Men


(Check it out. This is actually an Oreo.)

I don’t think I’ve mentioned it here before, but I’m going to Dark Odyssey’s Winter Fire in a few weeks.  Squee. I could not be more excited.  For those who aren’t familiar with it, Dark Odyssey is “a wholly unique experience which brings together sexuality, spirituality, education, and play in a fun, supportive, non-judgmental, diverse environment where fantasy becomes reality.”  Basically, it’s a three-day sex-conference with workshops during the day and play at night.

The whole event is so well-organized that there’s a private web-page for those who are attending to post little profiles, FetLife style, to introduce themselves.  I finally got around to doing this the other day and listed myself as bisexual.  This gave me pause, and I’ve been thinking about it since.

I don’t really identify as bi.  As I mentioned, I’ve been to bed with women before; the problem isn’t that I’m not attracted to them, or that I wouldn’t consider a relationship with a woman.  The problem is political; if I identify as anything, I identify increasingly as queer because of my sexual politics.  But Robbie and I went to hear Sarah Sloane speak about polyamory earlier this year, and her quick-and-dirty take on listing yourself as “bi” v. “queer” was that, “If you’re trying to attract mostly men, put bi; if you want to date mostly women, put queer.”  I’m mostly trying to attract men, but it pisses me off that in putting “bi”, the sexist ones will think I’m going to fuck girls for their benefit.  I suppose the last thing I should think about is what the jerks I am not going to date might think . . . but that still leaves me with the question of what I actually think.


Perhaps “feel” is a better word than “think”.  Robbie and I met a woman he’s been interested in during this last visit, and I expected myself, from pictures and emails and descriptions, to be incredibly drawn to her as well.  (If you’re reading this, hi hon!)  But I wasn’t.  I just didn’t feel sexual tension there on first meet.  For awhile, I was thinking, “well, it’s just because  you really don’t feel that pull to women”.  But that’s not true either.

Today, I was thinking that I just feel drawn to some people.  It sounds like that cliche–“Oh, it’s the person, not the gender, that I love.”  But that’s not true either.  I’m not talking love.  I’m talking raw desire.  Most men I meet I have pretty much zero desire to touch, much less fuck.  So when Robbie used to tell me that he could tell that I “loved cock”, I was befuddled.  Mostly when I contemplate a new cock–and the person attached to it–my overriding thought is, “Is it going to be ugly or smell bad?”  Because I hate finding out that someone is mangled and stinky when he’s six inches from my mouth.

But every so often when contemplating that new cock and its owner, my overriding thought is, “I WANT.”  I want to tear the person apart, shove him into the nearest piece of furniture, get my hands up inside his shirt, and feel him pin my arms as payback for my enthusiasm.  This is a relatively rare feeling for me–rare in proportion to the actual numbers of men in the universe, frequent enough that I’ve managed to get laid more than the average number of times for an American woman (last time I checked the stats).  And it’s an even rarer feeling when it comes to women.  But when I find it, it’s magic.

So whatever the label is for people who get electrically turned on by some individuals in ways they can’t always predict but always enjoy–that’s what I am.

Clever photographs by Kevin Van Aelst, via Feature Shoot.


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.

* * *

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.

* * *

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.

* * *

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 have been toying with the idea of sleeping with someone I am mildly acquainted with from this-yer-Internet-thingy. I have been toying with it, with him, and with my libido. I don’t feel particularly embarrassed about this; I figure he is man enough to handle it. Besides, he reads my blog—I’m assuming he’s aware of what a nut-case I am, and has adjusted his expectations accordingly.

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The thing is: I don’t like sex that much. This might be an odd thing for a sex blogger to write. I don’t think of myself as a “very sexual person”, as so many sex bloggers do. (I think of myself as an inveterate pervert, which is different.) I don’t crave sex—not in the abstract. It’s only been within the last five years that I look at a person I’m talking to and think about what it might be like to fuck them. I never look at strangers and think that I want to sleep with them (okay, almost never). Vanilla sex is not a treat for me unless I have huge sexual chemistry with someone, and that is rare. The mere rubbing of pinkish swollen bits doesn’t get me off.

There was a thread recently on the ever-ire-provoking Fetlife that asked the age at which folks had “figured it out”—figured out the distinction between love and sex. I wanted to answer, “What distinction? I’ve never figured it out.” Having sex with someone, in the absence of deep affection, is heartbreaking to me in ways I can’t express. It always feels like a terrible loss to me, a loss of a piece of myself and of an incredibly special moment. (“Moment” is an insufficient word. I want to use a word like flower or orchid or symphony or something, but those would sound cheesy. Nevertheless, the spiritual, universe-shattering dimension of sex, the sacredness of sex, seems to me spoiled by inopportune timing.) It’s true that I’ve slept with people that I wasn’t in love with, and on two or three occasions, I even felt that strong emotional tug linking the two (or three or four) of us. But mostly, sex—and I mean intercourse—does not work for me without the love. (This might be one reason I find it easier to sleep with women I’ve just met—they’re not trying to shove a piece of their flesh into my most sensitive spots. Yeah, I know—leave fisting out of it, okay?)

Robbie gets this about me, finally. After months and months of arguing about “others” (aka group sex), he gets that I’m not about to step up for the gangbang anytime soon. I would love to, in theory. I really want that, and double-penetration, oh, and all kinds of other vile and humiliating things—in my fantasy world. But when the cock hits the pussy, I get tight and weepy and I wanna go home, now.

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Robbie said to me a visit or two ago, “I understand that you need love to get open and juicy.” It wasn’t until he said the words that I finally admitted it to myself. This is one of the very good reasons to have him in my life—he understands me better at times than I understand myself. I need love.

He’s not that way. He needs attraction and mild admiration, affection. How I cope with his more frankly sexual self is a topic for another day.

But today, it’s enough for me to admit to myself, and out loud, that I’m just not that motivated to meet a new partner and get laid. I don’t think of it as a fun prospect. Actually, I think of it with terrible trepidation (although with no little arousal)—I think of it as frightening. Even if I feel affection and warmth and attraction to the person (as I do, in this case, to my prospective partner), I need the shelter of love, of its compassion and acceptance and commitment that love brings.

That, or wide unbridled animal lust. One of the two.

* * * * *

I’m really curious to hear what other people think. I was walking down the street today and wondering: is the prospect of having sex, for other folks, like the prospect of going out for dinner, to me? Do they think, cool, great, fun, this is an awesome chance to relax, kick back, have a good time, treat myself and feel good? The notion is just astonishing to me. Do people really fuck that recreationally? I’m in awe of that capacity. It seems like a wonderful thing to be able to do.

Tell me, oh internet denizens—is “casual” sex easy or hard, fun or scary?

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Photos by Cornelie Tollens, via fluffy Lychees.

So what happened was that for a couple weeks I thought I wasn’t a pervert anymore.

And then last night, I had a dream that two men came over to this house I was staying at and told me that as soon as all the guests who were about to come over left, they were going to rape me.  And then Robbie came home.  I told him about the two terrible men.  Robbie is big and strong and capable of defending me and a small village of other people; he more than fits the bill for all my damsel-in-distress fantasies.

In my dream, after I went to Robbie for help, he reassured me it was okay.  He said he’d take care of it.  That he’d wait with me until all the guests left, and that when the two men came over, he’d take charge of the “rape”, starting with having me blow him while they watched.

I kid you not.  This was the dream.  I woke up feeling all happy and smiley, full of affection for my boyfriend for taking care of me.

So what happened was I decided I’m still a pervert for now, and I’m back.

I’m lying on a beach in Mexico, one that I’ve actually been to before, a few times.  One where there is nothing to do but stare at beauty, doze, and drink beer. 

I go back to my hotel, which is airy, and smells of soap.  I lie down for a nap.  When I wake, I shower and call the hotel front desk.  I order him.

He is the hotel bartender; he is Robbie; he is submissive; he is the man I slept with a year ago.  He is all the men who draw me to them, and none of them.  I have never met him.

He is not exactly an object, but he is definitely for my use, and he is there to provide service, without me having to ask, or give directions, or give anything back.  He takes a bottle of massage oil (that comes from some convenient and as-yet undiscovered nook of my room) and rubs me down, starting with my back, neck to toe.  Then he works me over neck to toe, down the front.

Then he starts on my pussy. 

The oil is warm, his hands are warm, the day is hot and the room is cool and dark.  I relax and let my mind wander; I am not responsible for being responsive.   I don’t have to worry about my pleasure pleasing him.   In fact, I hold orgasm at bay for as long as I can; I want to savor this.

His hands are strong, but they don’t cause me pain; they push and pull and knead.  They explore, but they are not tentative.  They know my body already.  And eventually, they drive me over the edge, into a sweaty, glistening, oily, salty, drenched, cummy mess.

I lie there, breathing deeply.  He wipes his hands on a towel, awkward.  He is hard.  He helps me up, dries off my legs where I have squirted, hands me a soft towel.  I tip him and he leaves.  I feel no pang when I think of his unused erection.  After all, I’m having him again tomorrow.

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Not the image I wanted–that one’s on my home computer–but close.  By Gunter Hagedorn, found at Fresh Nudes.

Once upon a time, my best friend and I knew a woman who was going through a difficult time.  Her father had recently been diagnosed with cancer, and the news naturally was hitting her hard.  The three of us saw each other often for drinks and dinners, and one night, around the time all of this was happening, we all got blotto, mind-bogglingly so.

Deep into her cups, our friend poured out her grief for her father.  She got so upset that we all retreated to the ladies’ room, where our friend unleashed both her tears and the contents of her stomach.  As we crouched in the stall with her, trying to comfort her, a fourth woman walked in.  And on witnessing the noise and the hubbub, she gave the best counsel she could: “Honey, he ain’t worth it.”

We laughed.  To the fourth woman’s puzzlement, we laughed long and hard.  And when we had a chance to explain to the fourth woman what was going on, she laughed too.  Gallows humor, perhaps, but what else were we to do?  Our friend’s father was definitely worth her tears, although we agreed that most boyfriends were not.

* * *

Robbie and I were talking about blogs the other day.  He rarely reads them unless I point him to them, but then, of course, he has opinions–ones that I think are incredibly insightful, especially when they jive with my own.

On this particular occasion we were talking about comments, and how at times commentators are really too nice.  I have a penchant for argumentative comments, as I have admitted here before, but it’s as an antidote to commentators who act as a chorus of yes-men for the blogger.  Or perhaps that should be “yes-women.”  I didn’t think of the effusion of support that people in comments often offer as gendered until Robbie pointed it out. “You know,” he said, “everyone in the comments was doing that woman thing–that ‘there, there,’ thing.”

I knew what he meant.  The coffee-klatsch is alive and well in the 21st century, and living in bloggers’ comments.  We get to bitch about our sex lives, our families, our pets, our lovers–and most of the people to whom we bitch offer a sympathetic ear.

But a sympathetic ear is not always what we need, and it’s hard for virtual friends to perform the function of real friends.  When virtual friends say, “there, there,” they sometimes get it wrong; sometimes, their response is as automatic as a generic (but vivid) “Honey, he ain’t worth it.”

This was especially clear to me last week, while reading Gray Lily’s blog.  Like most people, Gray was having some relationship speedbumps.  Unlike most people, Gray wrote about them in a compelling and dramatic way that left her readers upset and concerned for her.  Her many readers wrote in to tell her that the man in question was not worthy of her time or attention.  I understand; it’s “he ain’t worth it”.  Except that sometimes he is worth it, and so is she, and so is the relationship . . . and people need to hear that, too.

I feel like I am not making my point here, or perhaps I am making it and making it again, in an obvious way.  I feel like I am not making my point because, of course, this isn’t a point about my friend, or someone’s comments, or even Gray Lily.  It’s a point about me.  At different times my friends and family have told me that the tears I have shed for Robbie are not worth it.  Heck, Robbie and I have often said to each other that our relationship is not worth the pain it puts us through.

But it’s very hard for outsiders to see what is really going on in a situation, inside that bathroom cubicle where the hurt is.  As my mother always says, “Nobody knows what’s really going on in a relationship except the two people in it.”  It’s hard to know how precious or horrible or fantastic or dull life is for two people who chart a course together–or even two people who share one enchanted evening.

Sometimes, it’s just hard to know.

Excuse the delay in posting. I can–and will–explain.

Until then, I am doing something unprecedented–posting a piece of “new” media. I saw this on TV yesterday and my jaw dropped. Even my mother noticed something . . . odd . . . about it.

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