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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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

Ew.

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..."

Hormones.

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.

Single-serving friends.

The problem with one-night stands is that when they're bad you realize you shouldn't have done it at all, and when they're good you realize just how little you can get done in only one night.

I think I'm not cut out to be a slut. It's not a mushy feelings issue per se, it's more like... seems like a shame to find a really good toy and only play with it once, you know?


(Not a toy. A... augh, how does one acknowledge a sexual partner's humanity without sounding like one has the mushies for them? A dude.)

Everything you always wanted to know about EVIL GAYS.

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Unprotected.

Last night Alan and I fucked skin on skin. It was the first time for both of us. There was so much fear.

You're sure you're on the pill? You've been taking it every day? You've been tested, right? For everything? What about your other partner, has he been tested? For everything?

Years and years of "safer sex" (because it's never safe!) have left us terrified of the toxic power of semen. A single drop, applied anywhere between a woman's navel and knees, will lead inevitably to babies and diseases. And a penis must never ever ever touch a vagina, even for a moment, or Horrible Things will happen. More than once there's been some minor accident and I've felt skin on skin down there, and I've literally recoiled.

This is all medically correct, of course. You really can get pregnant/diseased from semen that's merely near your vagina, or from a penis that's not ejaculating. In both cases it's an outside bet, but it does warrant consideration; I knew a girl who had three abortions and couldn't understand why, because "Yeah we didn't use condoms, but I never let him come in me!" So our precautions are based on good sound logic, except that over the years it's become a visceral fear of each other's bodies.

Last night we fucked through our fear. We had a long awkward talk about oral contraception and urethral/vaginal swabs and blood tests, and then we went and did the forbidden. We risked each other's lives. We had unprotected sex and he came in me.

It felt so fucking good. I've never heard a man moan like that.

Tipping point.

There's a moment in Alan's fucking when he stops playing with me and he starts using me to come. His rhythm shifts from soft-hard-tease-hard to HARD-HARD-HARD-HARD. His eyes stop looking at me and fix on something a thousand miles away. He stops touching me and starts holding on to me. And he starts making the noises.

Raw, wordless, animal noises. Earlier in sex he might go "oh yeah," or "mmm", or "ahh," but those are words even when they're not. Past the tipping point it's nothing I can really type. It's "uhuhuhuhuh," it's "eerrrrmmm," it's "aaaauuufff," but those look ridiculous and it's not. Maybe from the outside it would be; who knows? There's a reason we don't videotape our sex.

I talk about my partners' quirks sometimes like I'm this dispassionate observer. I'm not. Today I noticed a big ugly abrasion on Alan's leg. "What happened to you?" I asked.

"You don't remember?" he said. "Last time you were here, when you had me up against the wall, you were scraping me on something. I should've stopped you, but you were, you know..."

I know. Past the tipping point.

God, I don't even remember it.

Random Urge.

I spent all of last night (when I wasn't working) fantasizing about giving Alan a really long blowjob while he just kicked back, watched TV, and drank beer. For all the "lol perfect woman!" stupidity of the fantasy, it was amazingly vivid.

Too bad for him being out of town. Life's unfair.

EDIT: He's back. Partay.

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,

Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, and good will towards men.

Quantity.

I've noticed that penis-enlargement emails often also advertise products to increase your semen volume. I thought this was completely ridiculous until I met Benny.

Benny comes more than other guys. Probably twice as much as every other guy I've been with. He comes for a startlingly long time, squirt after squirt (more than once I've thought he was done and stopped, only to feel dumb when he frantically whispered "keep going" and there was more) until there's about a quarter-cup of jizz splattered around. Sometimes I go down on him and I end up swallowing and spitting.

Is it the best thing in the world, does it make other men seem inadequate, is it worth taking unapproved Nigerian medications for? Course not. But it is pretty fun to watch. Or feel or taste. I always think it must be a fantastic orgasm. It goes on for so long.

Really, though, I think I like it less for what it is, and more for being one of those private biological quirks that you can only know about someone by fucking them. It's like the birthmark on Alan's butt shaped like Australia; I get no particular pleasure from the thing, but I get tremendous pleasure that I know it. I can look at these men when they're out in public and properly dressed and I can think "Hey! Australia-butt!" and it makes me happy in some way I can't quite quantify. It's a small kind of ownership, maybe.

Everyone walks around with these small secrets. Sometimes I look at strangers and try to guess theirs.

"Hir" does nothing for me.

Sometimes, when I'm already in a dreamy sort of mood, just the words "he" and "she" can be a thrill. The man I have a crush on, he... and those two letters tell you that this person is a man and therefore has a cock and balls and sometimes that cock gets hard and sometimes a little clear fluid seeps out and when you lick it up and use your tongue to swirl it around the head you will feel that cock pulse just a little in your mouth.

It's things like this that put the lie to the idea of jading. That once you get fucked in the ass with a whip handle in your teeth like a pony's bit you won't still sparkle a little to see someone cute give you the merest smile. That when your sex and your fantasies are harsh and extreme you won't still doodle hearts in your notebook. Sex isn't skiing; you can do the harshest black diamond on the mountain and still feel your heart in your throat going down the kiddy hill.

I get turned on by the words "lick it until it's clean, bitch," and I get turned on by the words "he and she."

I forgive you, really.

I wish Alan wouldn't apologize for having orgasms.

"Oh yeah, oh yeah, OHHHHHHH... oh no, crap, I'm so sorry."

He'll say this even if he's been going for fifteen minutes and I've come three times. I need to convince him that I don't need a man who can fuck indefinitely.

In fact it's rather frustrating when a man lasts for hours. I love to watch guys come. I hate to hear them say "uh, it's not you, but it's been two hours and I just can't get there, maybe I better just finish myself off." And I really really hate to hear "oh forget it, it's not gonna happen, just let it get soft and I'm going to sleep."

I know it's not necessarily my fault but it always makes me feel cruddy.

So close to romantic.

Alan:
"I'd never pay for sex."
"Aww..."
"Because I like money more than I like sex."

Benny:
"It's okay that you are, but I'm not seeing anyone else."
"Aww..."
"I mean, I'd like to..."