breaking the shell

The three of us were enjoying each other’s company more than usual. The wine was good. I cooked a simple dinner, and we’d lingered for a long time after eating, sitting a the table chatting. We made our way to the couch to watch a movie. We’d been friends a long time and could happily lean on one another while watching. Hands began wandering, then mouths, and then someone (probably me) said, “This would be more fun in the bedroom.”

I hadn’t expected it to be so easy or so comfortable. Upon later reflection, I think it may have been easy partly because one of us was a non-violent sociopath. That is, he never got attached to anyone but himself. It made him interesting in bed because he didn’t care about anything but getting off. I do not by any means recommend becoming romantically involved with sociopaths, but in retrospect, I would say this one was a pretty good lay.

It was also the first time I had really seen two men in bed together. Sure, I had seen men coexist on a mattress, and I had witnessed tepid hand jobs between them, but this was the first time I saw two men who were really into each other, well, getting into each other. I had feared that I would feel uncomfortable watching them, like a third wheel with the wrong parts, but I didn’t. The muscular one was stoic, and the skinny one was greedy, and I happily occupied a space between them, sometimes just observing their lust, and sometimes absorbing it through my skin and my nerves.

Every movement that night was fluid, maybe even artful; thoughtless and therefor fearless. My body between theirs became its own animal, and my brain laid back in blissful amusement and watched and even laughed. In the morning, I hadn’t the slightest pang of regret. I got up early, went out to run errands, and enjoyed a perfect spring morning with my new secret in the back of my mind. All day, I wore the smug look of a satisfied cat.

But there’s no sex with psychopaths without some kind of risk. It took a while to come out, but eventually it did. The skinny one had been a liar, of course.

Of course of course of course.

His fiance found out, was furious, all that predictable stuff. Not only was he in the dog house, but I found myself under attack as well. It wasn’t my morals she resented but the fact that I must have known he was lying, and in all honesty, I probably did. I told her as much, yet felt no need to defend myself. After all, hadn’t she suspected as much? Hadn’t she played the willing fool?

It was the first time in a long while that I’d felt this mercenary spirit in myself. I felt sorry for the little lamb of a girl, and although I bore some of the blame, I saw myself as her liberator more than her enemy. How else would she have discovered that her relationship was a farce? “Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding,” and all that jazz.

the odd intimacy of conference calls

In a given work day, the most important thing I do is dial in for a conference call. It doesn’t take up the bulk of my work day, nor do I typically say very much during these calls, and yet, we develop a certain level of intimacy with our conference call compatriots.

There is something about talking to the same people every day or every week over the phone while never seeing their faces. It’s ever so remotely similar to, say, meeting for anonymous sex in a public park. But there’s more to it, of course.

I admit, I use my sexy voice for these calls. It’s my sales voice. The one that makes older men who’ve been in this industry for decades  instinctively trust me. When they call me to discuss their projects, they’re not just calling to bemoan missed deadlines or bloated budgets. They’re calling for comfort, support, acceptance, and perhaps for just a little bit of illusion — that of having their very own beautiful Miss Moneypenny just a phone call away.

It is at this illusion that I excel.

I am an ethical, emotional, corporate whore.

Like most whores, I can tell you, this is not exactly the profession of my preference, but I’m good at it, and people are willing to pay for it. And sometimes it’s fun.

I have fallen a little bit in love (just the tiniest bit) with a certain slightly arrogant British voice. He’s just the kind of guy that I would like to slap in the face and boss around a bit. I’m not even a dominant type most of the time, but he brings it out in me. He’s kindof a prick. He speaks very quietly on the phone and spaces out completely during conversations sometimes. He doesn’t find anyone but himself very interesting. He pisses my inner alpha dog right the fuck off and makes me want to do terrible things to him.

What might these terrible things be? Well, they involve glossy red lipstick, very tall heels, a stern look, and perhaps a paddle. I’m not sure. I’ve never used one before, but he inspires me so.

Another one I’m fond of is a strict rule follower who calls every time we send a corporate holiday gift to make sure it’s within the limit of acceptable gifts so no one will think he is accepting bribes. I want to bring out his devious side. Someone as cautiously self-conscious as him must have a lot of good stuff under the surface, don’t you think?

reddit fetish and the cock blocking brain

So, exactly how weird is it that I am developing a Reddit fetish?

Ok,  it’s not really a fetish by definition, but you know how the guys on the site constantly say, “I managed to fap to this?” For some reason, that kinda turns me on.

Maybe it’s because I enjoy the idea of how easily and frequently men are turned on. Even if they’re joking, it’s kinda hot.

Maybe it’s also because I wish I could be more honest about sex. As a woman and a recovering Catholic, I find it exceptionally hard to just talk about anything sexual, and some days even thinking about sex gets complicated. Some days, I am totally that chick who has to stop in the middle of sex to analyze the feminist implications of my fantasies.

I envy the apparent male ability to switch off their brains and just fuck. Or fap. Whatever the case may be.

Do any other women get cock blocked by their own racing minds?

the couple that faps together…

Sorry I’ve been quiet for a little while. I go through phases where I just don’t feel like talking about sex a whole lot. The same thing happens with my other appetites. Sometimes I have several weeks where I don’t feel very hungry … I mean, I still EAT, but just not a lot. And then I’ll be ravenous for a few days. Same thing with sex.

Right now, I’m shopping for sex toys online with my husband. I discovered something new that he likes, so I’m buying him a little gift. Meanwhile, we’re giggling and IMing each other from across the house (I’m in the bedroom and he’s in the office). I found this thing that looks like some kind of horrible space creature … Or just… two big thumbs.

I’m not one to judge, but that is the ugliest sex toy I’ve ever seen.

I also found this, which I told him he should buy me for our anniversary.

And also, I have a burning question that I need to pose to you guys, if anyone still reads this blog — WHY ARE THERE SO MANY GLASS DILDOS?

Does that just seem wrong to anyone else? A video on Babeland.com states that they’re very sturdy, but I just don’t think I will ever be able to bring myself to insert any glass objects into any of my orifices. The thought alone is making me shudder.

Other than that, though, I adore sex toys. A long time ago, I was embarrassed about letting my boyfriends know I liked vibrators, so I did the standard porno girl thing and made a lot of noise about how great they were in bed, then went home and fapped away in guilty, lonely silence. But these days, having a toy handy is essential.

How do you guys feel about sex toys? Anyone have a favorite out there? I’d love to hear about it.

 

ovulation

7 a.m.; alarm goes off; snooze as long as possible while still being fashionably late to the office. Have given up on getting to work on time.

Turn over and snuggle with husband. If he wakes up, make out.

Eventually, get out of bed;check text messages, blog comments and emails. Shower. Dress. Consider wearing makeup. Drive to work. Do half-assed makeup in the car but it doesn’t really matter because I’m going to be glowing all day.

Reach the office; check email; check Twitter; maybe write a blog post.

Check my to-do list for the day and try really hard to focus on work.

Do things.

Drink coffee.

Flirt with coworkers to make the monotony bearable. Walk a fine line for the better part of 8 hours. Grin a lot because work really isn’t that interesting but at least there is sex to think about.

Join conference calls. Fantasize.

Drive home while rocking out and feeling sexy. Try not to make eyes at other drivers as it’s distracting and dangerous.

Get home; greet husband with a kiss. Have a snack or order takeout; attempt domestic tasks such as laundry and dishes; wish I had a wife.

Meditate; write; send important emails; then make out.

Make out more; Choose from an assortment of sexual acts ranging from vicious teasing to luxurious licking. Perhaps walk around in underwear for a while just to watch his eyes wander.

talking to myself

It was as though my sex had been driven by the child I once was, the girl who couldn’t fight the impulse to delve into every forbidden thing. As an adult, I chose to let her out, let her run wild, get filthy, go on all the rides and eat all the candy. Of course, she wound up exhausted with a belly ache and a sunburn.

We went home and had a long talk about how to eat ice cream without ruining your dress, and how to go on all the rides without puking. And then I asked if she was ready to go back out and try it again, and she said, “Not just yet.”

So we stayed in for a while, and it was just fine.

a long awkward silence

And then there was a long, awkward silence in which we realized what we’d done.

Of course, it had been fun, and we thought we’d have no regrets, but the trouble with being human is you can’t know another person’s heart. And when you say “no strings attached,” you are most likely lying, even if you don’t know it.

re-reading the story of o

Have been re-reading Story of O, which I first read in high school, when I had minimal access to erotica of any kind. My girlfriends and I were in the habit of reading the most scandalous books we could find and passing them  amongst ourselves, often marked with underlines and dog ears. Granted, in the small town where we lived, the height of scandalous books was along the lines of Go Ask Alice, which I am now ashamed to say I actually read and loved in the 8th grade. At the time, I thought I loved it for it’s high-horsed moralization, but it turned out I loved it for the same reason I loved stories about dirty, dirty sinners who converted and became saints. In other words, it wasn’t the saintly part of the story that made it worth retelling.

In that environment, it’s hard to picture how my friend got her hands on a book like Story of O. She couldn’t bought it, of course, but we never had any money at that age, and I’m sure it wasn’t available through our school library. After she read it, she brought it to me. I think she introduced it as “kindof fucked up.” She didn’t say it was hot or made her curious about anything in particular. We discussed it after i read it, and she commented on how she thought it made a powerful statement about what marriage does to women, which is a pretty salient statement for a 17 year old. I, on the other hand, was preoccupied with reenacting certain scenes from the story.

Re-reading it now, though, I’m more struck by certain practical elements. For example: Where is the lube, people? I’m about half way through this re-read, and there is not one mention of lubrication so far. A very early scene in the book describes the protagonist receiving anal sex for the first time, and I just shudder to think of anyone having that experience without proper lubrication. I realize this book is basically about BDSM, but I can’t imagine that kind of intrusion is enjoyable for anyone. Then again, I’m not actually into BDSM at all.

Re-reading this book has basically proven to me how much I’ve changed over the years. My sexual tastes have evolved, and I’ve learned a lot. In high school, I conveniently overlooked the imposition of a dress code on O, whereas now I think if a husband or lover tried to tell me what to wear or how to groom myself, he’d get dumped in a heartbeat. I’m sure some people enjoy that kind of submission, but I don’t.

On the other hand, I just got to the part where she acknowledges that she’s attracted to another woman and to women in general, so I’m intrigued again. I’ll keep reading and let you know how it goes.

an invitation

It is still hard to talk about sex.

I can talk about what I like. I like it when you kiss up the length of my spine or along the curve of my hip. I like it when you nibble a little bit. I like it when your hands are warm. I like when you run your hands a little roughly through my hair. I like other things that I’ll tell you about if you pour me a glass of wine.

What’s difficult is actually saying, “let’s have sex.”

I’ll admit that I’ve occassionally said, “Hey, wanna fuck?” Or worse, “Do you wanna just fuck?” This is what happens when I’m tired of trying to be subtle and sweet. When I’ve had a rough week and I’ll looking for the kind of sex that’s like a two-person aerobics class just to blow off some steam. Sometimes it helps to just get naked and get your heart rate up.

Then there is the really hot but not always appropriate “fuck me.” I don’t know very many guys who dislike that approach, but on those nights (or days, or mornings) when I want something a little less rough on the old headboard, it seems like false advertising.

I went through a phase of trying to say “let’s make love,” a phrase which makes my skin absolutely crawl. The memory of having said it actually makes me want to puke with embarrassment. I thought it was a good grownup sounding way to talk about sex, but it just made me feel like I was in a bad 80s softcore housewife porn. I kept picturing big hair, unconvincingly soft lighting and blue eye shadow. It made me think about Designing Women (sfw).

These days, I don’t really say anything but rely on body language to get the point across, but I feel that I’m still at a loss. The phrase “have sex” is direct and effective but decidedly unsexy. The term “fuck” is equally effective and just fine sometimes but not all the time. Maybe it’s not necessary to say anything at all. Maybe “kiss me” is a good enough invitation to get the ball rolling?

I’d love to know how other women talk about sex with their partners. Anyone care to volunteer?

P.S.

I want you to know that I practiced great restraint in not using the song lyric “let’s talk about sex, baby” as the title for this post. Yes, it would have been thematically appropriate, but cheesy as hell. I’m doing my part.

why women have orgasms

“Women have orgasms because by and large they refuse to launch monstrous ultraviolent illegal soul-deadening wars over oilsucking phallocentric powermad landwhoring BS powergrabs and therefore they fully deserve all the inexplicable otherworldly cosmically infused clitorally energized pleasures they can get.” — SF Gate Columnist Mark Morford

One of the coolest things my husband has ever said to me is that he finds it really hot when I come. He didn’t say it the way Murford does, but I get it, and I love that he loves it. Here’s Morford’s way of describing it:

Any good and deeply felt female climax is clearly a subatomic vibrational pulse of such unusual and kaleidoscopic frequency that the only ones who can truly hear its messages are purple orchids and bright red snakes and the aliens who built the Great Pyramids. All hail.

I admit that I’m very late in coming (heh) to this lovely article, but no more so than I was in discovering, say the ecstatic poetry of Walt Whitman. That is, I think this essay (yes, it’s an essay, not a column imo) should be a classic — one of those that goes in literary text books and is described as being “provocative for its time, yet a herald of evolving attitudes about sex and gender.”

If only everyone would take Morford’s stance and realize that female orgasms really are important — especially women!