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.
In the midst of all the Boss Man craziness, Papa Bear and I took our vacation into the mountains. It was absolutely perfect. It was off season at the resort, so the place was pretty well deserted. We spent four days cooking, snuggling, drinking, wandering through town, swimming in the natural spring pools, and screwing.
One night, after coming in from the hot tub, we fell into bed naked. We kissed feverishly, drunkenly, and started groping and sucking and fucking. I was on my stomach and as he fucked me from behind, I half-purred, half-growled, “I want you to fuck my ass.”
This is something that has always been a challenge for us. It has something to do with how thick Papa Bear’s cock is, and how tight my ass is, but in the year and a half that we’ve been together, we have only achieved anal once, and I couldn’t take it for long.
This time, though, I guess I was just drunk enough, just horny enough, and just lubed enough.
He slid the head of his cock into me. I gasped, and told him to wait. He held still and I tried to relax. He slid in a little more. I whimpered and took a deep breath, somewhere in the space between pain and ecstasy. We continued like that for several minutes, me breathing and trying to relax, him waiting and then advancing. And then he was inside me.
I moaned loudly. “Fuck me,” I begged, and he did. I screamed. I screamed and moaned and swore, and told him how fucking good it felt. I begged for more–harder, faster. He pounded me while I came and came, and then he filled me with cum.
“Holy fucking shit.”
It was definitely worth the wait, but we both agreed that another year and a half is not allowed to pass before we do that again.
I fucked him. Good god, it was hot. That unmistakable, delicious energy you get when you’re sitting inches away from someone, looking into their turquoise eyes, talking coyly about anything at all, and you know they’re about to be inside you.
I love sizing them up. His huge hands made my breath catch in my throat. He had freckles on his tattooed arms. His hair was reddish brown, he was chewing gum, and I couldn’t help remembering the biceps from his photo.
He gave me a drink. I downed it in less than a minute. We laughed, and he asked me if I wanted another. I said yes. We went into the bedroom. We kissed. Groaned. Groped each other. He undressed me, pulling off his shirt, then mine. His pants, then mine. We kept kissing. He was a good kisser. Urgent and gentle and hot and surprising. He licked my neck and my nipple and between my legs. I gave him a hickey on his bicep, and sucked him until I swallowed his cum, then licked him clean.
He fingered me. I jolted and moaned. He laughed at how cute I am when I jump. We talked. Well, he talked–I listened. I do that. Draw people out, so I can get a sense of them, without giving anything away myself. Its why I should have been a therapist–everyone tells me that–if only I could get my own shit together. Get sane. Get stable.
I sucked him hard, and he slid his huge, veined, curved cock between my legs. I screamed as he entered me. I was dying for it. Panting. He pounded me HARD. Just like I needed him to. He moved me into different positions like a pretzel. He told me to get on my hands and knees and banged me from behind. He slid down on top of me and rubbed my insides with his dick, while playing with my clit. I screamed so hard I was surprised I had any voice left. He came in me. At least I’d been smart enough to use a condom.
We lay panting and sweaty, muttering curses under our breath. Hot. Horny. Half-crazy. He got me another drink, and I went to clean up. We cuddled. Stroked each other. Talked.
“We should go soon,” he said.
I wrapped my leg around his, not letting go.
“Let me up,” he said. “It will be worth it.”
I let him up.
He slid another condom over his enormous, throbbing cock, grabbed my leg, and pushed inside me.
I saw stars.
The first thought I had when he kissed me was “WRONG. This is wrong.”
Logically speaking I know it’s fine for me to have sex with whoever I want to, but every so often slut-shaming and mono-normative thoughts creep into my head and it’s hard to shake them.
He led me inside and told me I needed to be wearing much less clothing, and the teenager inside me who was told she’d be forever sullied if she had sex with someone who was not her husband, quavered.
He started off by having me suck his cock, which didn’t help.
What would people say?
You shouldn’t be doing this.
Shut up, all of you.
We went into the bedroom where he immediately bent me over the bed. I was still swollen from the night before, so much so that despite being wet, he had a hard time entering me.
“I’m beginning to think you can’t handle me two nights in a row,” he said. “You’re so swollen its like fucking an 18 year old.”
Inside, I am still an 18 year old. Just now experimenting with my sexuality, because back then I was too scared and repressed to do so.
It hurt. I grit my teeth as he slammed into me. Told myself to relax like I do at the beginning of anal. Breathed. Whimpered. And eventually came.
It stopped hurting. I came again. I came so hard and got so tight that I pulled the condom right off him–he had to stop and put on another.
I came the way you should only be able to come from tantric sex–continually. I came for 20 minutes straight. As soon as one orgasm ended another began. I rose and crashed, whimpering, moaning, screaming and panting. Eventually, he came too, with me still in the middle of an endless orgasm.
He told me to get up on the bed for a cuddle but I could barely move. He kissed my neck and growled in my ear, sending more shivers of pleasure through me.
I am allowed.
I am allowed to feel this.
I am allowed to use my body in whatever way feels good.
I am allowed to orgasm, I am allowed to cuddle, I am allowed to suck cock, and I am allowed to do it with whoever I want as long as they want it, too.
My body, my life, my pleasure, my choice.
The only one who has to live with it is me.
If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, it is even truer for sexiness.
Ever since my self-imposed ban on other lovers, I have pretty much given up on sexy.
I haven’t combed my hair since Sunday, and my “going out” clothes have been relegated to a suitcase in the bottom of my closet. My poor lingerie drawer has been sorely neglected as well. If I do not have “other” men telling me in word and deed how sexy I am, then my physical appearance ceases to matter.
Am I a non-entity who can’t take care of my appearance because I respect myself, and not just so that others can validate me? Apparently that is exactly what I am.
I am not sexy.
I’m surprised my husband will even agree to have sex with me. We have been averaging about once a week lately. I can tell when it has to happen. The constant raging fire inside me has turned into more of an orange ember, though it is still there. It doesn’t increase when I need to have sex, but what DOES increase is my bitchiness. I snap at the kids if they do not go to bed immediately after our telling them to do so, for fear that if they are up too late the husband will be too tired. I also snap more at him–I am punishing him because I anticipate that he will reject me. Why I think I will catch more flies will vinegar I’ll never know, but though I want to be sweet as honey, my subconscious is in control and it is angry at him when I want sex.
Even on these nights, I don’t do anything to up my sex appeal. I am still sporting the bedhead I woke up with that morning. I may pass a damp cloth over my body instead of taking the effort to shower, deodorant serves as a substitute for perfume, and my mascara and lipstick remain abandoned on my dusty make-up shelf. I am forcing him to love me at my worst, because it stung so badly each time he rejected me when I was at my best. And, miraculously, love me he does–even though I am not sexy.
I know, though, that sexy isn’t all about looks. It is about how you feel–who you are. When I had a variety of lovers and illicit trysts penciled into my day planner, I was sexy all the time. One morning I dragged myself into work after a night of no sleep. I didn’t bother with make-up, I was wearing my unflattering work clothes–and I was sexy as hell. I got hit on by countless male customers.
It was the naughty way I smiled to myself while reliving the previous night’s activities. It was my confidence, and the endorphins still coursing through my body. I felt sexy, and so I was. And that is the real issue here.
Why does having sex in a committed relationship, with someone who genuinely loves me, have zero effect on how I feel about myself? Why does having sex with a stream of assholes who couldn’t give a shit about me, make me feel like a goddess? Is there any logic to this at all?
Maybe knowing that I am ONLY wanted for my perceived outer sexiness boosts my confidence, while the possibility of being rejected by someone I have committed to spending my life with fills me with fear. Maybe I do not believe that I am worthy of true love, or maybe love without the rush of infatuation bores me. Maybe I have serious psychological issues and really do desperately need a therapist.
I am not sexy. But I want to be. I want to shave my legs just so I can rub the smoothness of one against the other. I want to pout my lipsticked mouth in the mirror and smile because I like the way I look, not because anyone else does. Can I convince myself to sleep in lingerie, even if chances are my husband will NOT rip it right off me? Can I walk around naked just to feel the air move across my skin?
I am not sexy. But I want to be.
A co-worker made a joke as she walked past, tracing her fingers lightly across my back in a way that was nothing but friendly. Even now, I am fascinated at the way my entire body responded to her touch. It wasn’t sexual, but it sent tingles down my spine. Every part of me warmed, liked I had just finished doing shots. It did not pass quickly. It lingered like the goosebumps that rise during a persistent wind, or the way skin heats up when exposed to the sun.
The realization hit me like a bucket of water to the face: It has been such a long time since I was really touched.
A touch just for the sake of acknowledging that someone else is here, and human. A warm show of appreciation or affection. Something so off-handed that I’m sure she didn’t even realize she was doing it, and yet it shook me.
It’s not that I live without physical contact. My kids climb all over me, demand hugs and kisses. They tug my hands and pull me around, falling asleep with their elbows in my face, planting themselves on my thigh until my leg goes numb. My husband and I hug and kiss by automatic response when I leave the apartment, sit side by side on the couch with our arms touching, clasp hands over the toddler sleeping between us as we drift off at night.
But as for touch that is genuine and natural, that is not born of habit, and that demands nothing? It is non-existent in my world.
Of course, sex is in a class of its own. I haven’t been laid in awhile, but even if that wasn’t the case, sex is different from no-strings affection. And then I try to remember…when was the last time I had sex out of nowhere? When was the last time my hand innocently brushed against someone else’s, sending a spray of electricity, shocking us both? When was the last time I looked up into someone’s eyes, innocently, with no agenda, and just let the mood build? When was the last time I had sex that unfolded like a story? Sex that just happened?
I miss that.
I am all for going after what I want. For both parties being up front. For meeting someone with the full-knowledge that both of us are only there because we want to bang. But there is something so real about the chance meeting, the slow connection, the touch for the sake of touch until there is nowhere to be but on each other, grasping and naked.
The kink party was fantastic.
Sir got an invite through Fet Life, and the guests were hand chosen by the host to include only friendly, open people. When we arrived, there was a group of people sitting around the island in the kitchen, eating, drinking and talking. A bunch of people welcomed us with hugs and made us feel totally at home, even though we didn’t know anyone.
There was bondage porn playing on the TV, a dungeon in the basement, and a bowl of condoms sitting on the table beside the chips and dip! We spent about an hour just getting to know everyone, and then the fun began. The host, Mr. S, kicked things off by making his submissive, Peanut, get on all fours, exposing her ass-cheeks by lifting the skirt of her skimpy french maid outfit, and spanking, punching and kicking her bare bottom. It seemed kind of brutal to me, but I knew she was a pain slut and absolutely loved it. She’d told me earlier that when she got her tattoos and piercings (she had both nipples done–so sexy!), she orgasmed each time. I watched for awhile (she had a fantastic ass, after all), then went back to the kitchen to join Sir.
When Mr.S offered to give Sir a tour of the dungeon, I was told to go too. We headed down the narrow stairs into the basement, where it was FREEZING (!), and he showed us around. There was a black bench with leather cushions big enough for two, and a cross with wrist and ankle restraints. Hung along the wall were whips and paddles of all kinds, from wide to slim, leather to bamboo. And around it all was a theater of sorts–couches and arm chairs where people could watch others do their thing. A little shiver went through me.
(To be Continued…)