The Kegel Priestess/Kegel Ninja

My fellow commenters on NYMag are nicknaming me the Kegel Priestess/the Kegel Ninja, because I never let an opportunity pass to recommend kegels. And why should I? Ladies and gentlemen, particularly ladies, this is what doing your kegel exercises do for you:

**First and foremost, it gives you a more flexible vagina. You can squeeze it tighter for a longer amount of time, feeling close, warm, tight and young for your lover, as well as opening up to a further degree, giving a looser and more relaxed feel to it (a good thing if your lover is on the bigger side and/or if you want to try fisting, and/or if you’re among those who feel pain during intercourse). In short, vaginal rejuvenation plus a more varied repertoire as a lover, for free and without the risks of going to a surgeon!
**A stronger libido, because you’ll become wet and ready quicker and easier than you’re used to. You’ll enjoy the in-and-out-movements more than you did before. (This feels great for your man too. Makes him feel like a wonderful lover, whether he is or not.)
**Stronger and more frequent orgasms, especially multiple orgasms, and I think, without being able to prove it scientifically, also an easier access to squirting orgasms. (See parenthesis above.)
**Easier and faster births, the experts say (by average, the pressure phase is an hour shorter for a woman whose muscles are trained, plus the risks for cuts/bruises/having to be stitched after are smaller) AND quicker recovery after birth.
**Greater bladder control.

HOW: There are three speed intervals you should be able to master. The quick one. The long-lasting one. And the one in between.
**For the quick speed: Tighten and relax the muscles in as quick a movement as you are physically able to. As if blinking with an eye. Repeat as many times as you want, or until you feel as if you want to/need to pee.
**Medium speed: Tighten the muscles. Keep the grip while counting to ten. Release and count to ten before repeating. Repeat at least 10-50 times (depending on how well-trained your muscles are. As your muscle strength increases, you increase the time interval to counting to 25. And then to 40. And then to 60/a minute.)
**Slow speed: Tighten the muscles for as long as you can take it. Then loosen up to relax. Do not repeat until later, say, the day after.
In either case, after every squeeze you should loosen up and relax for as long a time as you’ve kept your muscles together. If you’re not used to doing kegels, there’s no harm in relaxing for a bit longer than you’ve been tightening up, either.

Don’t know which muscles to squeeze? I call them, naturally, the kegel muscles. Some say the love muscles. The medical name is the pelvic floor. They’re located all the way around your vulva/vagina/anus and uterus. Those closest to the vag will be the first where you notice the exercises. If you want to control if you’re doing it right, you can to one out of two: Stop the flow by squeezing the muscles tight when peeing. Or stick a finger in and try to grip and release the grip around it (when NOT peeing). Naturally, I prefer the latter, but the former is the way most often recommended by gynecologists.

AN EVEN BETTER HOW: When you’re sure you’re in control, you can practice these same squeezes when fucking. Your man will feel the difference to your grip, varying between tight and soft, strong and mellow. I call it my “hug and squeeze maneuver”, or sometimes, my “hug and squeeze and milk maneuver”. I usually do it when on top (= the man can effortlessly lay back and enjoy it) and several of my lovers have told me the sensation is no less than sensational…

WHEN: Whenever. No one will notice you’re exercising these muscles. Unless, of course, you do it while having a male visitor inside. He won’t fail to notice, and he will celebrate you forever.

WHY: See above. What’s not to love? Kegels really are the answer to everything.

PS: Men can work out their pelvic muscles, too. It will give them greater control over their erections and ejaculations, allowing them to come sooner or later as they please. Also, that bladder control thing.

Right here beside me... Still missing it.

He's lying right next to me. I still haven't gotten any in almost a week. Five days. He's sick. I'm desperate. And I am reminded of two things: Being in a relationship is a good thing, for the access. And being in a relationship sucks. For having to stick with it.

You can't get it all, can you?

Small cock, big problem

I know I have been dissing Jamie Bufalino before. I am certain I will again. I have no idea how this man landed the title “sex expert” or the gig in Time Out.

Gay Dan Savage (of the Village Voice) knows multiple times more about female sexuality than Bufalino the Buffalo. That says something, I guess.

From this week’s column:

Q: I’m a hetero woman, and in the past few years I have played with a lot of men, but never had a relationship that extended outside the bedroom. I recently met a drop-dead handsome man with a fantastic body—just looking at him sets my loins on fire. He is great with his mouth and hands, and is a considerate boyfriend outside the bedroom. However, he has the smallest penis I have ever encountered. His erection is barely enough to penetrate me, and then once he’s inside, it’s all over in a couple of minutes. Some women like oral or being fingered; I just love a lengthy pounding with a rock-hard cock…and I’m not getting it. But despite his inability to deliver, I get horny just thinking about him. He gets my juices flowing in a way that no other man has. Should I break up with him now before I get too emotionally involved? I don’t want to give up the boyfriend experience as well as the unbridled lust he stirs in me. Will I eventually lose interest in him because of the less-than-stellar sex? We’re both in our late thirties.

A: I always love it when a sentence like “He gets my juices flowing in a way that no other man has” is immediately followed by “Should I break up with him?” Why in the name of all that’s holy would you preemptively end a solid relationship (not perfect, but solid) just because there’s the possibility (not a guarantee) of feeling a little more intense emotional pain somewhere down the road? Furthermore, why isn’t your question, “What can I do to recalibrate my thinking so that I’m not so focused on his puny dick , while being overly dismissive of how well-meaning he is?” (It really barely penetrates? I have to admit it’s hard for me to even get a mental picture of such a travesty.) Answer: practice, practice, practice. Presumably you’ve had more than your share of rock-hard cock-poundings during your life, and they’ve still left you single and searching. Instead of doing and feeling the same things over and over again (and getting the same result), why don’t you just let this thing play out? Don’t forget: You’re actually into being with him. At least wait until he drives you up the fucking wall before you trash what seems to be a pretty good thing. (End of quote.)

My (Lady In Red's) advice to the same woman:

First of all, don’t ever write to a less-than-stellar sex columnist again.

Second, do your kegels. As many of them as you possibly can. And when he’s inside of you, get on top and do the same thing. You’ll both feel more. Any position where you can squeeze your legs tight will also help you. Tried reverse cowgirl with your legs in a crossed position? Tried doggy with your legs crossed?

Third: Buy a vibrator. A big one. If you think your boyfriend is willing to play with it with you, introduce it to him. Have him fuck you with it. And if he is as small as you say, the vibe and the man will fit inside of you at the same time, increasing your pleasure, and probably his, too.

If you don’t think he’ll be up for it, if you think it’ll make him insecure, play with it when you’re alone. It’s not the same, I know, but at least you’ll get the feeling of being filled up without having to cheat. Don’t dump the guy because of his short-comings, not as long as he makes you feel the way he does. In that, JB is right: Let the relationship run its course.

But do, by all means, try to make up for it with hands and mouth and toys. It’ll make your sex life more satisfactory, and that, my friend, makes your life with this guy more satisfactory.

Also: Do you think there’s a chance he’ll be up for threesomes? With other men, I mean? Or if he’ll be willing to open up your relationship, emotionally monogamous, sexually open? If he is, you’ll get the sex you want without having to give up on the emotions.

As for talking to him about this: He knows he is small. (That’s why he is so great with his hands and mouth.) Mocking it will make him feel insecure. Talking to him about how to compensate for it, in a matter-of-fact-manner, shouldn’t come as a surprise to him. “I wonder if you’ve ever tried having sex with a vibrator”, “I wonder what you think about this or that position”, “I’d like to try ---- to feel you better” – these sentences shouldn’t take his confidence away.

PS: You all may think I mock JB too easily. But listen to this line: “Presumably you’ve had more than your share of rock-hard cock-poundings during your life, and they’ve still left you single and searching”.

What the F has her experience got to do with anything????? She mentions it to show that she doesn't fall in love that easily, and that sex (intercourse) is important to her. But JB interprets it as if she has already had “more than her share” of good fucking, and doesn’t deserve to get any more of it? Go fuck yourself, JB, because YOU don’t deserve to get any from any other person for a long, long time.

A woman taking responsibility for her own pleasure does indeed deserve the pleasure she wants. A woman whose priorities include a good fuck will not be truly happy without a good fuck. As a socalled sex expert, your responsibility should be coming up with suggestions on how to get it. NOT to come up with half-chewed hints that women liking it are sluts and selfish bitches.

No sex, please, they’re English

Normally, I oppose stereotypes with all my might. But sometimes, people seem eager to confirm the most parodic of them. Like now, when some British and French scientists discuss whether the G-spot exists. Presumably male scientists, I should say.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2010/jan/28/g-spot-france-sex-gynaecology

Hard as it is, I am going to let the Brit-French jokes lie for now. And the scientist jokes too. I find it a bit harder not to point out that The Guardian – a newspaper I normally consider to be brilliant – finds it appropriate to label this with the term “gynecology” (if you ask me, among the least sexy ten letters in the English dictionary, or eleven, as it’s apparently spelled in the Queen’s Country – with that A in it, it sounds even more medievally medical). But that wasn’t really what I was going to say either.

What I was going to say was this: How ON EARTH is it even possible to have this discussion? I understand how it’s possible to discuss whether God exists. Or Fate. Or love at first sight. Or Santa Claus, presuming you’re five years old. These are all abstracts. But how it’s possible to discuss whether the G-spot EXISTS, presuming you’re NOT five years old, I can’t for the life of me get a grasp on. How it’s NOT possible to find it?
I have often wondered, whenever overhearing this kind of discussion. There’s no doubt about where it is. I have never needed any kind of searching to find it. It’s just there. Exactly where it’s supposed to be. Working exactly the way it’s supposed to do. (And there’s another extra-sensitive spot in there too, more or less directly opposed to it, just a little further in. The latter, I think, is where squirting starts. Can’t really guarantee I am right about this – the liquid may come from even further within – but I think my theory is correct.) I don’t even need to be aroused to find it, though, of course, it’s more distinct when I am.

I may be a lucky woman. Men have told me I am. And certain Red-is-not-supposed-to-see-this-glance-exchanges between girlfriends tell me the same. But the girlfriends in question are mostly women whose self-images are not totally how they should be. These are women who’ve also told me, from time to time, that they feel uncomfortable naked. Who admit they’ve got troubles letting go and to be in the moment, when they have sex. I’ve always believed their troubles to be psychologically founded, and I have never for a second in my life imagined it to be physical. At least not in the have-or-have-not way of physical. (I admit that I have, from time to time, imagined it’s about the physics of their men.) But I mean, like one of the Guardian commenters say, if anyone had said that only some 60 % of women were in possession of other organs, like a liver or a heart or a set of lungs, they would have been ridiculed big time. It’s there. Just how it is. But still, apparently, there’s no “scientific” research concluding??? This baffles me. What does it say about science? And what does it say about everything we do not need science for? If a woman orgasms in the woods without a scientist to see, did the trees really move?

The abovementioned article, BTW, is not the only thing written in The Guardian about this. They’ve had a couple of more texts on the same subject. Among them, the following is actually quite sad, with this quote, unfortunately, coming from a woman: “I haven't a clue whether the G-spot exists, nor do I much care.”

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2010/jan/05/g-spot-women-study

Really? REALLY? I mean: REALLY?

Can anyone even imagine a discussion on whether male ejaculation is real or a myth? Or whether it matters if it is?

I didn’t think so.

A perfect day. Or two, actually...

Saturday morning the phone wakes me up. Brooklyn friends cancelling brunch, it’s too cold for them to want to take the baby out. When I discover just how cold, I’m glad they did. In this regard I have never been much of a Viking. So I get back to the bed, suggesting we’d stay inside the whole weekend for a change. "I’ve got an even better idea", he says, putting his hands around my wrists and pulling me underneath him. "Let’s stay in bed for the whole weekend".
I laugh. I’ve never stayed in bed for a full day straight unless I’ve been really unwell. For now, I feel great. And as he kisses me, I feel even better. Let’s do that, I agree. And so we do.

We don’t have sex for the whole time. We read the newspapers aloud to each other. We quote passages from favorite books. I do the crossword, he a Sudoku. We talk and laugh. We cuddle. We order in pizza. We take a nap. We only leave the bed to use the bathroom or to make coffee. We don’t use the TV, we don’t turn on the computers. Phones, we’ve turned off, too. Around six p.m I go restless. Sure, I've moved some. We’ve already had sex a couple of times, some three hours all in all. Some of it has been vigorous. But I still haven’t gotten my workout, and usually, I do an hour a day. He won’t let me leave the bed to do it, and he teases me.
"You can do it here. You can use me as your yoga mat, I’ll handle it", he says. And so I do. To begin with, I pretend to be doing the exercise for real. Playfully, I ignore his sighs as I put my full body weight on my hands on his back. I know it hurts, but not that much. Eventually, we get it on the way he meant it all along, his cock is inside of me, positions just slightly different from what they use to be when I do them solo for another purpose. We do doggy for upwards dog and I skip the warrior poses. The boat feels very interesting... In that angle, as well as some of the others, he helps supporting me so that I won’t do any damage. Keeping my breath is quite a challenge, though, and I give up on it after not that many minutes. The try-to-stick-to-the-poses attitude goes next, but I keep bending and stretching and trying out whether the regular poses can be translated into sex poses. Surprisingly many of them can.

After, he spoons me, and we cuddle some more. Telling each other silly little secrets. Joking and laughing. It’s a great day. And then Sunday’s the same. As we wake up Monday morning, ready for work, he says "We don’t always need to do something for it to do us good".

I think he is right.

Polluted

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

This is the poll for straight women:

How old are you?
33

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again, the lack of imagination! Enough said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

25 things about Lady in Red

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

17.) I fear pregnancy more than STDs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Truth in numbers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fucking busy (and vice versa)

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

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

Lately, the following have been among my encounters:

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

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

*A chef. Whose specialty was eating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am a moralist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

My PS, only posted here:

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

Personally and professionally, psychologically and physically you are ONE.

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

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

Carry on, baby

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pictorial pleasures

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

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

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

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

On bullshit & being a woman

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Easy like Sunday Morning

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Self-distraction at work

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

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

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

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

Be still, my heart

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The perfect cock

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, input, anyone?

On self-promotion and unfair accusations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life is short. Live it.

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.