Tuesday, March 25, 2008


he best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #125? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks
In Which Penny Enjoys Her Bath
“In the bathroom, I flipped on the heater and shed my clothes.”

Just passing through
“I twitched under her stare.”

Kegal exercises on wet Monday afternoon
“Do you know what it’s like, to be buggered?”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
WP/PHP Guru?

Editor’s Choice
More Traveling…

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Sunday, March 23, 2008

"the company was the more important thing..."

I'd meant to leave my previous post as the top for a while, but this is something I just can't get out of my head.

At what point does sluttiness (for lack of a better term) become really predatory? I knew I was aggressive. Unapologetic. But I didn't think that really carried over into intimidation. At least that was never my intention. Apparently that failed. Ah, another damn thing I've failed at.
I had been playing, verbally, with an old friend. We spent many a night talking into the wee hours of the morning about everything, focusing largely on spirituality and sex. Which I actually think are tied closely together. Anyways...
There was discussion about our mutual kinks, and we found some kind of solace or at least kinship in them. There was talk about sharing said kinks, since they were so very compatible. Tentative plans were made. Nothing concrete. More of a I'll-call-you-when-I'm-in-town-and-we'll-see-how-it-goes kind of thing. But apparently that was too much to handle. Which I didn't realize. And I wouldn't say I necessarily just talk a big game, I usually back it up, but I'm not especially the type to just meet up with old friends strictly for sex. I enjoy some pleasantries beforehand. Apparently that part wasn't communicated. Because he said he got cold feet and couldn't handle "random sex."
And there was something that stung more than I would have expected about being relegated to the "random" pile. I don't know. It's not even that I don't have random sex, because I certainly do. But somehow I justify it differently when it's with friends, I suppose. Like it's simply friends with benefits, and not entirely random. I'm not sure where my problem with being labeled "random" comes from, but I suppose it's a remnant from my upbringing and socialization (yes, in this heterosexist society) that I can't quite shake. And the classification threw me. I had never meant to be predatory. Shit, that was the last thing I wanted to be. Really, I talk about sex and sexuality so much because I'm most comfortable in those areas of discussion, traditionally taboo as they may be. Not necessarily because that's all I ever do. (Of course, there would be much worse ways to spend eternity than having glorious, kinky sex...)
But this whole exchange had more the feeling of... I don't know. Guilt. Or something. Whatever it was... it wasn't good. And I didn't like it. I generally try to avoid guilt these days. And the funny thing is, I didn't even DO anything. I'm just feeling guilty for the hell of it. Ha. Happy damn birthday. Oh well. Suck life. But it goes on, right?

Friday, March 21, 2008

(you're only) the best I ever had

How many years have we been doing this, now?
Where every time it is the same
And still so strikingly new
We always speak in hypotheticals
Like we don't know exactly where we'll end up
Tangled in each other
And breathless.
So I'll start by saying

Maybe I'll be surprised and smile when my phone registers your name - perhaps the name only I call you and only half in jest - and you might ask if I'm back in town. I'll be glad you can't see me grinning all too wide as I write you back a coy reply.
And then maybe in the morning I'll wake you and offer smoothies and our favorite DVDs and we'll pretend that's all that's on the menu. You might be more excited to see me than I anticipated and take me into your arms with more force than I'd expected. Then perhaps I'd smile as I revel in your warmth for just a moment before we shuffle downstairs, maybe already engaged in the banter we both know we love. And then perhaps we'd settle into the couch like we always do, and I'd place my hand on the few inches of sofa between us and you'd absentmindedly intertwine your fingers with mine and pretend you don't notice my breathing change at the slightest touch of your skin on mine. Of course maybe our favorite show was really just a front that we both knew we didn't need, and it's somehow ironic that we still go through these motions. At the same time, perhaps its unyieldingly romantic, as is so much of what you do, often, it seems, without even realizing it. And maybe we'd smile at each other and linger just a moment too long, and you'd turn to look at me and feel my eyes drinking up the very sight of you. And perhaps you'd take your hand and brush the hair away from my face and match my stare, slowly pulling me to you. Then suddenly your lips are on mine and I am on fire and so acutely aware of everything while at the same time oblivious to anything but the way you make me feel.
And then you would descend on me, putting me squarely against the couch, carelessly sending anything in your way crashing to the floor. You don't care if its breakable, it needs to be on the floor while you use the surface. And hypothetically,:the passion with which you would seem to tear my clothes from my body would surpass any worldly boundaries.
I'd gasp, deep, and slide away from you for only a moment as I'd turn my body to bring myself on top of you, holding your hands above your head as my mouth makes its way down your body to your neck, your chest, your abs and your waist, where my teeth will leave barely-perceptible marks and you'll start breathing harder and harder.
Of course, you wouldn't let me hold you for long. As I am tracing my tongue, my lips, my teeth around your torso, you'd abruptly roll me over onto my back and pin me down, strong hands dwarfing mine which seem so exceedingly feminine in the moment. You might suck and bite at my skin, paying special attention to my neck and stomach. Maybe flick your tongue across my hipbones, just for a taste. Your hands might tremble in a futile attempt to be gentle because you've always looked at my naked body like a piece of art, but you'd have to release my hands to let yours have the experience they so crave.
You might then give in and let them rub my body, as your mouth follows, exploring every curve and reveling in the sounds you are pulling from me. You'd tease me with your tongue, and I'll remember when you used to tell me how you so enjoyed my taste, and were so saddened when it left your mouth. Perhaps you want to try it again.
And I am so blissfully aware of your breath, your skin, you... on me that I am like putty in your hands and am aching to be part of you. I might pull you up to me and remember how I've always loved the way your dark eyes looked at me and really saw me. But in this moment I'd look to see if you were feeling as good as I am and remind you that you love the way I move my hips... any maybe all the while I'm clawing and biting into you because I just need that much of you.
And perhaps we would have long ago abandoned silence, me for my gasps, sighs and inaudible expletives, you for low, gutteral moans and heavy breaths and dominating commands. Even as you invite my tongue into your mouth once again with yours, my name escapes your lips as I raise my hips to meet yours and match your movement. Your hands would probably already be enjoying themselves, running down my sides, over and around my thighs, up my stomach and over my breasts. And you couldn't help but be enthusiastic when, even as you push into me, your back folds in half as you taste my skin again. You would make sure I broke a sweat, if for no other reason than to have the pleasure of sucking up the single drops running down my neck and between my breasts.
And so there I'd be, my legs wrapped around you and your arms around me and again you'd sweep the stray hair from my face and I would run my tongue over your lips as I pull you deeper into me. And then perhaps you'd find me guiding your hand from my chest, to my waist, to my hips, to my navel and further down as I'd beg you to throw yourself into me. And there would be no hope for subtlety as I continue to rock my hips with yours and my lips and teeth find your collarbone once more and you inhale and sigh in that way I love where I know you're happy and are incapable of being anything else.
And if you might be being the submissive type, you'd obey my every command - though I'd never need words - but all the while you'd take pleasure in making me stumble as our hips
match up and your hand finds a way to stimulate me no matter where you put it, though it will inevitably find its way everywhere else on my body that I could possibly reach. Pressing against you, sweat-drenched bodies rubbing together and moaning explitives in that sort of raw pleasure that comes with making love without worrying about where or how, only caring about the who and the now.
And you would know that I love you listening to me, while at the same time we both know you needn't because our passion is instinctual and we've never needed instructions for one another's pleasure. So you'd push me down beneath you because there's nothing like feeling you on top of me and seeing your face and feeling you move inside of me. By now I'd have so little control over my hips - they're so desperately seeking yours that my whole body is yours to do with whatever you could want. Nevertheless I know completely what you want, because what you want and what I need are the same in this moment. And maybe once you've laid me down and your hands are still finding their way all over me, mine have not left your skin since the moment they discovered you. In that moment I'm watching you so intently and feeling you so completely; we are moving perfectly together and I can watch your face and you can feel me tighten around you like my arms invariably will, time and time again...
You wouldn't let me up for a second, as you refuse to let me forget how much you enjoy being pressed against me and I against you.
Bodies move and tremble, hips rock away from each other only to press back against one another even more passionately, as if our whole body kisses in the way you would kiss me. Desperate to be one person, emotion and sensation would take over. The craving for pleasure would drive movement and reason and two people find themselves the mechanism for their bodies' will, as the bodies know they fit perfectly together, and enjoy the comfort of a match.
And as we'd move perfectly in unison, blissfully ignorant of the world around us, that world would stop and we would be the only motion that mattered. As heat rips through my body I can do nothing but cry out and pull you into me, needing you to be as integral a part of my body as you are of my heart. My eyes have turned a dark emerald and your breathing has become more frantic as your teeth sink into my skin and you let out a primal scream. Your body spasms and I am one with you entirely, and even the after-shock leaves us shuddering in unison.
Then we would lie there, tangled in one other. Panting, sweating, heaving, exhausted and breathless. And we would sleep, both of us too content to move outside each other, or this space, or this moment.

*With collaboration from my dearest A. (he didn't know I'd be writing it here, but he helped with the words, the memories, the experiences...)

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

in no particular order...

So here's the first of the retelling of exploits from the past week or so. This is really the only negative experience I had the whole time, and it wasn't the worst I've ever had... But I feel the need to get it off my chest anyway. So here goes.

We'd been drinking beer for far too long and drinking cocktails that were too strong hours before that. The room was still stationary, but I couldn't entirely say the same for myself. My words weren't slurred, I don't think, but I'm sure I was visibly intoxicated.
He wasn't even my type. I generally go for people way more attractive than me. That sounds like I'm being conceited, but I'm not. Ask anyone I know. I have some bizarre tendency to pull in people WAY out of my league. And even beside that, I have a type, and while that's often older than me, he was way too old.
Nevertheless, I ended up on a Beirut team with him. (I feel like somehow this is how a lot of my hookups begin...weird.) I don't even remember if we won, I was instead taken by the conversation that somehow rapidly turned to threesomes. I'm not sure where the entrypoint for that conversation lay, but that's what we were discussing. And he told me he'd want to have a mmf menage a trios, and I said I'd found that there weren't many men (who I've slept with, at least) who were into that. He took that as an invitation and we exchanged numbers. We hadn't actually touched at that point, save for the errant high-five when we made a cup in the game.
I don't remember who won. I remember the game ended and he said he had to go and asked me if I'd walk with him to his car. I said OK. Which was stupid. But I figured it would just be outside the gate. Maybe a goodnight kiss, harmless.
When we'd walked a block and a half, I asked him where the hell he'd parked. He said he was walking to the light rail station. I said I wasn't going that far. He said Yes, I was. I was going home with him. I said No, I'm fucking not. I have to go back. I tried to leave nonchalantly. And then he caught my arm and pulled me back to him. Grabbed my face, pressed his lips onto mine. I chuckled uncomfortably and said ok, now I really do have to go. My friends will be worried. He begged me to stay. I said No.
He put his hands on my shoulders and slammed me against the outside wall of a garage and he was on me again. His lips were on me, his hands were on my tits. I cursed myself for wearing the pink shirt that showed off my rack. I tried to push him off me, tried to bite him. He took it as another invitation. I kept yelling No! I have to go! People are waiting for me! and my pleas were muffled by his tongue darting in and out of my mouth. His face was rough and stubble scratched my lips and chin. His hands were cold and I felt like I could feel the beer and dirt staining them and, consequently, my untanned skin.
I was still trying to squirm away when my phone rang. I'd forgotten that I had it with me. It was my best friend, asking me where the hell I'd gone. I couldn't have been happier to hear her voice. He let me answer my phone and I stepped back into the shadow of the alleyway as I backed away. I shrugged, still trying to play it cool, and he stood half-engulfed in the shadows, watching me walk away. As soon as I made the corner, I took off sprinting. I wasn't entirely sure where I was, but just hoped my feet would sense the urgency of the moment and recall where they'd been minutes earlier. I stayed on the phone with my friend, on the verge of tears. As I ran around another corner, afraid that I was lost in the neighborhood, I saw her standing outside the fence. I jumped into her arms, and she climbed into another friend's car with me, where I had a minor breakdown. The host (who's car it was) came out and apologized for his friend (who I'd wandered off with). I took a deep breath and marched back into the party to refill my beer.

Now, my feminist side tells me I can't really be held responsible, because as soon as I said no (and it was serious, there was no playful tone), he should have backed off. But I can't help but think that I brought this whole experience on myself. I feel like I might have been inadvertently leading him on. I didn't mean to, but that doesn't mean I can't be held responsible. I mean, in the end it was essentially a moot point, and nothing really tragic happened. Nevertheless, I can't help feeling mildly responsible for what did happen. As such, do I even have a right to be upset by the situation? Any thoughts, anyone?

on being a slut.

I have just recently returned to the frozen Tundra I unwillingly call home after 10 days of straight debauchery. Well, really, the insanity of the last five days made up for the relative lack of activity during the first. Overall, Spring Break '08 was everything it should have been. And then some. For the first time, I took a trip back Home (after spending a few days at my old college), and spent the 100-some-odd hours seeing practically every person I know, and sleeping with, or at least kissing, about half of them. Yes, successful trip indeed.
Detailed and only mildly romanticized accounts of my exploits will be forthcoming in the next week or so, I promise. First, though, some more theoretical thought. I had little else to think about as I spent 15 hours traveling yesterday, so I began reflecting on the distinct lack of guilt I felt for my blatant hussy-ness of the past few days.
I am comfortable with guilt. In fact, I'd say we have quite a long and storied history together. Spending a half-decade in an "exclusive" relationship gave me plenty of opportunity to commit all sorts of transgressions and, if we're being honest here, I rarely passed up the chance to do so. I was called "slut" periodically, and it hurt, but likely not as much as it should have. Perhaps because the reasons people were calling me names weren't actually true. Sure, I was running around, but not with who they thought I was. And then these periods of infidelity would inevitably be followed by periods of unwavering commitment, adoration, and fidelity, almost assuredly trying to reconcile what I'd done with how I actually felt about the person I was committed to. I was very much in love, but I was also, and perhaps more importantly, very young, and above all very inexperienced.
In any case, that relationship ended abruptly and (from my end) unexpectedly, and I had every intention of fully enjoying the benefits of being single for the first time since I started dating. Instead I found my fuck-buddy glued to my hip, and somehow even more inexplicably, proceeded to stay with the lying, alcoholic and mildly abusive asshole for another year. I finally rid myself of him, and have since been very single and quite content to be so.
Which brings me to the present. Of course, most of you knew this backstory, but sometimes you just have to get things out in the open. In any case...
The past two years have been very much about experimentation and discovery for me. I have discovered more clearly what, precisely, I want to do with my life and consequently found a way to go about achieving that, I have discovered a passion for learning about sexuality and again, consequently, made new discoveries about my own sexuality. Of course, talking about sex all the time leads one to think about it theoretically, but also to become acutely aware of the sex one is (or, in my case isn't) having. So I resolved to fix that. I was doing relatively well for myself here in the Tundra, at least for someone who'd never gone about anything like this before. Then I went Home last week.
And somehow managed to sleep with four people in five days. Men, women, older, younger, strangers and best friends.
I've been trying to make myself feel guilty all week. I simply can't do it. I am a slut, certainly. Proudly, in fact. For the first time in my life, I'm embracing what I want to do, and I'm not making any apologies for it. I am safe in every possible way. I am honest about it. Each person I slept with knows the terms and limits of our respective relationship. Indeed, some I'll never see again, and one I might well end up staying with forever. And so the question I'm posing, I guess, is what is so inherently wrong with being a slut?
Formerly hurtful words are reclaimed all the time, and I'm not necessarily saying that "slut" needs to be reclaimed, but I fail to see the sting in the word any longer. At the same time, the connotation of the word, or at least the contemporary usage, seems to imply a person who has acted outside the confines of her (I would say "or his," but the word is rarely used with such a heavy hand when referring to members of the male gender) relationship. Be it her relationship with a partner, or her relationship to her place in society. But does the term need to be so negative? Yes, cheating is wrong. Of course, I use the term cheating in the less-traditional sense of acting outside the limits of one's relationship, which I fully believe need to be explicitly stated before one can be held accountable for them. Yes, lying is wrong (in almost all cases, though there are notable exceptions).
But if I feel I'm a good person, if I genuinely believe that I'm living my life with the best intentions and a sincere desire NOT to hurt anyone around me or myself, then where does the harm lie? I don't associate promiscuity with an automatic condemnation of the "offender." Certainly, I have a queer view of many of these roles, but that doesn't dis-count them as invalid. I simply refuse to feel guilt about being positive about and aware of my sexuality. Without question, I am a very sexual person.
At this point in my life, I have become disenchanted with monogamy. That isn't to say that I will never be in another monogamous relationship - in fact, I think my freedom to define my limits now will likely make me a more faithful partner in the future. There is some kind of affirmation in knowing what you're capable of doing, who you're capable of being with, what it feels like to bed-hop. I'm learning so much more about what I like, and the countless different ways to have sex, or fuck, or make love, or any of the other euphemisms you might choose. Perhaps it's a traditionally masculine quality, to think of prowess as determined by number and variety of partners, but there is some sense of accomplishment, of conquest. But really key for me is the sense of learning. For example, in the same week, I learned how much I enjoy topping and making my partner scream in pleasure, as well as the erotic fun of being tied up, told to shut up, and fucked senseless. Different people for different pleasures. I simply cannot see the problem in discovering more about one's own sexuality. I don't see how that's a bad thing. I think the experience makes me a better lover, a better partner, a better person, even.
So these are my thoughts on being a slut. I know that I am. I am proud of that fact. I refuse to accept the negative connotations of the word and choose, instead, to embrace the word as accurate to describe my sexual appetite. I would say it's not my fault that appetite is so voracious, but I promised I wouldn't apologize for being a slut, so I similarly won't skirt responsibility. I am, very simply, a slut. And right now, I wouldn't have it other way.

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

Sugasm 121

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #122? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks
Why I like sex blogs
“A few have changed the way I think about certain issues.”

A Date With Murphy
“No. NO! This is not fucking happening.”

Lust and Sassiness
“Some of the flames that your feistiness stoke within me lack subtlety, lack grace, lack restraint.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
The Writer Strike

Editor’s Choice
An After The Date Love Letter

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

(Sugasm parti