So I mentioned life being fucked up. And yes, it is fucked up. Now let me tell you why.
Its no secret that my sexual relationship with The Husband is at best, uninspired, and at worst, non-existent.
That’s the reason I became non-monogamous in the first place–because after a years of not having my needs met, I was done. We came to this arrangement because if I didn’t start getting laid, our marriage would have ended anyway.
A couple months ago, I had a talk with him. It wasn’t one of our usual screaming matches about him not being into me. It was more just an inquiry. I asked him, “Do you not like sex?” And he doesn’t.
He said that realization didn’t click until the moment I asked. And honestly I was flabbergasted. How the HELL had he not realized this before? How can this possibly be the very first time he ever thought about this? We’d fought like cats and dogs. We’d both totally lost our self-esteem. We redefined our entire marriage around this problem and he’d never stop to ask himself if he likes sex???? What the actual fuck???
I asked him to explain, and he said he often enjoys it, but during almost every encounter there’s a moment of panic or a feeling that he really doesn’t like, and that makes it hard to enjoy the rest of it.
He said he never realized because he thought that everyone likes sex. It just never crossed his mind that the reason we had these problems was because he didn’t.
I let some time pass. But I couldn’t help thinking “This marriage is probably dead.”
(Stay Tuned for Part 2).
So here I am–back, and not knowing where to start. I should probably start with the reason that I’m back, which is–I feel like I would like to implode my entire life. What does that mean? What am I saying?
Just that I am sick of being who I am–or pretending to be who people believe me to be–and I want out. Permanently. I want to take out a billboard and tell the world everything about me, and ex-communicate anyone who doesn’t like it.
Ex-communication–such a harsh act. Yet for some reason it’s what I crave. Last year Tyler Glenn came out with an Album called Ex-Communication, themed around his act of coming out of the closet and leaving the Mormon church. It’s not exactly my preferred style of music, but certain songs of his, I love. Not just because of clever lines like “I found myself when I lost my faith,” but because he was brave enough to write and record them. He gave no shits. HE ex-communitated no one–yet made it clear that anyone who didn’t support him could fuck right off. He was done hiding.
I can’t explain what hiding has done to me. The fact that I feel like I am always looking over my shoulder, afraid of what others might see, the questions they might raise, the conclusions they might draw.
Am I a cheating whore? My husband a poor, blind schmuck? My children, doomed to be scarred? Am I a pervert, who has no preference for whether she fucks men or women, as long as she is fucking? A sex-addict who will go there with whomever? A heartless bitch who must not love anyone at all, if she is unwilling to remain faithful? It’s all open to speculation. The world stands in judgement. And who am I? Just a woman who is tired of hiding, tired of shame, tired of pain. A woman who has been through a fucking lot in the last few years, and just wants to take a deep breath and be herself. A woman who, by many standards, is selfish, yet still feels like she is sacrificing herself in order to not hurt others.
Who am I? I have no fucking idea.
More to come.
I had my first real date with Sir, last night.
It was fun. He picked me up and made me use a vibrator on myself in the car, and then pulled off the highway halfway to the poly event. He told me to go into Starbucks, head to the bathroom, and wait for him. A few minutes later he joined me, bent me over against the wall, and fucked me from behind. Rawr. I had to be quiet, which is nearly impossible for me, and he wound up covering my mouth. Then he handed me a ten and sent me to go order him a coffee. Ha. I got sex, AND a free caramel apple spice. A pretty good start to the night in my books!
We got back into the car and drove the rest of the way to the pub in the city, where we ordered drinks and then asked the bartender where our group was located. She started us a tab and pointed us towards the back, where we were welcomed warmly and introduced to everyone.
It was comfortable and casual. We talked about relationships and sex and poly and swinging and kink, with complete openness. It was such a relief to be around people who think like me, who are not afraid to be totally out there, who do not gasp and clutch their pearls at the mere hint of deviance. So refreshing.
We hung out for a few hours, and when we could no longer keep our hands off each other (at one point Sir positioned his hand on my seat perfectly when I returned from the bar, so as to discreetly slide his finger inside me as I sat down), we hugged everyone good-bye and walked towards the car. When we got to the not-completely-empty parking lot, he opened my door for me and fingered me behind it. It was dark, and we were in no one’s direct line of vision, but I am loud. It was hot.
On the drive back I was instructed to use the vibrator on myself, and I came so hard that when I got out to enter his house, I noticed my skirt was soaked through at the back. We fucked on the bench at the foot of the bed. We fucked standing up with him behind, and me bent over at the waist, bracing myself against the floor. We fucked in his enormous, four-poster bed. I screamed and cursed as he rammed into me, filling me with his hugeness.
We both could have fallen asleep after all that, totally exhausted from the build-up and then release, but I do not live there, so he took me home.
I miss him. This bothered me, and when I tried to figure out why I miss someone I do not know that well and don’t spend that much time with, I came to the conclusion that I miss what he does for me.
I miss being able to be who I am, without apology. I miss just being out and having kinky, dirty fun. Being irresponsible and brazen and wild. Having nothing I am responsible for. Not caring.
I am a hedonist at heart. I want to soak as much pleasure out of life as I possibly can. Heaven, for me, would be cavorting on a nude beach, cooking over a fire, partying, fucking, just being, without any of the crap that comes with real life. But of course, unless one is independently wealthy and has zero meaningful relationships, it is impossible to live this way. People, by very nature of being people, will complicate things. They will cause pain. I know that so well. I have even suffered at Sir’s hands, haven’t I?
So, I will continue to do what I need to do and be who I am depended upon to be–with my family and in the professional sphere. But there is no way I am giving up my little slice of heaven.
I met D.F. today. I don’t think I’m going to recount the details, because frankly, I just did not get off on it that much. By that I don’t mean that I didn’t come–I did, a lot.
What I mean is, it didn’t do the thing it usually does, which is get me so high I basically escape consciousness. I was thinking. I did not want to be present–that is why I do this. But it didn’t shut off my brain.
Maybe I knew it would be this way today. Maybe that is why, after him fingering me on the drive over for a good twenty minutes, I squeezed my legs shut. When he told me to spread them, I said “No.”
He pried my legs open, and shoved his fingers deep inside me, making me moan.
“Say ‘Thank you, Sir,” he commanded.
“No,” I said again.
“Am I going to have to punish you?” he asked. “Is that what you’re after?”
“No,” I said again, but this time, “No” meant “Yes.” I think I knew I needed something extreme. I wanted to be punished. I have been told that for a submissive, S&M helps manage “the burn.” It’s hard to crave your next encounter when your pussy’s still swollen and your ass is covered in welts. I wanted him to hurt me.
But he didn’t. We fucked in our usual manner, and instead of whipping me, he forced me to get on top. He knows I hate that. I am self-conscious about my body, and despite being an exhibitionist when it comes to some things, I just don’t like being on top like that. I feel like I’m on display, and not in a good way. I’m sure my extraordinarily lame attempt at topping from the bottom was recognized by him, and that he was trying to teach me that I cannot manipulate him into giving me what I want.
When he came on my chest, I had another orgasm, just from the erotic nature of being covered with hot cum.
But, the entire time we were screwing, I just had this sense that. . .I didn’t want to be there.
I wanted to be home watching TV with my husband. I wanted to draw the blinds and join my daughter in our bed for her afternoon nap. I had the strongest desire to devour a plate of hot-from-the-oven chocolate chip cookies. I wanted to be comforted.
I do not know what is up with me. Maybe I am just tired–I’ve had a lot of early mornings lately. Maybe I am getting my period. Maybe, despite being horny, I wasn’t really in the mood. Or maybe, I’m done with distractions, and I want something real.
I’m not going to say that I am finished feeding my sexual hunger with meaningless hook-ups. Obviously, you’ve heard that one before. I am just going to say, that for the moment, I am enjoying yoga pants, hot apple cider, and the laughter of my children–real comfort.
P.S., He is my *Dominant now. Think whatever you want about that one.
*Edited to replace the word “Master” with “Dominant.”
He was hot. Indian, with a handsome face and a rock hard body.
His condo was gorgeous. Fountains in the lobby, wood and marble everywhere, and a lot of amenities. Oh, how we enjoyed the amenities.
When I arrived, he had trouble buzzing me up, so he came down and got me. We took the elevator to his unit, which was filled with leather, dark wood, boxing gloves, and kick boxing belts.
He offered me a beer, and I accepted, even though I don’t drink beer. It was actually pretty good–I made note of the brand so I could get it again in the future.
We sat on the comfortable leather couch and talked, while Ghostbusters played on TV in the background. We chatted about travel, movies, books, work, real estate, and politics. We laughed and touched. At one point he asked me if I wanted to play a board game, which I thought was adorable. I declined, citing the fact that I can pretty much only play Scrabble, Taboo, and Uno. Apparently this was a real date, and not just a hook-up. It was different. It was nice.
When Ghostbusters was over, we went to separate bathrooms and changed for the pool. I exchanged my blue pencil skirt, red blouse and thigh-highs for a string bikini in electric blue, with ruffles. When I came out, he treated me to a spectacular view of his muscular body, featuring a very sexy side tattoo.
“You look great,” he told me, pulling me close. “You do not disappoint.” I smiled, and he kissed me. He was a good kisser–soft, but urgent. We stayed locked together like that for a minute or two, before we decided to head to the pool. I had neglected to bring sandals (perhaps on purpose!), so I put on my red heels and off we went.
“God, now you’re even sexier–heels and a bikini!”
I smiled. “Guess you don’t see that every day.”
The Kick Boxer jumped in the pool and told me it wasn’t too cold. I’m a wimp, so I opted to slowly walk in, one step at a time, cringing at the temperature. After about a minute of this, he grabbed me, carried me to the middle of the pool, and plunged us both to the bottom.
I gasped and kicked my way back to the top. “God, you’re terrible!” I shrieked, laughing. “It’s freezing!”
He laughed and wrapped his arms around me. “Now I get to warm you up.”
“Ahh, so that was your plan.”
I stuck my tongue out at him. He carried me to the side of the pool and kissed me. With my legs wrapped around his waist, we tongued and gasped and groped, weightless. He pushed my bikini bottoms to the side as he devoured my mouth, rubbing me. Sliding my hands down his shorts, I gripped his cock and began to jack him off. He lifted me, so I was half-in the pool with my upper body laying on the deck, and slid his fingers inside my pussy. I screamed as an orgasm overtook my body. As I lay shaking on the cold tile, gasping, my eyes stinging from the chlorine, he said “That was hot.”
I laughed. Yes, it was.
He lifted me effortlessly over to the hot tub, set me down, and turned on the jets. As soon as he sat beside me, we gravitated towards each other like magnets–pawing and sucking, moaning and grinding. The Kick Boxer pulled down the top of my bikini, and took a nipple into his mouth, squeezing the other one. I ran my hands over his god-like body, toying with his dick and biting his neck. After I came, screaming and writhing, he asked if I wanted to hit the steam room.
Once inside, it was more of the same. We grabbed each other urgently, hands and fingers and lips and tongues everywhere. He pressed me down against the bench, pulled down my bottoms, and used his mouth on my already sensitive pussy. He licked and sucked me until I climaxed again, while the room slowly filled with steam so thick it was like mating in a cloud. I pulled him down onto me and we grinded at a fevered pace, dizzy on lust and heat, blind from both of the same.
Eventually we decided to take things upstairs. We showered in his apartment, letting the hot water wash over us. I sank to the floor, taking his cock in my mouth and rubbing my tongue up and down his shaft. He pushed into me, making me gag, but he was so delicious that I kept at it. He pulled me up and dried me off, and then we made our way to his bed.
The sex is a blur. The Kick Boxer impaled me, twisting me into different positions and hitting every spot that could set me off. I screamed and moaned and whimpered; he growled and talked dirty. He pulled out when he was about to come, saying “You almost got me there, but I’m not done with you yet.” Then he fingered me from behind while I rubbed my clit.
When we resumed fucking, it was even harder and more frantic than before. He choked me a couple times, which intensified my pleasure by about 1000%, and I wrapped my legs around his hard, sweaty body, digging my nails into his back and biting his ear.
Then we braked for pizza–true story.
We ate in the living room, lazily touching each other, but as soon as we were done we were once again entangled. He made me come silently, because his neighbours share a wall with the living room.
“I’ll let you get off if you’re quiet,” he promised. I bit my lip and put my hand over my mouth as I shuddered and came. Not being able to scream or moan in release, somehow made it even more acute. As I came down, he told me I was a good girl, then carried me to his room and tossed me onto the bed.
More fucking. My pussy was raw and aching, but still dripping. We pounded the hell out of each other, him telling me I am a dirty slut–words that have the power to send me over the edge all on their own.
“I’m gonna come on you,” he growled, the pulled out as hot cum gushed all over my abs and tits and neck. We fell against each other, finally satisfied–for the moment.
“This may be too soon,” he said, “but we should do this again.”
Oh, yes please.
I get wet just thinking about it. . .and yet, something he said to me keeps echoing in my head:
“I’ve never met a girl as hungry as you.”
Today, while my husband was at home carving pumpkins with my kids, I was out–shopping for a new bikini to wear on a hot tub date I have planned for tonight.
I felt terrible about myself, but I did not stay home.
I don’t want to blame my actions on addiction–as though I am not at fault. As though I am not the one making these choices. But I know–this is what addiction is. What it does.
It turns loving, devoted mothers into selfish, self-centered absentees.
It turns committed, self-sacrificing wives into cold-hearted bitches.
It turns formerly modest and appropriate women into shameless flirts.
It turns someone who used to be friendly and respectful, into someone who sees all attractive men and women as nothing more than prey.
It turns a woman who used to want to change the world, into one applying for a job at a body rub parlour.
I hate myself, but I am not going to stop–not yet.
I thought I hit rock bottom once. Then again, and then once more. But it has become clear to me that I have no idea what rock bottom is. I obviously have farther to fall before I will admit that this cannot go on any longer. I don’t know what it will take, and it scares me.
My only hope is that it only ruins me, and not my husband. Not my children. Not my family.
He gathered me in his arms, gave me a gentle kiss, and told me he’d missed me.
I melted against him and squeezed him back. It was probably our first real hug.
He told me to strip, and then positioned the chaise lounge in front of the fireplace. He turned on the TV.
“Porn?” I teased.
“No,” he said with a smile, and turned on a jazz music station.
I felt strange.
He told me to lay on my front, and said the fire would warm me up soon. Then he went and heated a bottle of oil.
He gave me a full-body massage, starting with my shoulders and slowly working his way down to my feet. He knew what he was doing. I should have been totally relaxed, but I felt off. I love massages and never get them. I should have been in heaven. But the non-sexual touch, and the jazz music, and him saying he’d missed me, was doing my head in. I wanted to leave.
I think I went there looking for hate sex. I wanted him to pound the rage out of me while I screamed and raked my nails down his back. I needed him to fix what he broke.
I think that’s what he was trying to do–fix it. But instead I just felt lonely and uncomfortable and out of place.
That is, until he started working his fingers over my ass. The non-sexual part of the massage was over. He slid his hand under me and rubbed my pussy, making me gasp. He alternated between teasing my clit with his fingers and grinding his palm against me, until I was moaning and dripping wet. When he slid his fingers inside me, I came almost instantly.
“Roll over and come here,” he said.
I turned on my back, then shimmied down to the edge of the chaise where he was sitting.
I thought he was going to fuck me, but instead, he lowered his head and ran his long, wide tongue over my open pussy. I purred. He continued to rub my pussy with his tongue, then sank it into my opening. I screamed and ground my mound into his face. He licked me out for ages while I writhed, and then rimmed my ass hole with his tongue. I shuddered and gasped as he slid two fingers inside me, then three, pushing against my g-spot. I wondered if he was going to fist me again.
I came twice more, with his tongue in my ass and his fingers in my cunt, and then he walked over and stood beside me. I sucked his cock into my mouth as he rubbed and pinched my nipples, until I orgasmed again, my moaning vibrating along his shaft. Then he straddled me, and shoved his huge, throbbing cock into me.
“You love grinding against my big cock, don’t you?”
“Fuck yes!,” I screamed.
We fucked like two starving people, banging the hell out of each other until we both came, and then he held me for a long time. The weirdness crept in again.
“Stand up,” he commanded. “I want to look at your ass.”
I stood and turned my backside to him.
“You have a world-class ass,” he told me, then grabbed me and turned me around. “The rest of you is great, too. You are so fucking sexy.” He pulled me towards him, causing me to stumble, and started to eat me out again. I moaned and whimpered as he ravaged me with his tongue, then eventually gasped for him to stop because it was too much. He pulled back instantly.
I have more to say on the subject of the two of us, but that will have to wait.
Let’s just say I am happy, and afraid, and confused. And horny.