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Amidst all my excitement about this summer and all the potential it carries, I have one nagging worry. I’m worried that my copious amounts of free time, most of which will probably be spent by myself, will put a strain on my relationship, that when she’s home I’ll be wanting to hang out while she may often have other things to do. Maybe this isn’t so much a worry as it is something to look out for and be mindful of this summer.
As it is right now, I do sometimes feel as though we don’t have enough together time. I work a lot of hours, take burlesque classes, volunteer on the crisis hotline, have family obligations once in a while and statistics homework to do, and have various appointments that sometimes inevitably take up evenings and weekends. She, meanwhile, has band practice generally one evening every week and one full day into the night every weekend, plus the occasional late evening at work or evening/weekend appointment. All this PLUS spending time with friends at least weekly means that … we really don’t have that much plain old hangout time. We spend a lot of time together, but it’s often just in that hour before bed when we pop in the latest disc from our Netflix queues, watch for a bit, and then have a quickie before going to sleep. It’s been even tougher lately with her new work schedule, which has her (and thus, often, me) getting up at 6:15am, rather than 7:35 as it used to be — a change which necessitates an earlier bedtime, obviously. But since my work schedule hasn’t changed (yet! ha!), and I’m still getting out of work at 6 or 6:30 on a good day, our evenings have been shortened.
And, to me, it doesn’t feel like enough. To me, it feels like our sex has stopped progressing — we do the tried and true, rather than the new and unknown. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, I realize — hell, we’re still having sex at least 3 times a week, usually 4-5, and it can’t always be new and unknown (nor would I want it to be! familiar is often exactly what I most desire). But it’s at a point now where I do feel like we don’t have the time to spend with each other working on our relationship. The time we spend together gets filled up with having our relationship — watching movies, fucking, cuddling, cooking/eating, giving each other footrubs, talking about our schedules, decompressing after our respective days, sleeping — because those are usually the most pressing wants. We want to relax after work, we really want to hear about each other’s days and all the things going on that are bothering us or exciting us. We want to zone out and watch movies and curl up together just feeling each other’s bodies. And we want to have sex, to connect physically, erotically.
But I think a lot of that stuff is very short-term gratification. It’s what we think we want to do right NOW because NOW I’m tired and want to relax and chat about regular stuff. It’s comfortable, and cozy. But to me, always indulging that immediate sense of relationship laziness starts to take a toll. Sexually, I start to feel like many of my more elaborate or scarier desires are slipping into the realm of “fantasy,” rather than the realm of “to do this weekend.” Other than sexually, I start to feel like the more we do the same things with our time together, the less able we are to do other things. So maybe this is about spontaneity — making sure we keep infusing the Regular with the New and Exciting. And this spontaneity has to be something that we work on together.
I’m not sure how to start bringing more of an Our Relationship Is a Project that We Work on Together mentality into our routine, especially because (1) we’re both so busy doing our own personal projects that we really love and that really fulfill us, and (2) I think the Project Relationship mentality is more of something I want than something she wants. She, I think, is perfectly happy to just go along the way we’ve been going along. She likes comfort and routine, and doesn’t like feeling like she has to work on yet another thing in her life. I, on the other hand, really like to have relationship check-ins, and to discuss what’s working and what isn’t, figure out how to fix what isn’t and congratulate each other for what is, and to set little goals, and to be intentional about things that we do. In fact I start to feel anxious and unsettled if we don’t do those things. And I know that because that’s not a high priority for her there will always be some give and take on that front. But it’s starting to feel more pressing for me lately.
To bring that back around to my worry about this summer, the worry I have, I guess, is mostly that I’ll have a whole lot more time to devote myself to our Relationship Project than she will (I mean, I’m hoping to write here every day, and oftentimes, even this is, in a way, part of our Relationship Project), and that that will start to build up in me as this tension that isn’t getting resolved because there just isn’t time.
(What’s a good balance, anyway? How can you find the spot between co-dependent and over-committed to other things? Is it better to spend a lot of time on our own things so that we’re whole complete individuals without needing the other to complete us? Or is it better to spend a lot of time on each other, so that we feel unity and affinity? So that these anxieties don’t surface? Clearly I think a balance is necessary, but what is that balance? And at what point do we have to start sacrificing one thing or the other in order to strike it?)
So, I think it’s good that I’ve identified this issue as something that might come up for me this summer. I still have enough time to work on coming up with ways to avoid that surfacing, and strategies for combatting it if it does. Like if I set goals for myself every day, enough to keep my on my toes and sufficiently busy, then that should help. Spending time actively out and about with other people will help, too. And I think I’d like to bring up with her the idea of committing to eat dinner together whenever possible, shutting off all our other projects at least an hour before we go to bed whenever possible, and identifying and scheduling Together time as separate from time we’re together but working on separate things, so that we can make sure we’re staying attentive to each other and our relationship. And I just need to remember, too, that it’s much more of a relationship Want, for me, to be intentionally thinking about this stuff than it is for her, and that that doesn’t mean she doesn’t care about the relationship as much as I do.
Last night, we climbed into bed much later than we’d planned, both tired and already bracing ourselves against the Monday morning alarm clock. We settled into what we call our Sleep Position: big spoon (her) and little spoon (me), her arm wrapped around me. It’s become so much of a habit that I hardly think of it anymore. But last night, after a few moments, she pipes up: “Do you like sleeping like this?” “Yes, baby, I do.” “Why?” “It makes me feel safe, and snug, and warm.” “Okay. Just checking.”
I had had Patchy Paul for almost five years. Sometime last year, some of the settings stopped working, but you know how it is when you have that thing that gets you off, completely reliably, in under 10 minutes? It used to be my hands, but as soon as I got this vibrator I knew I’d found my vibrating soul mate. And though I can still use my hands in a pinch, if I had Paulchen within reach (don’t worry, I didn’t actually call it that), Paulchen it would always be. So even when some of the settings stopped working, I didn’t give up on it. I probably spent more money on batteries last year than it would have cost to buy a new vibrator, that’s how much I loved this vibrator.
But, after some of the settings stopped working, eventually the settings that still worked started being unreliable. They would require that I hold it at a very particular angle, or that I apply firm pressure to a particular point on the battery compartment. And eventually even the strongest setting wasn’t enough for me anymore. But still, I kept on, changing the batteries every time so that the vibration would be strong enough to get me off. I can’t tell you how many times I walked over to Good Vibes to buy a replacement, and how many times I walked out empty-handed — not because they didn’t carry Patchy Paul anymore (they don’t, but they carry other Fun Factory models that are just about comparable aside from the color and ridging), but because I just couldn’t believe that another vibrator would ever be able to replace the one I had.
What was it, exactly, about this vibrator? Well, the main thing was that the vibration (on the highest setting) was quite powerful, and yet the head is small enough that it focused the vibration directly enough on my clit (as opposed to the Hitachi and Hitachi-like vibrators which have very large heads and tend to numb me without their add-ons!). It’s a dildo, so I could put it inside me, or even (one of my favorite things ever) put the head inside me and lean the shaft up so it was against my clit too. Yummmmmmmmmmmmmmmy orgasm. (I think I might be getting wet right now as I’m typing this.) AND, it wasn’t too loud. I mean, it wasn’t silent or anything, but the drone of the vibrator, even on the highest setting, could be easily drowned out by music. (Important when you have roommates.) And it was silicone, which feels lovely and is easy to clean.
But then. Tragedy struck. I was in the middle of getting off, I had just put new batteries in, it was strong enough! And everything! I was getting worked up, my breathing was uneven, I was in heavenly climbing-to-orgasm-land. And it just stopped. All of a sudden. Dead.
And I was very, very, very, very, very sad. And distraught, because there I was getting close to orgasm and my vibrator had fucking died. I had to whip out my other vibrator (which is a lovely vibrator, don’t get me wrong, but it isn’t strong enough for me) to finish the job. And it ended up taking quite a while and was immensely frustrating.
There isn’t a real point of this story except that people! My vibrator died, in the middle of my using it! You should feel sorry for me.
(PS: I still haven’t replaced it. I bought a Mystic Wand to see if maybe it was a good replacement because it’s a bit cheaper and also even stronger than the Patchy Paul, and I like strong, but I have to say the Mystic Wand is maybe too strong for me, or maybe it, like the Hitachi, is just too big and not focused enough, or maybe there’s nothing actually wrong with it except that it isn’t Patchy Paul. So honestly? I should just go out and get another Patchy Paul.)
As I mentioned a few posts ago, I really love Valentine’s Day. I love it when I’m in a couple, I love it when I’m single. I’m not one of those people who gets bitter and resentful if I’m single for Valentine’s Day—I know that’s common, and this isn’t meant to be preachy, it’s just true: it just makes me happy to see happy people together, celebrating their love for each other. Also, when I’ve been single, I’ve always had someone else in my life who was single at the time too, generally several, and it can be really fun to celebrate the holiday with loved ones who aren’t romantic partners. Just sayin’.
BUT, this year I’m not single, so I will be celebrating the holiday with mi’lady. Last year, we had a lovely day that involved a trip to Guitar Center to buy me a digital stage piano, a 5-mile walk along the San Francisco western coastline and up to the Legion of Honor, where it was one of their free admission days PLUS there was a free organ concert in the atrium, and then an impromptu tapas dinner in the Mission followed by lots of sex. Last year, we were still just entering, cautiously, the phase of “relationship” after a few months of dating, and so neither one of us really wanted to plan anything huge and romantic.
This year’s different, obviously: we’ve been together now a year and a few months, and we’re continually growing in our love in ways that challenge me, comfort me, hold me, and strengthen me. But we had such a delightful day last year that we were reluctant to plan anything huge and romantic again this year. Not to mention we don’t have tons of cash to blow. And anyway, the point is to spend quality time together, not quality money.
So, here’s our plan:
I’ll cook brunch at my house; I’ll keep it simple: cream biscuits that I’ll make the night before, fried eggs in heart-shaped toast, veggie sausage, some sort of fruit concoction. Then, we’ll go to the Apple store to get her new computer (keeping in the tradition of making big purchases on Valentine’s Day… but not on each other!), maybe walk around a bit downtown or in our neighborhood, I’m thinking maybe go to Buena Vista park or something, get our blood pumping. Then come home and fuck the afternoon away (it’s so much better before dinner than after! when you have an appetite in more ways than one, the sex is better–livelier, hungrier (literally), and you’re not in that stupor you’re in when you’re full) before an 8:15 dinner reservation at Blue Plate on Valencia. And finally, we’ll come home, put on Gilda (what’s better than Rita Hayworth on Valentine’s Day? or any day?), and sip wine with chocolate and strawberries. And then snuggle into bed and fall asleep, of course.
[Edit: apparently I have problems with copy/paste and this appeared twice so I've edited to delete the repeated text. Didn't intend to force y'all to read it twice! :)]
A few days ago, she sent me an email with some instructions. She wanted me to masturbate, stop just before coming, vividly play out a fantasy in my mind, and only then make myself come. And then, I was to write out my fantasy and send it to her.
So I did. Here it is. (And tomorrow, I will finally see her!)
***
You’ve had a long day at work; I left my office before you and I’m at my house, cooking, a vegetable gratin, so that when you get here dinner will be almost ready. I love cooking with you in mind; I love it when you eat what I cook. I’m wearing my black leggings and the long light pink cami, the one that barely covers my ass. I know you love the way my ass looks in those leggings, and when I wear them, I’m wearing them intentionally, for you.
When you finally ring at my front gate, I run to the door to buzz you in the gate, as usual, and leave my front door open a crack so you can let yourself in. I run back to the kitchen to give my attention to what’s on the stove. You come in, take off your shoes in the hall, leave your stuff in my bedroom, and come up to me at the stove, approach me from behind. You put your icy hands, fresh from the foggy San Francisco chill, on my waist, under my shirt, and you breathe warm on my neck. I shiver, flinch from your cold hands but you don’t let me wiggle away, and you slide your hands down to the front of my stomach, between my belly button and my pubic bone. I shiver again, from more than just your chilly hands.
“Take off your shirt,” you say. You whisper it behind my ear. Standing there, facing the stove, I oblige. You trace your fingertips down my spine. I’m wearing the bra you got me for Christmas, and you’re very pleased. Still standing behind me, still breathing your hot breath on my neck, you gently grasp my left hip with your left hand and slip your right hand under my waist line. I’m wearing the matching panties, too, and your hand can feel them. You breathe in sharply and lightly bite my neck as your fingers meet my swollen wet pussy. You easily slip two fingers inside me. My head grows light, my breath catches, my eyelids flutter as I try to keep my composure (and prevent dinner from burning).
“Good girl,” you say, as you remove your fingers, hold them up to your nose, breathe in my pussy scent. “I like that you’re wet. Now take off your leggings.” I take them off. You nod, glance me over, head to toe, and then you go to the table and sit down. I stand there, my composure lost for a moment, confused in the empty air that suddenly surrounds me where your body just was.
You see my confusion, and you half-smile from your seat. “Keep cooking,” you say. And you sit there and watch me, never taking your eyes off me, only talking to give me little directions. “Bring me a glass of water. Good girl. Turn around, bend over.” Et cetera. I go about my work, my body aware of your eyes on it, my skin alert under your gaze. I flirt with you, subtly, sassily, making fleeting eye contact, biting my lip a bit, and purposely giving you the best views of my ass. I know you want me, and I savor it.
At one point you stand up and disappear, and my mind wanders, focusing again primarily on the food. Finally the gratin goes in the oven. As I straighten up from closing the oven, you’re suddenly behind me, you’ve grabbed my hips in your hands, and you shove me against the countertop, push my legs apart with your knee, and then I feel something hard and smooth teasing my pussy, and I know it’s your cock. I bury my face in my elbow on the counter as I tilt my ass up to you, wanting you inside me, filling me. Finally you thrust inside me, and I moan, as you bend over and whisper hot in my ear “is this what you want baby?”
“Yes please,” I stutter. Instead you pull out, turn me around, and push me firmly to the floor. I know exactly what you want me to do. I take your cock on my mouth, your cock that tastes now like my pussy. I take your cock deep in my throat, flutter my eyes up at you, and reach up between your legs and find your clit with my thumb, and suddenly I’m in power, I’m in control, because you’re distracted by your pleasure and forget that you were the one inventing the rules of this game.
For a few moments you’re sinking in your growing arousal, but you soon catch yourself and try to get back control. You grab my hair and try to pull me back from your cock, but it’s too late, I’ve got your cock in my mouth and your pussy in my hands and I’m not giving up. You struggle, pulling on my hair and writhing away from my hands, but you have to grasp the counter for support and you can’t help it, your orgasm is rising in you and you thrust in my mouth and your pussy pushes into my hand as you come, and your body crumples to the ground, flushed and pulsing, your eyes floating.
But you don’t stay that way for long. You blink and look at me, suddenly grin impishly, and say “get up.”
I stand up. You stand up in front of me, take off your cock, and now you’re in just your work shirt and a tie that you’ve only recently started wearing regularly because I told you I thought it was a sexy. I think about tugging on your tie, pulling you towards me to kiss you, but think the better of it — you mean business. You shove my legs apart and thrust two fingers in me. I’m sopping wet, wide open, and you easily slide in a third. I’m meeting you open, wanting you, needing you filling me. Instead, you kiss me on the neck so that I get goose bumps, take your fingers out of my pussy, wipe them off on a towel, and take off your tie.
“What are you doing?” I ask wonderingly. You smirk. “Tying you up,” you say. You turn me around so my back is to you, grab my wrists, and securely knot them together behind my back. “Sit down,” you say, and I do, on the same chair you were watching me cook from. You grab two kitchen towels, tie my ankles to the legs of the chairs. I close my eyes, my lust burning inside me, trying to work its way out, but the restraints work like chains to keep it in my body, and it mounts to what feels like a dangerous level. I’m shaking, almost crying, needing you to fill me up and bring me down from this endorphin high.
And oh, you do, you do. You start off torturously slowly and painfully teasingly with your tongue flicking my clit. My moans grow and my pelvis is writhing against your mouth. You force me back down to the chair and shove three fingers inside me. This is what I needed. I gasp, open wide for you, and sink in my body, aware only of feeling you inside me and out, as if your hand were reaching all the way inside me and your mouth were covering my whole body. The orgasm is already squirming deep inside me, and you know exactly how to reach it. You reach your fingers as deep inside me as you can, still sucking and licking my clit, you wiggle your fingers against my G-spot, and you very subtly push in and out of my pussy as the deep squirming becomes a massive tidal orgasm and I’m pushing against all my restraints and into your mouth and against your hand, begging you to go deeper in me and keep working my pussy, moaning and crying out as you fill me up even more and more and more. You’ve got four fingers in me and you’re up to your knuckles and I know that soon I’ll be able to take your whole fist inside me. I’d take all of you inside me if I could.
You stay inside me as I start gently coming down off the orgasm. I collapse against the chair; you release my hands, and I stroke your hair and face and pull you up to finally meet my mouth, craving this closeness. I taste myself on your lips but pretty quickly my taste has dissipated and I just taste you — your lips, your mouth, your tongue, your sweet breath mixing with mine. I feel your eyelashes on my cheeks.
The timer goes off. We look at each other and laugh, having forgotten all about dinner. Perfect timing.
We started talking a few days ago and continued talking last night about how to make sure sex is a central part of our relationship, and not just an incidental part.
What I mean by that is this:
When you first start seeing someone, it’s allaboutsex. Or mostly, anyway. Obviously you’re attracted to her as a whole person; she makes you laugh, you have conversations about God and past relationships and what your favorite drink is, you share an interest in music and books, you can rib on the northeast, since you’re both from there originally. But if you get right down to it, it’s about the sex. Every gesture of her hands, every toss of her hair, every sideways glance makes your heart thud and your pussy pulse. And when she touches you, even casually, accidentally, you swoon. You’re liquid in the lap of Eros.
Luckily for you and everything else in your life, this isn’t indefinite. The time returns when you can be in her presence without feeling completely dysfunctional, you can exchange emails at work without the rest of the day becoming a fluster of distraction and desire. It’s lucky for your relationship, too, because you can finally get to know and trust and love each other deeply, talk about difficult things and fun things, share stress and anxiety and joy and excitement, unwind together, and (perhaps most importantly) get some sleep. With your bodies warm against each other, of course.
But a side effect of this natural progression of a healthy relationship can be, if you don’t pay attention, that you forget about sex. Or rather, you don’t forget, but sex becomes The Thing You Do In The Bedroom When You Want To Be Intimate Or Just Want An Orgasm. It’s The Thing You Do At The End Of The Day When Everything Else Is Taken Care Of. It’s like “recess” for elementary school kids. A regular occurence, but distinctly separate from everything else you do. For kids at school, it’s workworkworkworkworkPLAYworkworkwork. For you two sexy partnered people, it’s workworkworkworkworkSEXworkworkwork.
And, YAY!, we have great sex. It’s not boring, it’s not mediocre, it’s not slowing down, it’s not tired or old or mechanical or artificial or put on or anything like that. There are days, sure, when it’s kinda like “ok we’re both super tired, let’s just make out a little and get each other off” but even those days are intimate and binding. We desire each other.
But, I guess that rather than the workworkworkworkworkSEXworkworkwork model, I’d rather cultivate a model that looks more like sEwoRXkeskoRseoSEXworsekWORKkerweX.
Um, does that make sense? I definitely still want there to be uninterrupted, undistracted, maybe even scheduled SEX time. Time when there’s nothing on our minds but fucking. And, to that end, I want there to be time for just “work” (and that doesn’t just mean “job” work, but anything else, too, like writing, or doing music, or cooking dinner, or fixing the heater, or whatever it is that we do). But I also really want sex to be integral and fully integrated in my day. So that it’s not just cordoned off into its own little section of the day. In other words: I want to practice eroticizing the daily grind.
For example: cook in a corset, garters, thigh-high seamed stockings, and four-inch heels. Why not? Rather than the more typical “I’m feeling horny, let’s do some role-playing, how about I’m your submissive wife and I cook whatever you want while you boss me around,” let’s make it “I’m feeling hungry, so I’m going to go put on some lingerie and head to the kitchen.”
Another example: get a piece of jewelry that designates a particular role, so that if I, say, wear a particular ring on a certain finger, it means that I’m sexually available the whole time I’m wearing it, and so I’ve got a constant physical reminder of “SEX!” on my body during the day. Or even a gesture, a particular innocuous gesture (biting my lower lip?) could be re-identified as meaning “I want to fuck you hard” or “I want your giant cock inside me.”
I think Sinclair‘s idea of homework is a perfect example of this, too, because it sends the erotic outside of the we’re-fucking-here-and-now, extends it beyond the moments in the bedroom, and builds it into the regular structure of the day.
The reason we’re talking about this is not, I repeat, because our sex is getting boring or tired; it’s not because I want to “spice things up.” It’s because I think our mainstream culture has a way of stifling sexual energy – we’re not supposed to talk about sex in public, with anyone other than our closest friends (if even them), and sex is supposed to take place privately and discreetly. (And, hypocritically, it’s simultaneously obsessed with sex.) But that’s not what I want. I want to cultivate an active sexual energy that isn’t constrained by the bedroom door or the time of the day, and that can be nurtured and activated throughout the day by various things. That way, when I finally do get to have sex, I’m not starting at 0 (or 5 or 10) and going to 60; rather, I’ll already be going at 30 or 45. That’s a whole lot easier to manage, frankly, when I’m tired and stressed and anxious and the thought of needing to find the momentum to get from 0 to 60 is daunting.
And on that note, I’m going to go write mi’lady a dirty email ;)
It was the best welcome home she’s ever had, she said.
After all my thinking and processing last week about my femmeyness, I allowed myself to just revel in it. I spent all day Sunday preparing for her to come home. I booked a Zipcar to pick her up at the airport when her flight came in at 6. (Typically we would just take BART, and I had told her I would meet her to help her carry her stuff home… the car was a surprise!) I got my nails done in the morning (fingers and toes!)–short, a little bit squared, bright red polish. Paraffin wax, so my skin was silky smooth. I’d gotten a fresh legs and bikini wax on Saturday, so that I’d be ready and smooth for her. I planned out Sunday evening’s meal, bought the necessary ingredients on Saturday, and brought them over to her place on Sunday afternoon to begin prep before her flight came in. AND, on Sunday morning after the manicure and pedicure, I went to my favorite lingerie boutique in San Francisco, Dollhouse Bettie (they specialize in vintage and pinup lingerie), to make sure her welcome home would be *extra* special. (Dollhouse Bettie’s website doesn’t have a link to the piece I bought, so I found a link to it elsewhere instead. It’s got gorgeous detailing, and I got nude seamed nylons instead of black ones because I really wanted the basque to speak for itself. With these shoes and my full-sleeve black leather gloves from Doncaster, this is a stunning get-up.)
And it was such a wonderful day, from start to finish. Waking up and knowing that I was going to be getting my nails done, going lingerie shopping, cooking, and seeing/fucking mi’lady for the first time in a week was such an amazing feeling. I don’t think there’s anything I’d have rather done on a gorgeous Sunday. Seriously. And it all went off without a hitch.
The only thing I think could have gone smoother was cutting the pumpkin. Pumpkin soup was one of my menu items (and as SOON as she saw it she was really, really excited… she loves pureed vegetable soups), but I’d forgotten how ridiculously hard it is to cube and peel a raw pumpkin. SO HARD. I wrestled with it for a good hour. But it was so ridiculously worth it. It was really, really good, if I do say so myself. And the recipe is really simple — really all that’s in it is pumpkin, onion, a tiny bit of garlic, bay leaves, a bit of orange rind, butter, vegetable stock, and a tiny bit of milk. I garnished it with fresh chives. And that’s it. The best part though? Was mi’lady telling me that the pumpkin soup she’d had earlier that week at an upscale restaurant in Boston with a client “wasn’t even half as good as yours. Well okay, maybe half. But seriously, only half!”
The other menu item was risotto with leeks, spinach, white wine, and a little bit of plain yoghurt. I love cooking.
The best part of everything was that she just felt adored. I love that. Love it. It turns me on and makes me stand up straight. I’m doing what I do best, what I love to do. Fuck yeah. From getting picked up by me at the airport in a car, to having dinner planned and prepared to the AMAZING fucking hot sex we had, it was the best welcome home she’d ever had. And I’m responsible for it :)
There’s a mirror at the foot of my bed. It wound up there by accident — the movers just happened to lean it agaisnt the wall there back in July, and I haven’t touched it since. It’s not even hanging; it’s just sitting on the floor, minding its own business, angled slightly upward so that it appears to be looking casually at the bed.
The bed itself is low to the ground, and the mirror being rather large, what this means is that for the past few months, everything I do that happens in my bed is reflected back to me.
I fuck her doggy-style facing the window, so we can both look sideways and watch each other’s reflections in the mirror — she watches me thrusting, I watch her back arch and her breasts bounce. I sit at the foot of the bed, legs spread, as she sits back to the mirror and licks my pussy — I look down and see her face buried in me and her eyes swimming up at me, and I look up and watch my own pleasure, see her as if from behind, an observer of our own live-action porn. She rides me, the strength of my own core propping me up as I grasp her hips and help her pump up and down, and I’m thrusting too (the best work out there is) — and she faces the mirror while she rides me so she gets the same view of herself that I always get to see from this position, her body tight, her legs apart, her cunt wet and open and welcoming my cock. She squirts this way, she can watch herself squirt, and she climbs over my face and watches in the mirror as she comes in my mouth, and it spills out of my mouth and over my face and my hair because she keeps coming and it’s too much for me to swallow. And the mirror catches it all.
That mirror has made me see and made me believe that I look hot fucking. It’s like, wow, we look like porn artists! Look at us! Our bodies are sexy and our faces reveal tension and beauty and ecstasy and lust. My slightly crooked spine? Totally not apparent. The small breasts I’m so self-conscious of? They look good. In a way, that mirror encourages me to break out of my mind when we’re fucking, because it can make me think, “what would I do now if I were in a porn movie?” and so the sex I have becomes the sex I’d like to watch. It helps me be less self-conscious, watching us in the mirror. Who’d've thought.
That mirror is amazing. It never really occurred to me (beyond perhaps the vaguest thought, not even formed enough to have words) to put it there before, and I am so grateful to the movers that they put it there. Sometimes I wonder whether they knew what they were doing, and knew they were doing me a favor by putting it there. Or whether they assumed I’d want it there. Probably they weren’t thinking at all. That mirror is leaning as if an afterthought. But I’m certainly not planning on hanging it up anytime soon.
Anyone else have thoughts or stories about sex and mirrors? I know I’m not the only one…
1) It’s at El Rio. And with winter looming up ahead, everyone and their mothers should be at El Rio on a Friday night to enjoy the patio.
2) It’s for ArtXX magazine, and the cover is only $5. ArtXX is seriously sweet, if you don’t know anything about it, please go to its website, and buy the issue. The art is radical and by/for queer/trans/artists of color/seriously awesome people.
3) The music will be sweet. I know one of the bands is Elle Nino, bay-area based queer/synth funk band — the lead is a dyke, and she’s got 3 guys backing her up. (I love it when guys back up girls in music. Pretty rare in the music industry.) Their music is amazing and they’ve got great chemistry and stage presence.
4) Big Moves will be coming through!! In their words, “Big Moves is the only producing, training, and service organization in the world dedicated to getting more people of all sizes into the dance studio and up on stage.” AWESOME.
Basically, pass the word along to anyone you know in SF to come support this magazine and the awesome work they’re doing on getting underrepresented art out there. And pass the word along to anyone not in SF that they should either:
1) Move to SF and go to this party, or
2) Go to artxxmagazine.com and BUY THIS ISSUE!
And no, I’m not questioning my sexuality, haha, thanks for asking. But I am questioning, well, something. I’m just not sure exactly what it is I’m questioning. Mi’lady and I use cock play (for lack of anything better to call it… is there something better to call it?) a lot when we fuck, in various ways. For example: I strap on and fuck her. I strap on, and she gives me a blow job (SO HOT, oh my god I don’t know if I can think of any image hotter than of my cock in her mouth, and her looking sweetly/seductively up at me). Occasionally, she straps on and fucks me. These are all ways that we use real fake cocks in our sex. (I know, real fake is contradictory, but what I mean is there’s a real cock there, a non-flesh one, a dildo, but it’s a real cock just the same.) These are the more straightforward ways of fucking with cocks, and these are the ways that don’t make me think much beyond HOT! TURNED ON! HOT!
And then there are ways that are more psychological. One of my favorite ways to get off is orally — her tongue has insane endurance and is oh-my-god so so good. There are no words. She is truly the mistress of licking pussy. Except… sometimes (dare I even say often?), when she’s between my legs licking my clit, I pretend she’s sucking my cock. And something about that psychological trick just turns me on so much that I can come really, really fast after that.
And I’m not the only one who does this. The only way mi’lady gets off is with my fingers on her clit (mmmm I love the feeling of her slick hard clit under my fingers…). And one time last week, I was rubbing her clit and she said “how do I feel baby?” “Slick and hard,” I said, “hard like a cock.” And she literally writhed in her sudden new arousal. “Oh baby yeah, jerk my cock,” she moaned, and for the remaining moments until she came, we dirty-talked cock imagery. Imagining that I was jerking her cock was a profound turn-on.
We talked about it afterwards. Though this kind of cock play is really hot and fun, it definitely brings stuff up for me (and for her as well, in similar ways, but I’m just going to speak for myself on my blog). For one thing, I’ve struggled quite a bit with the whole idea of Authenticity in the lesbian “community.” I’m sure I’ll write more about this at some point; I’ve touched on it a bit in my post “On Femininity” (see link under my Favorite Posts, over there on the left). It’s this whole idea that “gold star” lesbians are the most authentic lesbians, and on down the line until women who have sexual/romantic relationships with men as well as women are often peered at in suspicion, and lack total authenticity. (Along with that, I think, is the notion that women who present intentional or unintentional masculinity are automatically more authentic as lesbians, and women who present intentional or unintentional femininity are less authentic.) So, this whole thing of somehow liking cock in sex… especially as a femme-presenting dyke… brings up issues for me of “can I talk about this? will people doubt my sexuality?” And of course, it doesn’t matter whether other people doubt my sexuality. But it feels oppressive all the same.
But something that’s even more unsettling for me, I think, are questions of patriarchy and heteronormativity. Are we just buying into some sort of hetero-paradigm by including the cock in our own man-free sex? Are we in a way proving people right who think that the ultimate sex acts (“real sex”) have to involve a penis? (Clearly there are many things we do that do not involve the cock or any kind of cock play, but hey, those could be just foreplay!) And… do we have penis envy?? Are we proving Freud right? Women just spend our lives trying to make up for a gaping hole (to be utterly literal)? (It might be relevant to point out here that both of us do not identify as trans or genderqueer.)
As I sort of said above, strapping on by itself never raised these questions for me. I’ve never been uncomfortable with the idea of using a cock. It seems so blatantly and purely not straight, so clearly not pretending to be a man — it’s very much its own thing. So strapping on in itself has never seemed to me to be heteronormative or patriarchal. But somehow, imagining that my clit is my cock starts to make me think there’s a line I might be crossing. I don’t know. It’s hard to articulate. And mostly, I still just think it’s hot. But it makes me wriggle the tiniest bit just the same, in some sort of vague discomfort. Luckily, the vague discomfort isn’t enough to make me want to stop.
I did this without consulting with my psychiatrist or my therapist–I was supposed to have appointments with both last week, but then last week turned out to be INSANE, what with work piling up and mi’lady’s family in town, so I had to cancel both appointments. (I was at work until 10pm on Friday, just to give you an idea of how bad it was. Um, ugh?) Anyway, I know that’s not a particularly good idea, but I just had to stop. I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t swallow that baby blue pill anymore. I only had one side effect, just one, but it was a dealbreaker.
I couldn’t orgasm.
Well, okay, I could. But it took. FOREVER. F.O.R.E.V.E.R. For-fucking-ever. At least an hour. And it was a stressful hour, because I would get up there pretty quickly, would be turned on really fast, and then would plateau. And I’d be on this plateau for at least 45 minutes, usually longer, and just couldn’t get anywhere. If I gave up, I was really, really uncomfortable. I totally believe in “blue balls” now. It actually hurt to stop. So I would have to keep going, and it would get number and number, and eventually, after a fucking eternity, I would finally have an orgasm, but by that time I was so stressed and frustrated that I couldn’t even feel happy or satisfied or warm and fuzzy, I just felt relieved.
And every morning, swallowing that pill became harder and harder, because I knew that it was going to continue to prevent me from just having a good orgasm. It didn’t affect my libido at all — I was still as horny as ever, thank god — and mi’lady was really good about being patient and encouraging and supportive and all that. But it just wasn’t worth it to me. So I stopped taking it.
And OH MY GOD. People. ORGASMS ARE SO AMAZING. I forgot how good orgasms are. I forgot!!! They’re so good!!! I just want to have sex all the time now. It was a really bad week to want to fuck all the time, because I was so busy and the family was in town and etc etc. But we still managed to get some good (quick) fucking in there, and OH BOY am I glad I stopped taking that pill.
I know it may not have been the most responsible decision. When I see my psychiatrist next week, I’m going to talk about it and figure out whether something else might work better, and what I should do next time when I’m feeling like I just can’t do it anymore. Maybe there’s a better option than just quitting the meds. And maybe I’ll regret it next time my period rolls around and I’m sinking into despair again. But it certainly made me realize how important sexual satisfaction is for me, and how stressful it is to not have that release available to me. And so I think I did make a decision that was taking care of my mental health.
Plus, even though she was a total trooper, it makes mi’lady so much happier when I’m having good orgasms.
