100 sexxay things about Omnivore

Inspired by Wendy Blackheart at Heart Full of Black, I give you 100 things about me, the sex list (with some love and truth and beauty thrown in for good measure).

1. I took my own virginity.
2. No, really. With a small, pink, very ladylike bottle of roll-on deodorant. I broke my hymen, and that hurt a bit, and then I pushed the bottle in farther and it felt good. And then I stopped. Because I was afraid.
3. This was after an aborted attempt to “give” my virginity to a boy in the back seat of a car.
4. While he was pulling down my pants, I asked him if he had a condom. “No,” he said, rising up to kiss me, “but you don’t want a piece of plastic in you the first time, do you?”
5. He couldn’t penetrate my little 13-year-old cunt.
6. There was no foreplay, which probably didn’t help.
7. We broke up soon afterward.
8. I was 14 years old and a freshman in high school the first time I had sexual intercourse.
9. I was 19 years old before I had sex without a condom.
10. Twice I went to the same anonymous HIV-testing clinic with a man so we could fuck without a condom.
11. I think it’s kind of romantic to go get STD screenings together.
12. I paid attention during sex ed. Back then, they actually told you about the various forms of birth control and how to use them.
13. According to the current abstinence-only curricula taught in public schools across the country, I am a piece of scotch tape that has been stuck to so many arms that it can no longer “bond” properly.
14. I’d rather be a slut than a whore.
15. I reclaimed the word “dyke” early on.
16. I didn’t reclaim the word “slut” until I was over 30.
17. I didn’t reclaim the word “bitch” until this year.
18. I fell in love with a little red-haired girl when I was in the first grade.
19. I fell in love with a little brown-haired boy when I was in the second grade.
20. I told my fourth-grade teacher that I loved my best friend so much that if I could I would marry her. Her response shamed me deep into the closet for a decade.
21. When I was a toddler, I remember discovering the interesting folds of my vagina while sitting in the living room watching TV. “That’s a private place to touch,” said my mother. “You should only touch that when you’re in the bath or in bed alone at night.”
22. I didn’t have a real orgasm until I was in college.
23. The boy who gave it to me was a black boy with a moustache. We were never really dating.
24. He did it by going down on me with enthusiasm, and by doing it longer than anyone had done it before.
25. The first time I ejaculated was with a small, hard plastic vibrator. I was about 19 years old.
26. I had to throw away that futon less than a year later because it started to smell really funky.
27. My boyfriend said “Are you sure it’s not pee?” the first time I came on his face.
28. Later, I asked my girlfriend what it tasted like and she replied, “your hot, salty cum.”
29. The first woman I fell in love with was a summer exchange student from a local community college.
30. She gave me a tiny hickey, and when my mother asked me who had given it to me, I told her.
31. My mother’s initial response was “Ew”.
32. Later, my mother told me she loved me no matter who I was or who I was with. She bought me combat boots and a toolbox.
33. It took me ten more years to realize I didn’t have to be butch to be a dyke.
34. I didn’t come to terms with my bisexuality until five years after I came out of the closet.
35. I used to call myself a traitor to my own kind.
36. I am very, very good at eating pussy.
37. I am very, very good at sucking cock.
38. I can deep throat, but only if I’m really into the guy.
39. Finger-fucking gives me carpal tunnel syndrome.
40. I like 69ing, but I’d rather be on top.
41. My favorite way to come is on my back, with intense stimulation on my clit.
42. After I turned 30, I started having vaginal orgasms regularly and repeatedly.
43. When I come during PIV sex, my cunt has been known to clench so hard it pushes my lover’s cock right out.
44. I have been known to ejaculate from PIV sex.
45. I have been known to ejaculate from a spanking.
46. I think cybersex is cheating.
47. I don’t think I’m really polyamorous, but I like to pretend when I’m single.
48. I once spent seven years in a lesbian marriage (the old-school, illegal kind) that suffered from serious Lesbian Bed Death.
49. I have cheated on more than one partner.
50. The part of cheating I hate the most (in myself and in others) is the dishonesty.
51. I like to have sex at least three times a week.
52. I can go for extended periods of time without any kind of sexual contact, without missing it.
53. Twice after long-term relationships I’ve used Craigslist to find and fuck a good assortment of lonely, horny men.
54. Once I got an email from the girlfriend of a man I’d slept with once. It turned out that he had lied to me about being single. I apologized to her and confirmed that he and I had slept together.
55. I have never had sex with a transgendered person.
56. I find butch women very attractive, I’ve had sex with many “gay” men, but men in drag do nothing for me.
57. I see transgendered people as my siblings in gender rebellion.
58. I’ve fucked women with my “psychic cock” and made them come.
59. I’ve come while fucking women with my psychic cock.
60. All of my genderfuck is behavioral. On the outside, I’m very clearly a girl.
61. I’ve taken people to task for using the word “queer” as a pejorative.
62. I love the word “queer” because it includes all sorts of sexual and gender minorities.
63. I have had lovers of many different races and nationalities.
64. I lost count of the number of lovers I’ve been with sometime in my early 20s.
65. I used to feel deeply ashamed for having so many sex partners.
66. I have been deeply in love somewhere between four and six times in my life.
67. I have never consistently enjoyed anal sex as much as I have with Bran.
68. I didn’t come to terms with my BDSM tendencies until January 2008.
69. The first time I heard about fisting was when Susie Bright came to speak at my college in the early 90s.
70. Less than a month later, my tall, rangy boyfriend with the really large hands managed to fit all five fingers inside me.
71. Cunnilingus is my favorite thing in the whole world.
72. Sexual intercourse is my favorite thing in the whole world.
73. Rubbing my face in a woman’s wet, juicy pussy is my favorite thing in the whole world.
74. Group sex is my favorite thing in the whole world.
75. The first time I made out with more than one boy was when I was 15 years old.
76. My first threesome was with two men, as a freshman in college.
77. FFM is my favorite threesome combination.
78. Bran and I have fantasized about bringing a submissive woman to bed with us.
79. I fall in love very easily.
80. I’ve often confused lust for love.
81. I’ve had sex in the back of a car on Highway One in Northern California, on the beach outside of Santa Cruz, in a hotel room with lots of other people having sex around me, on the kitchen floor, on a golf course, while driving, and probably lots of other places I can’t remember.
82. I find double-penetration (one in the cock, one in the pussy) fascinating.
83. I have never been fucked in the ass and the pussy at the same time by two actual men with actual penii.
84. I have experienced double penetration twice with a man and a handy dildo, and each time it was AWESOME.
85. Once, when I was walking by some neighbors, I heard them repeating something I’d shouted rather loudly the night before.
86. The thing I’d shouted was, “Oh, baby, fuck me in the ASS!”
87. The windows had been open.
88. I was embarassed.
89. I’ve let a butch woman get away with emotional and physical abuse I would never have tolerated from a man.
90. I attended a support group at a local women’s shelter to get the moral support I needed to get out of that relationship.
91. I thought I was different than all the other women in the room because I was gay and they were straight, but our stories ended up being exactly the same.
92. On two separate occasions I have violently pushed my female lovers away from me.
93. I used to think that men were made of iron, that I could say all sorts of mean things to them and they wouldn’t feel it.
94. The only time I’ve ever hit a man was during a scene.
95. I love to wrestle and win.
96. I love to wrestle and lose.
97. I love to dominate my lovers.
98. With Ace, I discovered exactly how sexy it is to hurt someone.
99. It’s only sexy if they’re into it too.
100. I like to say I love power exchange more than sadomasochism, but sometimes I wonder if that’s true.

Found femdom from the diva of pop

Madonna’s new album and the accompanying buzz in the blogosphere has had me reflecting on my own relationship with the diva of pop. The righteous babes at Feministing do an excellent job of summing up my own complicated relationship with this role model from my girlhood. And yes, she was a role model. But I was so clueless about so many things when her first album came out! I was about nine years old, and at the time it was still a toss-up who was going to be a bigger star: Madonna or Cindi Lauper. In many ways, I respect Cindi Lauper’s career more than Madonna’s even though it wasn’t as prolific. I think that Lauper remained more true to who she was; choosing an authentic voice over what will sell in the current zeitgeist requires a tremendous amount of integrity.

But I do admire Madonna as a woman who has always been unafraid to go for exactly what she wants. Her overt sexuality paved the way for other women to come out of the “slut” closet and proudly own the fact that we, too, enjoy sex. But her message is confusing at times.

I remember when “Express Yourself” came out on MTV (yes, once upon a time, Music Television actually showed music videos). I was a sullen drama chick at the time, disdainful of anything remotely mainstream. But twenty years later, the narrative of this piece really stands up on its own. The visuals express in a clear and yet question-raising way the power play inherent in sexual politics. Money, class, gender, and sexuality all bring with them their own kinds of power. It’s important to understand the power of each so that you can decide whether you want to own them, reject them, deny them, or appropriate them for your own purposes.

This was also the first time I saw the sinous muscles of Madonna’s back. Phew. A few years later, I’d realize I was more interested in the singer herself than the hunky guy down in the boiler room sweating away (although I know Bitchy likes that). Twenty years later, I’d realize I was also really, really interested in the woman at the top of the stairs dressed in the traditional trappings of male power.

PS: A tip of the hat to Axe’s awesome collection of found femdom. I could never compete.

First orgy, worst orgy

It was right around this time of year, actually, perhaps a bit later. I was a junior in high school. We’d just finished our exams, so it was either mid-term or the end of the year. We all jumped into Rich’s car and headed north to April’s house. April, whose mother up in Maine had despaired of ever taming her wild daughter, finally threw up her hands and sent her to live down in Fairfield County with her dad. She lived in a little shack behind the main house. It had no indoor plumbing and relied on a wood stove for heat, but it did have something far more valuable to a wild 17-year-old: privacy.

The year was 1990, and Rich popped in a tape of all five radio remixes of Madonna’s Vogue. There were six of us: Rich, April, me, young Susan (a mere freshman), Hester, and April’s beau Thom. Aside from chiseled good looks, Thom had few redeeming qualities. But I don’t think she liked him for his conversation.

“I’ve got that feeling,” I said aloud as we sped north.

“Like you’re going to be bad?” said Susan. And I nodded. We were thrilled, glad to be alive, free of schoolwork, free of parents and obligations, free to be bad.

Once at April’s place, we clambered up the steps (more ladder than staircase) to the little loft above the main room. Someone produced a case of beer — the cheapest kind imaginable. There was some shotgunning of beers. And then people were passing a joint, tiny, mostly paper, and almost gone before I’d become aware of it. That was most likely the first time I saw anyone actually smoking pot.

And then someone–Thom or Rich, I’m sure–came up with the bright idea of tying up all the girls. We were all in the drama club except for Thom, whom I’d never even seen at school, and Rich was the flymaster. This meant he was adept at tying knots. He demonstrated this skill fairly well, and pretty soon we were all prettily trussed and bound on April’s rat’s nest of a bed.

When Rich first appeared on the scene at the beginning of the year, I’d developed a crush on him. Along with every other single female member of the drama club. Since then, I’d come to realize he was just a conceited ass. And yet there I was, hands bound above my head, undulating as he teased me with his hands.

“I’ve got to have more beer in me to do this,” I said. And shotgunned another beer. That turned out to be a big mistake, because pretty soon the bed and the room were spinning. “I’m going to throw up,” I said. And without further ado, I did. Right next to the bed.

Folks obviously weren’t too pleased, but I was too far gone to do much about it. I clambered downstairs without falling on my head and stumbled through the bright spring sunlight into the main house. I took a shower in her parents’ bathroom, then headed back out to the porch. Hester had quietly excused herself when the rope came out, and the two of us sat there talking and smoking cigarettes. Across the lawn, we heard the noises of our disporting friends through the open window of April’s shack.

April called to me through the open window. “I think I just had an orgasm!” she said.

Strange that she would call it out to me, with two boys and a girl right there in the bed beside her. But she did.

Later, she gave me a full-on kiss, lips, tongue, passion, and all. Hester told me she was surprised, since April had made some comments earlier in the year that expressed a clear dislike for lesbians. In vino veritas.

I made my way back up to our coltish little orgy, intending to clean up the mess I’d left. But my friends had beaten me to it. And then Rich was guiding my hand into Susan’s pants. I pulled down her fly and slid my hands into her panties, felt her wetness, probed further, intrigued and amazed at myself at the same time. “Too hard,” she said, and I pulled my hand out, too awkward and afraid (afraid of what? everything.) to try again. Susan was soft and chocolate-colored, with a fine nimbus of black hair framing her round face and green eyes. I loved her body, had always thought she was gorgeous. But she was also like my little sister. I lay with my chin on her chest and talked. Next to us, April and Thom writhed against each other.

Much later, Hester drove Susan and me back to our crappy little downtown apartments. I watch the green, green lawns slide by. The sky was grey and overcast, like my head in the aftermath of all that beer and transgressive sex.

Fuck: I do not think it means what you think it means

This is the second of a three-part essay about semantics and a quote from The Princess Bride. Read the first part here. The third part is forthcoming.

It’s questionable whether we all see the same color blue. But it’s definite that we do not always speak the same language, even when we are using the same words. That’s because certain words have stretchy meanings. They contain concepts that are bigger than their common connotations.

There are three words I use that do not mean what you think they mean. They are: love, fuck, and god.

Fuck
“Fuck” is a challenging word in the English language. It is undoubtedly an obscenity. Net Nanny programs are probably blocking this page right now because I’m using it. Which is just as well because only consenting adults who have signed liability waivers on file while with Omnivore Inc are actually allowed to read it. What do you mean you don’t remember signing that? I’m calling tech support!

Word nerds will know the etymological origins of “fuck.” Its predecessors meant both “to copulate” and “to strike.” Andrea Dworkin and her crew made much of these double meanings during the anti-porn crusades of the 1970s and 1980s. I’m glad for the radical feminists who broke the land for me. And I’m also glad that for the sex-positive queers who came after Dworkin and provided clean, well-lighted places for women to get their sexxay on. As a kinky woman who enjoys getting fucked, I get the whole copulating/hitting connection. Cunnilingus is awesome, but so is the feel of a cock or a dildo repeatedly striking my cervix. So is a spanking. Or a beating. From either end. Provided it’s consensual, of course.

Fucking usually refers to sexual intercourse. Not sure what I mean by sexual intercourse? I present to you the Family Research Council-approved definition:

One man and one woman get married, preferably in a church. The state sanctions their wedding and they get to save money on things like health insurance and income taxes. After a big, expensive wedding, they go to a special place called a bedroom. They turn out the lights, take off all their clothes in the dark, and then the man inserts his penis into the woman’s vagina. Eventually he ejaculates some semen into her vagina for the purpose of conceiving a child.

Of course, this definition fails to mention all my favorite parts about sex. I prefer the definition put forth by Alyssa in Chasing Amy. Fucking is about a sexual act. It’s not always penetrative. It is, however, raw and lustful. It’s different than making love (which can be nice too but doesn’t make for nearly as fascinating reading, IMHO). When I tell someone to fuck me in the throes of passion, I’m not saying “please stick your penis (or fingers or other object) inside my vagina.” I’m saying “keep doing that because it feels good.” I’m saying “I am completely in your control and I like it. I like being objectified and I’m feeling slutty and hot and delicious and I want you to keep doing what you’re doing until I come like gangbusters.”

I like being fucked. And I like fucking.

This slippage in meaning (or semantic disparity, if you will), got me in trouble once during a very hot, very chance, very spontaneous encounter with a gorgeous redheaded California farm boy on the beach alongside Highway One just south of Santa Cruz. He was doing a marvelous job of going down on me in the sand between some sheltering rocks. “Oh, fuck me, fuck me,” I cried, per usual, as his tongue did that thing a tongue can do to drive me insane. I was not requesting that he insert his penis inside me, especially since neither of us had a condom. But he took me more literally than I’d intended and proceeded to fuck me in the more traditional manner. For reasons for that are outside the scope of this entry but which did not involve mind-altering substances, I wasn’t quite possessed of my senses enough to stop him.

Luckily, the gods of high-risk sexual behavior decided to let me off with a warning ticket. I’m fortunate that I didn’t get of those nasty diseases men can give you. I hear there’s one where this little replica of yourself and the other person actually grows inside of you and then you have to take care of it for the rest of your life.

Love: I do not think it means what you think it means

This is the first of a three-part essay about semantics and a quote from The Princess Bride. I’ve been sitting on it for a month because I want it to be perrrrfect. But, of course, dissemination of information is never perfect. That’s why we have semantic professors and “information technology” professionals who pull in ridonculous amounts of money trying to figure out what a hammer is. Meanwhile, the people who swing the hammers may or may not have access to adequate health care.

But I digress.

There are three words I use that do not mean what you think they mean. They are: love, fuck, and god.

Love
Love is universal, god is love, love is all you need. People pay lip service to agape, a word from the Greek that connotes the way a community can come together for a shared experience like a rock concert (or a Greek tragedy). Agape love is by necessity unpossessive. Yet powerful. What happened in NYC after 9-11 was an expression of agape. Shopkeepers handing out food to people on the street. Folks talking to strangers on the way home (the only people who talk to strangers in the Northeast are tourists and the mentally ill.)

While we pay lip service to agape, we don’t celebrate it. The underlying message is that agape not quite as good as eros: the love between two people, especially the kind of love between two people that involves one man kissing one woman, a few shots of some indeterminate flesh, swirling sheets, and then a cut to a commercial.

The words “I love you” have been co-opted by this idealized, mass-media-ized notion of what love is. Any other love is not real love. It’s just practice rounds. The live ammo is what you see at the end of every romantic comedy: schmaltzy music, kiss, church bells, white wedding dress, house in the suburbs, mortgage, lawn-mowing, perfunctory sex when the kids are asleep.

Because of the constant, constant repetition of this message in music, movies, books, and perfume ads, “I love you,” no longer means just “I love you.” It means “I want to own you. I want to spend every Friday night on the couch with you, watching DVDs and eating takeout.” It means “I want to make a claim on you. I want to tell you who you can sleep with (not anyone besides me), how you will spend your vacations (with me and my family), where you will live (with me), and what you will eat (whatever we can both agree on).”

“I love you,” co-opted as it has been by these dumb-ass messages, has come to mean loss of freedom. It means no more lazy mornings alone in your apartment, writing in your journal, catching up with friends, watching bad TV. It means no more spontaneous weekend trips to the ocean. It means that you now have to factor in another human being’s wants and needs and desires into just about any decision you make about how you spend your money and your time. It means, in short, loss of autonomy.

But I don’t mean that when I say “I love you.”

Every morning I call my AA sponsor, an older gay man. Given the configurations of gender and sexuality, the possibility of erotic love is completely impossible. That’s why I love my gay sober men, actually: they’re the one kind of person I never have uncomfortable sexual energy with. My sponsor is not a romantic partner, nor is he related to me. But the love we feel for each other is deep and abiding, a love that’s different than the love I have for my family, whom I didn’t choose, different than the love I’ve had for my boyfriends and girlfriends, but which in 99% of cases ends in complete loss of contact.

Every morning, my sponsor and I say “I love you” to each other. I say it to a great number of my friends, too. Another gay friend of mine, not in AA, often starts his voice mail messages with “I called to tell you I love you.” And he does. I tell him too. It’s so easy to discount this kind of love in our society, which tells us over and over again that the only kind of love worth telling stories about is the kind that results in dead teenagers or a happy wedding with frilly dresses, or a house with a picket fence and a bunch of rug rats running around in the yard. But it’s the love of my friends and my family that has proved the most constant and sustaining.

I don’t think I will ever really have that Hollywood kind of love—not in this lifetime. I say that not in an angsty, self-pitying way because really, I’ve tried and I find that kind of love to be stifling and binding (and not in a hot, sexy way either). When I try to fit my sexuality and my heart into that little box of monogamy I stop being able to tell the truth. I abandon a part of myself in order to prove to myself and everyone else that I’m a nice girl, a good girl, a productive member of society who can get married and have babies and live in the suburbs like everybody else. I cut off my feet or my head to fit myself into that Procrustean bed. And often, I stop wanting to have sex, to write, even to live.

Sometimes I fall in love with strangers. Sometimes I love someone for a week and then never want to see them again. Sometimes I confuse sex with love, but love is still love even if it’s confused.

Carson McCullers wrote a short story about this kind of love. In it, a man walks up to a perfect stranger and tells him “I love you.” Of course that gets the usual crazy-person reaction. But the man begins telling him about the habit of loving he has been cultivating. Starting with a rock, a tree, a cloud. This is the kind of love that fills me up and feeds me the most.

Don’t get me wrong. I still get possessive. Sometimes I want to be special. Sometimes I want to be the only one. Sometimes I want to feel like I own someone. But I usually only feel like for the amount of time it takes to give a man a good spanking and fuck him up the ass. Or for the amount of time it takes to push a woman down on the bed and drive her crazy with my tongues and my hands. Maybe sometimes it lasts an afternoon, a day, a weekend. But no matter how much I love someone, I still want to be able to get up at 5:00 am and have the entire apartment to myself. So I can write essays like these.

Friends and lovers

I had a long talk two nights ago with R. He lives down in DC with his partner Z. The two of them are on my short list of friends whom I love with the love of a chosen family. I think R is probably one of the few people I’m still in touch with who knew me when I was a teenager. One of the formative experiences of my young life was a summer program for the gifted. I went for two years: the summer before my freshman year of high school, and the summer after. That first summer, I’d just discovered kissing boys, and proceeded to find and kiss as many boys as possible in the three weeks I was there. My RA (Residence Advisor, or, in this context, glorified babysitter) gave me the “Most Likely to Be Late for a Hall Meeting Because She’s Off with Some Guy” prize at the end of the session.

The SATs were not the only thing I was precocious about.

The second summer is when I met R. He was a teaching assistant, which meant that he actually got to develop the minds of the insufferable brats who took college-level courses, instead of having to deal with their hormonal drama. My first memory of him is giving him a hard time while he tried to drive us out of our dorm rooms and off to the afternoon program of “mandatory fun.” I was laying on the grotty carpeting in the hallway, my feet up against the opposite wall, and I think I said something smart to him as he came walking toward us.

He looked at me, and he spoke to me like a fellow human being instead of a child. I was both, of course, but when you’re 14 years old and no longer a virgin it’s vitally important that no one remind you of the fact that you’re still a child. It was that, more than anything, that motivated me to get up off that grotty carpeting.

Later, R took the time to teach me theatrical lighting, something I’d begged our stage manager back in high school to teach me all year. He was always very appropriate with me. But the skater dude I’d been trying unsuccessfully to shag all summer (they scheduled us to our eyeballs just for that purpose!) dumped me because I was spending all my spare time in a dark theater with a grad student. There was, in fact, another teaching assistant who was not as scrupulous as R. He grabbed me once during the weekly dances and made my little 14-year-old knees go weak during a slow song.

I kept in touch with both R and his unscrupulous colleague for a while using this now-obsolete technology called pen and paper. I also corresponded with classmates. But these friendships eventually went the way of all pen pals. Someone forgets to write, someone moves, a letter comes back undeliverable.

When I was in my late 20s, I got an email from R. He’d found me via a website I ran under my given name. Fifteen years later, it was like we’d never stopped being friends. At the time, of course, I was living with Angie, who kept me on a very short leash. She eyed my renewed correspondence with R with suspicion, but Angie eyed almost everything I did with suspicion. Later, I left Angie. And dated Badger. And split up with Badger. And eventually, R and I finally saw one another in person again. The first time, I was down in DC for a weekend sailing trip and we met up in Annapolis. Over dinner, he told my friends what I was like at that summer program. His description was so drastically different than my own memories of the summer, it was like he was talking about someone else. It was very flattering, though.

The next time I saw R, he came to visit me. I was rather lonely, and asked him to cuddle with me. Cuddling turned to kissing, which turned to what kissing usually turns into in my bed. Sex with R was amazing. He’s one of those rare kinds of men: sweet and kind and giving and well-hung to boot.

R and I had already corresponded about his open relationship with Z, but I still blushed and cowered when he called her afterward. My own forays into the world of polyamory had almost always ended up with heartbreak or guilt–although I’m not sure how my forays into the world of monogamy have really differed. She thanked me for making her partner feel so welcome. Later, I went down to visit them both in DC, which is where I confirmed what I’d assumed would be the case: R’s partner Z is bright, articulate, sexy, and sweet. I felt really honored when she invited me into their bed together. Threesomes are a rich treat in my experience, like caviar. They’re delicious, intense, and rather hard to come by.

Everything happened so quickly that year. I’d begun dating Kristen just a few months prior, and after that weekend in DC I came home both glowing from my time with R and Z and guilty. Kristen knew what would likely happen during my visit. But I could also sense it wasn’t what she wanted. And sure enough, she laid it out for me over dinner that night. She never told me I couldn’t do what I wanted, just that if I kept sleeping with other people she wouldn’t take me seriously. She wanted the picket fence and all. I wanted a picket fence with a gate in it. But I thought I’d try to be a good lesbian again.

Three years later, Kristen isn’t speaking to me, but R and Z stood by me through the rough months of the breakup. Last night, R told me he’s been happy to hear me talk and write so openly about my adventures in kink. We got to talking about early indicators of sexual predelictions. “You were always pretty alpha,” he said.

I’m going to see him and Z again in April, and possibly March. I don’t know if sex will be on the menu. If it is, it’s not likely to be kinky. I hope I remember how to be soft and sweet. I hope I get to cuddle with them both. They’re a very special couple of people and I’m glad to have them in my life.

In love with

Kristen’s eyes would crinkle when she smiled. She tied me to the bed with plastic zip ties from her job; it was the only way I could lay still for her caresses. She wanted to swallow me whole. I never had enough to give.

Badger looked out the window one morning and said “Hello, world, give us your gifts.” I watched him play piano through the sliding door of his apartment. When he entered me, I’d come almost immediately, again and again. I came in his nose one time; I think he was afraid of my pussy.

Angie called me by my name in Spanish. She eyed every bruise, every phone call with suspicion. But she could barely stand to let me touch her.

Pura offered me a wild raspberry between her teeth, then danced away when I leaned in to kiss her. Later, she threw her things into a laundry basket and called me names, while the cops stood there, unwilling spectators.

When I told him to go fuck himself, Miss Thing drove to my house and rang the buzzer until I let him in. He put honey on my tongue and told me he loved me. Sex with him was a marvelous carnival. He never belonged to me, and that hurt.

April sat in the back yard and smoked a cigarette while I hung my underwear on the landlord’s clothesline. Her clit was as big as a blueberry, and she ran her hands over my skin while the rain whispered outside our window.

Lewis used to laugh with pleasure when he put his wrist between my legs and shook it. Years later, I realized what a perfect boyfriend he was. At the time, I took him for granted.

I never loved Stuart but he was the first person to make me come, for real. He had a moustache. Everything turned electric in his darkened dorm room.

Jacob drove us through Manhattan in his father’s Buick. When there was nothing left to do, I kissed him in the middle of my bedroom. Later, I poured champagne in the hollow of his chest and licked it up and fucked him seven times with a Today sponge in his college dorm room. I was his first.

Carl showed up for our first date an hour and a half late. We fumbled together like toddlers with a soccer ball. When we split, I cried until I thought I would break in two.

Steven dated me to spite my brother. I don’t think I loved him, nor him me, but I loved the way the moonlight made his skin luminous as he stood there naked on the golf course. He was my bad boy; I think I dated him to spite my Mom.

Sarah walked home with me every day after school. I bought her candy and ate it with her like an offering. My love for her was as thick and pure as kheer, until I learned that homosexuality was bad.

I used to kiss Jeffie in the playground, all over his face and shoulders and ears. He never said he liked it but he never stopped me either. They teased us until we decided to pretend that we had broken up.

Katie had copper ringlets and was Mrs. Thorpe’s favorite. She invited me to her birthday party. While I was jumping rope, she told me I was doing it wrong and then laughed at me. That was my first heartbreak.

I love it when you call me ma’am (Pt 1 of 2)

I slap your face and it changes. You go to that other place, the place where I can tell you to take your clothes off and you will, without hesitation. You grab the collar of your T-shirt and pull it over your head, unbuckle your belt, step out of your jeans and place them next to me on the couch.

-All of them, I tell you, and you look at me a question. We haven’t been naked together before. You haven’t been inside of me. You’ve never seen me with my pants off. Right now, I am fully clothed. But that’s the point. I want you naked in front of me, naked and on your knees. I know you’re eager to get there yourself, and that, in part, is what makes me hot. Hot, and scared. What do I do next? I wonder, as you look up at me, good boy, so naked and low and ready for me to do whatever I want to you.

Am I doing it right? I wonder, as I pull your belt from your pants, throw it across the room.

Earlier today, I told you I was going to beat you with your own belt, make you crawl naked across the room to pick it up and bring it back to me in your mouth. That is so sexy, you said, and even through the keyboard and the screen I felt the heat rising through my own body, a slow boil, my body burning and aroused and all alone on a chair before a computer. Yes. Yes it is, I said.

And now I’ve got your hair in my hands and I’m pulling your mouth toward my own, your mouth so eager and ready, so open and ready to please.

I pull you forward between my opened knees, your bare shoulders touching my thighs beneath my skirt, and I’ve got my hands on your back, and I’m raking my nails across your shoulders, up from your waist to your neck, and you make that noise, a hiss of inhaled breath and a moan together.

- Go get your belt, I say, and I don’t have to tell you to do it on your hands and knees. You crawl across the room to where I’ve thrown it and you pick it up with your teeth, carry it back to me, still with that look in your eyes that tells me you’re in that other place.

I take the belt from you.

-Good boy.
-Thank you. You say it with relief, the release of desire.

I should push you backward now, turn you to the side and stand above you so that I have the proper angle for the belt. But I like the feel of your bare skin against my thighs, your naked back stretched out before me like a promise and your head in my lap, where it belongs.

I slap the belt across your back, not particularly hard, but you cry out, and again that moment of fear — you’re not doing it right, he’s had better, it’s not good enough, you’re inept, you’re a terrible top, it’s no good — but I put that aside, push it down because there’s a wave that will carry me if I just keep going. You’re not a blank slate, you’re alive and so am I and what we are doing is perverted and wrong, but it brings us so much joy, so maybe it isn’t really.

So I beat you with your own belt, just like I promised you I would. I do it badly, ineptly, and you still like it. I put you over my knee, and with you over my knee I can’t resist spanking you with my open palm. I’m so wound up I smack you hard, very hard, and your reaction makes me realize it’s causing you pain, not the good kind of pain.

-Whoa, you say. You really go right to it.
-I’m sorry. I know I’m supposed to warm you up first (and here I slap your bum lightly, repeatedly, delicious, remembering the delicious feel myself, how it softens you up, makes the nerve endings ready for the big, hard slaps to follow).

-But may it’s not about your pleasure, I say. Maybe it’s about what I want.

You moan as I say all this, and I’m spanking you at the same time, building up from soft to hard and then running my fingers over your warmed skin. That light touch on my own skin, red and warm and sentitized, always drives me wild.

-It was very selfish of you to think that this is about you, to expect me to be serving you, I say, and I’ve got your belt, and I’m using it on your back and you begin to undulate across my knee.

-I’m sorry.
-Why are you sorry?
-For being selfish, ma’am.

I love it when you call me ma’am.

>> NEXT: What do you feel when I slap you?>>

The omnivore’s dilemma

This blog has nothing to do with food. Well, probably not. It’s about sex, raw and trembling on the page. Or the screen. It’s about my sex life in particular, which is perhaps not special or unique, except in that it is mine. And I like all kinds of sex: kinky sex, vanilla sex, sex with women, sex with men, sex with one person and sex with more. Sex with myself. Sex in the head and sex in the body. I set up this blog to talk about it because, really, it’s one of my favorite topics. And it seems to be other peoples’ too.