Sexless (Part 1)

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).

The Rumours of my Heartbreak Have Been Greatly Under-Exaggerated


I didn’t get in trouble at work. The big wigs contacted Boss Man that Sunday night for reasons that had nothing to do with him or me. Yet I can’t help thinking how reckless we were. Almost like we wanted to get caught, lying on the stairs with his fingers inside me, hiding in the kitchen pressed up against the wall.

Why did I do this? I still don’t know.

Am I just not used to being happy, so I feel like I need to court misery? Maybe I don’t know myself without it. Maybe I think that happiness will never last, so I need to keep pain around as a constant. And yet, its not like my life was perfect. Things with the husband are a constant work in progress, work can be stressful, there is never enough money and my kids are more of a handful than I have hands for.

Maybe I entertained a fantasy that he and his girlfriend would break up, and then he would come back to me and stay with me for longer this time. Not forever–never forever, he wouldn’t have it, he needs a partner who is all his. But maybe I thought we could be together, learn from each other, have something that we could look back on one day and smile about. One of those break-up that transitions nicely into a friendship between a couple who “remains close.”

But am I close with any of my exes, still? I want to be, so badly, but they won’t have me, not even as a friend. My first love who I think should be over it enough by now to be able to chat with me, will not talk to me. I wish I knew why–it was over more than a decade ago–but she says she can’t. She won’t be my friend.

The first lover I took after I was married, who was my best friend in jr. high, disappeared without a trace after our week of passion and presumably doesn’t care whether or not I’m alive. Sugar Daddy, he was never my friend, and I don’t talk to him because all he wants from me is sex and submission. Boss Man is my friend, first and foremost–one of my closest, one of my dearest. I know part of what I wanted was a lover who still wanted me in their life, even after the romance was over.

Was it worth it, though? God, it feels like it wasn’t. It feels like nothing could be worth feeling this way. Nothing is worth hiding in the locker room at work, sobbing and gasping into his chest while he rubs slow circles on my back and I beg him to tell me why losing something that never had a shot hurts so goddamn much.

He says we met at the wrong time, but at least we met. I’m glad we met too, but should I have slept with him, even once? Maybe. I did recover from that, even though it hurt. But after he had a girlfriend? No. No, it did nothing but fuck with me. And yet, at the time, there was something so sublime about finally knowing that he loved me back. That he feels our connection as deeply as I do. That he wishes to god we’d met ten years ago. That I will always also be his one that got away.

Of course, that changes nothing. Because we’re still not together, and we never will be again. Because he loves Tinder Girl and she wants to marry him and have his kid. Because even if they broke up, a few more months or a year with him would not change the ending. He will always end up with someone else. Better now than later.

I want to find another job. I never planned to stay for more than a year anyway. Its time to move on professionally, and he is the only reason I haven’t. And now he is my motivation for getting away as soon as possible. Its impossible, and it hurts, and it broke us both.

He has a girlfriend. If things go the way they plan for them to, he will marry her and make a baby with her. And she’ll never know how he cheated, and that is my biggest regret. It’s gross. I feel gross. If I can’t live with it, how will he? Just another question I don’t really know the answer to.

I really want to believe that I’ve learned my lesson. I do believe I’ve learned it. That I won’t enter into something doomed again because I don’t know that the experience is worth the heartbreak. Love is not rare and precious. I could fall in love with someone new every year, but that doesn’t mean that I should if it’s not right. I also want to believe that I’ll never get involved again with someone who is cheating, regardless of the passion.

I hope I have a good memory. I hope I remember this pain for the rest of my life. I hope I never go there again.


A few days ago, I saw him again. I will need to come up with a name for him besides D.F.–and I will elaborate on why another time.

Before our last encounter, he told me I was going to finger myself as he drove us to his place. So, despite the fact that it was FREEZING out, I wore a short skirt, bustier tank top and heels (and a cashmere sweater–I didn’t want to get hypothermia). We were driving for about a minute before he told me to start playing with myself. As I opened my legs and started to finger my pussy, he grabbed one leg and slung it over the compartment between the two seats, so I was totally exposed.

“I would finger you,” he said, “but I need to keep my eyes on the road.”

By the time we hit the highway though, that plan had gone out the window. I moaned and touched myself until he was driven so crazy that he unzipped his pants. I ran my hand up and down his shaft, jacking him off while he rubbed my pussy. I got wetter and wetter as he played with my clit, sitting there with my legs spread wide open, squirming and gasping.

“Your house is too far away,” I moaned, desperate to have him inside me.

“No, it’s not far enough,” he smirked. He enjoyed torturing me.

When we got to his house, he told me to keep on my silver heels, then backed me against an armchair in his living room. “You’re not sitting,” he said. He told me to squat.

I bent my knees and plied as close to ground as I could get (which was pretty far–I do yoga!).

He released his cock, and shoved it in my mouth. “Finger yourself,” he told me.

I sucked him and slid my fingers into my pussy, sighing with pleasure. Apparently I wasn’t enthusiastic enough for him though, because minutes later he bent me back over the chair, so I was in almost a bridge position, and fucked me with his fingers until I was screaming and moaning. He tossed me back onto the ground.

That’s how you finger,” he spat.

Pushing his cock back into my mouth, he commanded me to get myself off. I pushed three fingers inside my hot, throbbing cunt, until I gushed.

“Good,” he said, then immediately ordered me to get up. I did as I was told, but asked permission to take off my sweater. He said yes, then led me across the room and bent me over the arm of the couch. I smiled.

He entered me from behind, and I was screaming on the first thrust. We fucked like that until he turned me over, put my heels over his shoulders, and drove into me with such intensity that I started to whimper. I came countless times like that, and then he pulled out and took off the condom.

He rubbed the length of his shaft up and down my slit. Said, “you love that raw cock, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I gasped. I felt intoxicated.

“Do you want it?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Do. You. Want. It?”


He slid his bare cock inside me.

There is simply nothing in the world like being penetrated by a condom-less man. I moaned loudly, as he slowly fucked me, letting me feel everything. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I wrapped my legs around his waist, squeezing him as I came and came.

When he was about to come, he pulled out, and his hot liquid spurted all over me. I sighed and collapsed, finally satisfied.

He looked into my eyes. “We are too intense.”

He’s right.

My Best Friend’s Wedding: In which I embarrass myself horribly

Rehearsal dinner. Haven’t eaten a bite of food all day. We arrive at the house, and the food is not ready, but there are drinks. I have one rum and coke.

The food is finally served. It is all hor d’oeuvres and there are zero carbs. I am hammered off one drink. Someone tells me I need another. I say I shouldn’t, I’m already too drunk. They say I should just sip a glass of wine, then. In my totally inebriated state, I decide that MORE ALCOHOL is a good idea.

Trashed. Totally trashed.

Groped and repeatedly propositioned two grooms men. Took off my panties, stuck them in my bra, and flashed everyone a shot of my nether regions. Repeatedly.

Had to be carried to the car, and put to bed, where I immediately passed out.

Rock. Fucking. Bottom.

I woke up at 4 AM and considered jumping off the bride’s balcony, but I thought my suicide might dampen the festivities. I opted to live.

If there is one silver lining to this horrifying turn of events, it is that I made absolutely certain to NOT get smashed at the wedding.I ate the morning of, and sipped one cooler in the limo and all throughout pictures. I made sure a drank a LOT of water, and refused all the drinks people kept pushing at me until I had a chance to get some carbs in me. I had way more to drink at the reception than I did at the rehearsal dinner, but somehow I managed to keep my level of intoxication at a level where I was “pleasantly buzzed” and not passing out and/or attempting to rape grooms men.

I was still pretty horny (obviously–I am still me, humiliated or not), but it seemed like every good looking man at the wedding had a date. And I did not. Although I am married, I never do. Go figure. I still had a lot of fun, dancing till my body hurt and drinking enough to feel good. I was on the dance floor with the hottest couple in attendance shimmying on either side of me, and then they took off and I was joined by the bride’s cute, younger cousin.

You know where this is going.

We had chatted a bit outside earlier (I knew he was 22 and from up North), but hadn’t made too much contact since. We danced a few songs and then deciding we needed another drink, we made our way over to the bar. The bride pulled me aside. “You behaving yourself?” she asked with an arched eyebrow and a smile.

“I’m not going to touch your cousin,” I laughed.

She laughed too and took off with her groom.

I’m a liar. Of course I was going to touch her cousin.

He brought me a drink and we decided to take a walk. We meandered through the dark golf course, getting to know each other and marveling at the stars. At one point I said my feet were killing me, and I sat down. He sat facing me. He ran his hand up my leg. I coyly asked him if he was a virgin.



He kissed me. He was a good kisser. We sucked on each other’s lips and slid our tongues in and out of each other’s mouths for awhile, and then he pushed my dress up and slid his fingers inside me. I moaned and fumbled with his belt, until he took it off and slid his pants down. I stroked his cock while he fingered me, and then I laid back on the damp grass and he slid inside me.

We moved through positions like drunken acrobats. I moaned and gasped as he talked dirty to me, telling me I was sexy as hell, that I was a fucking slut, that he loved pounding me.

He had an impressive lack of inhibitions for one so young. We didn’t have a condom (what was I thinking, forgetting that!?) , so I sucked him off while he rubbed my pussy with his fingers. My screaming was stifled by the dick in my mouth.

“Choke on it, you whore.”

Oh God, please just keep talking to me like that.

“You are such a sexy bitch.”

Fuck, that is erotic. “Mmmmmm.”

“You want my cum?”

“Mmm-hmm,” I answered, deep throating him and rubbing my tongue up and down his shaft.

He shot his cum down my throat.

“That was hot,” I said.

You’re hot.”

We decided to walk back to the reception hall separately, so as not to be totally obvious. He put his arm around me and gave me a kiss, then we studiously ignored each other for the rest of the night.

And that is the story of how I flashed the bridal party and then fucked my best friend’s younger cousin.

I have a problem.

I am a sex addict.

Both of Us

I met Daddy at our usual hotel. He told me to get on the bed, and then laughed that I was wearing far too many clothes.

“Get naked,” he said. I stripped.

He threw my clothes on the other bed and told me to touch myself. I started to slowly finger my pussy. Daddy spread my legs further apart to give himself a better view.

“All over,” he commanded. I moved my fingers up and rubbed my clit.


I rubbed myself harder, moaning, and so turned on by being watched.

“Yes, that’s what Daddy likes to hear. Are you close, baby?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Come  for Daddy.”

An orgasm spread through my body as I moved my fingers over my clit, gasping.

Daddy grabbed me and started fucking me missionary style, then put my legs over his shoulders, screwing me deep, until I was frantic.

When he came with a growl, I came with him.

We cuddled and caught our breath, and then he grabbed his Magic Wand. He teased me by rubbing it over my tits before sliding it down to my cunt. I was instantly screaming.  Jolts of electricity shot through me until I was begging for permission to come. I squirted like a hose, soaking the bed. Daddy rolled me over to where it was dry, then grabbed a towel to put on the bed.  Within minutes the towel was soaked through–I came that hard.

He told me to move to the end of the bed, then entered me from behind. I screamed as he hit my gspot, over and over, and then asked if I could come again. I clawed the sheets as I let go, rocked by yet another orgasm.

Daddy told me I was a good girl, before commanding me to ride him. I got on top of him, cowgirl style, as he talked dirty to me.

“Yes, fuck me hard. Fuck your Daddy. Fuck me, my beautiful whore.”

Yes, Sir.

I rode him until he came, and then we lay there all tangled together.

“You’re wonderful, you know that?” He said.

I smirked. “No.”

Then he went to take his sister to the cardiologist, and I left to pick my son up from school.

Double lives, both of us.

D.F. (Parti Deux)

D.F. and I have been planning a kinky date. Not going to say much except that it will involve rope, teasing and porn. He didn’t have much time this week and we wanted to see each other, so we decided to meet up a few days ago for an hour of straight fucking. It was intensely satisfying.

When I walked in the door he told me I looked great in my little yellow dress. I was, of course, wearing nothing underneath. He started touching me immediately, running his hands up me legs and over my pussy. We kissed for a minute before he told me to sit down on the leather bench in his doorway. I sat.

He said “Show me your pussy.”

I opened my legs.

I moaned as he slowly licked me, teasing my clit with the tip of his tongue before sucking it into his mouth. He licked me out faster and harder until I was coming, then fucked me with his fingers while I panted and moaned. He stood before me and unzipped his pants, dropping them in a puddle at his feet. I drew him into my mouth and sucked him, wrapping my tongue around his big shaft, taking as much of him in as I could. I gave him head for a few minutes, struggling because he was so big, until he pulled out of my mouth.

“Bad girl,” he said, pulling me up. I smirked.

“Turn around,” he said. I turned and bent over, so wet from our foreplay and dying to feel him inside me. I moaned loudly as he entered me from behind. He fucked me fast and hard, my screams echoing against the high ceilings in his cool, dark place. When I was about to come again, he pulled me up and led me to his living room. He told me to lay back on the chaise lounge. I was still fully dressed. Pushing my dress up above my waist, he pushed his cock inside me. I let out a low moan and wrapped my legs around him, grinding against him as he screwed me. Our pace turned frantic.

“Fuck. Oh god. Fuck!”

I was screaming again.

He pulled out and thrust his fingers against my gspot, making me squirt. I was on my back with my legs in the air, and somehow managed to soak my own tits. He rolled me over then, roughly, and took me from the back. I was already swollen but his pounding felt so goddamn good.

“Rub your clit,” he commanded.

I shifted my weight to one arm, rubbing myself as he drove into me. I felt overwhelmed with sensation but when I started to let up, he said “Don’t stop. Nobody said stop,” so I kept at it, gasping and moaning and writhing as we fucked. I had what I can only describe as a continuous orgasm like that. It just kept going. I was screaming so much I was starting to go hoarse.

“Do you want all of it?” he asked.

“Yes,” I gasped, taking him so deep that I let out a yelp of pain. Instead of letting up, he grabbed my arms and pinned them behind my back, fucking me with his entire length. After awhile the pressure stopped hurting and just felt really crazy good.

“God!” I moaned, coming hard. He came seconds later. We collapsed in a heap.

My Open Marriage: the skinny

My husband and I have an open marriage. We have been married 7 years, and I guess you could say, we’ve caught the itch. Or at least, I have. Our open marriage is one-sided. My husband has the right to exercise his option to play outside of our union, but at this time he chooses not to do so. This is largely because he is not nearly as sexual as I am–which is a huge part of why we are open in the first place.

I am an incredibly sexual person. I really can’t get enough. I have a lot of curiosity and a need to explore the different facets of my sexuality. My husband is pretty much good with vanilla sex, and not only has no desire for kink, but also has a bit of an aversion to it.

I spent the first seven years of our marriage frustrated and dissatisfied. We would go weeks and even months at a time without sexual contact. No amount of make-up and lingerie and straight-up throwing myself at him would change it. If he wasn’t in the mood (which was often), then it wasn’t happening. And this is still the way it is.

It’s not that we never have sex, or that he isn’t good at it. We do have sex sometimes, and when we do it is great. My husband is a creative and sensitive lover who isn’t satisfied unless I come multiple times, and who thinks of positions that would have never even occurred to me. So when it’s good, it’s good. It’s just that it’s not enough.

I was tired of lying in bed with him, aching and seething because he wouldn’t touch me. It caused problems–it hurt our marriage. Screaming and crying over this issue was not uncommon for us. Promises would be made, but not kept. While a woman can just suck it up and have sex regardless of whether she is aroused or not, it’s not as easy for a man. If their equipment isn’t cooperating, it is not going to happen.

Not only that, but it hurt my pride. When someone agrees to have sex with you when you can tell they don’t really want to, it stings. It kills the mood. It makes you feel as though you are not sexy. I don’t want a pity lay. So I would refuse, and the fighting would resume. To say it was devastating would be an understatement. I was slowly dying.

And then, in conjunction with all of this, we started to question our beliefs. We had been devout Christians, even marrying at 21 because we felt guilty for having sex. But we are thinkers. We ask questions. We challenge the status quo. And a lot of things about our belief system stopped making sense to us. My husband realized that he was no longer a believer, and then a year later, after a lot of digging and research, I reached the same conclusion for myself.

Without a book to tell us what our moral standard should be, we were free to define it for ourselves. We agreed that monogamy is nothing more than a social construction. It has its purposes and is not necessarily a bad thing, but non-monogamy is equally moral and ethical and right. We decided to open our marriage so that both of us could have our needs met.

A few close friends know about our agreement, and they are not impressed. They do not necessarily think that what we are doing is wrong, but that it is dangerous. That I could fall in love with someone else, or resent my husband for “making” me go to these lengths to get my needs met. Because they are my friends, they think that my husband is in the wrong. That he should suck it up and have more sex with me and pretend to like it. That he needs to get over his hang-ups and be more open to different sexual experiences.

His friends, I’m sure, would say that I am wrong. That we took vows, and that I need to honour them. That sex isn’t everything, and it’s not like we never have sex, and I should just invest in a couple of good vibrators and a collection of porn and remain faithful to my husband.

Here’s the thing, though. I love my husband, and he loves me. One of the most beautiful things about our marriage is that it is based on mutual acceptance. He loves my kinky slutty self, and I love him in all of his vanilla-ness. We don’t need to change each other. He doesn’t need to be all things to me, and I don’t need to be all things to him. I am not going to force him to attend an orgy or have anal sex if the thought legitimately makes his skin crawl. And he is not going to force me to go through the next several decades sexually dissatisfied because he doesn’t want to do what I want to do.

That doesn’t mean we aren’t working. It doesn’t mean there is anything wrong with our marriage. It doesn’t mean we don’t love each other. My husband is my partner in life, but he doesn’t own me. He is my partner, but I am free, and so is he.