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.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
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!!!
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
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?
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?
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Monday, June 8, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Pre-posting the Sex Diary: Diary from another, random day
Ok, it’s not that random, really. It was Day Eight of the Sex Diary I submitted to Daily Intel. Maths have never been my forte and I named two different days as Day Four, finishing the account of the whole week plus before I discovered. What can I say… I have other strengths.
So now I am posting this. We can call it an appetizer to tomorrow's Sex-Diary-in-full posting. Or a dessert, as it really should be, as it is chronologically coming after the main entree.
DAY EIGHT:
8 a.m: Wake up and start working.
1.30 p.m: Yoga/lunch break over. The weather is too nice to sit inside, and I take my laptop out to work there. It’s not efficient. It’s one of those days when people won’t leave me alone. Strangers shower me with compliments. Hot men bring me coffee. Tourists take their picture with me. A Florida Latino in his early twenties even has the balls to jump all over me and kiss me while we’re being photographed, without as much as asking if I am ok with it. I get mad and yell at him, then think “never mind, boy’s got guts, and it’s not worth my time”. I refuse to give him my e-mail for him to “send me the picture”, though, and I warn him that other women would have hit him over the head. He smiles sheepishly and says it was “totally worth it”. And so the day goes.
4 p.m: A Chinatown kid wants a hug and says “buti”. I am shocked that a two-year old knows the word “booty” until I realize he means to say “beauty”. I overcompensate by answering “and you are a cutie pie”. His mother does not understand enough English to make that one out, and I feel like an idiot. V. glad X didn’t see me now, as I know what he would have said. For myself, I am not so sure I’d “make a great mother”. I consider one of my points proven, though: I def. would not have been able to get much done should I have spent the day with kids. I work the best when I am left to myself.
5 p.m: Happy hour and I am hungry already. Haven’t eaten any fruit today, as I usually do between lunch and dinner. So I decide to put my laptop down, and I treat myself to a glass of rosé and a tuna steak on sidewalk café. Attention galore continues. After eating, I want to keep sitting, watching people without really talking to anyone. But I feel drunk after just those two glasses of wine, and these passersby don’t stop talking to me. So I pick up my crossword. Good idea. Ain’t drunk if you can do the crossword!
6 p.m: Realize my crossword is full of mistakes.
8 p.m: Back home with laptop, incapable of understanding how I can feel intoxicated after just a couple of glasses. I then decide evening is too young to call it a night anyway. I know I’ll start thinking of X if I stay at home. I don’t want to feel sad. So I take the subway uptown, deciding to catch some Harlem jazz. Love jazz.
10 p.m: Great jazz. Love this club.
11 p.m: Am making a new friend, a singer living nearby. She won’t sing tonight, though. We share stories, talk about music and the danger in living close to where one likes to hang. I tell her my bouncer story and admit I want to go back there to hook up with him again, and she laughs, responding “we’ve all been there”. Still, she looks sort of resigned when man after man approaches me and ignores her. Sure, anyone can accuse me of having a black man fetish, but honestly? A single white woman in a black club, looking all right, gets a whole lot more attention than she should have. My new friend is at least as good-looking as me, maybe even more so. She’s got one of these classic beauty faces, but with a white woman next to her? No one notices.
1.30 a.m: Concert over. One of the musicians offers me a ride home. He’s not drinking, and his car is just around the corner. My new girlfriend shakes her head and points her finger to me, laughing. I ape the gesture, but I still accept. Why not? I like him, we’ve already been talking a lot during his breaks.
2 a.m: Stop at diner, talking and laughing and getting a bite. I like this man, but in diner light, I can see he is too old for me.
2.30: Diner bathroom. I just got my period. Ah, never mind. One night stands on the period? Not very polite.
3 a.m: Back in car, driving across Times Square. “I bet you’ve never seen it like this”, he says. He is right, it’s empty. Strange feeling. It feels like a parallel universe. New York without a single New Yorker. Not even a tourist. My body, all of a sudden, turns cold. No people. Is this what the apocalypse looks like? Jazz musician doesn’t notice, keeps talking. After half a minute, I shake it off, continue the conversation. Man’s funny, makes me laugh.
4 a.m: Making out in car, outside my building. This is getting silly. I tell him. He laughs and keeps kissing me, craving my mouth with his, feeling up my breasts. He’s got these big amazing hands. Musician hands, muscular fingers, sensitive palms. I have been with too many jazz musicians already, but they’ve all been amazing lovers. I think about the trumpeter and his tongue. The guitarist and his hands. The saxophonist, oh-so-good with both hands and tongue. The drummer and his never failing rhythm, that cock! The singer, so curious, exploring, so young. And that bass player, going steady, and then suddenly surprising me by adding new tunes to the repertoire… This one feels great too. He’s a marvelous kisser, and he’s managed to open my bra without putting his hand inside my top. V. nice. I like it, I love it, and I know he can feel I do, but I don’t want to take him up. Not tonight. He’s too old for me and I feel tired. My period I have forgotten about. His moves turn me on, and I can tell there’s a great cock inside of those pants. It salutes me through the fabric, and I love a big cock. For a second, I consider giving him a BJ in the car. Then I remember I am outside my own building in my own street and that any one of my neighbors can see us. So I lie. I tell him I’m a tourist, staying with friends, and that I can’t bring up a man because I’m sleeping on their living room couch. He understands and tells me he’ll look me up if he ever gets to my native country. Feel slightly bad about myself, and then suddenly remember about my period. I could have just told him I got it at the diner. True excuse, no need for lies. But it's too late now.
4.30 a.m: Hits bed alone. Oh, I really need my sleep now.
So now I am posting this. We can call it an appetizer to tomorrow's Sex-Diary-in-full posting. Or a dessert, as it really should be, as it is chronologically coming after the main entree.
DAY EIGHT:
8 a.m: Wake up and start working.
1.30 p.m: Yoga/lunch break over. The weather is too nice to sit inside, and I take my laptop out to work there. It’s not efficient. It’s one of those days when people won’t leave me alone. Strangers shower me with compliments. Hot men bring me coffee. Tourists take their picture with me. A Florida Latino in his early twenties even has the balls to jump all over me and kiss me while we’re being photographed, without as much as asking if I am ok with it. I get mad and yell at him, then think “never mind, boy’s got guts, and it’s not worth my time”. I refuse to give him my e-mail for him to “send me the picture”, though, and I warn him that other women would have hit him over the head. He smiles sheepishly and says it was “totally worth it”. And so the day goes.
4 p.m: A Chinatown kid wants a hug and says “buti”. I am shocked that a two-year old knows the word “booty” until I realize he means to say “beauty”. I overcompensate by answering “and you are a cutie pie”. His mother does not understand enough English to make that one out, and I feel like an idiot. V. glad X didn’t see me now, as I know what he would have said. For myself, I am not so sure I’d “make a great mother”. I consider one of my points proven, though: I def. would not have been able to get much done should I have spent the day with kids. I work the best when I am left to myself.
5 p.m: Happy hour and I am hungry already. Haven’t eaten any fruit today, as I usually do between lunch and dinner. So I decide to put my laptop down, and I treat myself to a glass of rosé and a tuna steak on sidewalk café. Attention galore continues. After eating, I want to keep sitting, watching people without really talking to anyone. But I feel drunk after just those two glasses of wine, and these passersby don’t stop talking to me. So I pick up my crossword. Good idea. Ain’t drunk if you can do the crossword!
6 p.m: Realize my crossword is full of mistakes.
8 p.m: Back home with laptop, incapable of understanding how I can feel intoxicated after just a couple of glasses. I then decide evening is too young to call it a night anyway. I know I’ll start thinking of X if I stay at home. I don’t want to feel sad. So I take the subway uptown, deciding to catch some Harlem jazz. Love jazz.
10 p.m: Great jazz. Love this club.
11 p.m: Am making a new friend, a singer living nearby. She won’t sing tonight, though. We share stories, talk about music and the danger in living close to where one likes to hang. I tell her my bouncer story and admit I want to go back there to hook up with him again, and she laughs, responding “we’ve all been there”. Still, she looks sort of resigned when man after man approaches me and ignores her. Sure, anyone can accuse me of having a black man fetish, but honestly? A single white woman in a black club, looking all right, gets a whole lot more attention than she should have. My new friend is at least as good-looking as me, maybe even more so. She’s got one of these classic beauty faces, but with a white woman next to her? No one notices.
1.30 a.m: Concert over. One of the musicians offers me a ride home. He’s not drinking, and his car is just around the corner. My new girlfriend shakes her head and points her finger to me, laughing. I ape the gesture, but I still accept. Why not? I like him, we’ve already been talking a lot during his breaks.
2 a.m: Stop at diner, talking and laughing and getting a bite. I like this man, but in diner light, I can see he is too old for me.
2.30: Diner bathroom. I just got my period. Ah, never mind. One night stands on the period? Not very polite.
3 a.m: Back in car, driving across Times Square. “I bet you’ve never seen it like this”, he says. He is right, it’s empty. Strange feeling. It feels like a parallel universe. New York without a single New Yorker. Not even a tourist. My body, all of a sudden, turns cold. No people. Is this what the apocalypse looks like? Jazz musician doesn’t notice, keeps talking. After half a minute, I shake it off, continue the conversation. Man’s funny, makes me laugh.
4 a.m: Making out in car, outside my building. This is getting silly. I tell him. He laughs and keeps kissing me, craving my mouth with his, feeling up my breasts. He’s got these big amazing hands. Musician hands, muscular fingers, sensitive palms. I have been with too many jazz musicians already, but they’ve all been amazing lovers. I think about the trumpeter and his tongue. The guitarist and his hands. The saxophonist, oh-so-good with both hands and tongue. The drummer and his never failing rhythm, that cock! The singer, so curious, exploring, so young. And that bass player, going steady, and then suddenly surprising me by adding new tunes to the repertoire… This one feels great too. He’s a marvelous kisser, and he’s managed to open my bra without putting his hand inside my top. V. nice. I like it, I love it, and I know he can feel I do, but I don’t want to take him up. Not tonight. He’s too old for me and I feel tired. My period I have forgotten about. His moves turn me on, and I can tell there’s a great cock inside of those pants. It salutes me through the fabric, and I love a big cock. For a second, I consider giving him a BJ in the car. Then I remember I am outside my own building in my own street and that any one of my neighbors can see us. So I lie. I tell him I’m a tourist, staying with friends, and that I can’t bring up a man because I’m sleeping on their living room couch. He understands and tells me he’ll look me up if he ever gets to my native country. Feel slightly bad about myself, and then suddenly remember about my period. I could have just told him I got it at the diner. True excuse, no need for lies. But it's too late now.
4.30 a.m: Hits bed alone. Oh, I really need my sleep now.
Friday, June 5, 2009
The best fuck ever
Ok, I am not THAT sure this was SO over-the-top-so-fucking-amazing-no-other-fuck-tops-it, because I have had like a million more as great sessions with the very same man, but still, this is the one that tops the list of most-relived-for-the-purpose-of-masturbation – especially during those long days & weeks when said man was not present and masturbation was all there was…
As said man is no longer going to be present in my life at all, I guess I should just write it all out and put it out there, get done with it and move on. I don’t need masturbation material as much for now anyway, as I am getting my action in the company of others for the time being.
But this is what made me enter a long distance relationship to begin with. An idea I would have objected to most strongly before I did – I need my sex a lot more frequent than LDRs allow. He wanted monogamy, and that made me doubt even more if I could make it. But he made me commit anyway. Right there, right then. That’s how hard I fell. That’s how great he was in bed. (That is, too, how great he is as a person, but that part I do not want to think about, not for now, not ever again, so that part, I leave out of this on purpose.)
I met him in his home state, but not his home town. A bigger city, a city I actually like. A liberal city, a walking city, a coastal city, a city in which tolerance is more than just a word and people are living their lives the way they want to. Quite a lot like NYC, come to think of it. Just with a more relaxed vibe, which is, of course, what makes this place such a great place for a vacation. That was why I was there - a weeklong vacation by my lonesome. I deserved it, having worked hard for a long long time before it. (And yes, I do vacations by my lonesome, and I don't find it sad for a second. Most of my girlfriends are married or in relationships, and I’d rather travel alone than not travel at all. I am fiercely independent and I sometimes have even more fun by myself than I have with my friends – mostly, I suspect, because I never stay alone for long however alone I travel.) This particular week in that particular city I enjoyed myself immensely. And then, one of the last days, I met him.
I was in a bar, sometime afternoon, happy hour time. It felt like a happy hour, too. I had eaten this great amazing lunch and couldn’t keep from smiling from the memory of all those fresh, full tastes in my mouth. I drank my drink slowly not to wash all those tastes away. This was a great bar. Downstairs, a long counter where people bought their drinks and could hang, but not sit. Upstairs, a mezzanine with a lounge, people sitting on oversized couches talking. I was, like I said, alone. So I didn’t sit down, just stood by the edge of that mezzanine, overlooking the bar. I was watching the bar and the people downstairs, sipping my drink, when he came walking up the stairs. I saw him immediately. Handsome, I thought. ”That man is a fine man”. He, watching his hands full of drinks, for himself and his table, didn’t look up at first. He was halfway up the stairs before he did. He saw me too, and that second, something happened. I don’t really want to admit to this – I don’t believe in love at first sight, I think it’s just an excuse for those too shy to admit to lust at first sight – but that very same second I went from thinking ”that man is fine” to thinking ”that man is mine”.
Just a few hours later, he was. He came straight towards me from those stairs, not even bothering to put down those drinks at the table with his friends first. He put them down right beside me at the floor, giving me his hand and introducing himself. He asked if I were alone and if I wanted to join them. I said yes to both, and we spent the next couple of hours talking. I don’t want to say anything about what we talked about or how it felt – it goes with that ”rather not think about how great he is, I want to move on” theme. But I have no problem telling you that I took him to my hotel that very night. Early in the night, after having embarrassed ourselves by making out heavily in that bar, so eagerly needy we forgot where we were or that we were not alone until one of his friends tapped my shoulder suggesting we should move on to someplace else before moving on to something else. We left that very minute, my man hurrying me down the street, even offering to carry me – my heels kept getting stuck between the cobblestones and I couldn’t keep the pace he wanted. We were only a five minute walk from my hotel, but it still took us a good 15 minutes to get there, because we had to stop underway, kissing and touching and coming close to fucking on a bridge, until we remembered where we were going and that we should move on.
He let go of my hand when we entered the hotel reception, following one polite little step behind me into the elevator. In it, he jumped me, wildly dragging my top down, licking my breasts. I still have no idea if that elevator was supervised by cameras, but neither of us bothered. I had my top around my midriff, his hand inside my pants and his mouth around one nipple when the elevator doors opened, only some seven-eight paces from my hotel room door. He opened the zipper of my pants as I unlocked the door, before we both fell directly onto the bed, me kicking the door into lock as he dragged the rest of my clothes off. He didn’t take the time to undress himself, just opened his pants and pulled them down with his boxers before entering me. The perfect cock, hard pressure, a piece of his shirt hanging on to it and inside of me. We both came within a minute or two. Laughing, we continued the undressing, moving on to slower caresses, me licking those fabulous chest muscles of his, before he went down on me, giving me another kind of orgasm than the one I just had. As I started moaning, he was ready for another go, too. And that was when it really started.
He fucked me for hours. He stayed hard for hours. Of course, he came, too, several times. Once, after I had come so strongly he had no chance to pull out of me, me shivering so hard, my thighs around his back, he wouldn’t have made it without ruining his back. He is a strong man, a very strong man, but I am a lot stronger than I look, too, and when I have that particular kind of orgasm – I call them my earthquake orgasms, though I suspect they have some kind of medical name including the term ”womb”, as they go from it and all the way through my body – I become a whole lot stronger than you would deem possible. Whenever that happens, it’s beyond me, some force just takes over my body. Besides, what man would want to pull out, when a woman shivers and squeezes him like that, so uncontrollably animalistic? I don’t come like that every single time, but when I do, there is no man in the world who can resist it. This one came hard, too, emptying himself inside of me, against what we had agreed on. Afterwards he said he didn’t know if he should apologize or thank me for it. He came a great deal more times after that. On my stomach. In my mouth. On my back and over my ass. Inside me, too, we figured if anything could happen, it already had. But mostly he just let me come, holding himself back, enjoying the looks and sounds and smells of my pleasure, teasing me to come yet another time and yet another. I think he fucked me a total of eight to twelve times that night. I can’t tell for sure, that whole night seems like one continual fuck when I think of it.
But there is one fuck I’m never forgetting, and that, too, happened that night. There was that one time surpassing what I imagined possible until it actually happened. That was him fucking me while I was hanging midair, held over one of his arms. He had started it by doing me doggy-style. It didn’t work that well. We were both kneeling on the bed. He is a tall man, I am a petite woman. We were both standing on our knees on the same mattress, the same height, and my legs were spread a bit too wide and his a bit too gathered. I do yoga, I do lots of yoga and I am good at yoga, but I had to stretch beyond comfortable even for me, to keep that position up. I told him I wanted to put a pillow or two under my knees to enjoy it more, or I’d have to switch positions. He replied by standing up on his knees, lifting me, one arm between my breasts, elbow by my midriff, the other arm supporting himself against the wall. All erect. He didn’t skip a beat. And he was able to fuck me even deeper than he had in that standard doggy position. I was hanging in the air, my whole body horizontal, my legs behind him and my upper body in front of him. I had no control at all. I just had to keep breathing, trying to balance, and otherwise give it all up to him, trusting him to hold on to me, trusting him to keep fucking me and keep himself from slipping. And, as I said, he didn’t skip a beat. That orgasm was mind-blowing. I’ve never felt so strong or so vulnerable, so much in control and so much without it at the same time. We both fell down to the bed after it, his come all over my ass and my back, him stroking both ours sweat off me and me telling him exactly how awesome I thought he was. Laughingly, he said he already knew, and that he’d often imagined, but never tried doing that thing with another woman. ”We’re awesome”, he said, kissing me in a way that told me he was, even after this, close to being able to give it another go.
We spent the rest of my vacation together. During it, I agreed to give monogamy a shot. I fell in love, and I figured there could be no other man like this in the world.
I would like someone, someday, to prove me wrong.
As said man is no longer going to be present in my life at all, I guess I should just write it all out and put it out there, get done with it and move on. I don’t need masturbation material as much for now anyway, as I am getting my action in the company of others for the time being.
But this is what made me enter a long distance relationship to begin with. An idea I would have objected to most strongly before I did – I need my sex a lot more frequent than LDRs allow. He wanted monogamy, and that made me doubt even more if I could make it. But he made me commit anyway. Right there, right then. That’s how hard I fell. That’s how great he was in bed. (That is, too, how great he is as a person, but that part I do not want to think about, not for now, not ever again, so that part, I leave out of this on purpose.)
I met him in his home state, but not his home town. A bigger city, a city I actually like. A liberal city, a walking city, a coastal city, a city in which tolerance is more than just a word and people are living their lives the way they want to. Quite a lot like NYC, come to think of it. Just with a more relaxed vibe, which is, of course, what makes this place such a great place for a vacation. That was why I was there - a weeklong vacation by my lonesome. I deserved it, having worked hard for a long long time before it. (And yes, I do vacations by my lonesome, and I don't find it sad for a second. Most of my girlfriends are married or in relationships, and I’d rather travel alone than not travel at all. I am fiercely independent and I sometimes have even more fun by myself than I have with my friends – mostly, I suspect, because I never stay alone for long however alone I travel.) This particular week in that particular city I enjoyed myself immensely. And then, one of the last days, I met him.
I was in a bar, sometime afternoon, happy hour time. It felt like a happy hour, too. I had eaten this great amazing lunch and couldn’t keep from smiling from the memory of all those fresh, full tastes in my mouth. I drank my drink slowly not to wash all those tastes away. This was a great bar. Downstairs, a long counter where people bought their drinks and could hang, but not sit. Upstairs, a mezzanine with a lounge, people sitting on oversized couches talking. I was, like I said, alone. So I didn’t sit down, just stood by the edge of that mezzanine, overlooking the bar. I was watching the bar and the people downstairs, sipping my drink, when he came walking up the stairs. I saw him immediately. Handsome, I thought. ”That man is a fine man”. He, watching his hands full of drinks, for himself and his table, didn’t look up at first. He was halfway up the stairs before he did. He saw me too, and that second, something happened. I don’t really want to admit to this – I don’t believe in love at first sight, I think it’s just an excuse for those too shy to admit to lust at first sight – but that very same second I went from thinking ”that man is fine” to thinking ”that man is mine”.
Just a few hours later, he was. He came straight towards me from those stairs, not even bothering to put down those drinks at the table with his friends first. He put them down right beside me at the floor, giving me his hand and introducing himself. He asked if I were alone and if I wanted to join them. I said yes to both, and we spent the next couple of hours talking. I don’t want to say anything about what we talked about or how it felt – it goes with that ”rather not think about how great he is, I want to move on” theme. But I have no problem telling you that I took him to my hotel that very night. Early in the night, after having embarrassed ourselves by making out heavily in that bar, so eagerly needy we forgot where we were or that we were not alone until one of his friends tapped my shoulder suggesting we should move on to someplace else before moving on to something else. We left that very minute, my man hurrying me down the street, even offering to carry me – my heels kept getting stuck between the cobblestones and I couldn’t keep the pace he wanted. We were only a five minute walk from my hotel, but it still took us a good 15 minutes to get there, because we had to stop underway, kissing and touching and coming close to fucking on a bridge, until we remembered where we were going and that we should move on.
He let go of my hand when we entered the hotel reception, following one polite little step behind me into the elevator. In it, he jumped me, wildly dragging my top down, licking my breasts. I still have no idea if that elevator was supervised by cameras, but neither of us bothered. I had my top around my midriff, his hand inside my pants and his mouth around one nipple when the elevator doors opened, only some seven-eight paces from my hotel room door. He opened the zipper of my pants as I unlocked the door, before we both fell directly onto the bed, me kicking the door into lock as he dragged the rest of my clothes off. He didn’t take the time to undress himself, just opened his pants and pulled them down with his boxers before entering me. The perfect cock, hard pressure, a piece of his shirt hanging on to it and inside of me. We both came within a minute or two. Laughing, we continued the undressing, moving on to slower caresses, me licking those fabulous chest muscles of his, before he went down on me, giving me another kind of orgasm than the one I just had. As I started moaning, he was ready for another go, too. And that was when it really started.
He fucked me for hours. He stayed hard for hours. Of course, he came, too, several times. Once, after I had come so strongly he had no chance to pull out of me, me shivering so hard, my thighs around his back, he wouldn’t have made it without ruining his back. He is a strong man, a very strong man, but I am a lot stronger than I look, too, and when I have that particular kind of orgasm – I call them my earthquake orgasms, though I suspect they have some kind of medical name including the term ”womb”, as they go from it and all the way through my body – I become a whole lot stronger than you would deem possible. Whenever that happens, it’s beyond me, some force just takes over my body. Besides, what man would want to pull out, when a woman shivers and squeezes him like that, so uncontrollably animalistic? I don’t come like that every single time, but when I do, there is no man in the world who can resist it. This one came hard, too, emptying himself inside of me, against what we had agreed on. Afterwards he said he didn’t know if he should apologize or thank me for it. He came a great deal more times after that. On my stomach. In my mouth. On my back and over my ass. Inside me, too, we figured if anything could happen, it already had. But mostly he just let me come, holding himself back, enjoying the looks and sounds and smells of my pleasure, teasing me to come yet another time and yet another. I think he fucked me a total of eight to twelve times that night. I can’t tell for sure, that whole night seems like one continual fuck when I think of it.
But there is one fuck I’m never forgetting, and that, too, happened that night. There was that one time surpassing what I imagined possible until it actually happened. That was him fucking me while I was hanging midair, held over one of his arms. He had started it by doing me doggy-style. It didn’t work that well. We were both kneeling on the bed. He is a tall man, I am a petite woman. We were both standing on our knees on the same mattress, the same height, and my legs were spread a bit too wide and his a bit too gathered. I do yoga, I do lots of yoga and I am good at yoga, but I had to stretch beyond comfortable even for me, to keep that position up. I told him I wanted to put a pillow or two under my knees to enjoy it more, or I’d have to switch positions. He replied by standing up on his knees, lifting me, one arm between my breasts, elbow by my midriff, the other arm supporting himself against the wall. All erect. He didn’t skip a beat. And he was able to fuck me even deeper than he had in that standard doggy position. I was hanging in the air, my whole body horizontal, my legs behind him and my upper body in front of him. I had no control at all. I just had to keep breathing, trying to balance, and otherwise give it all up to him, trusting him to hold on to me, trusting him to keep fucking me and keep himself from slipping. And, as I said, he didn’t skip a beat. That orgasm was mind-blowing. I’ve never felt so strong or so vulnerable, so much in control and so much without it at the same time. We both fell down to the bed after it, his come all over my ass and my back, him stroking both ours sweat off me and me telling him exactly how awesome I thought he was. Laughingly, he said he already knew, and that he’d often imagined, but never tried doing that thing with another woman. ”We’re awesome”, he said, kissing me in a way that told me he was, even after this, close to being able to give it another go.
We spent the rest of my vacation together. During it, I agreed to give monogamy a shot. I fell in love, and I figured there could be no other man like this in the world.
I would like someone, someday, to prove me wrong.
Why can't the idiots leave NYC because of "the recession"????
Some women are idiots. Lots of men are idiots, too, but let me tear these women apart first, because today, they’re who provoke me the most. I read this article in NYMag’s Daily Intel just now. It annoyed me so much I temporarily lost the ability to spell.
It deals with dating during the recession. And ”deals” seems to be the word. Certain women are complaining men can’t afford to take them on dates. Certain men are complaining women won’t date them because they can’t afford "real" dates. All those ”best things in life are free” stuff aside (what’s WRONG with a walk on Brooklyn Bridge and/or some happy hour drinks?) what made me the most mad was not these people’s lack of creativity, but their stuffed up ideas on what a date should be AND what a man should pay for AND what a woman ”deserves” for accepting to give him a portion of her time (as if he doesn’t have to spend time with her and her fucked up ideas of the whole dating ”business” too). Of course, the real reason I’m really so freakin’ mad right now, is that this is too very telling of what they think about what kind of balance their (STILL POTENTIAL!) relationship should have later on. I know I’m not exactly at my most balanced myself for the time being, just having broken up with the love of my life for not wanting to give up my career, but still: WHAT IS WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE? WHAT THE F ARE THEY THINKING?
Why, oh why, should the most important part of a date be to compare bank accounts? What happened to meeting people to get to know them, see if you feel attracted to them, see if you have fun with them, and, most importantly, see if you want to drag them somewhere private IMMEDIATELY RIGHT THIS SECOND and fuck them like crazy? Seriously – are you planning to be a stay-at-home-Mom before you even know if working-overtime-Dad can get it up???? These people sort of confirm the old idea that the most idiotic of women only want one thing for themselves: To bear so many children they can be sure to pass idiocy on to new generations.
One of the women in this article puts it this way: If he can't afford to take her to lunch (“nothing fancy, just a casual place to sit and get to know each other”) he probably shouldn't be dating. ”He shouldn't bring someone in his life if he can barely take care of himself," she said. SERIOUSLY: SHE should not be dating if finding a man TO TAKE CARE OF HER is her objective. A woman who goes on a first date to find a man rich enough to keep her at home painting her nails does not need a date, but a more fun job for herself.
What’s talking next may be my Scandinavian upbringing, but I’ll say it yet the same: A woman is not adult until she can pay for herself AND take care of herself. A woman who is not adult should NOT be dating. Sure, it’s nice being treated. Sure, it’s great to see that a man is eager enough to see you he wants to give you a present or take you somewhere special or do something special for you or with you. Yes, it’s great feeling important to a man, and a nice date can give you that feeling. But that should come from the way he pays attention to you, NOT how much he spends while doing it. YOU, sister, are responsible for your own economy and taking care of yourself, and that goes whether you’re dating or in an actual relationship. The man’s ONE AND ONLY responsibility is taking care of himself. OK, should you decide to get married and have kids and see it necessary that one of you stays at home, blahblahblah and so on, the other has to make enough money to support the whole family. But ONE LITTLE DATE? Screw the whole thing, if what he has in his back pocket is more important to you than what’s between his pockets in the front.
Rant over.
It deals with dating during the recession. And ”deals” seems to be the word. Certain women are complaining men can’t afford to take them on dates. Certain men are complaining women won’t date them because they can’t afford "real" dates. All those ”best things in life are free” stuff aside (what’s WRONG with a walk on Brooklyn Bridge and/or some happy hour drinks?) what made me the most mad was not these people’s lack of creativity, but their stuffed up ideas on what a date should be AND what a man should pay for AND what a woman ”deserves” for accepting to give him a portion of her time (as if he doesn’t have to spend time with her and her fucked up ideas of the whole dating ”business” too). Of course, the real reason I’m really so freakin’ mad right now, is that this is too very telling of what they think about what kind of balance their (STILL POTENTIAL!) relationship should have later on. I know I’m not exactly at my most balanced myself for the time being, just having broken up with the love of my life for not wanting to give up my career, but still: WHAT IS WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE? WHAT THE F ARE THEY THINKING?
Why, oh why, should the most important part of a date be to compare bank accounts? What happened to meeting people to get to know them, see if you feel attracted to them, see if you have fun with them, and, most importantly, see if you want to drag them somewhere private IMMEDIATELY RIGHT THIS SECOND and fuck them like crazy? Seriously – are you planning to be a stay-at-home-Mom before you even know if working-overtime-Dad can get it up???? These people sort of confirm the old idea that the most idiotic of women only want one thing for themselves: To bear so many children they can be sure to pass idiocy on to new generations.
One of the women in this article puts it this way: If he can't afford to take her to lunch (“nothing fancy, just a casual place to sit and get to know each other”) he probably shouldn't be dating. ”He shouldn't bring someone in his life if he can barely take care of himself," she said. SERIOUSLY: SHE should not be dating if finding a man TO TAKE CARE OF HER is her objective. A woman who goes on a first date to find a man rich enough to keep her at home painting her nails does not need a date, but a more fun job for herself.
What’s talking next may be my Scandinavian upbringing, but I’ll say it yet the same: A woman is not adult until she can pay for herself AND take care of herself. A woman who is not adult should NOT be dating. Sure, it’s nice being treated. Sure, it’s great to see that a man is eager enough to see you he wants to give you a present or take you somewhere special or do something special for you or with you. Yes, it’s great feeling important to a man, and a nice date can give you that feeling. But that should come from the way he pays attention to you, NOT how much he spends while doing it. YOU, sister, are responsible for your own economy and taking care of yourself, and that goes whether you’re dating or in an actual relationship. The man’s ONE AND ONLY responsibility is taking care of himself. OK, should you decide to get married and have kids and see it necessary that one of you stays at home, blahblahblah and so on, the other has to make enough money to support the whole family. But ONE LITTLE DATE? Screw the whole thing, if what he has in his back pocket is more important to you than what’s between his pockets in the front.
Rant over.
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