The Early Years

It’s not uncommon to see little kids unconsciously touching themselves.  It’s usually discouraged, especially in public, by parents who are slightly embarrassed to see that display of sexuality in their 3 year old.  Not surprisingly, I did it a lot.

My earliest memory of masturbation was when I was 4 and sleeping at my cousin’s house.  We were under the covers and I was touching myself.   I’m not into incest so it wasn’t like she was turning me on, but we’d had a good day and I just wanted to make it better.

“What are you doing?”

I told her that I was making myself feel good and that my mom called it masturbating.  She said that her mom called it that, too.  I felt a little cheated because I thought it was a special name for a special activity, reserved for me.    But as long as we kept to ourselves, I didn’t mind sharing the concept.

The facts are fuzzy but I know that once I discovered masturbation, I did it a lot.  There was more than one occasion when my mom walked in on me, face down with my hand between my legs.  Luckily, my door squeaked so I was able to feign sleep when she’d come in without knocking.   But the danger of getting caught definitely kept me on my toes and forced me to do the job in a more timely fashion.

I was a latchkey kid and had the house to myself after school and before my mom came home.  I would routinely lay on the living room floor and give myself rug burns.  It was almost a daily thing and by the time my mom pulled up in the driveway, I had a smile on my face.

While I didn’t get my cherry popped until I was 18, I was no stranger to the orgasm.  I think that hyper sexuality from an early age made it easier for me to get off as soon as a dick was introduced to my repertoire.   I’m sure some guys have assumed it was a result of their prowess that I’m able to come so fast, but actually it’s years of intense study.   And it can definitely moisten any dry spell and keep you on your toes.

Moral of the story, practice makes perfect.

 

Poetry

I was listening to NPR a few weeks ago (I’m trying to seem cultured) and there was a story about a man who calls a Farmer’s Market in San Francisco his office.  He sits there with an old school typewriter and sells instant poems to tourists and other passerbys.  I think it’s brilliant.  The poems he read were great and I remembered what an art poetry is.  Good poetry.   Unfortunately a lot of it’s bad.  Really bad.

My writing has changed over the years, and I had my poetry phase.  It started when I was six and ended at about 30.  Not sure why, that’s just when some poets get started.  Anyhow, I liked my poetry, and would let my numbers read them and they’d get turned on.    Which was great.  But I had talent.  #50 did not.

It came in the mail, written on a page of a map.  He loved to travel and I thought it was very sweet.  And then I read what he wrote.  It was so syrupy, it was sticky.   Horrible.  He had just shit on an art form.  Granted, he was a business guy, managed bands, but know your place.   The closest he came to art was a signed Sarah McLaughlin CD Cover on his wall.    I you’re going to write me a poem, it better be good.   And this wasn’t.

So I told him.  I did.   I’m a bitch, I know.   He was hurt.  I didn’t care.

“I know you’re the poet, but I just, I felt this and had to write it down.”

I told him that he was better in bed than on paper and he should stick to that.    He wanted to know if I appreciated the effort.  I didn’t.  But I had done enough damage for one night.  I said, sure and took off my clothes.  When I went home the next morning, I wrote him a poem to show him how it was done.

Moral of the story, my standards in men aren’t as high as the one’s for poetry.

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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56 Men and Other Mistakes

 

https://www.facebook.com/pages/56-Men-and-Other-Mistakes/349730388378680

(I’m a dolt when it comes to websites, so you’ll have to cut and paste. i’m good in bed, doesn’t that count for something?)

Location, Location, Location

One of the things I really cherish about my life is my solitude.  As much as I like people and fucking, I am really glad that I live alone.  And I expect that in a partner.   Call me judgmental, but at this point in my life, I’m not having sex with someone unless they have their own place.  Even the 25 year old lived alone.  If he can do it, so can my next, more age appropriate suitor.   But in the past, specifically with #12, we had a variety of locals for our encounters.

The first time we had sex, we were 19.  I was going to school in Iowa and he was crashing in his old bedroom at his parent’s house.  I was home for a visit and we decided to hook up.  At his parent’s house.  I was mortified, but the desire for cock superseded my concern for being discovered.  I was as quiet as possible, and snuck out of the house at 5am.

The next time we hooked up, a few years later, he had roommates.  He was living in a one bedroom and he was on the couch.  That meant we couldn’t fuck there.  We were in the car making out and it got steamier so, #12 offered to take me to a hotel.  Or motel.  I can’t remember, he talked softly and I was breathing heavy.  But in my stupidity I thought whores fucked in hotels, not nice girls on winter break from college.  So we fucked in the back of his car.  Much classier.  The problem with fucking in a car is when you’re parked on a residential street, people are out walking their dogs or taking out the trash.  And if they see a car with steamed windows, they have a tendency to peer inside.

The last time we had sex was when I lived in New York.  #12 was the cook for the Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers tour and was in Vermont one weekend.  He invited me up and I went with a friend.   That was dumb since there was only his room and there were three of us.  I gave my friend $20 and told her to disappear for an hour.  #12 and I  hadn’t seen each other for about six years, and hadn’t fucked in over 10.  My skills had changed during that time, but his hadn’t.  It wasn’t that he was a bad lay, just ordinary.  Vanilla.  A few months before, I had been hanging from the ceiling and now, I was laying on my back.  Yawn.  I had more fun in the backseat of his car.

Moral of the story, you can have sex anywhere, just make it be good.

Sleepovers

I’ll have sex with practically anyone, but actually spending the night is an entirely different thing.  I think it’s an incredibly intimate thing and since Ex-Husband #2, I can count on one hand the number of guys who’ve actually spent the night.

I was going through my divorce and doing the online thing to try and bandaid my broken heart.  It wasn’t really working, but I had needs and was determined to stick with it.  #62 emailed me a few days after I joined the website.   It was obvious from that first email that he was incredibly smart and when we started talking on the phone, I could tell he wasn’t using a dictionary to impress me.   When he suggested meeting up at a wine bar, I was all for it.

In person he was just as interesting but not nearly as cute as I would have liked.   #62 was also going through a divorce and was pretty fucked up about it, as well.   A pathetic match made in heaven.   He walked me to my car and we made out, leaning against the door.  He told me then that he wanted to see me again, and we decided Saturday night would be a good time.  I was hoping it would be.

When #62 showed up at my apartment he handed me a long stemmed iris.  It was beautiful and I was touched.  But he’d been drinking and when I gave him a glass of wine, he downed it pretty quickly.  I suggested we watch a movie, but he wanted to get right to the bedroom.  I was the first woman in 15 years he’d been with other than his wife and he was anxious to make it happen.

Part of the problem with being in a committed relationship is that you don’t need condoms.   When you’re single and fucking random people, you do.   #62 explained that he hadn’t been with anyone so he knew he was clean, but I’m a stickler for protection so I told him no.  He rolled a condom on his half hard dick and put it in me.  And then his became even less hard.  I was disappointed.  I love fucking smart guys and this was proving to be a bust.  Worse yet, he didn’t want to go home.

I left him stay the night but spent the whole time silently cursing Ex-Husband #2 for putting me in this position.  When #62 finally woke up at 7am, I made him a cup of coffee and sent him on his way.  I was annoyed and tired and when he didn’t call me again, I was fine with it.  I wasted a good night’s sleep and a number on a guy who couldn’t keep it up.  Next.

Moral of the story, sometimes the bed is more sacred than the pussy.