Monthly Archives: June 2012

Bad Girl

While I have a rebellious nature, for the most part, I play by the rules.  I don’t like the financial ramifications of driving more than 10 miles over the speed limit and I have never embezzled money from an employer.  (Stealing desserts while working in a restaurant is part of the job).     But for some reason, when I’m fucking someone, I get punished for having a good time.   Spanking.

In contrast to being spanked as a kid, having a guy slap your ass while his dick’s inside you is a lot of fun.   The sound of a splayed hand on bare butt is a welcome addition to the heavy breathing that usually accompanies it.   There’s a sharp crack that makes you jump a little, from shock and a sting.  But there is an art to it, and not everyone can do it well.

I’m not advocating being severely beaten, but when being fucked from behind, it seems like the ass is waiting for it.  You’re sticking it out further to get the dick in deeper and he’s got one hand on your hip, holding you closer.  But there’s the free hand that needs to be occupied.   My suggestion?  Spank that ass.

Not everyone can pull it off.  With my current number, it’s touch and go.   Ex-Husband #1 was a master.  #20 did it pretty well, too.  It’s definitely an art.  You don’t want to wait too long in between smacks, but you don’t’ want to go too fast either.   You’re not patting the couch to get the dog to jump up, you’re reminding the woman that you’re in charge.

A good spanking should leave your cheeks a little red, but not black and blue.  You still want to be able to sit down after the fuck and enjoy your cocktail.  But it’s always nice when you have to shift a little to get comfortable.

Moral of the story, when being punished, a “Time Out” is a waste.

 

Objectum Sexuality

Every once in a while, I will watch TLC.  I know, I’m an educated woman with aspirations of a writing career and limited time, and yet, late on a Friday night, after one too many scotches, I’ll meander through Time Warner Cable and catch a glimpse of something tawdry.  Like “My Strange Addictions”.   Sure, there are the cat people and the woman who drinks five bottles of nail polish a day, but the one that interested me was the guy who was in love with his car; a cherry red, 1998 Monte Carlo.  

Forgetting that it’s insane to fall in love with an inanimate object, I couldn’t believe this guy had such low standards.  A Monte Carlo?  Come on, at least make it a Lexus.  The show reminded me of a documentary I saw a few years ago called “I Married The Eiffel Tower.”  The main subject of the film was Erika Eiffel (nee Erika LeBrie) who fell in love with the Eiffel Tower.  She “married” the tower in an intimate ceremony; with a white wedding dress and a gawking security guard as the best man.   Like most newlyweds, Mrs. Eiffel decided to consummate the relationship on their wedding day and straddled a beam immediately after saying her “I Do’s”. 

She’s not alone in her adoration for inanimate objects.  It’s a real fetish called Objectum Sexuality.  This goes way beyond falling in love with your vibrator.  It’s a bonafide relationship with said objects.   I have a good imagination and even though I talked to my stuffed dog until the age of 12, I never pretended he responded or would do much more than be a pillow or blotter for my tears

I’m not one to judge, but obviously there is something mentally wrong with these people.    I usually avoid meaningful (and therefore sticky) relationships with men, but I’m not about to think about fucking the stick shift in my Mini Cooper.  (Although I do sometimes fondle it in traffic.)   But when I think about it more, if they are getting satisfaction from these “relationships”, more power to them.  Just keep your pussy out of the public domain.  I might need to grab a handrail and there’s not enough hand sanitizer in the world to handle that kind of gross.

Moral of the story, it takes all kinds, but I prefer to have mine breathing.

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Knowing What You Want

I have always been a very sexual being, but it wasn’t until my 20’s that I really accepted that I was in control of my body and what I did with it.  I could decide who I wanted to fuck, how and when.  I’ll admit, sometimes I would delude myself into thinking there was a possibility that something more could happen.  That this guy might just be “the one”.  On one level I knew it was just another sexual experience, but there was sometimes an emotional fantasy as well.

#26 was different.  There was no way in hell I would ever want him as a boyfriend.   He was my anti-boyfriend.  While he was well read and smart, he was also a drug addict, fat, badly dyed hair and really quiet.  Not a good match for a boisterous crazy person like myself.  And yet, I was drawn to him.

The sex was amazing and I wanted him because of it.  I fucked him whenever I could, which for a while there, was often.  But I knew that it was just sex and that’s all it would ever be.  That no matter how many times we did it, it was nothing more than a physical experience.  And in a way, that made it really emotional.

Knowing that I was fucking #26 purely because I wanted to, and only because I was sexually attracted to him, was a little unnerving.  I felt powerless to our attraction, which was exciting.   It’s no wonder that we eased ourselves into some S&M action.  Being out of control was an incredible turn on.  And knowing that he felt the same way was even better.

I think it was a good thing that we only went out for a few months. I was jealous when he got a girlfriend, but also relieved.  The sex was getting more and more intense and who knows where it would have ended up.   At this point in my life, I would have liked to find out.  Now, if I could only remember his last name…

Moral of the story, sometimes in sex, as in life, we don’t’ get what we want, but we always get what we need.

 

Butterfly

I’m not big on bugs, or nature for that matter.  I like my living creatures with two or four legs and make an exception for plants and flowers.  But there is one insect that is undeniably beautiful; the butterfly.  A butterfly is colorful, stunning and the inspiration for stained glass windows.  (There are no albino butterflies, if you see a white one, it’s a moth.)  They are also the inspiration for one of the best sex positions on the planet.  The Venus Butterfly.

I was introduced to the Venus Butterfly by Ex-Husband #1.  He learned it from some guy he worked with 5 years earlier.  Some women would be jealous that a guy had to have practiced on a multitude of chicks before getting to me, but I was happy to be the recipient of that level of expertise.   The Venus Butterfly is the bomb.

Ex-Husband #2 used to say my puss puss looked like a flower but according to Ex-Husband #1, it was even more.   I don’t know the particulars of how to do it, being a straight woman who hasn’t been closer than 5 feet from a pussy other than her own, but from the receiving end, it’s incredible.

From my vantage point, I saw him use both hands to gently spread the snooch open.  I’m not sure if he used his index fingers or his thumbs but there was a digit or two going in and out and his mouth lingering on top.  Between getting your clit licked and being finger fucked, you’ve got so many different things going on down there that all you can do is lean your head back, close your eyes and try not to hyperventilate.

To my shock, no other guy has ever performed it on me.   Hell, I forgot about it until I went through my notes as research for the blog.  But all that’s about to change.   Any guy I’m with, from this point forward, is going use his tongue to flutter like wings.  Conveniently enough, I found a tutorial of it online.   Venus Butterfly Technique  Read and writhe.

Moral of the story, spread the love, spread the lips.

My relationship with #72 is moving along nicely.  I’m having fun and regular sex is always a good thing.   He also has a really nice house and whenever I stay over it feels like I’m on vacation.  Massive bed, rustic ceiling, coffee delivered while I’m still under the sheets.  It’s a weekly retreat I look forward to every Friday night.  (Dave gets in the way of going during the week).  #72 is considerate and a romantic; bringing me flowers when I made him dinner and making sure his freezer is stocked with m&m’s (which I love frozen.)   Suffice it to say, he treats me well.

Last week, I went directly to his house after work.  He granted me access to his shower and when there’s the prospect of getting some action, I like to make sure the important and hopefully soon to be used area is clean and fresh.  He was, of course amenable to that.

I started stripping in the bedroom and walked into the bathroom in my bra and lace thong (matching of course).   He made some comment about how hot I looked and went about getting the water to the perfect temperature.  As I climbed into the shower he left me to do what needed to be done.

The green and black tiled shower was comforting and so masculine that I started to get turned on just thinking about what was in store when I got out.  I finished quickly, wanting to get to the action asap.  I turned off the water and looked around for a towel.  None.  I called out to him, asking where my towel was.

“Hang on a moment.”

So I waited a moment.  And another.  I’ve stayed in some dumpy hotels but considering this was more like the four star variety, I was getting annoyed.  I don’t like to drip dry.   I yelled out, “The service here sucks.”  In two seconds, he came into the bathroom with a towel.  A freshly warmed towel.  Just out of the dryer.

I’m not sure when it was that he called me an ungrateful bitch, but it was done with a smile and a hearty laugh.   As he wrapped the towel around me, I realized that this was a one off event.  Because of my reaction, it would probably never happen again.  At least not with me.   But then I thought, if it did it would be an even bigger surprise.  And he’d have learned to move faster.

Moral of the story, it’s better to have a dick in your mouth than your foot.

Towel Service

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Broke

I like money as much as the next person but it’s not the highest priority on my life.   I find smarts and wit much more attractive than a Jaguar.  (Although if you have both, that just makes you all the more fuckable).  But no matter how brilliant and funny you are, having no money is a major turn off.

It was a set up for sure.    I’m not sure who’s team my friend was on, but she thought I’d like him.  And I did.  He was relatively cute and very interesting.  My friend was eager to tell me that he’d had a successful career in television production and had just taken a bit of a break from the grind.  After talking to him a few times, that bit of a break was more like a year and a half.  And his success wasn’t big enough to finance being unemployed that long.

Apparently his ex-girlfriend had taken over his apartment and he was crashing with my friend for a few weeks.   Still under the impression that he had some savings, I agreed to go out with him.

We met up at the bar across the street from my apartment.  He showed up late so that I was forced to buy my own drink.   He was sexing me up and when he suggested we do the second round at my place, I was okay with it.    But it soon became clear that he had more on his mind than fucking me.

The minute I handed him his drink he began to exult how much better it was to drink at home because it was so much cheaper.  Red flag.  Then he went on about much in debt he was in.  Alarms sounding.  Isn’t this something you save for a second or third date?  Or even marriage?    He was between my legs when he mentioned my friend was throwing him out soon.  Murder that mood.  I was turned off.  At that point I was worried he was going to ask to borrow money from me or move in.

Luckily his cock wasn’t as hard up as he was.  As horny as I was, the thought of him sticking his dick in me made me sick.  I don’t mind a guy that doesn’t make a lot of money, just don’t tell me about it.   I sent him on his way and ignored when his number showed up on my caller ID.  He finally stopped calling me.  I’m not sure if it’s because he got the hint of his phone got turned off.  Either or, I was glad.

Moral of the story, knowing you’re destitute will dry me up faster than your bank account.