Monthly Archives: March 2012


I’ve always been partial to a guy with a motorcycle.  Especially a Harley.  While it might set off car alarms and dogs, the roar of a Harley muffler can make me damp.   I’ve hitched as many rides as possible through the years, but it wasn’t until I moved to Chicago that I was a regular on the bitch pad.  Mind you, these were your basic city bikers.  I’ve never been much for the Hell’s Angels type.  They scare me.

Of all the guys who hung around the club scene, #16 was the only one with a chopper.  He was already a little short, but he looked really cool, riding around with his arms stuck out as far as they would go.  It also make him lean back more, which was nice when you were behind him.  He had an incredible body and feeling it press against my chest was a big turn on.  That and the rumbling between my legs.

We only fucked once in a while, over a period of a few months, but it was usually at his apartment.  He didn’t have roommates, which was a good thing since his place was really small.  And neat.  Fastidiously neat.   There was a hardwood floor and the walls were bare.  He had a chair, a table and a futon on the floor.   And that was it.

His closet is what impressed me the most.  #16 was a drug dealer so dressing appropriately wasn’t really an issue,  But what he did have was totally organized.  Everything was hung on thick, metal hangers; jeans, leather vests, and wife beaters.  That was it.   His three pairs of boots and two pairs of sneakers were all in a row. (His workout clothes were in a bin at the top of the closet).  It was incredible.

Even though he wore the same type of outfit everyday, I never found it boring.  He was consistent in the way he dressed and in the way he fucked.  I always had a good time and because I wore a lot of black, we never clashed.  I looked good next to him and beneath him.  And while I wasn’t going to be able to borrow a sweatshirt after a night of sex, he did loan me his leather jacket when he was riding me home on cool, fall morning.

Moral of the story, if you’re good in bed, you don’t have to be a clothes horse to get me to ride you.

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The Razor’s Edge

There are a lot of different milestones in a person’s life, lots of them taking place around puberty; getting your period, voice changes, and growing body or facial hair.  Luckily, any facial hair I’ve got can be taken care of with a pair of tweezers or a little hot wax.  That said, the first time you shave is pretty momentous for both sexes.

I was a late bloomer so I didn’t start shaving my legs (or anything else) until I was well into my Junior year of high school.  My mom freaked out the first time I shaved my legs.  She went into conniptions when I shaved my bikini line.  But it wasn’t until I was with Ex-Husband #1 that I really put that razor to good use.

We had watched Deep Throat for the first time and I was horrified at Linda Lovelace’s bush.  The movie was awful and instead of getting sexed up, we laughed our asses off.   We had sex anyway, but the image of that dark brown tumbleweed did get me thinking about my own situation.   I was neatly trimmed but what if I went further and did the total shave?  I decided to give it a shot.

It took almost half an hour and what was left of our shaving cream, but I did it.   And when I looked down, I was shocked.  I didn’t look like a woman in her 20’s, I looked 10.  Luckily Ex-Husband #1 didn’t feel the same way.  It was an incredible turn on for him and when I showed him what I’d done, he dove between my legs like an Olympian.

The main problem with a bare bush is that it requires a lot of upkeep.  Contrary to the 16-year old me, my hair grows back quickly and it was necessary to shave everyday to keep it smooth.   I did this for about six months before deciding to stop.  It took too much time and frankly, every time I touched myself, I felt like a pedophile.

Nowadays, I reserve the big shave for special occasions, boredom or if I get carried away with the clippers during a trim.   The regrowth is pretty annoying.  Not only is it itchy, it can chafe.  That can easily deter a guy from taking a trip downtown and that’s never a good thing.     I think it’s in everyone’s best interest to limit the landscaping of my pussy to a well-trimmed triangle.   And when it comes down to it, I don’t get a lot of complaints.

Moral of the story, if someone has to be bald in the relationship, I prefer if it’s the guy.

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Slip Sliding

I understand that in order to ensure the continued existence of our species, procreation is a necessity.  Luckily, you don’t have to get knocked up in order to enjoy the benefits of the biology.   And I for one, make a point of enjoying it as much as possible.

Obviously, the body accommodates to having sex to the best of its abilities, with both stiffness and lubrication.  Some women are more naturally lubricated than others, and I’m happy to be in the former.  Getting wet has never been a problem for me, much to the joy of every guy I’ve ever been with.  But some aren’t blessed with nether region moisture and for them, there’s lube.

I’ve only used lube once and it was with #61.  He brought it over on a whim, having picked it up at the 7-11 with condoms and cigarettes.  With those purchases it was obvious he was getting lucky and I didn’t want to disappoint.  But when he took the bottle of lube out of his jacket pocket, I was shocked and slightly offended.  What the hell was it for?  We’d fucked many times before and he knew first hand that I didn’t need lube.

“No, but it’ll be fun.  Try it.”

And so we did.  We laid a towel on the floor (we always fucked on the floor, he was too tall for the bed) and he squeezed the stuff over my stomach and between my legs.  I was glad it was warm, but it was just a little too slippery for my tastes.  Sure it made it easier to slide in, but it also meant he could slide off.  I felt like I had to wrap my legs around him more than usual because I was afraid I’d be thrown to the other side of the room.  I like rough sex, but with the oily lube, I didn’t want to stain the walls.

I’m not sure my first lube experience will be my last, but it’s not something I would do with a one-night stand.  Like handcuffs and fucking on the rag, it’s something where you need to trust the person you’re with.   There are just too many variables.  But I can see how it works for some people and to them I sing, “slip sliding away”.   And who can forget the added bonus that it moisturizes your skin.

Moral of the story, while synthetics are good, au natural is better.

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Sometimes when I think about technology, I feel ancient.  I remember rotary phones and when ditto machines gave cool smelling copies.  I don’t look or act my age, but the reality of the situation is, Wham!’s Wake Me Up Before You Go Go! was blasting from my turn table on a regular basis in High School.

#37 was a Canadian Bond Broker that I was seeing in Chicago.  He had a great apartment and I really liked him a lot.  He thought I was gorgeous (which always helps) and his girlfriend was off in Europe.  He told me they were breaking up and being stupid and 24, I believed him.  That said, while she was gone, we had a really nice time.

I had never dated anyone that had a real job, especially not one that made a lot of money. #37 had all the latest technology including one of the first Blackberry type pagers.  It let you follow the stock market from anywhere.  He was a bonafide yuppie and while I hated them in general, I loved the way he fucked.  He was usually very focused on the task at hand.  Usually.

The market moved more than my hips and he needed to stay on top of both of them.  So periodically, he’d check his pager.  Depending on the state of the market, he might have to be at work by 5am.  Therefore, fucking me until 4:00 could be really cutting it close.  To a normal person, checking his pager would be considered rude, but I found it to be a bit of a turn on.  If he was going to check his pager, it was my job to distract him.

To his credit, it’s not like he would sneak a glance while thrusting, but after the deed, he’d lean over to the leather couch and take a look.  When he’d do this, I’d crawl between his legs and start blowing him.   It only took a moment before that pager was back on the couch and his attention was focused on the back of my head.  That’s a powerful feeling, and I got off on it.

I’ve always felt that unless you’re madly in love, career comes before sex.  Each time I distracted him from checking the market was another time my prowess won out.  Power of the pussy.

Moral of the story, there are a lot of ways to keep a man’s attention that don’t require a lithium battery.

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There is a lot to be insecure about when it comes to the bedroom; your body, your skill set or the elasticity of your snatch.  What might make a guy feel as though he’s fucking in the Grand Canyon, to another person it could have the circumference of the neck of a wine bottle.  The same applies to the size of a man’s cock; is it a swizzle stick or a baby’s arm?

I prefer a good medium.  Obviously I’ve done enough research on the subject to know what I like.  There are pluses to both smalls and larges.  For instance, a small cock is easier to blow.  Deep throating takes little effort and doesn’t hurt your jaw.   With a big cock, that gag reflex is tested and the activity in your mouth is on par with getting a root canal.

Cock size can also affect your disposition.  You don’t want to be a bitch and have to ask the guy if it’s in yet and yet sometimes that’s a valid question.  Conversely, a big dick can make you cum on entry.  But that in itself can make you question yourself.  How the hell am I able to take this behemoth?  Is my puss puss that big?

To avoid any ego damage, I like to go with the medium.  The guy can thrust away and it’s not going to hurt from behind, on top or just inside.  I happen to like a little pain during sex is my preference, but feeling like my cervix is going to going to need medical attention is never fun.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ll fuck anyone, but if I can choose, it’ll be a medium every time.

Moral of the story, if you’re the Goldilocks of cocks, you have to try more than just a chair, a bowl of porridge or a bed.

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Tracking the Action

When it comes to heterosexual sex, there are two main components.  A hard dick and a wet pussy.  This makes the fucking a lot easier.  Luckily, whenever I’ve been engaged in my favorite activity, I’ve had both.   But in contrast to my obvious “kissing and telling” I don’t always like to advertise that I just got laid.

I don’t have OCD and my apartment is not spotless, but the minute the guy leaves, the condom wrapper is off the floor and in the trash.  (and condom if he was rude enough not to flush it himself)   Luckily, this requires little effort.  A lot less effort than changing the sheets.

Whether I’ve been getting action or not, I change my sheets every Sunday. (I also make my bed every morning.  A made bed is more welcoming than a messy one)  Fresh sheets are a great way to welcome the week, but also a necessity if you’re fucking more than one guy at a time.  It’s just common courtesy to not make your conquest roll around in another guy’s sweat.  Besides a guy can usually tell if you’ve recently gotten some action.   Mainly because of fuck tracks.

Fuck tracks are a tell-tail sign that you had a decent enough time the night before.  I mean, you got turned on enough to get wet, that’s something, right?   But having it look like an enormous snail traversed my bed is not my favorite thing.  I learned early on that the best way to combat this problem is to have white sheets and a white duvet cover.   It can buy you a little time between changing your linens, which is a good thing if you’re busy looking for new numbers.

I do a lot to make fucking me a pleasure.  I wear makeup every day and get pedicures.  If I think I’m going to get laid, I always shower and shave.  And I think that having a neat and clean bedroom is just an extension of the pride I take in my appearance.  And while the guy is hopefully distracted by the prospect of pussy, he’s going to check out his surroundings on his way out the door and I want them to be a nice as possible.  Especially if you want him to come back.

Moral of the story, if I want to be reminded of the night, I’d rather have a sore pussy than a dirty, spoogy bed.


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There isn’t a ton of music in my iTunes library, and what’s there is predominately R&B.  I like a guy who introduces me to new stuff, but it’s got to be good.  Almost every guy I’ve been with has had good taste.  Almost.

Sex with #70 was incredible.  He was a personal trainer and had an amazing body.  But like a lot of guys in LA, he also wanted to be a singer/songwriter.   #70 was convinced he was going to be the next Drake.   One night he came over extremely excited.  He had written a “sick” song and wanted to share it with me.  I wasn’t even slightly interested but I figured he was giving me incredible dick play, the least thing I could do was give him five minutes.  He cleared his throat and started.

“I’m going down, down, down.  Going down, down, down.”

Was is about the demise of the world?  No.  Was it about how love can devastate you and drive you into a hole?  No.  It was about how black guys don’t like to go down on women, but he does.  Don’t get me wrong, I had taken advantage of the fact he liked to muff dive, but to be the subject of a song didn’t really work for me.  The lyrics were only slightly worse than his voice.  I was mortified and instantly turned off.  Talent is important to me and it was apparent he didn’t have any.

I pride myself on being slightly adept with my prose and have actually gotten a few compliments on my blog.  Every once in a while, the fear of being a shitty writer creeps into my mind.  But since you’re reading this, I’m going to assume I’m not that bad.  #70 was.  I’ll fuck someone who’s slightly off kilter, but he was obviously delusional.  I had to end it.  Immediately.

Luckily, we had a very casual relationship and it wasn’t a big deal when I told him I didn’t want to see him anymore.  He continued to text me every few weeks for the next year, which reinforced the fact that my talents in the bedroom were sufficient enough to keep him interested.  Too bad I couldn’t say the same for his singing.

Moral of the story, some people will ask you to sing for your supper, I want to you shut up for sex.



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Lady Friends

My step-mother passed away eight years ago.  She was the glue that held the family together and well, when she was gone, everything seemed to unravel.  My father was particularly devastated and convinced he’d never meet anyone else.  That all changed last year.

A woman who lives in his housing complex seemed to have her sights on him from the minute he moved in.  She waited a few years and then invited him to dinner.  I’m assuming they had a good time because eventually he asked her to dinner.  It was a few months later when he confessed to me that he had started dating her.  I was glad that he was going out on dates, etc.  He deserved to be happy and after eight years, I was a little tired of being his plus 1.

He called her his “lady friend” and she was definitely a lady.  An old lady.  She looked her 75 years and then some.  I was relatively confident it was a platonic relationship because he’s handsome and can have a much younger woman.  When he started to talk about her more often, I began to wonder.  Was it platonic?

We were having dinner at Vitello’s (of the Robert Blake fame) and I asked if he was banging her.  In those words.  First I had to explain what banging meant and once it was clear, he burst out laughing.  I hadn’t heard him laugh that hard in years.  When we finally caught our breaths, he refused to answer.  I knew at that moment that my father was getting more action than I was.   I was torn between being happy for him and completely jealous.    Granted, at 75 she’s almost as old as dust, but I was having my own dry spell and none to happy about it.

STD’s among seniors is at an all time high, and I offered to give him some condoms.  He shook his head and we laughed some more.  It turned out to be a great night for us, a different kind of bonding.  For the first time in forever he had opened up to me and I was touched.  It turns out his “lady friend” is a very nice woman and I like her a lot.  But when she talks about how cute he looks in his Calvin Klein’s I get a little grossed out.

Moral of the story, you’re never too old to get it on.   And that’s a good thing.

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As a drinker, I don’t think it’s fair for me to judge people for engaging in a little recreational drug use.   If it gets you through the day, more power to you.  I’m also a big supporter of the legalization of marijuana.  I think it’s ridiculous that something that banal should be a crime.  If you can grow it, there’s no reason you can’t smoke it.

Personally, pot does nothing for me.  As a matter of fact, I hate it.  I’ve taken my share of hits off joints and even sucked from a bong on occasion, but I never enjoyed myself.  That and like some of our favorite presidents, I can’t really inhale.  #61 really wanted to get high with me so one night he brought me an edible.  Basically, it’s a food product packed with THC.  This one happened to be a cherry lollipop.  He liked to watch me suck things and I was always happy to oblige.

Sex with #61 was incredible.  While I didn’t like him as a person, we had amazing chemistry.   For a few months, his cock was my best friend.  Until the night of the lollipop.  Apparently some people can fuck high, but I discovered that I’m not one of those people.  Give me a few drinks and I’m good to go, but weed and dick are not my favorite combo.

I was bored.  Really bored.

As he pounded my puss puss, I laid there and almost yawned.  I was numb and distracted and didn’t enjoy myself at all.  He stopped thrusting and asked me what was wrong.  I told him that I wasn’t happy and to just finish already.   He was shocked, and disappointed.  Our sex life was amazing, so for me to “turn off” like that was a major disappointment for both of us.

Finally, he came.  I didn’t.  We both agreed that since sex was pretty much the only thing we liked about our relationship, getting stoned was not going to happen again.  At least me.  He smoked every time he came over.  I didn’t care as long as he picked up some condoms along with the rolling papers.  He always did.

Moral of the story, when faced with the options, I’ll choose a dick in my body over an illegal substance.

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