One of my favorite fellow sex bloggers, Fat Controller, (who is much more accomplished than I - I can basically only hope to emulate him) has graciously nominated me for an award. And I'm really rather excited about it because I enjoy his writing so it means quite a lot to me that he enjoys mine enough to nominate me. You can check out the details (and the super-nice things he said about me) HERE!
Also, go read the rest of his entries. They are most definitely HOT. Bigsmile.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
M
The tension had been building for hours. Weeks. Years, if we were being honest. But for the moment we sat on the couch, legs lined up against one another, M trying to hold my hand, me brushing him off. Again. And again. And then the door opened, shooting light across the darkened living room where we were pretending to watch a movie. My heart stopped as I realized there were people coming in the room. We were fully clothed and behaving like well-mannered adults, but I hadn't planned on being introduced to anyone.
I shot M a look that I hoped might kill him. He shrugged it off with a smile. That damn, disarming smile. I stood up, shook hands with the people coming in the house. They asked if we'd go out to pick up Chinese food. I said I wasn't hungry. I was needing a ride home in 30 minutes. But I'd go with him to pick up the food, provided he'd drive me home straight after.
The food was ready when we got there. As we walked back to the car, I could feel him looking at me. As we climbed in, he set the food on the floor by my feet. Put the keys in the ignition. And didn't start the car. Instead he just looked at me. Reached his hand up behind my head and pulled me into him. His kiss was soft. And more aggressive than I'd remembered. He'd grown up.
I pulled away a little dazed, made some comment that escapes me now, told him we really should be getting back. He quipped right back at me - yes, he was learning.
Now it was our turn to blast the living room with obtrusive sunlight as we entered the house. He set the food on the table, started to unpack it as I stood nearby. Awkwardly. They asked me again if I was hungry, and I again turned them down. M looked at me and I could see some kind of fire behind his eyes as he absentmindedly set the Orange Chicken on the table and led me down the hallway to his bedroom.
I'd been there briefly before. Innocently. He shut the door behind him, eyes still locked on me. As he walked toward me I instinctively backed up - which was exactly what he wanted. The back of my knees hit the bed and I had nowhere else to go. M closed in on me, pressing the length of his body against mine, putting one hand on my waist and wrapping the other in my long, dark hair. He pressed his lips to mine again and I tried to protest through his kisses, my arguments muffled by his lips, teeth, and tongue.
"There are people in the next room. I can't." I'd say.
He'd pull back, look at me, let me think he was considering my request. "Shut. Up."
And then he'd descend on me again, pressing against me and hoping to catch me off balance to tackle me onto the bed and into submission.
I stood fast. "I can't." I shook my head. He bit my neck. "Really, I... I just can't."
"You know, every time you say that, you're just making it worse on yourself."
"Is that so? I can't I can't I can't I can't I can't."
And with that he shoved me onto the bed, without his hands leaving my body for a second. I threw my shoulders against the mattress, trying to "escape." He grabbed both my hands in one of his and pinned them above my head, his body on top of mine keeping me still.
"I said, quit fighting it. You know you want to."
I stuck out my tongue. Turned my head away when he tried to kiss me. Moved my body underneath his, all trying to wriggle free of his grip.
"Well, looks like we need something stronger to hold you, now, don't we?"
My eyes must have flashed, because a smirk fell over his face. "Right, will you stay there if I get up for just a second?" I shook my head yes for the first time that evening. My breathing was getting heavier, and I could feel my face flushing. The world was shrinking down to encompass only this room. He put on some kind of music - what kind I don't remember - and asked me "Leather or silk?"
I shot up in bed. "Really, you have to ask? Fuck silk."
He smiled with just a hint of evil and replied "Oh good."
He approached the bed with two heavy leather belts and threaded the first one to the top right post of his bed which I was just realizing was a four-poster. He climbed on top of the bed, on top of me, his legs framing my hips. He grabbed my right wrist - HARD - and cinched the belt around it. With another pull, he had my left wrist fixed to the opposite post. My arms fully extended, I realized I couldn't loosen the pressure as the leather started digging into my skin deliciously.
M pulled away from me and surveyed what was in front of him: Me, arms tied to his bedpost, topless, helpless, and panting. I got the feeling he'd been waiting for this. He examined his handywork already showing on my neck and collarbone and brought his lips to mine again. He kissed me deep and slow and I felt his hands run the length of my body, thankful to be free of having to hold me down. His lips and tongue and teeth soon followed, bringing soft whimpers from me as he bit at my tits, stomach, and hips. As his mouth reached the waist of my pants, he looked up at me with eyes aflame before unbuttoning each of the five buttons with his teeth. Then, as though that had taken too long, he seemed to claw at the waistband, unable to get them off me fast enough.
By then I was in some kind of daze, still in shock at the entire situation. At the ridiculous notion that here I was, lying in M's bed, by now stark raving naked, tied to the bed and at his mercy.
Until I was brought screeching back to the here and now (or the then and there, as the case may be) by the sensation of his tongue exploring new areas of my body in ways they hadn't been explored. His licking, sucking, kissing, combined with one, no two, no, ohgod three fingers reaching inside me left me breathless, biting my lip, hips bucking into him and every muscle in my body tensing tight, tighter, tightertightest holyfuckohmygodohshit.
Deep breaths. The flashes of whitehot light begin to subside and I was barely conscious of my surroundings. He was still at my hips, looking up at me proudly and I reached to cradle his face in my hands until I realize... they're still tied.
He saw me do this and smiled again as he started to unbutton his own pants, revealing the hard cock I'd yet to see. The corners of my mouth curled as he said "All right, now it's my turn." He didn't even need to get off the bed as he reached into his dresser for a condom, ripped it open and rolled it on. I had hoped maybe he'd start slow, let me warm up again as I came back down. He had other ideas.
He came down upon me, sinking his teeth into my neck hard enough to make me wince at exactly the moment he thrust himself into me, hard and full. Before I could cry out, he pushed his tongue into my mouth with the same force he was still exerting on the rest of my body. His body seemed to be hovering above mine, save for where we were connected. He twisted and turned by body to appeal to his whim. I was his plaything - through to the end.
And by that end, I was covered in sweat and bruises and him. I was hot and sticky and exhausted and perfectly content. Somehow it didn't matter anymore that it was three hours later than when I was supposed to have been home. I'd gotten my ass kicked and loved every second of it.
(this may take some revising, but I promised its participant I'd post it and I've taken long enough to do so. I hope it was worth the wait, sugar.)
I shot M a look that I hoped might kill him. He shrugged it off with a smile. That damn, disarming smile. I stood up, shook hands with the people coming in the house. They asked if we'd go out to pick up Chinese food. I said I wasn't hungry. I was needing a ride home in 30 minutes. But I'd go with him to pick up the food, provided he'd drive me home straight after.
The food was ready when we got there. As we walked back to the car, I could feel him looking at me. As we climbed in, he set the food on the floor by my feet. Put the keys in the ignition. And didn't start the car. Instead he just looked at me. Reached his hand up behind my head and pulled me into him. His kiss was soft. And more aggressive than I'd remembered. He'd grown up.
I pulled away a little dazed, made some comment that escapes me now, told him we really should be getting back. He quipped right back at me - yes, he was learning.
Now it was our turn to blast the living room with obtrusive sunlight as we entered the house. He set the food on the table, started to unpack it as I stood nearby. Awkwardly. They asked me again if I was hungry, and I again turned them down. M looked at me and I could see some kind of fire behind his eyes as he absentmindedly set the Orange Chicken on the table and led me down the hallway to his bedroom.
I'd been there briefly before. Innocently. He shut the door behind him, eyes still locked on me. As he walked toward me I instinctively backed up - which was exactly what he wanted. The back of my knees hit the bed and I had nowhere else to go. M closed in on me, pressing the length of his body against mine, putting one hand on my waist and wrapping the other in my long, dark hair. He pressed his lips to mine again and I tried to protest through his kisses, my arguments muffled by his lips, teeth, and tongue.
"There are people in the next room. I can't." I'd say.
He'd pull back, look at me, let me think he was considering my request. "Shut. Up."
And then he'd descend on me again, pressing against me and hoping to catch me off balance to tackle me onto the bed and into submission.
I stood fast. "I can't." I shook my head. He bit my neck. "Really, I... I just can't."
"You know, every time you say that, you're just making it worse on yourself."
"Is that so? I can't I can't I can't I can't I can't."
And with that he shoved me onto the bed, without his hands leaving my body for a second. I threw my shoulders against the mattress, trying to "escape." He grabbed both my hands in one of his and pinned them above my head, his body on top of mine keeping me still.
"I said, quit fighting it. You know you want to."
I stuck out my tongue. Turned my head away when he tried to kiss me. Moved my body underneath his, all trying to wriggle free of his grip.
"Well, looks like we need something stronger to hold you, now, don't we?"
My eyes must have flashed, because a smirk fell over his face. "Right, will you stay there if I get up for just a second?" I shook my head yes for the first time that evening. My breathing was getting heavier, and I could feel my face flushing. The world was shrinking down to encompass only this room. He put on some kind of music - what kind I don't remember - and asked me "Leather or silk?"
I shot up in bed. "Really, you have to ask? Fuck silk."
He smiled with just a hint of evil and replied "Oh good."
He approached the bed with two heavy leather belts and threaded the first one to the top right post of his bed which I was just realizing was a four-poster. He climbed on top of the bed, on top of me, his legs framing my hips. He grabbed my right wrist - HARD - and cinched the belt around it. With another pull, he had my left wrist fixed to the opposite post. My arms fully extended, I realized I couldn't loosen the pressure as the leather started digging into my skin deliciously.
M pulled away from me and surveyed what was in front of him: Me, arms tied to his bedpost, topless, helpless, and panting. I got the feeling he'd been waiting for this. He examined his handywork already showing on my neck and collarbone and brought his lips to mine again. He kissed me deep and slow and I felt his hands run the length of my body, thankful to be free of having to hold me down. His lips and tongue and teeth soon followed, bringing soft whimpers from me as he bit at my tits, stomach, and hips. As his mouth reached the waist of my pants, he looked up at me with eyes aflame before unbuttoning each of the five buttons with his teeth. Then, as though that had taken too long, he seemed to claw at the waistband, unable to get them off me fast enough.
By then I was in some kind of daze, still in shock at the entire situation. At the ridiculous notion that here I was, lying in M's bed, by now stark raving naked, tied to the bed and at his mercy.
Until I was brought screeching back to the here and now (or the then and there, as the case may be) by the sensation of his tongue exploring new areas of my body in ways they hadn't been explored. His licking, sucking, kissing, combined with one, no two, no, ohgod three fingers reaching inside me left me breathless, biting my lip, hips bucking into him and every muscle in my body tensing tight, tighter, tightertightest holyfuckohmygodohshit.
Deep breaths. The flashes of whitehot light begin to subside and I was barely conscious of my surroundings. He was still at my hips, looking up at me proudly and I reached to cradle his face in my hands until I realize... they're still tied.
He saw me do this and smiled again as he started to unbutton his own pants, revealing the hard cock I'd yet to see. The corners of my mouth curled as he said "All right, now it's my turn." He didn't even need to get off the bed as he reached into his dresser for a condom, ripped it open and rolled it on. I had hoped maybe he'd start slow, let me warm up again as I came back down. He had other ideas.
He came down upon me, sinking his teeth into my neck hard enough to make me wince at exactly the moment he thrust himself into me, hard and full. Before I could cry out, he pushed his tongue into my mouth with the same force he was still exerting on the rest of my body. His body seemed to be hovering above mine, save for where we were connected. He twisted and turned by body to appeal to his whim. I was his plaything - through to the end.
And by that end, I was covered in sweat and bruises and him. I was hot and sticky and exhausted and perfectly content. Somehow it didn't matter anymore that it was three hours later than when I was supposed to have been home. I'd gotten my ass kicked and loved every second of it.
(this may take some revising, but I promised its participant I'd post it and I've taken long enough to do so. I hope it was worth the wait, sugar.)
Monday, April 14, 2008
My sexual personality
According to a quiz on an online dating site. I think it's appropriate. ha.
The Playstation
Random Gentle Sex Master (RGSM)
Easy to turn on. Hard to beat. You are The Playstation.
The Playstation
Random Gentle Sex Master (RGSM)
Easy to turn on. Hard to beat. You are The Playstation.
You're a nice girl, and you have lots of sex. It's therefore highly likely that you're attractive, and you're certainly outgoing & friendly. Plus, this healthy physical attitude of yours indicates deeper emotional well-being and stability. Unheard of. When guys dare to dream, they dream of you.
You don't get attached too easily, and, to wit, you're not necessarily looking for something long-term right now. That's a bigger asset than you know. Though, physically speaking, you're open to anything, you're keeping your emotional side well-protected. This means there won't be a lot of wreckage to clean up whenever you decide to settle down.
In the meantime, the men you share yourself with actually respect you. Like them, you enjoy sex for its own sake and don't need any other validation for pleasure than pleasure itself. Hopefully, you have the good sense to blow off anyone who thinks less of you for that. Usually, this is the part of the description where we offer some life-correcting advice, but honestly, we can't think of anything about you we'd change. Keep on fucking, partner.Friday, April 11, 2008
watching you...
...with another woman.
It ripped my heart out.
I walked in the door and scanned the crowded dance floor for your perfect face. Finally, I found it. Or more, you found me. I was waiting at the bar. You looked at me and smiled. Perfect in your green pinstripe shirt, and your hair always done perfectly effortless, you smiled at me, leaned in, called: you made it! You smile again and slip your hand around my waist. My breathing stops, but you wouldn't notice aside from the thumpa-thump-thumpa of the House. I finally get the bartender's attention and pay more than I should for my watered-down drink and as I'm leaning against the wall, you take my hand and ask me "do you wanna dance?" I say "I'd like nothing more," but you don't hear my prepared, calculated answer.
Then suddenly it's an hour later and you've forgotten I exist. And I feel like that creepy girl who's following you around the dance floor. And no matter that other people are dancing with me, and asking me if i'm here with anyone, because the truth of the matter is that I want to be here with YOU. I didn't really come with you. But I want to leave with you. Want to dance with you. Want your hands on my waist pulling me closer so our breath warms one another's bodies. Want you looking at me like maybe you're thinking the same thing I've been thinking since we met. I want you. Period.
But like I said, I look over, and there's another girl. Not prettier than me. Not skinnier. Dressed better, yes. But I can guarantee she didn't come here for you like I did. And I realize this jealousy is ugly, but oddly enough I don't think I'd be so jealous if I knew I had you. I don't have you, now. And watching your lips meet hers, I can't look away. I want to, because my heart is breaking. I so want to be on the relieving end of that kiss, but I chickened out. Like I always do. And you've slipped away. I should have sucked it up. Stopped being so afraid. Leaned in and kissed you when I had the chance. It would have made a difference. I know it would have.
But instead I'm watching you kiss another woman. Another curvy woman with curly hair. In a dress I could pull off just as easily. And as she's pinned you against the mirror, I'm barraged with images of you from all angles. I can't escape the image of the two of you, swaying together, one body in more ways than one, as I'm painfully aware of how far away I am. My heart falls. Skips a beat. Or seven. In the most painful way possible. My stomach is in my throat. I'm nauseated. And I want to cry. And disappear. While at the same time running up to you, wresting you from her grip, and showing you what you're missing. You're missing ME, dammit.
And here's the thing. After all this, I can still convince myself that you really were happy to see me. That maybe I really do have a chance with you. That you were just insanely drunk (you were), and I just refused to take advantage of that. Instead, I went home with you, tucked you in to your bed. Put your phone next to you. I'll check on you in the morning. Hopefully you won't have forgotten about me.
Fuck. I'm crazy about you.
It ripped my heart out.
I walked in the door and scanned the crowded dance floor for your perfect face. Finally, I found it. Or more, you found me. I was waiting at the bar. You looked at me and smiled. Perfect in your green pinstripe shirt, and your hair always done perfectly effortless, you smiled at me, leaned in, called: you made it! You smile again and slip your hand around my waist. My breathing stops, but you wouldn't notice aside from the thumpa-thump-thumpa of the House. I finally get the bartender's attention and pay more than I should for my watered-down drink and as I'm leaning against the wall, you take my hand and ask me "do you wanna dance?" I say "I'd like nothing more," but you don't hear my prepared, calculated answer.
Then suddenly it's an hour later and you've forgotten I exist. And I feel like that creepy girl who's following you around the dance floor. And no matter that other people are dancing with me, and asking me if i'm here with anyone, because the truth of the matter is that I want to be here with YOU. I didn't really come with you. But I want to leave with you. Want to dance with you. Want your hands on my waist pulling me closer so our breath warms one another's bodies. Want you looking at me like maybe you're thinking the same thing I've been thinking since we met. I want you. Period.
But like I said, I look over, and there's another girl. Not prettier than me. Not skinnier. Dressed better, yes. But I can guarantee she didn't come here for you like I did. And I realize this jealousy is ugly, but oddly enough I don't think I'd be so jealous if I knew I had you. I don't have you, now. And watching your lips meet hers, I can't look away. I want to, because my heart is breaking. I so want to be on the relieving end of that kiss, but I chickened out. Like I always do. And you've slipped away. I should have sucked it up. Stopped being so afraid. Leaned in and kissed you when I had the chance. It would have made a difference. I know it would have.
But instead I'm watching you kiss another woman. Another curvy woman with curly hair. In a dress I could pull off just as easily. And as she's pinned you against the mirror, I'm barraged with images of you from all angles. I can't escape the image of the two of you, swaying together, one body in more ways than one, as I'm painfully aware of how far away I am. My heart falls. Skips a beat. Or seven. In the most painful way possible. My stomach is in my throat. I'm nauseated. And I want to cry. And disappear. While at the same time running up to you, wresting you from her grip, and showing you what you're missing. You're missing ME, dammit.
And here's the thing. After all this, I can still convince myself that you really were happy to see me. That maybe I really do have a chance with you. That you were just insanely drunk (you were), and I just refused to take advantage of that. Instead, I went home with you, tucked you in to your bed. Put your phone next to you. I'll check on you in the morning. Hopefully you won't have forgotten about me.
Fuck. I'm crazy about you.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
4.08 The low down on the get down
My boyfriend and I recently started experimenting with role-playing. I’m into it, but the scenarios he comes up with are, well, lame. He always suggests that I be a nurse or a French maid, and he always wants to be a cop or the UPS guy. Have any other ideas that aren’t so cliché?
Oh, do I ever! While there are many tried-and-true role-play fantasies out there (and it seems your boyfriend’s quite familiar with those), “Nearly any role could become the base material for an erotic experience, and there is no limit to what objects an individual can consider erotic,” Wikipedia tells us.
For once, Wikipedia got something right. Material for fantasies comes from any and all aspects of your life – dreams, wishes, even fears and doubts. You’re only limited by the time and money you want to spend on the adventure. If you’re looking for an elaborate set up involving costumes, you could play the role of Fay while your boyfriend dons a gorilla suit and embodies King Kong.
If that’s a little too far-fetched for you, try taking something from your past and acting it out. Many of us loved Aladdin when we were kids, so if that was one of your favorites, hit up a costume shop and spend an evening really exploring “A Whole New World.” Considering Disney flicks are jam-packed with innuendo anyway, you shouldn’t have much trouble finding fodder for your fantasies.
The key to any good fantasy, especially successful role-playing, is losing yourself in the role. When you do, you can get rid of all those inhibitions that tell you not to be silly, crazy, kinky, or whatever. Just like Mom and Dad always told you growing up, you can be anything you want to be.
I desperately need your help – I’m a 24-year-old virgin who hasn’t been out on many dates. By some twist of fate, I was just invited to a sex party. I really want to go, but I don’t want to embarrass myself and risk my chances of finally hooking up with a girl.
Well, dear reader, without details about the specific kind of sex party you’re about to attend, I can only give you general advice. Here are some tips that will help you out at any party – even ones requiring clothing.
Before you leave, remember that hygiene counts for quite a bit – even the most likeable social butterfly comes off as a sketch ball when not showered and in a stained T-shirt. There’s no need for a three-piece suit, but a nice pair of pants and a button-down wouldn’t hurt. Unless, of course, the party’s themed, in which case you’ll want to dress appropriately. Also, don’t hesitate to talk to the host or the person who invited you beforehand – if you let him or her know you’re new to this, you just might get your very own tutor.
Once you’re in the door, remember those manners your mother taught you oh-so-many years ago. You know, like the one where you introduce yourself and ask permission before jumping in on any live action. That way you can avoid being the unknown creeper whacking off in the corner.
All in all, if there were ever a time to suck up your social awkwardness and jump into the deep end, it’s now. Mind your manners (and your condoms), be honest and open, and you may find yourself not just testing the waters of sex, but swimming in them.
3.08 The low down on the get down
My boyfriend has told me that dirty talk really turns him on, but I have no idea what to say. How do I go about it without sounding stupid, or freaking him out and turning him off?
The fact that your boyfriend asked you to talk dirty to him obviously means he isn’t going to be turned off by you actually talking dirty. If you’re not the talkative type, you’re probably not prone to saying anything too freaky anyway.
Now, the most important thing about dirty talk is keeping the flow going. It’s a little like talking to a baby. It doesn’t matter what you say, so much as how you say it. That said, there are some words that are pretty safe bets. Any combination of “cock,” “huge,” and “fuck,” is probably OK. Thanks to years of mainstream porn, most guys are conditioned to find swear words aggressively sexy when used in the heat of the moment.
Similarly, it’s also a safe bet to avoid words like “tiny,” “yawn,” and “George W.” A poll of the easily accessible, heterosexual, and sexually active men in my life revealed that they’re pretty open to you calling them just about anything. One even said, “Hell, she can call me a fucking bastard if she says it right.” Now that might not be exactly what your boyfriend likes, but if you’re still unsure, ask him to lead by example. Then take a deep breath, enjoy the moment, and start talking.
I really love the feeling of having raw sex with my girlfriend, but I’m worried about pregnancy and STIs. I’ve tried pulling out, but I think it’s too risky. Are there other ways I can have safe sex without a condom?
I usually use my little space here to try and answer questions with some kind of humorous edge, but frankly, I don’t think there’s much to joke about with safer sex. It’s pretty serious business.
You probably know that the most effective form of protection from sexually transmitted infections and pregnancy is a condom. They’re over 99 percent effective when used correctly. However, if you and your partner are exclusive, and you’ve both been tested for STIs including HIV and HPV (neither of which are included in regular STI screenings), there are several options open to you.
If your girlfriend is willing to use prescribed medication, there are many varieties of the Pill, which is over 98 percent effective. There are also other methods, including the Ring and Patch, which both use hormones almost identical to those in the Pill. The Shot lasts for three months, offers similar protection to the Pill, and is almost 97 percent effective. Less invasive methods include the diaphragm, sponge, and spermicidal lubricants, but these are less reliable.
Deciding on what’s right for you and your partner is a crucial decision, so use this information as a starting point, but don’t hesitate to talk to a professional to get the whole low down on the get down.
Feeling like a fifth-grader (again!)
It's so funny, the tiny little things that can brighten a day. Not that today was terrible to begin with. The sun has finally returned from it's 8-month hibernation, and I can go back to wearing the clothes I feel most comfortable and confident in (namely, tank tops, jeans and sneakers), and I've recently quit my job which lifted a giant weight off my shoulders and I'm already breathing easier.
And for the past few days, I've been imagining this exact conversation. Every time I see you I run over in my head exactly what I would say to you. And what I wish you'd respond. Then at the very last moment, I chicken out. Instead of sucking it up and asking you for your number, asking you out for a drink, asking you if you have any idea that I've wanted you since the moment I saw you, I just smile awkwardly and walk away.
Because you intimidate me. You are beautiful. And confident. And smart. And educated (they're two different things). And sure of yourself. And hot. (Oh, did I say that already?)
And sometimes next to you I feel like this young, inexperienced, sniveling little thing that in my head you would never even consider giving the time of day. Of course, you have, on multiple occasions, given me more than that. In fact, you've never been anything less than cordial. And your smiles to me always seem genuine. You look at me when I speak, like you're really interested in what I have to say. You respond thoughtfully, whether you agree or disagree. And lately, whenever you walk in the room, you take a seat right in front of me. There are others available, and others closer to your friends. But I didn't think anything of it. Again, why would you want me at all?
I couldn't tell you what was different about today. Except that as we were leaving, you turned around and asked me why you hadn't seen me out the night before. I hadn't gone out. I suddenly found myself not fumbling for words the way I usually do around you, but instead unable to keep them from escaping my lips. I asked what you were doing this weekend. You said you weren't sure, you might be going to the city. Truth is, I'm busy this weekend too. I started to walk away, then made an excuse to come back. Took a deep breath.
"Hey, maybe we should do that whole numbers thing... try and run into each other on purpose, maybe?"
You smiled at me. Genuinely. Absolutely. You leaned in closer to me, although you could hear me fine standing where you were and asked for my number. Said my name as you typed it into your phone. Looked at me again as you called my phone and the digits registered on the screen. You got it? Yeah. Good. I'll call you this weekend, ok? Definitely.
I was trying desperately to keep the smile building inside me from exposing itself fully on my face, in that wide, blissful way most often seen on fifth-graders when they first start feeling those butterflies - the ones I've accepted have taken permanent residence in my stomach whenever I see your face.
As we walk out of the room, the building, together, I'm still trying to keep my cool. Walk gracefully. Don't let the wind blow my hair in my face. Don't stare at you. Don't act like I'm anywhere near as ecstatic as I am. Because it is really simple, and I'm sure this kind of thing happens to you all the time. But nevertheless, the fact remains that you entirely made my day. And I'm so excited to get started on this adventure.
and just for good measure: *eep!* *does a happy-dance* *in the privacy of her own home, of course.*
And for the past few days, I've been imagining this exact conversation. Every time I see you I run over in my head exactly what I would say to you. And what I wish you'd respond. Then at the very last moment, I chicken out. Instead of sucking it up and asking you for your number, asking you out for a drink, asking you if you have any idea that I've wanted you since the moment I saw you, I just smile awkwardly and walk away.
Because you intimidate me. You are beautiful. And confident. And smart. And educated (they're two different things). And sure of yourself. And hot. (Oh, did I say that already?)
And sometimes next to you I feel like this young, inexperienced, sniveling little thing that in my head you would never even consider giving the time of day. Of course, you have, on multiple occasions, given me more than that. In fact, you've never been anything less than cordial. And your smiles to me always seem genuine. You look at me when I speak, like you're really interested in what I have to say. You respond thoughtfully, whether you agree or disagree. And lately, whenever you walk in the room, you take a seat right in front of me. There are others available, and others closer to your friends. But I didn't think anything of it. Again, why would you want me at all?
I couldn't tell you what was different about today. Except that as we were leaving, you turned around and asked me why you hadn't seen me out the night before. I hadn't gone out. I suddenly found myself not fumbling for words the way I usually do around you, but instead unable to keep them from escaping my lips. I asked what you were doing this weekend. You said you weren't sure, you might be going to the city. Truth is, I'm busy this weekend too. I started to walk away, then made an excuse to come back. Took a deep breath.
"Hey, maybe we should do that whole numbers thing... try and run into each other on purpose, maybe?"
You smiled at me. Genuinely. Absolutely. You leaned in closer to me, although you could hear me fine standing where you were and asked for my number. Said my name as you typed it into your phone. Looked at me again as you called my phone and the digits registered on the screen. You got it? Yeah. Good. I'll call you this weekend, ok? Definitely.
I was trying desperately to keep the smile building inside me from exposing itself fully on my face, in that wide, blissful way most often seen on fifth-graders when they first start feeling those butterflies - the ones I've accepted have taken permanent residence in my stomach whenever I see your face.
As we walk out of the room, the building, together, I'm still trying to keep my cool. Walk gracefully. Don't let the wind blow my hair in my face. Don't stare at you. Don't act like I'm anywhere near as ecstatic as I am. Because it is really simple, and I'm sure this kind of thing happens to you all the time. But nevertheless, the fact remains that you entirely made my day. And I'm so excited to get started on this adventure.
and just for good measure: *eep!* *does a happy-dance* *in the privacy of her own home, of course.*
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
(on) missed opportunities, changing desires, and disillusionment.
It's a very strange sensation, when you realize your desires have changed. And sometimes, it's been something you've wanted for so long that you had entirely stopped thinking about whether or not it was something you actually did want. That desire was simple fact. But upon re-thinking that desire, or, as the case might be, feeling so burnt out on the expression of that desire that you can't even see straight, it's a somewhat discomfiting situation.
I'll stop with the hypotheticals. I have wanted to be a writer since I was seven. Yes, seven years old. Before that, I briefly entertained the idea of being a marine biologist (I wanted to work at Sea World), but quickly realized the amount of science that would involve and let that dream fade. Then when I was seven, I got my first poem published. Professionally. In an anthology. It was a simple six lines, something about god loving children. Anyways, from then on, I decided I wanted to be a writer. And the thing is, I am. I'm a frighteningly short distance away from what I've always wanted to. I write entirely too many articles each week, which is a good thing, to a certain extent. Except that it's burning me out. I head up a monthly magazine, and I'm proud to be a part of it and of the product we put out, but it's killing me a little bit. I actually broke down and cried today. We're facing funding cuts and I'm terrified I'm going to the one editor-in-chief who single-handedly drove the magazine into the ground.
But none of that has anything to do with sexuality. It's just what's taking up the bulk of my brain space, instead of sex. Sadface.
Onto the missed opportunities and disillusionment.
I actually spent a little bit of time this morning talking to everyone's favorite missed opportunity, A. Those of you who read this and know me personally know who he is, for those of you who don't: He is my best friend and sometimes-lover, and we talk/im/communicate in some form on an almost daily basis, even though at the moment we are basically as far apart from each other as physically possible before you start coming back around the earth again. No, literally. Anyways...
We were talking about disillusionment with these grand ideas we both had for our lives. How we both wanted to escape our homes and live lives so much bigger than either of us. And how, presently, we're both homesick and disillusioned about what we're doing with our lives. Which are, for all intents and purposes, heading in exactly the direction we always wanted them to. Or at least thought we did. Of course, those directions take us farther and farther away from one another. And I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a part of me that hopes we'll both end up back where we're missing and realize that we've missed each other while we've been gone. It's funny. I don't have sex dreams about him anymore. By now, the dreams I have about him, we have a house, a life... and I always wake up feeling...happy. Of course, it makes waking up alone in my cold bed in this cold town that much more bitter. But the thoughts are nice to have. And now my ranting has gotten away from me. I suppose I should take the Beatles' advice and Let It Be.
I'll stop with the hypotheticals. I have wanted to be a writer since I was seven. Yes, seven years old. Before that, I briefly entertained the idea of being a marine biologist (I wanted to work at Sea World), but quickly realized the amount of science that would involve and let that dream fade. Then when I was seven, I got my first poem published. Professionally. In an anthology. It was a simple six lines, something about god loving children. Anyways, from then on, I decided I wanted to be a writer. And the thing is, I am. I'm a frighteningly short distance away from what I've always wanted to. I write entirely too many articles each week, which is a good thing, to a certain extent. Except that it's burning me out. I head up a monthly magazine, and I'm proud to be a part of it and of the product we put out, but it's killing me a little bit. I actually broke down and cried today. We're facing funding cuts and I'm terrified I'm going to the one editor-in-chief who single-handedly drove the magazine into the ground.
But none of that has anything to do with sexuality. It's just what's taking up the bulk of my brain space, instead of sex. Sadface.
Onto the missed opportunities and disillusionment.
I actually spent a little bit of time this morning talking to everyone's favorite missed opportunity, A. Those of you who read this and know me personally know who he is, for those of you who don't: He is my best friend and sometimes-lover, and we talk/im/communicate in some form on an almost daily basis, even though at the moment we are basically as far apart from each other as physically possible before you start coming back around the earth again. No, literally. Anyways...
We were talking about disillusionment with these grand ideas we both had for our lives. How we both wanted to escape our homes and live lives so much bigger than either of us. And how, presently, we're both homesick and disillusioned about what we're doing with our lives. Which are, for all intents and purposes, heading in exactly the direction we always wanted them to. Or at least thought we did. Of course, those directions take us farther and farther away from one another. And I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a part of me that hopes we'll both end up back where we're missing and realize that we've missed each other while we've been gone. It's funny. I don't have sex dreams about him anymore. By now, the dreams I have about him, we have a house, a life... and I always wake up feeling...happy. Of course, it makes waking up alone in my cold bed in this cold town that much more bitter. But the thoughts are nice to have. And now my ranting has gotten away from me. I suppose I should take the Beatles' advice and Let It Be.
Sugasm.125
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 #126? 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
Filling Myself
“We too want, need, conversations in which someone listens to us and considers our needs, not just their own.”
Sex Worker Solidarity: Amanda Brooks
“There’s a lot of love among activists, even those who disagree with one another.”
Need
“These images that come from the artistic workings of your inner soul speak to me, as mine do to you.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself (one from the vaults)
10 Lies Pornographers Tell
Editor’s Choice
Though We’ve Never Met
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
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