very different experience. With Benny it was more like service topping, or paying him back for topping me; tonight it evolved a lot more organically.

I met a friend--someone I met through the blog, actually, but someone who I also talked to as a friend for several months before the idea of us playing together ever came up--and invited him back to my house. We showed each other our BDSM toys, and played the time-honored "BDSM show and tell" ritual of hitting each other on the forearm with everything.

Then we just cuddled for a while. A long while, actually; we might have spent two hours just hugging and petting and scritching, meanwhile having a long, digressive, highly geeky conversation about everything that came to mind. Although sex was most of what came to mind. At one point I got intolerably horny from all the physical contact, asked him how I might most elegantly resolve this situation, and ended up humping his leg to orgasm. (Not the most efficient or intense route, but it's more relieving than nothing and more entertaining than just doing myself.) This didn't really change anything and we kept cuddling after that.

Then he nibbled me, and with my permission bit me quite hard. I love being bitten. No; I loooove being bitten. If you want to get me seriously moaning and squirming with my pants still on, all you need is a set of teeth. But in this case it didn't just get me turned on, it got me asking him if I could bite back. (Actually, I believe the specific question was "Are you noms?" See, kids, consent can be fun!) He confirmed that he was, indeed, noms, and I bit him. I bit him several times, hard, working my teeth around, getting almost to the point of tearing his skin before backing off. And he loved it. He threw his head back and tensed his muscles and made the most amazing noises.

So I kept going. He took off his shirt and I gnawed on his chest and his nipples, biting his nipple hard and rolling it between my teeth and hearing nothing but joy from him. I went down onto his ribs and sucked up a big chunk of flesh in my mouth, biting and sucking up a giant hickey--then made a matching one on the other side.

At this point I was getting quite into hurting him. He turned around and I scratched his back, making long red trails until his whole back was pink and warm, then digging my fingers deep into the tender flesh. I moved down a little and started slapping his ass, but I just couldn't do enough with my hands. I grabbed a hairbrush.

The man was a glutton for pain, I gotta tell ya. I've always had a secret theory that on average male masochists are into more fucked-up shit than female ones, and he was no exception--I was pounding his bare ass with a wooden hairbrush as hard as I could muster and he just begged for more. I turned it around and ground the stiff bristles into his sore red ass and he begged for more. (Okay, it's a little gross remembering I have to brush my hair with that. Oh well, his ass was clean and I'm not squeamish.)

He'd brought a flogger with him. A big, heavy, rubber flogger, a serious son-of-a-bitch. I'd taken a couple test shots with this flogger earlier in the night and it hurt; three or four full-strength blows from it was enough to wear me down.

He didn't wear down. I was almost incredulous and kept checking in with him, and he kept just taking it and loving it. I was pounding on him with this incredibly mean-ass flogger and he never reached his limit--I don't think he came close to his limit. He just soaked it up.

This is all just physical, though; the part that amazed me was that I was... kind of toppy. I wasn't just going through the motions, I was messing with him both physically and verbally (in a fairly light and semi-silly way, but not insincere) and I was liking it. It wasn't just the feeling of pleasing him. I got a strange tingly rush and an amazing feeling of power. Even afterwards, the tingles lingered.

This isn't some kind of declaration that I'm a switch now. I'm pretty much a sub and I think this was a one-off that happened to have a particular chemistry. But I'm always amazed where chemistry can lead me. I live in a world of wonderful possibilities. Boom de yada.

Scenes from an Apocalyptic Orgy.

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Lessons learned.

-Play piercing is probably not for me, at least right now. It makes me freak out on some hard-to-define "this is not right for my body" level, and it hurts like a sonofabitch.

-Hand spanking and slapping gets a reputation as mild because it's so simple, but I actually find it more painful and harder to take in large doses than most officially designated implements of pain.

-Implements of pain, meanwhile, are pretty fucking awesome. How do people have sex without getting flogged, seriously. Or at least being dragged around by the hair and choked and bitten. That's not even weird.

-My streak of having amazing sex without actually having intercourse continues. I haven't had PIV in like two months, and I've been fucking like crazy.

-"I looked in the mirror... Apparently I'm an EROHW?"

-My orgasmic reactions are seriously getting to be somewhere between "ridiculous" and "rule out seizure disorder." ("r/o sz d/o") I'm not talking "I yelled and squirmed a lot, ooh." I'm talking "I slammed my head on the wall and chewed on a pillow and didn't clearly remember it." (And this immediately after making fun of the sex scene in Breaking Dawn.) Also I couldn't talk after. It was crossing the line from "wow, I'm speechless" to "expressive aphasia."

-During one of these tonic-clonic orgasms, I somehow cracked my iPod. Dammit. It still works, but dammit.

-I am a human Etch-a-Sketch. Have I mentioned that? If you lightly scratch my skin in some places it leaves bright red lines. It's an interesting feature if you like to leave marks. I was grown in a lab.

-I'm continually amazed that anyone would be generous enough to be a Dom. The fact that there are people out there who want to whip me and humiliate me and wouldn't even like me to return the favor... it's pretty much one of my proofs of purpose in the Universe. (Another one: the fact that on the hottest day of last year in Seattle, in fact one of the hottest days ever there, a rendering truck slowly lost its load over 30 miles of I-5. That's way too perfect to have just happened.)

-Aw dammit, I'm going to a party tonight and my pussy is kind of wrecked. Oh well, I suppose I can always just socialize like a regular person, if I have to.

-Tomorrow's most likely post: "Oh God, I feel like I just got a pelvic from Dr. Cactushands."

First Spanking.

I was sixteen. At the time, I didn't identify as kinky--I didn't even know what kinky was. I was still a prude in some ways, and things like anal sex or group sex or even one-night-stands were firmly in the "ooh, I would never" category for me.

But Kevin had awoken a monster in me. He was the first to fuck me, and once I got used to it, I didn't want to stop. Kevin was not a good person, but he was a good fuck, in a mostly-missionary sort of way.

(Digression: I love missionary. I don't want to make it some synonym for "boring," because missionary is comfortable and intimate and feels fucking fantastic. I love having a man's weight on me and I love wrapping my legs around his ass or planting my feet and grinding up against him. That said... Kevin didn't do much besides missionary.)

One day in early summer, near the end of our relationship, we had the house to ourselves all day. We started fucking missionary, and he couldn't come. It would fit the narrative better if it was mediocre for me, but actually it was amazing. We did it slow and close, belly on belly, chest on chest, cheeks pressed together like slow dancers. His cock was finding new spots inside me and I was coming, over and over, quick little orgasms, shuddering against him. I couldn't stop moaning, my hips turning in slow circles against his thrusts. And it just went on. Minutes were like hours, but I think it really was an hour. Eventually he just stopped. It was amazing but he couldn't finish.

We lay in bed for a while, quietly, him stroking my breasts and starting into space, a little frustrated but peaceful. His cat jumped up on the bed, walked delicately between our naked bodies, rubbed her head on each of us, and jumped down again. "Would you spank me?" I asked Kevin. It was the first time I'd asked for anything like that, but he was game.

I can remember every detail very clearly. I crouched down on knees and elbows and he stood beside the bed. His first touch was tentative, rapid gentle little slaps. Not like that, I told him. Go for it. And he did. He smacked my ass and the sound seemed to fill the house. I don't remember it hurting at all, but my ass was hot and pink afterwards. Kevin spanked me again, and again, my sharp little intakes of breath with each blow becoming moans.

Then he started fingering me. There's two ways men finger women--the tentative, intimate way with one or two fingers curling from the front into my pussy, and the way that just means fucking, where the hand is straight and brutal and the force begins at his shoulder. This was the second. With his fingers in me he kept spanking, hard, and I came so hard, harder than I ever had before, and I screamed.

I turned up and grabbed him, and kissed him hard, and dragged him down on the bed. "Now," I said and meant it. I got on top of him and I started fucking him. It wasn't cowgirl but missionary upside-down; I lay over his body and we were face to face as I slid slowly up and down his cock.

And I leaned down to his ear and I whispered terrible things. Things I had never thought or felt before. I told him that I wanted him to suffer. I knew he couldn't come and I didn't care. I would fuck him for hours and leave him in agony, that was just fine, because I was using his cock now. He was just the man attached to my cock and he meant nothing to me.

Reverse psychology, although I hadn't planned it: he started coming. He grabbed my hips and made me fuck him the way he wanted, hard and fast, and I started coming and we were both screaming together and at the instant of both our orgasms he bit me hard on the shoulder, drawing blood, and the pain felt like another orgasm again.

The next week we broke up. Unrelated reasons. We never had that kind of sex again.

Consent.

He paused before entering me, his cock almost but not quite touching my pussy. "Do you want this?" he asked, breathily, and waited.

Well, that's a silly question; I was naked on the bed in front of him, face down ass up and spreading myself open for him, and thirty seconds previous I had been sucking his cock. And it could pass for just dirty talk, blending in rather seamlessly with less consequential questions about do I like his big cock and am I a naughty little slut.

But I liked it because it showed beautifully how easy, and how crucial, explicit enthusiastic consent is.

(I should note at this point, because I believe in shades of gray and all that, that not every sexual encounter lacking explicit enthusiastic consent is rape. Just that explicit enthusiastic consent is a really good thing to be sure about if you wish to be a better lover than "not a rapist.")

I could have said yes. I could have said no. I could have said "hang on, let's talk." I had power over what would happen to me.

And I said yes. I said oh yes and rolled my hips back onto his cock and we both gasped a little. I said yes and it was extra sexy because I had the chance to say no. I said yes and then he knew I wanted sex, wanted his cock, wanted him.

Consent isn't just an ugly little prerequisite to sexiness. Consent, breathed out in an "oh yes, oh please yes," is in itself sexy.

Sleepover.

It's not nice to shake a sleeping person and yell "GET UP GO HOME I WANT TO DO STUFF TODAY," but I'm really concerned this guy will sleep 'til one. (I think he's still here. There's a lump under the sheets. I also sleep in "cover all body parts so monsters can't get them" pose, so I shouldn't mock.)

God he was good. As vanilla guys go, he was "I'm not worthy" good. We did it four times and I think he could've done a fifth or sixth easy if I hadn't been getting sore. His move (every guy, I find, has at least one "my move," and they range from dorky to amazing) was to thrust all the way inside me and just baaarely move by inches and oh God. That's a really good move if you want to know what it feels like to have a woman coming around your cock over and over and over. And then he let loose and just started pounding me and oh God.

I don't want this to lead to anything and I feel kind of good about that. And then I feel kind of bad about that, because I'm crazy. But we really don't have enough in common to date. He's hot and a great fuck and seems to be a decent person, and he claims to think the same of me, and I hope we can leave it at that.

Every time I fuck a guy who's really really good at it, I think I learn more about what makes a guy good in bed. Here's what I've narrowed it down to: decency and confidence.

Decency - A guy who's good in bed doesn't give you cause to worry about him. He asks before doing anything questionable, checks in with you (but not constantly; see "confidence"), compliments you, reads your nonverbal signals, gets pleasure from giving you pleasure, and is cheerfully willing to do what you want and not do what you don't want. He takes safe sex measures as a given in any non-relationship situation. And he remains decent after he's gotten laid.

Confidence - A guy who's good in bed assumes things are going to go well. He doesn't needlessly apologize or ask for reassurance, and he moves decisively. He makes his own preferences known and is not shy about asking for or receiving pleasure. If his biology fails him, he goes "oh well, it happens" and makes up for it with his hands. He can be gentle, but not tentative; open to suggestions, but not at a loss for what to do next. He lets you know when he doesn't like something you're doing. He expects you to enjoy him and expects to enjoy you.

I guess these are fuzzy compared to "cock goes here" sex tips, but honestly, those are no use to a guy shoving his cock here without asking or a guy meekly whispering "would it maybe be okay if I um never mind um put my cock here?" If you have your head on straight then the physical aspects are cake.



And I know it's neither decent nor confident to wish someone would GO ALREADY and yet not actually wake him, but fuck, it's 10:45, he's been asleep for like 10 hours, WAKE UP DAMMIT GOOD SEX MAN.

Cleanliness.

I had a one-night-stand a little ways back with a guy who seemed normal enough: cute curly hair, the not-socially-hopeless kind of geek, super cuddly and sweet. And the sex itself was okay if terribly ordinary--if I moan and say "ooh, I like that" after you spank me once, that is not your cue to never spank me again--but afterwards, he immediately ripped the sheets off his bed and stuffed them in the laundry bin. Then jumped in the shower and scrubbed himself down, and asked me "aren't you going to shower now?" and more or less made me shower.

And then bid me good night and was very sweet and cuddly again.

Huh. It's not like we got fluids all over. Maybe I'm gross, but I definitely would rate vanilla sex with no spillage as a Kleenex and shower-in-the-morning situation, not something requiring immediate decontamination. I don't think it was an insult to me, but there was definitely some weird hangup going on there.

First time.

There's nothing quite like the first time you have sex with a new person. There's an element of permission-seeking, of discovery, of tension that will never be there again.

Neither of you knows exactly how far the other is going to go. Oh, it may be damn obvious where you're headed and you may have even said it aloud, but there's still a sense that every touch is a risk. I touched his thigh, and he liked it; dare I go up an inch? Of course I dare, and of course he likes it--now another inch. If I ever fuck him again, I'll know I can go for the goods, and even if I draw it out it won't be the same.

Another silly fear: oh god what if he doesn't have a penis? Or if it's really tiny or weird or something. Of course this is ridiculous, of course he would warn me if he was very physically different, but it's still such a strange sense of relief and joy to clasp your hands around something really nice in his jeans. I love the feeling of a man's cock in his pants, being able to trace the outline but not quite hold it, to make him feel it but not quite stroke him.

Not just the cock. Every inch of his body is a discovery. Where he has hair, where he has muscles, where he's soft and where he's rough are all new and wonderful. Are his nipples sensitive? How does his skin respond here, and here, and here... ah. Finding the right spots to draw those little gasps out of him is a journey that will never be the same again.

First-time foreplay is longer and more amazing than any other kind, which makes it a bit of a letdown that first-time intercourse usually sucks. No two bodies fit together in quite the same way, and an "ow," "oops," or "sorry" is nearly guaranteed. But when it works, even fleetingly, it's just that much more rewarding.

I like coming, but that's nothing new; I know what it's like when I come, fireworks, screaming, clutching, quivering, whole skin on fire, post-ictal phase, yadda yadda. His orgasm is all new to me. Some men scream and moan; some close up their face and body and just grunt; some look almost unmoved; some throw themselves completely into the motion and just rock with me. However he comes, it's animal and beautiful.

Fucking a new guy is like listening to a new band; the instruments are all the same and they may be played much the same ways, but the sound is fresh. Even if it's not good, the sheer newness of it is something the best band in the world can't replace. Can't listen to a different band every night, of course; most of them suck and it's good to be a steady fan when you find someone really talented. But there's just nothing like new.

Fuck.

Fuck you. Fuck me. Motherfucker. Dumbfuck. Fuckin' A. Get fucked; I got fucked. I got fucked over. Fucker! What the fuck? I don't give a fuck. Fuck off. Fuck yes; fuck no! Go fuck yourself! Holy living fuck. Jesus Fucking Christ. Fucking awesome, fucking terrible. Shut the fuck up. Absolfuckinglutely. What a clusterfuck. You fuckhead. Fuck it. I'm just fucking with ya.

Not one word in that paragraph was about sex.

"Fuck" is one of the most versatile words, and yet one of the most verboten; shy of some racial slurs or maybe "cunt" it's about the worst word you can say--hell, it makes national news every time someone says it on broadcast TV--but I say it every day! And I just about never use it to hurt someone's feelings.

Instead, I usually use "fuck" to denote privacy and honesty. When CC and I are dealing with someone professionally, we never say it; the instant we're alone together--"fuck, that was fucked up." Saying "fuck" to CC means that I see him as someone I can trust, that we're peers leveling with each other. It's a signal that our thoughts as well as our words are uncensored. (It's also kind of funny.)

When I was a kid, "fuck" meant freedom. My parents and teachers were pretty strict about swearing, and anyway swearing with grownups isn't much fun. "Hey Dad, I got a pretty fucking decent grade on that fucking algebra test." But I'd get together with friends and we'd swear like it was punctuation. I've got a pottymouth now, but in ninth grade it was fucking indiscriminate. "Fucking pass me a fucking can of fucking soda, fucker." We did it because it was naughty, of course. In other words, we did it to show that we were drawing our own lines--between things authority forbade because they were wrong, and things authority forbade because authority had a stick up its ass. Just as we knew that heroin was scary stuff but pot wouldn't kill ya, we knew that truly shooting your mouth off was stupid but a little "fuck" between friends was downright bonding.

I had a teacher once who said "you know, if a girl uses those sorts of words, people will think it means she does those sorts of things." I never understood the problem with that.

Maybe what "fuck" really means is "fuck rules." Fuck petty little rules that exist for their own sake, circular self-feeding rules that don't touch on reality--fuck holding back raw brutal sweaty human emotion because the best way to express it is on the no-no list. Fuck polite dishonesty, fuck arbitrary social conventions, fuck the Man. Our minds are free, our voices and bodies are ours, and we're going to "fuck" and we're going to fuck.

Edge.

I begged him to make me come, and I don't know why, because when he did it would be over. As long as we stayed like this, bodies entangled from toes to hair, his fingers buried in me and just barely moving, it could last forever. My whole life in a bed, bent back onto my elbows and the balls of my feet, hips circling endlessly, tasting his sweat and mine. I could feel his cock hard against my thigh, his lips on mine not kissing but just breathing into me, and his fingers, oh God his fingers.

And the only thing I could say to him was that he should make it stop?

He wasn't listening anyway. He knew what he was doing. When I went faster he went slower, riding out the bucking of my hips, giving me not an inch more or less no matter how I thrust myself down on him. He pinched my nipples, bit my neck, but not quite enough. I was half a second away for minutes on end.

Finally I begged for his whole hand, and he gave it to me, not gently. When his thumb just started to slip inside it was finally enough, finally too much, and when he could no longer hold me off he didn't hold back. He fucked me with his hand and it hurt and I was coming and it was so fucking much, so fucking good.

I was in a daze afterward, laughing, kissing him over and over, curled fetal, babbling like an idiot, laughing at myself again.





And all told it still didn't take twenty freakin' minutes, sheesh.

Fuckin' outside.

I had a fun first yesterday--first time fucking outside. It was sunny and warm and a friend and I found a nice secluded spot off a nature trail and he did me up against a cedar tree. I have to admit, it wasn't as different as I'd hoped; being fucked puts me into such a happy little bubble that I could be on the surface of Mars and I'd barely know it. Sun and dirt and forest are lovely things, but I just wasn't thinking about the scenery.

We could hear people passing by on the trail. I don't think any of them noticed us.

The only real bummer part about fucking outside was that we couldn't really cuddle after. We hugged, but a proper lazy bed-cuddle would've meant rolling in the dirt and stinging nettles.

Fucking outside makes me feel like an animal. In a good way. Fucking started outside, man. You and me baby, ain't nothing but mammals.

Senses.

I'm not seeing a whole picture. I'm seeing soft brown eyes gone wide, the curve of neck to muscled shoulder, the pale-tan skin of a man who might be dark if he didn't live in Seattle. What I'm mostly seeing is the ceiling but I'm focusing about ten miles past that. I can't see most of his body but later I will remember every inch.

I can't hear the things I'm saying. Sometimes during sex I say things that I don't entirely mean. Or at least, if you did do in reality what I'm asking for, I'd prefer if you used lubricant.

I hear the man perfectly. Every little grunt and breath means a lot to me. Some of it's my needy little ego and some of it isn't, but the noise he makes at climax, whether a scream or a squeak, will stay with me for a long time. It'll come back at odd moments. I'll be driving to work in the morning and remember a man who squeezed his eyes and groaned, I'll be buying lentils at the supermarket and my cheeks will suddenly go red and I'll even close my eyes a second when I remember a man who rolled his hips against me and muttered "you slut..."

The smell part is so individual. Every man smells different, and each man always smells like himself no matter how clean or cologned he is. It's not a subtle thing either. Like they've got their own face, everyone has their own sweat and their own come.

The taste is something like raw eggs and piss. I don't like it when guys try to ask me if it tasted good, because it didn't. I mean, I sure as hell wouldn't buy it at the supermarket. I'd rather a guy just ask me if I liked eating it. I usually did.

Touch is the only sense that isn't a "special sense", the only one that isn't isolated out to a single organ, a single bit of the brain. If sight is seeing and smell is smelling, touch isn't just feeling, it's being. Touch is my whole damn body and it's his. Touch is what we're here for. The other stuff is nice decoration but touch is sex. Sex is touch.

Full Circle.

I saw Benny today. And somehow, we enacted the exact reverse of how we started out. In the beginning, I was needy and he was rejecting--I was the one who wanted him to be a boyfriend and he kept insisting nothing could mean anything. Now... I was kind of a jerk to him. He kept cuddling up to me and I kept saying "I don't even like you" stuff.

Maybe it's just timing. He was just coming out of a relationship then, and he's been single for years now. I was living with my parents and quite unsure of myself then, and I'm a lot more independent now.

Maybe it's revenge.

We didn't fuck. We haven't fucked, technically, in something like a year. Instead we screwed asynchronously; he did me good with his hands and mouth and a dildo, then I strapped him up and teased him with a vibrator (and clothespins, and a knife, and a dildo in his mouth, good times) until he came all over himself.

It's weird, I don't generally think of myself as a switch, but lately I like topping Benny far more than I want to bottom to him. I think some of it might be carryover energy from my job, where I've been bossing/mommying some male trainees a lot lately. (Perhaps the whole "I bottom because in my real life I'm just too strong" thing is not always true.) Most of it's probably just the chemistry that we have. I also have a good idea how to top now, which I didn't when I was a younger pervert.

It's not like "ooh, I'm Mistress Holly now." I'm still fundamentally a submissive. But I'm a submissive who can--when the mood is right--shove you to your knees, slap your face, make you suck my cock, and tell you to call me Ma'am.