I am not sure what’s wrong with men.  (I accidentally typed “me” instead of “men”, but I’m 99% sure that I’m okay and they’re not.)  I went to a munch earlier this week and met a friendly, submissive-switch guy.  We hit it off well enough to chat for most of the evening about kinky things and mull over the possibility of playing together.  I have to be honest; as I’ve written about before, my interest often stops at the mulling stage, and I’ve learned not to be distressed that others actually want to act on their impulses.

What distressed me a leeetle was that when the guy went to leave, he asked me for a ride to his car, which was, by his choice, parked nearly a mile away from the bar hosting the munch.  It was bitterly cold, so I did the nice thing and drove him, although I would liked to have lingered longer.  When we got to his car, I figured there might be a peck on the cheek or something.  (I’d told him about Robbie.)  Instead, he turns to me and says, “Well, a kiss seems a little inappropriate, so how about I masturbate and you watch?”

Yeah.  No.  No thanks.

I informed him that the kiss was about 10000000% more appropriate than jizz would be, and so he gave me a very nice, sweet kiss.  Chalk up one for me in the “articulating my wants and desires” column.

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I’ve started a few other writing projects in other places, which is distracting.  Every morning I get up to work on of the 15 short essay-lettes I have planned, and every day I end up staring at the computer screen jumping around from thing to thing to thing.  So, lots to say here, and hopefully I can pick up the pace a bit.

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I had a huge lunch today at a famous restaurant and it really wasn’t that good.  (Don’t go to this famous restaurant whose name you don’t know, if you’re ever near it.)  I’m feeling ginormous post-holiday and I really, really want to get in better shape.  It’s a new year cliche, but I’m really hoping I can make some changes there.  I will never have legs like this woman–although I did once get to fuck a woman who had legs like this–but it’s not really a contest.  Feeling better in my own body is where it’s at.

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Blah blah blah me.  Okay, well, that’s pretty much a post.

Cool pics by Franklin Obregon.  And if you really want to know, I steal most of my stuff from Sex in Art (as in this case), or ponyXpress, or the like.


I’ve mentioned before that I rarely masturbate.  This didn’t always used to be true.  For most of my life, I was a first-class wanker.  I wanked daily, sometimes thrice a day or more.  Although I had some residual almost-Catholic guilt about it, the thought that women shouldn’t masturbate seemed silly to me, and I wondered why girls didn’t avail themselves of this pleasure just as much as their male counterparts.

Long before I knew about BDSM, I had a solo D/s sex life (if that’s possible).  I practiced orgasm control and orgasm denial; at times, I “forced” myself to come.  I “made” myself masturbate in bathrooms the world over.  Along with these cascading orgasms came fantasies of objectification, machine-fucking, orgies, glory holes, bondage, restraint–all stuff I craved, but I thought only existed in fantasy and trashy novels.

Then I got a boyfriend.  My first serious boyfriend.  And gradually, the urge to “self-pleasure” (gag) faded.  We jerked off quite a lot when we were together, actually, but when I was alone . . . nah.  Perhaps it was that I was rarely at home, alone–I was mostly with him, and we had a mostly satisfactory love life.  But there was more–because at the end of our relationship, we were long distance.  And just as we were about to make the switch from being together to being an ocean away from one another, I fell into a psychological trough of panic and despair so deep that I am still climbing out.

I don’t think my boyfriend was the cause of my miserable moods, but I do think that the tumult of that time left some scars on my sexuality.  Before I got treatment for my misery, he and I shared a strange 10-day vacation that was so unhappy I knew I needed help.  You know something is wrong when you are in a luxury hotel in rural Maine, being served blueberry pancakes in the solarium of a federalist mansion, and your main response is fear.  Blueberry pancakes just really aren’t that scary.

But the fear spilled over onto everything, especially sex.  We would start to make love and I would begin to sob that it was wrong, dirty.  We weren’t even particularly perverse.  Treatment helped calm the feeling that sex was bad, but the medicines I was on made orgasm elusive, if not impossible.  I distinctly remember my last, great orgasm with him.  We were in a hotel in Vermont.  I can still see the white, nubbly bedspread.  And then . . . there was a huge blanket over my libido for the next four years.  The boyfriend and I parted ways long before the SSRIs and I did.  Out of practice with masturbation, broken-hearted, I gradually gave up trying.

That’s not to say I never jerked off again.  I would get on a roll at times with vibrator or fingers, but I don’t recall it as a regular pleasure, an insatiable desire, the way it had been before.

And then came Robbie.  When we first met, the intense spark between us triggered a rush of lust whose edge I could not dull, no matter how much I tried.  The rich and raunchy fantasies that burbled up as I ground my pubic bone into my palm unfolded again in emails to him, in stories, in wicked plans and schemes for the future.  I fucked myself silly when we were apart, and when we were together, he fucked me silly.

But at some point, gradually or suddenly, I stopped.  I can’t remember why or how I stopped.  I know I have tried to start again.  And it’s not there.  And it’s awful, not just because I don’t come on my own–though I think that can’t be doing me any good.

It’s awful because the stream of home-grown pornogrpahy, tailored just for me, that my subconscious offered up while I was in the throes of solo-passion is gone.  I don’t fantasize; I barely know what my fantasies are anymore.  And that is something to be scared of.

Photo by Piotr Debski, found thanks to fluffy Lychees.


I have been unbelievably exhausted lately, for all kinds of reasons, including a bout of sporadic insomnia. Tired as could be, I still drove the 8-hours-each-way to see Robbie this weekend. It was worth it, as always. We had one of the best weekends imaginable–as he said, it felt like the first year we were together.

Home again the last couple of nights, I’ve felt the wave of sadness and stress that usually follows separating from him. (The fight I often precipitate right before leaving his house has been on my mind, too–how do you spell “s3lf-defeet1ng?”)

Last night, tossing and turning in bed, fussing about all our “relationship” stuff and trying to breathe deeply, it occurred to me that maybe I needed a different approach. I was also distracted from my concerns, I admit, by a parade of profoundly perverse sexual fantasies. I thought it might be a good idea to encourage them. So I did something I haven’t done in ages–I had a good old-fashioned wank. (Why I haven’t done this in ages is a whole ‘nother story, and I’d have to write posts and posts to even figure out the answer.)

I ended up squirting (a new trick!) all over the bed, and I was quite pleased with my little solution. I was even more thrilled, in a juvenile way, when I rolled over and saw that the wet spot was shaped precisely like a gigantic cock and balls. I was so thrilled I even took pictures of the sodden zone (did I mention it was huuuuge?). I’ll post ’em if I get enough nerve.

Oh yeah, and I slept insanely soundly and woke refreshed. I’m thinking I’m onto something here, something really revolutionary. Stay tuned for my discoveries.