I enter 2010...

...in a somewhat sentimental mood. Wondering whether the choices made in 2009 were the right ones, after all. A couple of days ago I was sure, they are. Today the old feelings are welling up, and I hope it’s just a stroke of New Year’s.

I can’t change it, anyway. It is too late for that now. I lead the life I chose, and it’s a good one. I’ve got the freedom I wanted, I travel, and I am pursuing my career. There’s no lack of sex, good sex, great sex. But emotionally, there’s nothing as engaging as the one I left behind. He misses me too, he says. He called me only last night to tell me, and I know it’s true. His voice filled me with the rawness of it all. But really, it isn’t raw any longer. Seven months and some days have passed. He’s moved on to a new life on his own, and I have, too. Or rather, I have kept up my old one, with a few changes to it. Relationshipwise, what I have moved on to may be a blind end, just a rebound thing. Don’t feel like saying much about it, not that there’s too much to say. Which is, by the way, the reason I haven’t posted for a while: I feel I should give the man a fair chance without thinking it over too much. Go with the flow, go with the mood, see how it develops, give it a chance. You know. Whenever I am with him, I feel good. Whenever I am not, I do not miss him. Important it may not be. But I don’t feel like ending it anyway. Not now, not yet. Not while he makes me laugh, and smile, and come up with new ideas. Not while he still makes my skin yearn for his, and have me yell for more of that stout beauty of a cock that is his. (It is a beauty. Almost all cocks are, but this one is among my favorites: Thick, strong, symmetrical. When it rises, and it steadily does, it finds its way into every one of those little secret spots without any help at all.) That it may not be more to it than that, I am fine with, for now. I think he is too; he’s more passive than I am used to, in a man. But I promise myself, as the old year runs out, that I do not want to compare the two of them this year to come.

Here’s to happiness in 2010. I hope it will be a year of bliss.

I <3 New York

I miss my city. I think about it a lot more than I think about sex.

I guess that says something.

Polluted

Time Out New York put out their annual sex poll this year. I won't link to it, it's not at all female sexuality-friendly. But here’s how I responded, plus what I would have responded, had Dan Savage made the poll and included answers for those of us who actually like sex. He may be gay, but he understands a woman way better than his competition.

This is the poll for straight women:

How old are you?
33

What neighborhood do you live in (at this point Time Out’s sex columnist Jamie Bufalino finds it necessary to define what a neighborhood is, “Chelsea, Williamsburg etc”):
Lower East Side

Question 1:
I wish every guy I date could...
a. do cunnilingus right
b. fuck with both our orgasms in mind
c. pick up the telephone on occasion
d. live life without porn

My comment: Where’s answer e. fuck me eagerly as often as I want to be fucked? In lack of it, I responded a. But truly, I can’t remember the last guy who didn’t know the art. Actually, I don’t remember a man who can’t do a, b and c with his hands tied and his eyes blindfolded. As for d, I don’t understand what that’s got to do with me. His choice how he spends his spare time, right?

Question 2:
I wish I could learn how to…
a. deep-throat
b. achieve orgasm
c. be more vocal in bed
d. take it up the ass

Well. Again, the answer is e. Seriously, what 33 year old New York woman does not know this stuff? (In lack of this alternative, I responded d. Because that is the least easy of four easy feats.)

Question 3:
The last thing I would ever do is…
a. swallow
b. give a one-night stand a rim job
c. fuck without protection
d. allow another woman in bed with a man

My comment: I’ve done all this stuff. But I did respond c., because that is what I usually do not do. One man only has gotten the honor. Yes, baby, I can hear your “damn” all the way to here, all the way from the West Coast. Don’t do b. very often either, though.

Question 4:
The genre of guys I find the hottest are:
a. hipsters
b. nerds
c. cocky banking types
d. artsy dudes

What??? Where are the athletes??? I want my gym addicts!!!! In lack of them, I responded “artsy guys”. Because well-built jazz musicians are kind of dude-y and kind of artsy, and I’ve been there... “Cocky” isn’t that dumb a word either, but what’s that got to do with finance, these days??? And why put “hipsters” and “nerds” into each their category, as they look the exact same??? Seriously. If this is a man's world, at least give me one that looks a man.

Question 5:
My main deal breaker is…
a. bad breath
b. a shithole of an apartment
c. a pencil dick
d. a guy who’s selfish in bed

Well, finally something one could respond to by using one of the responses suggested. The answer is c. But what on earth has a shitty apartment got to do with a SEX POLL?

Question 6:
I would have sex with another woman if…
a. my man asked me to
b. I was drunk enough
c. I found her irresistibly hot
d. she asked me (I’m easy!)

My comment: For the record, the “I’m easy” parenthesis belongs to Jamie the Buffalo, not to me. Here, the answer is a. rewritten: I had sex with another woman because my man asked me to. But I’d like to expand that: I had to know he was potent enough to take care of both women’s pleasure, and I had to know she really wanted to and knew what to do. What would it take for me to do it again? The answer is e. having at least one man there with us, knowing he was equally competent. And he should be so desirable I’d know in advance my juices would suffice for both of them.

Question 7:
As far as plastic surgery goes, I would be most interested in…
a. enlarging my tits
b. reducing my tits
c. liposuction
d. butt implants

The answer is e. None of the above, for Jesus F-ing Christ’s sake! My body looks great and there’s nothing wrong with my tits and my ass is nicely shaped as it is, and who the fuck needs liposuction when there is yoga???? And yet again, what the hell has this got to do with a sex poll? Oh, yeah, I know, shouldn’t have forgotten that for a second. Buffy the eternal buzz killer thinks the sexuality of a woman is all about being the object for a man’s eye, not the subject of her own desires. And of course, her abilities to attract are not about the way she feels about herself, but the way she looks. How could I have forgotten! Did he ask the males the same, by the way, gay or straight? And the lesbians? Or the bisexuals? NO, HE DID NOT! This question was, for some reason, only relevant for straight women!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Question 8:
Whenever I am looking to hook up, I…
a. wear a short skirt
b. show off the girls
c. don’t wear underwear
d. all of the above

Well, I responded b, in lack of e: the right kind of smile is all it takes, baby. Actually, walking towards a man and giving him your hand while saying "come here" is all it takes.

Question 9:
Which reality star would you most like to fuck?
a. Jon Gosselin from Jon & Kate Plus eight
b. That dude Sebastian from NYC Prep (as soon as he is of age, of course)
c. 12 Pack from Daisy of Love and I Love New York
d. One of the rich husbands in one of those Real Housewife nightmares

Who the fuck are these fellows? Ok. Answer is not a, because him, I know who is. Not a chance in hell. It’s not b, because a boy can never be more than half a man, and it’s not d, because I gather a husband with a housewife nightmare is not exactly a dream himself. So it must be c, I do not have the slightest idea who 12 Pack is, but I do love New York, and with that kind of nick, chances are he’s got to be black, or at least have a six-pack, right?

Question 10:
My tried-and-true-place to get lucky is…
a. a dive bar
b. a hotel bar
c. Chelsea Piers
d. Craigslist

Again, the lack of imagination! Enough said.

Question 11:
What’s your ultimate sex fantasy?
Finally a good question, and what makes it best is that I do not have to follow ANY suggestions from the Buffalo. So the answer is short and easy:
Two men (or more) and me.

Question 12:
Tell us (in lurid detail!) about your most shameful or embarrassing sexual encounter:

The “lurid” is Buffy’s, of course. Because, like I responded, I do not think of sex as shameful or embarrassing. But the closest I do get to embarrassing, was that one time a girlfriend of mine introduced her new boyfriend, and I was sure I had seen him someplace before. He denied knowing me. I asked him if he may know my brother, one of my exes or so on. I didn’t remember until she left the room and he hissed to me to drop the subject. Turned out I had slept with him. Whoops.

Question 13:
Where’s your favorite place (public or private) to get frisky?

The good old bed holds the most opportunities. But everywhere goes.

Question 14:
What’s the sexiest person, place or thing in New York?

THING???? Ok, let that one go. My response was that the entire city is sexy, but that certain Harlem jazz clubs are places I never leave alone.

Question 15:
What else should we know about your sex life in New York?

My response: Volumes. But a lady got to keep some of her secrets.

What should have been my response: Who, but a 14 year old virgin, is supposed to take this question, or 12 of the others in this poll, half seriously????? Jamie Bufalino, you wouldn’t know a woman’s sexuality if it bit you in the ass. And if you’re half as ignorant to women in real life as in your column, I bet not many of them do bite your ass.

Two weeks, too weak

I want him. I’ve told him. And he says he wants it too. But he still “can’t make it”, his new job demands too much of him, he has to prioritize, he is tired, and I know, I know, he is right, it’s a good job, he’s new to the field, and he’s exhausted, but my body still screams for him, I need his cock and I want his cock, and it makes me feel like the world’s most irrational woman. If he REALLY WANTS TO, HE’LL BE ABLE TO MAKE IT, something inside of me screams. Well, I guess my pussy is who screams. My pussy has never been very rational.

Thing is, we’ve had great sex every time we have had it. Three hours minimum, every single time. (I have told him that much time is not necessary. He has told me it is.) We’ve been through most of the Kama Sutra. His stamina is great and he is strong enough to lift me for quite some while. He is able to hold back for real long. And his cock, oh, his cock, it is thick and stout and strong. He tastes like the sea, and he smells like the wind. And I like him. This far, it’s been really interesting, and he cracked me up when he told me he has never been “that much into” fucking. I could have sworn he loves it. He does now, he assures me. (“It’s gotten a lot more interesting these last few weeks”. “I didn’t know there were condoms made in this size”. “Most women can’t take it, and I have found it uncomfortable. With you… It’s different. I’ve never been with a woman this flexible.”.)

We talk together great, too. I like him. I see potential in what we may have together. He knows both my cultures, having lived and studied and worked in NYC for parts of his life. His education matches mine and he is able to follow the way I think. His new job will allow him to roam between continents, more or less the way I do. We have these long, intense conversations, and the shortest date we’ve had to date lasted for sixteen hours. It’s all been very, very interesting.
And still. Still. Still! I’ve been away for two weeks, we had a date today, and he canceled! He can’t make it until Thursday. I am wondering if he finds this that very interesting after all. If he can manage without, or if he’s found other interests while I’ve been away. He is allowed to, we’re not in a relationship. In theory, I am free to roam, too. We have not yet given any promises. But still, I have been sleeping with him (almost) exclusively for (almost) a month. I am trying to give him a fair chance, I am trying to give us a fair chance, and this far, I feel it has been working. But now, when I have been out of town for two weeks, outside of fucking distance, I have been working very hard on being a good girl resisting all temptations. And I have managed to. I’ve been such a good girl, my pussy is now aching and screaming and complaining. It’s suffocating. Depressing. I want it, and I need it, and he is unwilling to give it to me.

And now, just an hour ago, I got a text from one of my other men. The only other I have fucked this month, shortly after the first date with the former. He is a man I have known for quite some while, have fucked for quite some while, and will never be involved with. He is a nice fuck. Not quite tantric Viking potential, definitely not X potential, but close to the former. It’s all physical, sports, pleasure, fulfilling a physical need. Totally uncomplicated. He wants to know if I am free tonight. I am. My pussy is very open for the idea. But I should not, not, not, not respond to him. I’ll ruin everything I have or can have with the promising prospect, if I do. I can't tell Tantric Viking I am seeing others. And I can't lie and say I don't.

Thursday. I have to be able to wait until Thursday.

25 things about Lady in Red

Inspired by Hedgie the Hedonist, who recently did this on his blog (http://646hedonist.blogspot.com/2009/07/25-things-about-646hedonist.html), I am now doing a “25 things” about myself I will NOT put on Facebook.

1.) First lover I ever had was an Italian. It happened on a beach in Bournemouth, UK, the summer before my 16th birthday. We were wrapped in a blanket, it happened at night, and we did it as silently as we could, because our friends had a barbecue some 200 yards away.

2.) I don’t remember that specific Italian’s name. It could have been Mario, one of my two Robertos, Zach (real name Sachario?) or something along the line of Enrico/Erico/Sergio. I think Mario was first, but I can’t say for sure.

3.) Italy is NOT the country from which I have had the most lovers. At least three others, possibly four or five, get into the list ahead of it.

4.) I have had cocks off every continent. Provided you can count New Zealand as Australia.

5.) First orgasm I ever had I don’t remember, but I was a kid, and I discovered how on my own.

6.) Vaginally, I have never needed lube in my life.

7.) Lack of lube is my main reason to turn down anal advances, though. I tend to forget buying it and if a man wants to use the backdoor, he should go shopping in advance.

8.) I am usually not the silent kind, but I always try to keep the volume down. And then I forget. Fucking me with the window open is a bad idea, unless you want your neighbors to know exactly what you’re at.

9.) I like having sex in semi-public places where I know we can be discovered.

10.) I don’t mind an uncut man, but I prefer a man to be cut. Vaginally I don’t feel the difference, but when I give a BJ, I have a larger repertoire if I do it with a representative of the cut variety. It usually also tastes better.

11.) I love giving BJs. I love the taste, the texture and look of it. Watching a man get off and feeling his gratitude wash over me (literally…) makes me feel goddess-y. But I want at least one orgasm of my own before I start it. I give head a lot more impatient and finish a lot faster if I haven't.

12.) I never come just once, and I can have at least six different types of orgasms.

13.) Those six are as follows: Outside only. G spot only. G spot plus those little spots longer in combined. Outside and inside combined. Squirting. And, most interesting, all-body-earthquake like, where my spasms take over my body, his body, the bed and/or every other piece of furniture in the room.

14.) Whenever watching SATC, I identify the most with Miranda the feminist workaholic.

15.) Biggest lover I ever had, had a cock the size of my underarm, fist included. Smallest was the size of my middle finger. They were both white and neither of them would get into a top-ten list of my favorite fucks. But they both eventually got me off by fucking.

16.) I have only NOT achieved an orgasm by fucking thrice in my life, and I know the exact reasons why it didn't happen at those three occasions.

17.) I fear pregnancy more than STDs.

18.) For 16 years, I was on the pill and I did fuck (some) men without a condom during that time. Only those I was monogamous with, only after both of us had tested. But I have only ever fucked ONE man without birth control in my entire life, and that I did from the very first time I met him.

19.) Yes, you all know who that man was. What you don't know is this: During our relationship, every time I got my period, I felt relief. Every time, he felt sorrow.

20.) In my early 20es, I was married. He was the kindest and most generous man I have ever met and he was such an amazing lover I thought this had to be true love and accepted. Despite of this, I knew it wouldn’t last, because we were way too different. I told him. He was too conservative to live with a woman outside of wedlock and wanted to marry me yet the same.

21.) I was a bad wife. I didn’t cheat. We had sex at least twice a day for our entire relationship. I did not treat him bad. In every manner possible, I tried to behave properly. I cooked, I baked, I cleaned, I hosted. I put his career come before my own. I also felt this was all a lie, and I ached for every other man I saw in the street.

22.) After we got divorced, I kept having sex with my husband for almost a year. That’s how good he was.

23.) I want to live alone until I find a man I feel I can grow with. Not necessarily “grow old” with, but grow as a person with. There are not that many of them, but I know they exist.

24.) I may fuck a woman again, but I won’t do it to unless there is a man with us, and I won't do it unless I know for sure that he has the stamina to satisfy both women. Pussy is simply not that interesting alone.

25.) I still have not had two men at a time. And I desperately desperately desperately want to.

Truth in numbers

I don’t think I have EVER been with a man who has not asked me how many men I’ve been with before him. I can’t remember one. Even the one night stands want to know, and though I have a couple of theories why, I don’t understand why this should be SO incredibly important they all HAVE TO ask it.

If the motive is to prevent jealousy or to reduce the “risk” I have had lovers better than the one sharing the bed with me at the second the question is asked, I can assure you: The answer will not lessen any anxieties.
If you want to enter a relationship with me, and fear I am going to stray, knowing my number will hardly calm your feelings.
If you have a need to judge and/or to feel morally superior, you should not and are not likely to share my bed to begin with.
If you want to feel like a stud and/or to brag you are experienced to an extreme degree, well, then again, there is a risk you’ll be disappointed.
If you’re simply curious, ok. But please say so, when I ask why you want to know. Don’t go all quiet. This particular silence is speaking volumes. More often than not, it’s the kind of silence that tells me I’ll meet another kind of silence after.

Men who can’t bear this one specific number tend not to dial my other specific number later on. I know it in advance. They, I suppose, know it in advance. But they still ask. Whereas to me, the following numbers matter way more than the one you all seem to think is so important:

The number of years since I was a virgin: Seventeen.
The number of other serious, monogamous relationships I have had: Seven, including one marriage.
The number of years my serious relationships have all in all lasted: Nine, or close to ten.
The number of years I have been a single, adult and sexually active woman: That leaves seven to eight, doesn’t it?

The frequency of which I want sex when in a relationship: At least ten times a week.
The frequency of which I want sex when I am not in a relationship: At least ten times a week.
The frequency of which my wishes are fulfilled: Well, lately, answer is “all the time”. But if I see my life as a whole and include the times when I have not been neither as fit nor as socially active as I am now, a more honest response will be “mostly, but from time to time, not”. Life doesn’t give you everything you want unasked for. Most of the time, you have to make some kind of effort.

The number of times I have cheated on a boyfriend: Zero. No effort.
The number of times I have lied to a boyfriend: Zero, or zero that I know of/can think of. I have no qualms in not volunteering things I do not feel like telling. But if you ask me a question, I don’t lie to you. If you don’t want an honest answer, ask another woman.

The total number of women I have had sex with: One.
The total number of men I have had sex with: Ok, there we go... I can only guess. I can give you an approximate. But I don’t write a diary. And I have long ago gotten beyond the point where I can even try to make some sort of list. I am no good at remembering names, dates or years. I am no good at remembering faces. Also, I think the following facts matter and should matter more than any grand total measured in numbers:

*I know how many men I have loved.
*I know how many men I have had long term relationships to.
*I know how long these relationships have lasted and I know how many years of my adult, sexually active life I have single.

The truth come to numbers, is that morals, opportunity, looks, gender, sexual competence and social skills have less to say than most people think.

What really decides your grand total is how lucky you’ve been in love. You found the love of your life at the first try, you were only ever with him or her, you have never felt a need to be with any other? Ok. Your number is one. You may lose out on something, but you're still a lucky bastard. Yet, there is no reason in the world you should feel morally superior to me or anyone else.

Most people need more attempts. Some of us need many. And to stop trying? If you ask me, being a coward was never brave, honest, responsible, kind nor heroic.

Hot, smart & homo

Rupert Everett is way smarter than anyone has ever given him credit for. Read this interview, and you'll understand what I mean:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2009/jul/17/g2-interview-rupert-everett

After reading the interview, you may also agree with my claim that Everett indeed seems smarter than the journalist interviewing him, and to understand my following statement:

Some people are very concerned with the labels "homosexual", "heterosexual" and "bisexual". Most people are very clearly defined as one or the other or the third, and some people seem to think that these labels also define the rest of your personality. That they define what you can do as an actor. Or what kind of ideas you can understand. Or what kind of ways you relate or are able to relate to other people.

What the most-preoccupied-with-labels-type of people tend to forget are that there are so many things not defined by a label. Individual features always matter more than group identities. There are the people who are simply sexual. There are the people who are simply people. And then, of course, there are the people who do not know what they are, sexually or personally, and who prefer to use their identity labels as identities. It's easier. It's a great deal easier, because if you do, you don't have to define or to front a real personality. And to define and to front a real personality? Well. Even if you do, you will sometimes be seen as one of the group more than one of your own.

Fucking busy (and vice versa)

Sorry I haven't posted for a while. I will, I will, I will, but for the time being, I am so fucking busy and so busy fucking I do not keep my pants on for long enough to do anything much at all beside from it... I don't know when I will, so I apologize, folks. I can only give you this promise: When I get the time to post again, entries will be far more interesting than this one.

I am, as most of you know already, abroad for the time being. For a not-quite-defined amount of time I am visiting the Scandinavian country in which I have my origins and where some of my family members still live. This particular country used to be one of the least diverse in the entire world, maybe THE most homogenous, save societies like North Korea, Greenland and Albania. And potentially Alaska, because from the country in which I now am, some people CAN actually see Russia from their kitchen table windows, and during the cold war, some people made a sport out of sneaking in and out of it. Anyway. These days, spare-time-activities consist more of sneaking in and out of different geographies, and Scandinavia is becoming more interesting by the minute. In the city where I am now, around one fifth is born outside of Europe, or their parents were. Their influence has made this country a lot less homogenous than it used to be. Dynamics have changed. Foodies cheer it, artists & musicians inspire from it, and Vikings in average have adjusted to it. It is as if the Viking-in-the-street has discovered the world, both because the world has come to his doorstep, and because he has become rich enough to travel it to bring some of it home with himself, too. Just like some of his forefathers did, but hopefully, in a more peaceful manner.

Lately, the following have been among my encounters:

* A tantric Viking whom I am meeting again later today.

* An American born & raised white male whose mother tongue is among the Scandinavian ones and whose English is hilariously confused wheareas his Scando lingo is fluent. How this is possible considering where he grew up goes beyond my imagination.

*A chef. Whose specialty was eating.

* An Italian-looking Sami, in other words, a representative of the Scando native population, ancestry from pre-Viking settlements up North. They used to be nomads and usually have Asian-Euro mixed facial features. This one I believed to be Mediterranean until he corrected me on it.

*A real Italian. Or so I believe. I didn't think of asking him if he may have Sami origins, I met him before the Sami.

* A man I first fucked half a life ago and whom I had not seen in the meantime. He still looks like a Greek God and he still treats me as if I were a Goddess.

* A black jazz musician, description fitting a scaringly large percentage of my lovers all in all, I suspect. This one was better than most, and THAT SAYS SOMETHING!

*A fisherman. I didn't know they still existed! Very strong man!

* A man characterized as "a leading intellectual" in certain circles and/or a certain country. I didn't know until after, what I noticed was his Viking looks, abs, pectorals, thigh, ass & arm muscles.

* My X. Via cyber & phone & the like, no real life meeting since May.

Stay tuned. I am having my second date with tantric Viking in a few hours' time, and the first encounter was alone interesting enough to fill a blogpost, if not an erotic novel. For now, let's just say the first date lasted for 20 full hours and that I have had to refill my storage of magnum-sized condoms after it. And now I am looking so much forward to seeing him again I am already eagerly buzzing around, unable to get anything sensible done, because I am humming silly songs and changing my clothes all the time, with my nipples erect and my lady parts soaking wet. I don't want to start it without him, because already, I am sure this is going to be a very interesting evening.

I am a moralist

I am a woman fucking around. I am also a sexual moralist.

Despite the fact that I am this very moment located on the Other Side of the Atlantic, I can hear my regular readers rolling on the floor laughing right now. But you will understand what I mean once I say what I am now about to say:

My sexual morals is not about a having a double set of moral standards. Nothing is as dishonest as a double set of standards, and one should always apply the same rules to sex as to the rest of one's life.

Read this week’s Sex Diary in NYMag, and you will see an example of a person who does not:

http://nymag.com/daily/intel/2009/07/the_small_business_owner_with.html

My comment to her, posted on NYMag already, shortened down for my blog readers (full comment on page 5 of NYMag comments:

I get the impression she sticks to this BF for two reasons: She doesn't think she'll find anyone better than him (because she has herpes), and she realizes he is after all a good man (he stuck to her despite her disease and cares enough to argue with her).

But she takes advantage of him and she does not respect him, and she shows him CLEARLY she doesn't, by visiting dating sites AND telling him she does, by leaving him alone on the phone when they're having a serious convo/quarrel AND by writing a Sex Diary based on their relationship despite his expressed dislike that she does.

What will kill this relationship is a STD more lethal to relationships than Sexually Transmitted Diseases. Sexually Transmitted Dishonesty & Sexually Transmitted Disrespect both kill faster and are more infective than the STDs one can actually live with.

--

My PS, only posted here:

Why on earth should another set of moral standards apply to your sex life than the rest of your life?
Why on earth should you pretend to be another person as a sexual being than who you are as a human being?
And why on earth wouldn't you be a whole person, the same person wherever you are and whatever you do, rather than a compartilized person acting a different role for every part of your life?

Personally and professionally, psychologically and physically you are ONE.

With my clothes on, I believe in honesty, integrity, respect & freedom. I believe in enjoyment and generosity.

Without my clothes on, I believe in honesty, integrity, respect & freedom. I believe in enjoyment and generosity.

Carry on, baby

Extremely busy on all accounts, this week, lots to post about, but it will have to wait.

But this one, as I am travelling for the time being, I couldn't help myself from noticing:

http://nymag.com/daily/intel/2009/07/you_know_that_thing_youre_afra.html

Or to comment on, expanded here, from what I said on NY Mag:

So maybe all those movie stars claiming that their sex tapes "accidentally" got out are telling the truth after all. Airport employees find them when they open their luggage & log on their why-on-earth-not-carried-on and why-on-earth-not-protected-by-passwords laptops... And whoopsy daisy, there's this compromising thing showing star X at his/her hottest, something that always happens to happen at a time when a career is on the rise, but can need an extra little attention to peak, or, alternatively, so very rapidly on its way down an extra little attention is not just needed, but needed DESPERATELY.

Interesting question on the same note: What should I do when I am travelling with a vibrator? (Not an entirely hypothetical thing...) Carry it through security to have it shown off to the line when X-rayed and asked stuff like "what is this thing?" or "does this really need batteries to work?" or put it in your checked luggage not to be sure where it's been or what it's done when you unpack?

PS: On the tags on this post, today's luggage tags: "Things I love" refer to movie star tapes & vibrators & travelling. "Things I hate" refer to snooping. In case anyone wondered.

Pictorial pleasures

I like visuals. I like them when they're direct & obvious. A man's cock... There's nothing more beautiful in the world than that. But sometimes, still, what's between the lines can be a lot more sexy than what's spelled out.

Take a look at Time Out Magazine's slideshow, and you'll see what I mean. Ain't the clothed photos the sexiest of the bunch?

http://newyork.timeout.com/articles/sex-dating/76168/sexy-and-the-city-photo-exhibit-at-yosi-milo-galley-preview

Then visit Yossi Milo Gallery in Chelsea, see the exhibit for real. It's open all summer. I guess I'll be going there myself one of these days.

On Michael and the rest of us

The NYMag Vulture discussion on Michael Jackson’s death and memorial has somewhat developed into a discussion on black and white.

http://nymag.com/daily/entertainment/2009/07/mj_memorial.html

I do not refer to the MJ song by the same name, but to people saying things like “I can’t stand f***in white people” and “Most of you are mad that a BLACK man (that’s right I said a BLACK man) can get this type of tribute” on one side, and “this freak should have been put down years ago” on the other side. Some of you may fail to see the racial in the latter sentence, but as it was written by a person calling himself “White35”, the quote has a somewhat different air and a more bigot undertone than a name like, say, “IHatePedos” would have implied.

I don’t think it should be necessary to point out what I just did on the same board. But obviously, the following is not clear to everyone, and it can’t hurt repeating it here. Some of you will think this is so self-evident it’s unnecessary to say it. I love you for that, but I still think it's important to make it clear this is our point of view. It deals with humanity, and the right to own humanity is and should always be the human right topping the list. The headline for the rest of them, or the groundwork, if you will.

The “you” I am referring to in the below, is the original poster dissing whites:

Generalizations about/hatred towards white people are no less racist than white hatred/generalizations. We're different, too, you know, different values, different viewpoints. All people are individuals, whatever origin. There are white scum and black scum and white goodness and black goodness. Most often, pardon the pun, it's not as black'n'white as many people, either hue, pretend. Grey zones aplenty, and it doesn't go with the skin color, goes with the personality.

I say that, and I wholeheartedly mean it, but I am by no means ignorant of the fact that culture matters in shaping personalities, and that black culture/communities have suffered way more under white racism than the other way around. White people were never slaves under black ownership in this country. White people do not still suffer under different socio-economic dynamics. I think you're entitled to be angry for that, I am, I find it most unfair. But don't you be mad at those of us who've never made ourselves guilty of that particular sin.

Do not put all of us under the white supremacy umbrella.

Most of the white people I know do not belong under it, just like most of the black people I know do not accept black racism towards white people. Being in doubt of the moral character of a person repeatedly accused of the same disgusting crime does not make anyone a racist. Let's just remember that.

We're all people, and every generalization is as much a lie as a truth. Except for this one, of course: Whoever fails to realize the truth in what I just said is an idiot.

Problems with my e-mail?

Has any of you tried to e-mail me, no reply, these last couple of days? There may be something strange going on with the ladyinred.blogspot@gmail.com address, and I am wondering how many people are affected by it... One of my e-mail friends just told me he has sent me stuff I haven't received, and I would like to know if any other of you has experienced the same. That is, if you've sent me e-mails I haven't replied to, say, this week and the last? If you haven't, it's possible problem is on his end of the communication, but if you have, I guess I should set up a secondary address to avoid this from now on.

You can use the comment field under this post, to avoid new e-mails going AWOL...

On bullshit & being a woman

Sometimes, when I listen to male friends tell me about the bullshit some women put them through, I am wondering if we do indeed live in the same world.

There are the women who insist on a certain number of dates before they let themselves be kissed or touched or fucked. And there are women who “has to” be treated to this or that, shall they find a man “interesting”. Women demanding flowers or a certain amount of compliments or a certain number of phone calls or attention this way or the other before they even accept dates. The women “punishing” a man if he forgets to text or call when she finds it appropriate, most often without having told that man when those times are. There are women who tell a man to “forget about it” when all he’s done is asking if the chair next to her is taken or when he is actually just paying her a compliment on her haircut. And then there are the women who spend the time they spend with a man looking disinterested and acting disinterested just so that he will not find her “desperate”. And there are women actually really aching to go to bed with a man (these are who I find the silliest and did believe to be rarities, but my male friends insist there are many of them) but still deny themselves to go for it, because their girlfriends think one way or the other less about the fellow. And yeah, this is even worse, there are the women “accepting” to go to bed with a man, but COMPLAINING about it, in terms of sacrifice – to the guy or to her girlfriends after! Even worse than all of this: These women seem to think of themselves and talk about themselves as “class acts” because of their impoliteness. Not paying genuine attention to whoever you spend time with IS and WILL ALWAYS BE impolite, whatever your motives. And LYING on what you think about someone is and will always be a stupid, dishonest, childish thing to do.

Advice to guys: Never go out with a woman telling you she doesn’t “put out” without this or that happening first. A woman talking about getting down’n’dirty in terms of “putting out” does not get down and dirty. And if she does, you can be sure she expects some special treatment after, probably also without giving you some special treatment during. That kind of woman is high maintenance, whether she’s worth it or not. Unless you do already find her special to begin with, and there’s something about her intriguing you, you’re most likely to find her not worth it.

Likewise, advice to girls & women: If you like a man and enjoy his company, and are willing to show him you do by paying him the same attention you expect him to pay you, you’re likely to have fun with him. If you have fun with him, he’s likely to have fun with you. And that sex you’ll be having, when you’ll be having it, will be way better than it had been, had you put him through a number of tests and he’d been feeling he has to jump through hoops to please you. You will feel more relaxed, he will feel more relaxed. Most likely, you’d both be more playful and you may even feel ready for it sooner. And if the bed is the only place you leave it to him to please you, I can almost guarantee you he will.

Ok, enough on the world some people I know live in. I realize the truth in all of the above, though I do still from time to time think there cannot be THAT many people living in that world. But I have heard the same stories from too many men to deny it does exist as some kind of parallel universe, and I’ve heard the woman’s version of the story too many times to think that only those men live in that world. I have thought of that as a possibility, can’t deny that – suggesting that the men complaining about this kind of women are really men who do not relax with women themselves and/or men who think sex is their birth right, needing to cut some women some slack and realize that they are not interested in fucking every woman there is, either, and that women have the same right to be selective and to expect a man to raise to her “level” as he has for her. I have sometimes, too, told men that they do not notice the more subtle signs a woman has interest in a man and that they have to listen to what she’s not saying as much as to what she’s saying. I think that’s partly correct. But I do realize that it is not the full picture, because I’ve heard women tell me about this world too, realizing they (some of them) are finding it somewhat normal.

Her side of the story, for those of you interested, most often goes like this: She wants him to show her she is “special” to him, because she wants to BE special to him, and she wants to be “special” just by “being herself” and being appreciated for it – from the “beginning” on. So she sees nothing wrong in “testing” if she is. That she should put down some effort for his sake too, she thinks she does: She painted her nails before the date, right? She spent an hour getting ready, doing her hair this way and that, waxing her legs only yesterday, I know how much that hurts, don’t I, please keep that in mind, and she gave her outfit great thought, trying things over and over. She listened to his stories about his boring job, no complaint, even asked him some questions and let him dominate the conversation, though he didn’t ask once about her day. And she was “polite”, like her mama told her, she did say “thank you” when he paid for the drinks and asked her if she’d like some more, sure. That doesn’t mean she’s “obliged” to “go to bed with him, he should know that, and if he doesn’t, she’s willing to “teach” him. When I ask her if she doesn’t want to go to bed with him for HER OWN SAKE, answer too often is this: Sure, that would be nice, he’s looking good and smelling great, but she isn’t ready for it YET. And she doesn’t want him to think she does it with “everyone”.
Seriously, women: No one thinks you do it with everyone. No one even thinks I am doing it with everyone. If you only accept dates from men you actually like and only fuck men you actually want, you’ll enjoy it AND have that air of exclusivity without trying so freaking hard for it. He’ll feel special enough by seeing and feeling you enjoy it to the core. No man thinks every man can do that for you. They all think they do it like no other…

Me, I feel lucky, cutting myself some slack, being as honest as I feel like being. The men I like, I like, the men I don’t like, I don’t bother with. Why should I pretend otherwise? Wouldn’t improve anything for anyone, just a waste of time. And what’s so complicated about understanding that? Nothing! Sometimes, like when reading today’s Sex Diary in NYMag (http://nymag.com/daily/intel/2009/07/the_gay_commodities_trader.html) I think my life is more similar to the lives of the gay men I know, than to some of the straight women who share my status as a 30-something single.

Example: I just had a fuck date, a few hours ago. Man whose last name I didn’t think of asking about. That little fact leaves me feel a bit silly, but it doesn’t matter, really, I’ll find it if I want it. He is a friend of a friend, and it was our fellow friend who linked us, telling me he knew someone I should meet, considering my “lifestyle” and my “fitness fetish”, he was sure we’d “like” one another “very much”. And yeah, we did, though I can’t say we talked much. Man in question called me an hour or so before we met, just having gotten my number from our fellow friend some minutes before that. We hit it off, sending each other pics while still talking on the phone, both telling the other we liked what we saw. Neither of us having THAT fixed plans for the hours to come. It developed rather quickly, you can say, and when we discovered we were only a ten minute walk apart, he came over. He was hard as he came in the door, I was wet as well, and within seconds, we were both naked. And I am now just the right amount of tired and just the right amount of satisfied, and the man has left to do what he had to do for the rest of the day, not quite done working yet. I am free to spend my time how I want to, too, having just finished my work day before he called.

Maybe he’ll call me later, maybe we’ll repeat it later, and maybe we won’t. Either way, it was the nicest way to spend an afternoon. And though he was not quite my preferred size and not quite my preferred thickness, he was close enough, and he knew how to swing it. I liked that, I enjoyed it, and I sure wouldn’t mind doing it again. The simplicity of it all didn’t lessen the pleasure, rather the opposite.

Will I put this man through tests? No, why the hell would I bother with that? Will I give him hell if he doesn’t call me and I meet him again via our fellow friend? Seriously! He is not in any way obliged to. We spent an afternoon together, we did not enter a relationship. We enjoyed each other’s company, but we did not give each other promises. He’s got my number, and he’s allowed to use it if he wants to. If he doesn’t, there are other men who have the same number. And I am not incapable of dialing a phone number myself, if I want to. Women have phones too. Some of us even pay our own bills for it.

So sometimes I just thank my destiny I was born a woman. I suppose you’re right, guys, when you tell me we have it easier.

Easy like Sunday Morning

Last night’s hookup is asleep in my hotel room bed as I roll out my yoga mat on the floor and start my workout. I don’t notice he’s awake until some 20 minutes out, when he gets up behind me and drags my panties down. I am standing in downward-facing dog, and he sticks his tongue into me from behind. I tell him to let me finish. He says he would like to finish. We both laugh, and I step out of my underwear, telling him I’ll keep them off for the rest of my workout, for his sake, and that I’ll work him after.
“Deal”, he says, gets back into bed, props himself up on the pillows, and starts stroking his cock as he watches me. I can see it in the mirror.

“Don’t you want me to do that?”, I ask.
“You’re kind of busy”, he responds.
“Sure”, I say, “But I thought we agreed you’d save that one for me, in like half an hour?”
He sighs.
“Stroke your balls”, I say. He does.
“And caress your ass”, I add. He does this, too.
“And perhaps your nipples. But do not touch your cock”, I say.
He hardens even more just by these words, and he asks if I can take off my sports bra, too, to do the rest of my yoga naked. I tell him it’s too early in the program, I need it for some minutes more, or I’ll damage my breasts.
“We don’t want that”, he responds, tone of agreement.
“Sure don’t”, I answer.

And then we both continue what we’re doing for some twenty minutes more. At this time, I’ve reached the softer part of the exercise program, stretching exercises, calming my muscles down before I end with relaxation, and I take off my bra, throw it to him on the bed, and he smells it. Fresh sweat, can hardly be smelling anything, the bra was clean out of my suitcase before I started. Men and underwear... Ain't exactly a sexy thing, that sports bra. He touches it as if it is.

Workout is not quite done yet, anyway. I roll down on my back and spread my legs in the resting position. Five to ten minutes of gathering my mind and the power of my muscles await. But only a minute or two have passed before he is out of the bed, down on his stomach and licking me from my inner legs and upwards.

I don’t move, and I don’t object. I don’t exactly gather my mood, either. Or rather, it’s gathered, but the thoughts it’s gathered around, are not the ones usually filling my brain post-yoga. My breath goes rapidly, as he licks his way up to my right knee, then starts over from the big toe on my left foot, this time, continuing all the way up to my inner thigh, before he gets back to the right knee, goes the same way upwards on it. I spread my legs more, and start stroking my own breasts, eyes still closed. He doesn’t touch my pussy, not yet. Instead, his tongue circles my stomach, caressing my abs and licking off my sweat. I give out a low, murmuring purr of a sound, not understanding it’s mine until it’s out. The tip of his cock is teasing my one thigh as he is bending over me and kissing my upper body. Then my lips, and I open my eyes, seeing he is now situated on his knees between mine, and I lift my pelvis towards him, spreads my legs even further, and let him slide in. Suddenly remembering something.

“Condom, condom”, I exclaim, and he pulls out, drags it on, quickly, and goes back to fucking me, right there, on the floor, on the yoga mat, as variations over the positions I’ve already been through once, this morning. He’s been paying close attention through observation, I can tell.

After, we continue on the bed. Soft and comfortable, here-and-now-intimacy coming to us as easy as the Sunday morning we're sharing. When he leaves around noon, I am pretty sure I’ll never see him again.

FB – for Facebook or Fuck Buddy

This is either the biggest compliment I ever got or the craziest. Or possibly both.

One of these days, I got a friend request on Facebook, from a man who used to be my fuck buddy some 15 years ago. Personal message was attached: He still thinks of me as the best sex he ever had. He even tells me how and why.
I’ve been trying for four days, but I can’t stop laughing at it.

Seriously! I was 17 at the time. I had only had some 5-6 others before him. If I remember this correctly, he was only the second person I ever gave a blow job. I don’t think we did anything more daring than that, and intercourse, of course. Pretty vanilla. I didn’t know half of what I do now about the male anatomy. Or the female anatomy, for that sake. And he wasn’t exactly a beginner himself, from what I remember. 25, he must have been. I haven’t thought of him for a decade and a half, but now, when I do, I think he was a good lover, although nothing that special. He was the one who told me I was wearing the wrong bra size (a 36B, when I should have been wearing a 32D. Correct assumption, and still my size). I remember that. I remember, too, that he wasn’t ashamed of his porn collection, or his history with women. He was a player, and he’d been to bed with several girls I knew or almost knew before this. He wasn’t afraid to scare me off by joking about it. Feeling free around me, I suppose, or maybe he was as free with everyone. How many I didn’t know about, I have no idea.

He is a player still, he tells me, at 41, he’s only had a couple of long lasting relationships, and most of his women have been what I was: An affair lasting a month or two or three, or one nighters. A couple of hundreds, he claims. And my 17 year old self is supposed to top the list? This must have grown way out of proportion these 15 years we haven’t seen one another. He must have put all his best experiences under the umbrella painted with my name. Sure, I have heard the same thing from men I’ve met later in my sexual odyssey. Some of them, I know have definitely meant it. But at 17? I don’t think so.

Still, it flatters me. This man, who I suppose I must give the initials FB, for Face Booker or Fuck Buddy, not for his real name, tells me he has never been to bed with a woman as sexually playful, liberated, honest or open. Which is a description I recognize, I guess it’s been fitting me from the very first time I ever slept with anyone. (I was a couple of months short of my 16th birthday at the time, for any of you wondering. Last millennium.) He also uses the words “a natural”, “a wildflower” and “a lioness”. And he tells me he still fantasizes about it. Again, I can’t stop laughing at it, but I think his fantasies must be what this is really about, not the real life experience. No woman is that good at 17. No way. And if I were, I still couldn’t have been that extraordinary, because I am so, so, so much better now. The things I didn’t know… Which is, BTW, what I answered him. “Flattering, flattering, but I don’t quite believe it. I am so, so, so much better now”, I wrote him back.

Just before starting this post, I got his reply: “I would hope so”. And then a couple of sentences more, on possibly finding out during the span of summer. If I want to test it out, he will. Pic e-mailed to me. He still looks v. v. good. And against myself, I am tempted.

Self-distraction at work

Fabulous Rebecca Rose has put a very important issue on today's curriculum: Hot dudes allowing themselves to let go. For women who regard their work outs as sacred (ok, that goes for me, not so sure about RR) this is a crime of the most severe variety.

http://rebeccarose2004.blogspot.com/2009/06/hot-guys-i-want-to-d-oh-no-not-again.html

To punish the guys in question and make up for the crime to the victims (drooling women, that is, represented by yours truly and mentioned RR plus a whole load of others, I am sure), I suggest a world-wide internet campaign for a 2010 remake of the Top Gun movie. Female bloggers, unite! Or let us at least campaign for a 2009 remake of the volleyball scene, which is, come to think of it, the only part of Top Gun I have bothered to see more than twice anyway... Ok. Drop the rest of the movie. Let's have a volleyball scene remake. And make it a more diverse one, to cater to our tastes. I suggest one Viking, one Black man, one Latino and one Asian, all representing the best of their ethnicity, and to make sure they'll do, I think I should pick the two former and let RR pick the two latter. And then Team Lady and Team RR can play volleyball for a couple of hours straight. Ah, if straight women ruled Hollywood...

Hm. In role of the Viking I suggest Swedish actor Mikael Persbrandt, Norwegian actor Aksel Hennie (he just have to put on some more muscle first) or, if he agrees to grow back his Lord-of-the-Rings hair and beard and associated muscle strength, Viggo Mortensen. Alternatively, we could let Viking blood be Viking blood and go for Daniel Craig. (With those eyes, I am sure he’s got some genes from the other side of the Northern Sea anyway.) Eric Dane, if not a Dane for real, probably would be a good choice, too. Idris Elba could be his sparring partner. Or Tyson Beckford. Tyrese Gibson would be perfect. Or Isaiah Washington, or Dulé Hill, or Chiwetel Ejiofor, or D.L. Hughley, or Shemar Moore, or Blair Underwood, though I wish I had thought of that before that eye operation of his. Plastic surgery does not make a man more of a man, dear - you'd be better looking if you let yourself mature the way you're meant to. But that does not, by any means, allow you to go the Val Kilmer route!!!

Be still, my heart

He is back in touch, and I am, at one and the same time, mad at him for it and loving him for it.

It started with a little message last night. “I miss you.” I did not reply, and an hour later, another message came. “I miss you terribly.” To that, I replied that I miss him too. I then turned off my phone and went to bed, got to sleep, uneasy, but still, I managed to sleep. When I woke up this morning (I am on Central European Time, for now) two long e-mails were waiting for me. One of them, a sexually loaded declaration of continued love. The other, an update on his life this last month. Both were sent the very same minute, he must have written them both offline and cut and pasted, and I don’t know which of the two was the most important to him, or why he didn’t fuse them both into one.

And now, I can’t think of anything but that man. Heart’s pounding, blood’s burning, head’s aching and stomach’s turning. The fact that we’re right now not just on different sides of one and the same continent, but on different continents, doesn’t stop me from feeling his smell in the air, and his touch on my skin. The sound of his voice rings my ears and I see him in front of my very eyes. Doesn’t matter if they’re open or closed. Doesn’t matter that I know he is not here. He is.

I still love him, you know. Reasons we broke up were not about lack of love. I have never loved anyone like I love him, and he says the same thing about me. Still, we did what we had to do. Should I have lived with him, I would have had to give up lots of things very important to me. So important I feel it would have been giving up a large part of who I am. I don’t want that. It’s not that he is unreasonable or has unreasonable demands to me, it’s just how the realities are. If we are to be together, I’d be living his life and not mine. His future, the way he wants it. Not mine, the way I want.

I can’t do that. I don’t doubt I have made the right choice, because I know that. He says he understands, but I don’t think he really does. And the feelings I still have for him, doesn’t disappear despite this knowledge.

We’ve talked about it so many times, over and over, and nothing has changed, this last month. I believed I had moved on. Baby steps. One little step at the time. I have been with others, you know, fucking like crazy to diminish his memory. I have thought everything through, a million times over and over. I have done hours of yoga, hours and hours, trying to gather my mind. I have drowned myself in work. I have lain sleepless, and I have managed to get back to sleep. I have been hyper, and I have managed to slow down.
It’s not as if I do not know what I have to do. It’s not as if I do not know what I am facing. It’s not as if I don’t realize I will need time to heal.

And then, three little words, and I am back to the rawness of that pain.

The perfect cock

Twelve days without sex, and I have been thinking of cocks all day. Not the smartest way to spend my time, considering I had some other, very serious stuff I should be doing. But I guess this is as serious as today is going to get: A personal, close-to-scientific look at the perfect cock.

It’s long. It doesn’t have to be VERY long, but it has to be long enough to give me the feeling it fills me. More important, it’s thick enough to give me that feeling. Thickness is way more important than length. Reaches those most important spots, gives that most important friction. Even better if it’s got a slight upwards bend. And then, of course, it must be hard, or easy to make hard. Balls, I don’t think as much about. But I know how I want them, too. Big balls, shaved, made to be licked. Size isn’t everything, though. Technique counts even more. But the perfect cock has it all: The right length, the right thickness, the right angle, and the right moves.

In my life, I have met some perfect cocks. Finding the perfect cock-owner has been more of a challenge. But that, I do not want to get into, or I’ll start thinking of the closest I ever got, and him, I fear, is unique. I miss him terribly. Cocks, I can comfort myself, there will always be more of.

Some people presume that the perfect cock has to be black. At least, they presume that to me, it has to be black. I can understand where that comes from, most of my American lovers have been black. But to me, it's more about the man than his hue. Truth is, I’ve had it a fair share of both the black and white varieties. Cocks off every continent, actually, providing I can count New Zealand as Australia. I guess I can. Most, though, have been members of two specific categories: European Vikings or Black Americans. Ivory and Ebony Gods. They've got certain other characteristics in common, too. In general, they've been muscular men, smart men, funny men, and men who’re able to relax around an independent woman, all of which is more important to me than where a man's gene pool originates. My own background is diverse enough for me to feel comfortable in all environs. And though I am not generally a fan of generalizations, I think the grand total is grand enough for me to draw certain conclusions. Most of the black ones have been perfect or close to it. Within the white range, variation has been larger, but the Vikings I have had, have in general been a great deal bigger than those whose origins hail from further south in Europe. Vikings, I joke, may be as ivory as they come, but they are still the Ebony Gods of the North.

Biggest cock I ever had? A Viking, size of an adult underarm, fist included. But then again, the smallest ever? A Viking, too, size of a middle finger. In both cases, I’m talking about both thickness and length. In both cases, size demanded a certain creativity. And in both cases, that creativity gave results. One of them – won’t tell you which, you can imagine for yourself – was so grateful he cried. He hadn’t experienced coming with a woman before. And so, I learned that there can be both too much and too little of a good thing.

That perfect cock, though, is the one thing I can never get enough of. Twelve days without I am beginning to suspect I can do with a not-so-perfect-one too.

Eleven days

I haven’t had sex for eleven days. Masturbation, sure, I even broke my vibrator, one of these days. Been with a man? Nope. Two months ago, when I was in a long distance relationship, eleven days didn’t feel like that long. But then again, eleven days never went by without joint substitutes of the phone/cyber/movie-variety. And when we met, ah, when we met, we always made up for those lackluster not-lacking-lust-but-option-days. Fuckfeasts, heaven, nirvana, saving us both from going crazy.

I need a fuckfeast now.

These past eleven days feels like eleven weeks, and I am now so horny I can barely walk down the street in an appropriate manner. Every attractive man I pass, I consider. I probably consider some I wouldn’t normally label as attractive, too. Every time I stop in my track, and every time, I want to smack myself over the head. That is not what I am supposed to be doing in this city.

I wonder if eleven days can qualify to the term “dry spell”. My girlfriends say it can’t. The one I spent last week with told me to get back to her after eleven months. Eleven MONTHS? Not gonna happen. Another friend tells me she’s happy if she never has sex again. She’s got a kid already, doesn’t need it, she says. Idea makes me wonder if we do indeed belong to the same species. Eleven days are more than long enough.

Eight of those days I was actually just fine with it. I spent them upstate, not seeing a man at all, and not thinking much about it, either. Resting, eating, working, thinking. Talking to my friends and doing my yoga. Walking the woods and staring at some water, to the degree the weather allowed it. Staying inside and staring at water when the weather didn’t. And sleeping, ah, finally, sleeping! That was so good it almost qualified as orgasmic. Then, there was that one day I spent crossing the Atlantic. One day I spent sleeping off the jet lag. And today I’ve spent going all man-hungry, in the streets of a city I do not know all that well, working with a man I have never met before but need not to embarrass myself to, we have to work together some more days, too. Serious mode. V. unserious mood.
Still, earlier this evening I managed to fall asleep in front of the hotel room TV as I was trying to find the news. I just woke up and think it is probably too late to go to a bar, considering the time I have to get up tomorrow morning. Central European Time, moment of writing: 00.34 a.m. Alarm clock set to 06.45. In other words: Tuesday is put to rest, Wednesday is not quite started. And da Lady should rather put herself to rest than start the Wednesday prematurely, or we’ll experience yet another ride on that whole not-sleeping-rollercoaster.

I guess I should not call the reception to ask them where I can buy a new vibrator at this time either.

Buying tips? (I need a new vibrator...)

This is embarrassing, kind of. Embarrassing and a chance to make fun of self at the same time, and as I have decided to not care about embarrassing in this blog, here it goes:

I need a new vibrator. I just broke my old one last night. No, I am not going to tell you how. For one, it's not as interesting as it sounds. I was by myself, and I didn't break the shaft of it, I broke the part where you put in the batteries. Second, I have no idea how it happened, it just did, and I am unable to repair it. It's not as if I want to go to the nearest maintenance tool store to ask the local handyman to help me. (Come to think of it, maybe that is just what I should do...)

This is not exactly an urgent crisis. Yes, I am out of town in a nothing-happens-location for a bit, no handymen or other men in sight, and yes, it would be nice, had it worked. I use orgasms as means to go to sleep, for the time being, and getting my sleep is the main objective of being where I am. But I do have two others, plus ten working fingers, so I'll manage. That said, this WAS my favorite vib for one specific (and most important) use. It was the thickest and the longest and it was rubbed just the right way. Looking almost real, save the color (and color has never topped my list, come to what I look for). It was a little not-that-flexible, but ok. You have living men for flexibility, and a substitute thing is never more than a substitute.

But. If there is a substitute thing a little bit bigger than my last subsistute thing AND a little bit more flexible too, now is when I want to know. Alternatively: If there are, in this world of toys, a substitute thing working and feeling and looking almost as good as the real thing, even better.

So please give me suggestions in the comments field, if you have input on what to buy. I am sure the babes at Babeland can help me find a good one when I get back to the City, but I find it easiest to know what I want, get in there, get it, get out again. I may not be AS liberated as I think, but I do know so many people in that neighborhood I don't feel like going long-time-shopping. Plus I may have to get this somewhere else, where I can't expect staff to be as great as the Babeland babes, as I will be staying out of the City for a little while, and I do like to have access to restorative powers wherever I go.

So, input, anyone?

On self-promotion and unfair accusations

I warn you: This posting is going to be a lot less interesting for those not following NYMag’s Daily Intel than for those who do. (If you don’t, bookmark it already, it’s one of my favorite web pages and a great source to rage, annoyance, snark, sarcasm, intelligent observations and other fun. But you don’t need to read the rest of THIS posting if you haven’t followed Intel for a while. You may not get it.)

I am a web wise woman, and I know there are even more idiots online than offline. The invisibility cloak of the former allows idiocy free reigns. That’s a good thing and a bad thing, I think. It allows for good, honest debate on stuff one wouldn’t or couldn’t have discussed under full name & real life identity, and for bad, too-honest-to-stick-to-case debate spewing shit at the same time.

I am, too, fully aware that mine is the Alpha type of personality, and that some people dislike me intensely and others like me as intensely. Offline and online, same goes. I’m good with that, too, a decade or more has gone since I gave up the idea everyone has to like everyone. Part of growing up. As long as you accept people to be different than yourself and still as valuable as yourself, you don’t need to like a single person to be a goody'ol'heart in my book. I do in general find people awakening sympathies and antipathies a lot more interesting company than those awakening just indifference, though.

But still. STILL. Sometimes, some people can make me so raging mad their idiocy stick with me for hours, and as that’s the case right now, I JUST HAVE TO SAY THIS TO GET IT OFF MY CHEST. It’s been bothering me since before I got to sleep, it bothered me through those three holy uneasy hours I did sleep, and it’s been bothering me since I gave up sleeping and started working at half past five. (To FG77: Don’t flatter yourself on your ability to throw me off balance. Everything throws me off balance these days and this is my average sleep pattern for the time being.)

To the rest of you: You see, there was this one comment. It was going very personal, without even bothering to do the slightest research on who I am or what I stand for. And that provoked the hell out of me. It’s not as if I am at my normal balanced self to begin with.

Let me take this point by point:
*I am a self-promoting narcissist. Ok, I accept that one. Sometimes get that in real life too. It goes with that type A personality, and though I do normally try to put on the breaks and stay away from dominating every single conversation I am in, I have long realized breaks are broken for now.
*I am banal, a drain and yawn-inducing. Ok. I accept that one too, even wish it to be true. I’d like a yawn, not to stay as hyperactively maniac as I am right now forever. Would be SO nice to go tired SOMETIMES and anyone who can learn me a trick to help me go to sleep: I'll be forever grateful!
*I am not a sexual creature. Hahaha. That one I enjoyed. Just one thing to add: FG77, I don’t know if you’re a man or a woman, but either way, I can guarantee you that you will never see my sexual self close up. I don’t do judgmental idiots. I don’t do people I see as in the middle of a middle age crisis, and I especially do not do people having middle age crisises while I suspect them still to be in their teens. Woman's got certain principles.
*In addition to being a non-sexual creature, I am an old, fat, sad, male Las Vegas whore. Ok. Tip on improving your insults: They work better if you try sticking to a certain continuity and to hit where it hurts. One of these may have done the trick. All of them? Nope.
*And, and this is what I think is the worst part of it: I have a need for acceptance from RANDOM STRANGERS ON THE INTERNET. This, ladies and gentlemen, I think is what really makes me mad.

First of all: I do not want your acceptance, I want your honest opinions. I don’t really want to ask my real life friends what they think on me having had sex with 16 persons in the span of a month, but I do trust the NYMaggers to be honest in their opinions. Opinions matter. Your own opinions matter the most, but it's always the opinions from others that take you further.

Second: I don’t consider the regular commenters on the Daily Intel board to be ”random strangers”. To a person having registered two minutes ago, I guess you are. To me, most of you are the coolest, wisest, smartest smart-ass bunch there is. You’re all true New Yorkers, even those of you never having lived in the City. (Yes, Till and Rebecca, and Cheesesteak, if you still live in Philly, I am talking to you.) You, and (most of the rest of) the regulars are distinct voices with distinct opinions and distinct platforms from which to speak. I value your points of view, I value them so much I consider you all among my best friends never met. Rebecca Rose – I wholeheartedly love you, and I think your blog should be a preinstalled bookmark in Internet Explorer settings at all computers & Macs sold in the world (http://www.rebeccarose2004.blogspot.com/). Hedgie – your blog has given me lots of fun (http://www.646hedonist.blogspot.com/). Meow: You’re hilariously funny and have often made my day. LZA, you’re my married hero, proof it’s possible. Loobs: Yeah, same goes for you. Sternman, GayNarcissus, Cheesesteak, Seamus, Till, TheLessYouKnow, Bulging Bracket, NYAaron, you’re all great guys, and if I ever suspect our paths to be crossing in real life, beers are on me. That's a promise. Smug: I almost never agree with you, but I find arguing with you great fun. Spice to everyday life. We all need that, those of us leading crazy everyday lives as much as those who don’t. (And to anyone I should have mentioned, but forgot about: Sorry about that, head’s not altogether gathered.)

Rant over. I may have lost all my readers at this point, but I do feel like self again, so in my opinion, writing this was totally worth it. I just want to add one more thing before posting this, probably for my own pleasure only. (This is MY blog, I am ALLOWED TO DO THAT.)

My ability to feel pain and my ability to feel pleasure may annoy or confuse people without the same emotional capabilities. From time to time, even people I dearly love and I know love me dearly back can ask me to chill it and please calm down. But I am who I am, and I think if there is ANYTHING following the Sex Diaries on Daily Intel has taught me, it is that not all living people are truly alive. Lots of people, even among those considering themselves to be happy, are not true to themselves. I am. I have my share of bad habits & annoying sides, but I am 100 % alive, and I am honest. And for that, I am incredibly grateful my life is mine, even when I feel at my most insane.

Life is short. Live it.

Post Diary: As of now

The world is spinning fast around its axis. I am spinning faster around mine.

These last four weeks I have been keeping up a frantic pace. I drown myself in work. I drown myself in men. I work out doubles and triples in the hope one more will calm my mind. I seem incapable of relaxing, and I hardly sleep. I get mad for nothing. I bitch for nothing and I cry for nothing. And all the while, I know exactly why I feel like I do. I say his name out loud, I let it ring in the room, and I know I can’t call him and hear him say the same. That alone would be too much for me to bear. I miss him so much it physically hurts, and I can’t even call him and tell him. That phone call would end with me agreeing to give up my life and promising to live his. And I can’t do that. I can’t.

I have had sex with some 12-14 men since my breakup. Yeah, I’ve fucked twelve. I’ve given two more BJs. They’ve all been great. Hot guys. White guys, black guys, one Latino guy. Able lovers. Nice cocks. Smooth tongues. It’s been a fucking frenzy. They’ve all made me feel goddess-y. And still, when I fall asleep at night, if I fall asleep at night, I am alone, and it’s his touch I am feeling. I detect his smell in the air and my skin remembers the warmth of his skin. Those other guys have not decreased his presence. I remember exactly how he felt inside me. The exact pressure. The exact size. Just how he shivers the second before he comes. I can still come myself, from the memory alone. But I can’t go back to him. I can’t.

I sedate myself on work and sex and yoga, a psychotherapist close to me says. I respond I find it healthier than pills and alcohol and sugar, and she tells me not to be fresh. She adds I am in mourning and I need to face my pain. I don’t go to therapists and I don’t think you need to be one to realize that. But I cope. A woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do, right? What this woman has to do is make herself feel good. Whatever it takes. It takes hard work. It takes hard workouts. Fucking strangers helps, too. At least, it has always helped before. I've always been able to escape my thoughts in the arms of a man. On the yoga mat. In my work. These methods have always worked for me, and I need them to work now too. Everything, not to pick up that phone and tell him I’ll give up my whole life for him. I really can’t.

Sex Diary: The workaholic yoga addict returning to single life

Well, well, Daily Intel didn't publish me. I guess I gotta do it myself.

The workaholic yoga addict: 33, female, LES, breaking out of a relationship. Straight. She’s Lady In Red.

DAY ONE
5.50 a.m: Impressive hard-on is poking my back and I wake up. Owner is X, my boyfriend of long term/long distance relationship. We’re breaking up, spending that one last week of sex, sadness and clarification together.
5.52 a.m: Except for hard-on, X is asleep. I start licking his balls.
6 a.m: Midfuck. He is so good I can’t believe we’re breaking up. But reason isn’t related to sex. We’ve had this settlement discussion for a year. When, where, how. Disagree on all accounts. Lately, I’ve been realizing I have to let him loose or lose myself. He thinks this is hyperbole. We’re doing the right thing.
6.03 a.m: He is def. doing the right thing. I have one of those earthquake-like orgasms after which he smiles as if he’s reached Mount Everest.
7 a.m: We’ve showered together, more sex in shower. He is now wearing suit, looking all serious over hotel breakfast. I’m in yoga attire, and we attract even more looks than usual. Maybe because I’ve just kicked his leg. I ordered my coffee ”very black and very strong”, upon which he couldn’t help himself from adding ”just how she likes it”. X is very black and very strong. I am very white, petite, but fit and curvy for my size. He knows I hate it when people think we’re purely sexual. Many do.
7.20 a.m: Back in room. Business suit on floor. He’ll be late for work.
8.15 a.m: He has just uttered the words ”We should have a threesome”. He has a female friend, bi, who ”really wants to do” me, he says. I don’t like it when he discusses our sex life with others, and that particular threesome fantasy doesn’t excite me. Whenever I have a threesome fantasy, two men are tending to me. X knows, as we don’t keep secrets, and until now, we’ve agreed to let fantasies stay fantasies. Something, apparently, has changed. He denies having slept with the woman in question, but tells me I would have the time of my life. Translation: HE would have the time of his life. I say I won’t do it. He leaves without kissing me, saying ”don’t be narrow minded”. This too feels unfair.
10.40 a.m: Double yoga session, aborted for online 3way discussion. Both fail to calm me.
11.59 a.m: X calls, asks if I am mad. I say if he wants his threesome, he can give me my MMF first. He says we’ll talk later.
1 p.m: Out walking streets crowded with memories. We’re in a city neither of us lives in, but we’ve often met here, as he often visits for work. I often visit for him. No more.
3 p.m: Thoughts have left wellknown territory for unknown territory. Feel manipulated, but consider. One should try everything once. This is safe, we’re breaking up anyway. Jealousy isn’t a factor. But I have never felt lust for any woman, and I know going to bed with someone I don’t lust for is a bad idea. I don’t want to do it just to make my man happy. I know he’ll soon have a sexual life post me, but to kickstart that? I feel so insecure I even wonder if he can be using me as a prop to get her into bed or want revenge for BU. I’d freak out if he ignored me and showered her with attention. At the same time, thoughts make me feel petty, insecure and ungenerous, not who I want to be. He deserves a parting gift. Could I possibly enjoy it? Wonder what it would be like, touching another woman like that. Mind moves in circles. I walk.
5 p.m: He calls. Yes, I’m still mad. He says we’ll drop it. He’ll take me to dinner.
8 p.m: Dressed up, fancy place. He says he wants a nice evening, no arguments, but would like to say two things before burying the subject. Ok. He says he is sure I’d enjoy it, and that we’d break it off any time if I didn’t. And he says I always say the world is there for exploration. He adds ”But if you don’t want to, we’ll let it go.” I reach over the table, kiss him on the cheek and thank him. He kisses my lips, orders oysters for the two of us and goes on to deciding entrees without consulting. Hate it when he does that. Waiter leaves, and I tell him. He says he’ll change the order if I want something else. No, choice was perfect. He smirks.
8.45 p.m: Dinner’s lovely. So is he. Beautiful couple next table ask if we’re newlyweds too. X says we’re celebrating our divorce. They laugh and congratulate, think he is joking. I want to cry and go to bathroom. I don’t cry. I stand in front of the mirror for a long time, watching my eyes until I know they won’t go red or puffy.
10 p.m: I whisper that when we get back to our room, I’ll fuck him as if I were five different women. He cancels dessert.
10.20 p.m: Hotel room, X naked on the bed. I pretend to be the maid coming to clean, teasing him with a wet towel. Later, I’ll be the receptionist, the breakfast waitress and wifey eating next to us tonight, cheating on her new husband. I’ll finish with a special treat of my own.
3 a.m: Mission accomplished. He says he preferred the last one by far. Silly triumph. We fall asleep spooning. I love this man.

DAY TWO
6.30 a.m: My turn to be awakened to being eaten. He. Is. Good. At. It.
7 a.m: Skip breakfast, long shower together. He’s bought some huge sponges. Whatta man.
8 a.m: He is ready to leave, I feel sexy and satisfied, and surprise us both by saying he can take his friend over for drinks after work. The second the words are out I think “I did not say that”. Quickly add I don’t promise anything, but I’m open to meeting her, see how we get along. Stomach calms. He gives me a big smile and a big kiss, says I am the best and that they won’t touch each other or myself unless I say I want it. Shall there be sex, I shall initiate it. I say that sounds good. He kisses me again and leaves. I go down for breakfast, eat heartily, and throw up once I am back in room. Down again, just a little fruit, return to room for a nap.
9.30 a.m: Wake up, feel good, decide for double yoga.
12.30 p.m: Triple yoga finished. Heart’s racing.
2 p.m: Out to buy some wine. Shop attendant surprises me by asking for ID. I am 33 and have barely slept for a week! Shop snacks and eat late lunch, too.
5 p.m: Hotel room. Been out longer than I thought. Quick shower.
5.25 p.m: Whoa, they are early! Hear key in door as I put on heels. X kisses me, Guest gives me her hand, stroking mine. Ok. We all sit down and make conversation. It feels like a more or less normal cocktail party, only that we’re all drinking a little faster than we would normally have. He acts nervous, talking silly and shifting his position every five seconds. She’s relaxed and funny. I like her, think we could have made friends. For now, just as well I won’t see her again.
6 p.m: X has taken off his shirt and is sitting on the bed watching me and Guest intensely. We share a chair and pretend not to notice. I can’t see it, but I know he is hard. Knowing makes me wet too. Not ready yet.
6.10 p.m: X takes off his pants. He’s changed his boxers during the day. It makes me laugh. In my most sexy voice I say ”Somebody is getting impatient”. He says ”Yes”, voice choked. He then gets up and drops his shorts. That cock is perfection. I give him one long slow lick, root to tip and around its head, before I turn towards G and kiss her. She starts touching my breasts and we make out, me touching hers. He is kissing and undressing my body. Both naked, we undress her, while she and I give him a two-tongue BJ. This is going to work.
6.19 p.m: It works. It works so well it becomes a five hour non-stop fuckathlon, everyone doing everything to everyone, me getting a whole lot more than my fair share. Both X and G are a lot more into me than each other. She is married and has what she calls ”unlimited access to cock at home”. He, suddenly realizing this is the very last night, wants what he can get. He probably also wants to demonstrate one cock is enough. I feel like the world’s greatest sex goddess. Enjoy every second and also find it v. educative. Night’s discoveries:
* Because of height differences, 69ing a woman is so much easier than 69ing a man. And isn’t it just incredible how different two pussies can be?
* Yoga experience is even more useful in threesome than twosome. I can take pleasure in positions most people wouldn’t think of trying. I am also a lot stronger than I look, at one point being able to lift and roll X’s full weight off me and to the side, 180 degrees – without him even sliding out of me. This is my most acrobatic feat, and they’re both sufficiently impressed, but what awes me is his stamina. He only comes thrice, but he manages to fuck me some 14-16 times and G some 5-6 times in the span of five hours. New personal best.
* One can get off by pussy-against-pussy-action, but pussy-against-pussy-plus-penetration-action works better.
* Correction: Some women actually do come harder on the outside than the inside. I’ve always believed this to be one of those nasty good-girls-don’t-really-enjoy-myths and have arrogantly denied it. The ”then they don’t know how to”-argument is not valid. I have to examine it again. Same result.
* Some women can actually even come on the outside just by climbing man’s back when he is moving in and out of other woman. I feel a second of envy before remembering orgasms from being pounded are SO much stronger.
* Intense moments of twosomedome even midway into threesomedome exist. It’s also possible being the third in such a situation without being remotely offended.
* She really is both hot and cool. When X kicks her out of bed claiming she interferes, she climbs back laughing ”the two of you should really get married”. Insult may have been lessened because I, midkick, told him not to be rude. I suppose I am both hot and cool too.
* Almost forgot about this one: Tittyfucking is not necessarily giving a penis massage using tits. Turns out there are other possibilities too. I do not have the imagination I thought I did.
11.30 p.m: X declares himself exhausted. Not even two women 69ing on top of him change it. I suddenly feel tired too. Not Guest. She wants to go out for a drink. I don’t want to leave my man. He really wants some rest and asks me to take one glass and return.
12.30 a.m: Sidewalk, think we’ll be okay now. One drink became more, then a series of rowdy confrontations between me, Guest, strangers. She’s v. drunk and acting it, even inviting two men to hotel to fuck me, me protesting. Strangers were not quite sure if offer was serious, but either way, I’ve just had two hard-ons pressed against ass through jeans and three tongues in mouth. Solution: Acting half lady, half tramp, saying my man is waiting, strong enough to kick both their asses. Then batting eyes and ”can you please help me get us a cab”. To my surprise we’re now waiting for said cab. Both men try to kiss me, G turns them down saying she does not make out with strangers. This night has officially crossed all limits to absurdity.
1.10 a.m: Back in room. My man’s pacing the floor. He has tried calling me eleven times before finding on-silent phone in room. I tell him everything and every muscle in his body tightens. I hug and stroke him, assuring him she is all right. He says she is not who he has been worried for, I am too nice. I then tell him I love him, and we start making sweet slow love.
1.45 a.m: In the bathroom, throwing up. X is with me, making bad jokes connecting swine flu and animal action. He asks if I want to take a bath. We do.
2.30 a.m: Trying to make love in water filled bathtub. This never works.
2.45 a.m: Rough sex on bathroom floor while holding ON to bathtub, on the other hand…
3 a.m: But the good ol’fashioned bed is, after all, the best option.
4 a.m: Is this the last time we’ll ever have sex? We do it so emotionally I think it is, both crying and whispering declarations of love. It lasts almost an hour. When he finally comes, he does not pull out. We fall asleep, him on top and still inside me. I feel his heartbeat.

DAY THREE
5.50 a.m: I wake up, as if an alarm has set off. He isn’t here!
5.53 a.m: Flushing. Of course, bathroom.
5.56 a.m: He has brushed his teeth, too. I feel sleep in my mouth and want to clean up. He says he wants to taste me just like this, bad morning breath, mascara down my face’n’all. How can I let this man go?
6.15 a.m: Making love again. I am deadly tired, but senses are at high alert.
6.45 a.m: Lying in each others’ arms, caressing and whispering I love you’s.
7 a.m: Sex for the last time. That very, very last time.
7.30 a.m: He is dressed to go in a hurry. His stubble hurts my face. I am wearing just a towel, but I don’t care. We hug in the door, and none of us want to let go, but we have to, or he’ll miss his plane. For the last time he says ”I love you, and I set you free”. When I want to reply, I am unable to pronounce the words. He sssshs me and leaves. We look into each others’ eyes until elevator doors closes and I can no longer see him. I love him. I have to set him free.
11 a.m: As if mood wasn’t pissy already, I’ve decided to practice fiscal discipline: The bus.
11.07 a.m: Bus has free wifi. Mood improves. Decide against sentimental e-mail to X. We have said it all, over and over. Instead, Craigslist. I am single and the best way to get over a man is to get under or on top of another.
11.15 a.m: Have advanced from MF to MMF ads. Under AND on top of two others must be twice as efficient? Craft an e-mail to three most promising candidates. Only good thing about LDR (except the occasional fuckfest) is having hot, recent pics of self readily available.
11.40 a.m: Spend online time with craigslisters. All responded. I dump one, am e-mailing with another, chatting with third. One white, one black, different duos, both attractive. I feel v. slutty, in a good way. Want to touch myself, but can’t. Still on bus.
1 p.m: Bus stopping, passengers on. I shut laptop down as man sits down next to me.
4 p.m: Home! Hungry, too. I know exactly what I need – one of those huge mozzarella-tomato sandwiches of Di Palo’s, best in the City. Walk over.
4.15 p.m: Noooo! Di Palo is closed for renovation. Disappointment so deep I want to cry. Have to do with Alleva’s, nowhere near as good. Lacks that sweety soury vinegar, and today, not even basil. Wonder if this is a metaphor for future love life: Best option not available, stuck with not-even-second-best.
4.20 p.m: Walk streets I love to keep from crying, telling myself I’d be mad to leave. City’s back to life after winter’s financial depression. Everyone flirts and talks to everyone. Or maybe it’s me, back to self after tough winter of trying to make up my mind.
6 p.m: Home after long walk. Message from White Hottie says buddy is not available today, but how about the weekend? We agree to talk later. No more from Black Hottie. I am tired anyway. An hour of yoga, then bed.
10 p.m: Awake and unable to go back to sleep. Decide to put on clothes and go down to neighborhood favorite for drink by my lonesome. Bouncer’s hot.
Midnight: Drink by my lonesome has somehow evolved into bouncing the bouncer. Turns out he is not just F-ing hot, but also hot F. Come thrice before I decide party is over.
1 a.m: Bouncer’s cool, too. Did not object when I said I wanted to sleep alone, just kissed me, saying I know where to find him. Guess his job makes him familiar with politely showing people the door, nothing personal. I fall asleep feeling all right.

DAY FOUR
8 a.m: Wake up, no nonsense.
8.15 a.m: Start working, no nonsense.
10 a.m: Want yoga break, but first, just a little nonsense. Check my secret identity mailbox, and pop, there’s BH again, wants to chat. We do. Now I’m free to touch myself.
11.30 a.m: Yoga, then lunch. Feel like self.
1 p.m: Workaholic mode.
5 p.m: Need something to eat before theatre. Decide to spoil myself with old favorite. As far as I can, I eat here before exposing myself to Midtown madness.
7 p.m: Embarrass myself by cleaning out handbag at restaurant, putting condoms on the counter. Don’t notice before eight pairs of eyes look at me as if I were a slut. F.U.C.K. 80 yr old woman next to me gives me comforting look, patting my hand and croaking “I wish I could be young again”. Whole counter crack up in laughter. You gotta love New York.
7.15 p.m: Hot Italian tourist slips me his check, saying “I shhiiiink ‘is juuurs”, which I gather means he thinks it’s mine. He’s wrong, I just paid, but take a look yet the same, noticing hand writing. Message says: “Want use an condoms? Mens room 3 minutes”. Guy has balls.
7.18 p.m: Why not? Sneak out to bathroom. Place has those nasty boxes in a row, but choosing the men’s was smart. No line, less of a risk being discovered.
7.42 p.m: Am so F-ing late. I hate Times Square. I hate tourists. And I say this with the passion of a person having consciously chosen NYC as THE place to live: IF YOU CAN’T WALK THE CITY, STAY THE F OUT OF IT! A woman even steps my toe, so heavily blood splatters, before she turns, smiling!“Sorry, I did not realize anyone was there”, she says. I feel like yelling “This is F-ING TIMES SQUARE, FOR F’S SAKE, DO YOU THINK YOU’RE ALONE?” Instead I say “Look where you put your feet, please”, no smile. She’ll tell her friends New Yorkers are rude, but what’s rude is F-ING STEPPING ON OUR FEET, LADY!
7.58 p.m: Made it.
10.45 p.m: Play over, so worth it. Crying, laughing, feeling cleansed. Call BH to ask if he feels like meeting right now, just the two of us. He can’t. Ah, never mind. Take the subway down to West 4th, want to walk home instead of changing to the F. I love to walk.
11.20 p.m: Even my hottest male friends complain they don’t know why it’s so hard to score women. This is why: Even the sluttiest only have so much time, and you’re not as creative as you think. On my way home, four guys try catcalling by Chris deBurgh. I always get that.
12.10 a.m: Home. Going to bed alone feels perfect, but I still need some self-loving to fall asleep. So much easier post O. Do not even think of calling X while I am at it.

DAY FIVE
10 a.m: Yoga. Love yoga. Am a smug bitch, but love the way my abs look because of it, too.
11.30 a.m: Online. Nothing from WH, BH wants to chat. Don’t have the time, but ask if he is ready to meet, say I want buddy there, too. He says tonight. He’ll e-mail me when and where.
11.35 a.m: Quick self-loving. V. quick.
Noon: Lunch, then theatre with GFs.
4 p.m: Play over, was great. Made me think of where I could have been in ten years: An exhausted wife and mother letting others push her around. Buy a smoothie of the street and decide to walk east to avoid TS. Let GFs loose as X calls. I tell him about the play, and before I’ve even gotten to real life comparison, he says “It wouldn’t have been like that, it would have been a new adventure”. I put the phone down and throw up on a street corner.
4.07 p.m: X back on phone, asks me what happened. It must have been the smoothie, tasted great, but stomach’s been uneasy a few days. He says he hopes I’m not coming down with the flu. I should drink some ginger tea and go to bed. Good idea. I promise to call later.
5 p.m: Starbucks, buying ginger tea and staring at X’s splitting image. Only some 20 years younger. Doppelganger notices and comes over. I explain. Say he is so much like my ex he could have been his son. Idea makes stomach turn again. DG laughs, telling me his age. Quick calculation. Possible, not likely. I say nonchalantly I hope his mother did not spend time in X’s home state approx. 24 years ago. He says she was here, and his siblings look just like him and his father. I relax and laugh. He asks me if I want to meet tonight, a friend is doing slam poetry. I say I may. Go home to sleep. Nothing from online hotties.
10 p.m: Awake. I might as well go to poetry club.
10.30 p.m: Great poetry, mostly sexual. Love this place, but haven’t been here for a long time. DG buys me a glass of wine, then drags a finger along my cleavage, asking me about the baby father. What? He says he doesn’t get why I came to see him when I am so obviously pregnant. WTF! I’m down to a size 4! Abs are flatter than ever! I am NOT pregnant and have NOT been so offended in my LIFE! Excuse including words “small frame”, “full breasts” and “looking real” doesn’t improve mood. I leave DG by counter to finish drink standing by wall.
Midnight: Burlesque. Great fun. They’re doing a tribute to Janis Joplin. I love Janis Joplin.
2 a.m: Show over, tired. Tall white in suit jacket insists on following me to my door. He says I live in a dangerous neighborhood. Oh, please. This is such a cliché.
2.20 a.m: Of course, suit jacket tries to kiss me in my street. I tell him my man is waiting upstairs. He does not seem insulted when I tell him he can catch a cab at the Bowery. I suppose he is an Uptown Uptight and do not know.
2.30 a.m: Call X and tell him about my night. He laughs. I say I love him. He says he loves me too, and we both cry.

DAY SIX
Non-sexual day with friends. I have such a great time I even forget about calling White Hottie.

DAY SEVEN
8 a.m: Workaholic mode.
11 a.m: Yoga break. Make it a double for skipping it yesterday.
1.30 p.m: Out of shower, checking e-mail. Mail from X in standard mailbox. I can’t bring myself to read it right now. Secret mailbox contains lame excuse from BH. I guess he is a fake. Nothing from WH. I guess he thinks I am fake, but send a “sorry I didn’t call” message. Then CL, see if there is any promising. There is. Duo looking great.
2 p.m: Still no lunch, busy e-mailing CL guy. Out-of-towner at Midtown hotel, buddy at work but available around four. Perfect. No risk of running into anyone I know. He asks if I can be there 03.30, see how we all feel together. I agree, log off, call Best Gay Friend telling him I am meeting a guy and am on my way to the 6 within the hour. BGF is my security guy if meeting people off the net.
2.50 p.m: Train. Eat a pizza slice on the sly, fully aware I am breaking a rule. Naughty girl.
3.35 p.m: Hotel bar, almost on time. Don’t see the duo, though. Only man is on the phone. Middle age, fat, not much taller than self. Hookups should be tall and fit. Guess I have to wait.
3.38 p.m: Low fat approaches, gives me his hand and introduces himself with e-mail name. He knows who I am, I look like my pictures. He has never looked like his. Before I can say so, he tells me he is “so sorry, but Mark can’t make it”. He claims they just got off the phone, something came up at the office. B-shit. There is no Mark. The photo e-mailed to me does not show this guy or a friend of his. I don’t want to make a scene in public, so I lower my voice, telling him I signed up for something very specific, and that he is not it. Then I leave.
4.48 p.m: Text BGF, tell him meeting is off.
5.25 p.m: Getting out at Canal. Plenty of missed calls. BGF and X. BGF is hysterical. Didn’t get my text, I haven’t heard him call. Oh, subway. I try to calm him, explaining. Decide he now needs yoga as much as me. I’ll treat him to a studio class and some drinks after.
8.30 p.m: Class over. Male teacher. BGF asks me if we can postpone drinks, he wants to hit on instructor. I declare he deserves it, kiss him, and go home. Suddenly tired.
9 p.m: X calls as I am walking home. He’s been trying earlier too, he says. I say I’ve been crazy busy. He asks if I’ve had sex. I won’t lie to him, but tell him not today. He sighs, says he still loves me and wants to marry me. I say I love him too and that he is the best. He cries. I want to cry too, but am outside and have to keep myself together.
9.30 p.m: Home. Read e-mail from X. It says “Call me, I love you”. I cry. Then decide to devote the rest of the evening to my most grandmotherly pleasures. Crossword, then vibrator.
10.20 p.m: Even the crossword is sexual today. 97 across asks for “what the ideal husband should be”. Letters three and four are both L’s, and I immediately come up with “well endowed”. Does not match. Evening project part two ensues. Need it, shall I be able to sleep.

TOTALS: Approx. 35 sessions of intercourse with four partners (three males, one female), approx. 110 orgasms with four real life partners and one online partner, one act of threesome, approx. 14 acts of eating or being eaten out, four acts of butt play (two receiving/two giving), ten acts of making out/almost making out in public/semipublic with seven partners, two acts of cybersex with one partner, one act of masturbation with vibrator, three acts of masturbation without vibrator, three sentimental phone calls with X. Twelve hours of yoga in attempts to calm mind, only about half succeeding. Zero acts of accepting proposals and one act of creative tittyfucking, plus at least ten minutes spent trying to solve this mathematics puzzle.