Posts tagged ‘fucking’

Naked puffy vagina

My knees were up against my chest. He was on top of me, inside of me, lovely and full of course, but something else, something different, something… an extra frisson. It was Thursday morning. I’d shaved on Saturday — completely. He liked that. He liked the black stockings and the garter belt, too. I like that he likes them, love the little extra gasp that he made when I turned around after unzipping my skirt, letting it fall to the floor. Black lace, black garters, sheer black stockings. A cliche. But flattering. And the gasp. Worth the gasp. Female power.

Worth keeping my shoes on, even, for a few minutes. High heels are easy to hold onto, when you’re pulling your ankle over your head.

This morning, though, five days after the fact, five days after the smooth shave, was different. Shaving carries consequences. Consequences not as dramatic as unprotected sex, perhaps, but consequences nonetheless. Hair removal of all kinds, in fact, carries consequences. At the very least there’s stubble, razor burn. If you shave. If you wax — well, if I wax, I don’t know about those Glamazons on Sex & the City — but if I wax, I end up with a painful, unsightly collection of ingrown hairs. The pale, delicate white skin at the place where my thighs and my torso and my cunt all conjoin, becomes marred by red bumps. It’s not sexy. As my brother-in-law says to his daughter, “You can’t stop the beard.”

I definitely can’t stop the beard. I’m descended from hairy Vikings, hairy Mediterraneans, slightly-less-hairy Celts. I marvel at women who remove all their hair, all the time. Do their lady bits just grow desensitized over time? How is that a plus? And what about the drip factor?

Whenever I think about pubic hair removal, I think about one of the earlier pieces in The Vagina Monologues. It’s a bitter story, told by a woman whose husband was unfaithful, and insisted that she shave her cunt. She talks about her naked puffy vagina, how it made her feel little, like a little girl, to cut all the hair away.

I realized then that hair is there for a reason-it’s the leaf around the flower, the lawn around the house. You have to love hair in order to love the vagina. You can’t pick the parts you want. And besides, my husband never stopped screwing around.

And there is a nakedness, a puffiness to a shaved cooch. It’s missing something. Missing a lawn. A lawn is a good metaphor. The vagina, you know, it excretes things. It has runoff. It’s also like that thing we named after it: a delta, always draining stuff. Fluid moves through it. Without hair, it’s extra tacky, extra sticky. You can’t sleep without your panties on, or the sheets get all funky.

But it’s also extra sensitive, like the back of my head feels when I get my hair clipped close. The lovely feel of a car’s headrest against my smooth, close-clipped scalp. The lovely feel of the water beading at the cleft of my labia majora in the shower, dropping right to the spot where my clit nestles beneath my naked lips.

Naked in the mirror, without hair, utterly open, exposed. Excellent on camera, the curly joining of the lips around a ridiculously large porn-star cock as a woman rides reverse cowgirl, her hipbones like blades, the tendons running from her cunt to her thighs, all hard and plastic and yet still engaging, enthralling. Still the sacred work of sexuality.

And this morning, with a five-day stubble on my lips, the feel of Bran’s cock inside me, and the area around his cock — what do you call that on a man? — the base of his cock, the foothills of his cock, hairy and beautiful and against my skin, I could feel him, feel his skin against mine, extra sensitized and naked and exposed.

“It feels so good,” I gasped.

“Maybe you should do it more often,” he said — meaning shaving.

How easy it is for a woman to give away her power.

November 13, 2008 at 5:10 pm Leave a comment

The good, the hot, and the mushy

The good
Back when I was a wee recent college graduate (sans health insurance), I discovered one of the unsung consequences of sex with men: Urinary Tract Infections (UTIs). The standard medical treatment for a UTI is a short course of antibiotics. Which gets rid of the infection, but in the process also kills off all the helpful bacteria in your system which keep the yeasty beasties in check. Which means that the yeast colonies that live in, among other places, the hoo hoo, will run amuck. It can become an ugly, ugly cycle: UTI, yeast infection, UTI, yeast infection. Neither of which are good for the ol’ sex-with-men life.

Luckily for me, my post-college boyfriend was a total SNAG (Sensitive New-Age Guy), and he asked one of his exes, who worked as a midwife, if she knew of any herbal remedies that help with UTIs. Sure enough, she did. So the next time I got one, I took this little herb called Uva Ursi, and then I drank nettle tea for about a month. Eventually my body got back into whack.

SNAG-boyfriend and I also took the advice of the expensively-out-of-pocketedly-paid-for nurse practitioner I saw, and started making sure that (a) he was keeping this bits clean and (b) I was peeing right after penetrative sex. In fact, peeing after genital contact in genital general is a good idea. While stinky, urine is also antiseptic, and flushing the pipes right after messing around with the plumbing can get rid of any newly introduced bacteria and whatnot.

The hot
Bran laughed at me on Wednesday night. “You’re so predictable,” he said. But apparently he was better at predicting my behavior than I was. After dinner, we came back to his pad to find his living room full of dykes from Wellesley — lovely friends of his lovely roommate. Neither of us was in the mood to socialize though, so I found myself in the interesting position of nodding hello to my fellow Seven Sisters… Sisters and then following the straight white man into his room. I love my straight white man. Part of the reason I love him is because he’s friends with more dykes than I am. I’d like to think that I’ve come to terms with the whole identity-politics-angst bullshit that haunted me for most of my 20s. And I know I had a better time after I followed him into his bedroom than if I’d stayed out there to talk to a bunch of strangers.

This is not why he called me predictable, though. It was because, as we lay there very carefully not making any heavy-breathing-bouncy-bouncy-type noises in his bed (the only thing that separates Bran’s bedroom from the living room is a curtain and a pair of French doors), and as he turned off the light, and we both rolled over in unison and began to spoon, it occurred to me that the probability of my actually getting out of the bed had suddenly dropped to .00001. I’d had every intention of shrugging on my jacket, hoisting my bag, and heading out to my car for the long ride across town to the silence of my lonely room my own bed and my snuggly kitty cat. But then he turned off the light. And suddenly all my body wanted to do was sleep.

I did sleep over. I even used his toothbrush. And in the morning, I slipped out of bed around 5:00 am, just as the very first hint of light blue was beginning to rise through the night-blue sky. In the half-light and the silence, I slipped on my skirt, and my blouse, and was fumbling around for my socks. And then he reached over out of his dreams and pulled me back into the bed. I went willingly, kissed his scratchy face, his soft eyelids, rubbed my cheek against the smooth fur of his hair. Then I rose up on my knees, above him.

I began to stroke him, first his strong arms and shoulders — arms that reached up to me and touched me about the waist. He had a t-shirt on, but no boxers. I slipped my hand down past the hem of his T-shirt, to the soft spot where his belly joins his hips, and then traced the curve of his little boy-ass, down the backs of his thighs and his knees. His legs opened under my touch, his eyes closed. I held him in the palm of my hand. A precious bird, a rare mushroom, an egg.

He bloomed under my touch, moving gently from side to side, his cock swelling, his thighs luminous in the early dawn light, his face open and innocent and utterly mine in his sleep.

I slipped a hand up under his shirt to pinch one nipple, gently, gently–rrr. Difficult to do it gently.

And slipped off my blouse and straddled him, cupping his face (eyes still closed) between my breasts. Face to heart.

And stepped back, undid the zipper of my skirt, let it fall from my waist, and carefully placed it and my blouse atop my bag on the other side of the room, where they wouldn’t get wrinkled.

“What are you doing?” he said.

I didn’t answer. I straddled him, slid his hard cock into the slick fault line of my labia, enjoying the wet/hard/push/pull.

“Can you feel how wet I am?” I asked, knowing how he’d answer.

His cock, skin to skin with my cunt, slick and inviting. Leaning over him, I bumped my hips up and then back, and he was sliding into me.

“No,” he gasped, suddenly awake.

“It’s okay,” I said.

“No,” and now his eyes were opening, worried.

“We’ve both been tested,” I said. “And I’m still bleeding. It’s all right. There are no eggs left. We won’t make a baby. It’s just… sport fucking.”

And I began to move, up and down against him.

What I hadn’t said was that I also had a sea sponge tampon inside me, which decreased the chances of any sperm actually sticking around, even on the off-chance that Ovum hadn’t yet left the building. And that woo-woo intuition part of me said that it had.

He relaxed into it, and then more than relaxed.

“I love… I love fucking you,” he said, in rhythm to our movements.

“Oh yeah? Why do you love fucking me?” I asked.

“Because I love you.”

It wasn’t what I’d expected to hear. It made me want to fuck him harder.

Which I did, and we made all the noises we’d been careful not to make the night before. Unashamed, I pulled my lips wide and worked my clit — hard — as he fucked me, as I fucked him. I came, or something approximately like coming anyway.

“Stand up and bend over the bed,” he said — suddenly, in my mind.

“No,” I said.

“Do it,” he said.

“Make me.”

He grabbed my wrist in a half-hearted attempt to wrestle, but then he used another, stronger lever.

“Do you want more cock?”

“Yes.” I was surprised to hear myself say it. But yes, yes I did.

“Then do it.”

I did. I stood up and placed my hands on the edge of the bed, bent over just as he ordered me to. He slid his cock, still hard, between my legs, then reached over and held a towel under my nose.

“What does it smell like?” he asked. It was damp.

“You,” I responded.

He dropped it to the floor, between my legs, and before I knew it — I didn’t think it would happen at all that morning, and certainly not so soon, I was coming, with his cock inside me and my finger on my clit, coming all down my legs and onto the towel. A pavlovian response.

“Are you coming?”

“Yes.”

“Did I tell you you could come?”

“No… I couldn’t help it.”

He continued to fuck me, told me to get my ass lower, he didn’t care how I did it, and I did, obeying him and loving every minute of it.

“Are you going to punish me for coming without permission?” I asked, working my pussy against his cock.

“You sound awfully confident for someone who’s getting fucked,” he replied.

And I thought of Bitchy Jones taking Jack’s voice and to my horror delight horror I found that I wanted Bran to take mine. I wanted to be… not the professional, competent, self-possessed, well-educated, eloquent, cerebral woman I am most of the time, but something else. Not self-possessed but possessed by another. Voiceless. To speak without voice. To not speak, to speak with the body. And I was silent. I bit the side of the mattress, I found myself growling.

He pulled out, sat on the side of the bed, leaned back. Winded, maybe — not physically, but winded.

I kneeled on the floor in front of him. I reached for his cock, still hard, with my lips. He pulled it out of reach.

“Not unless you want to,” he said.

I didn’t want to use my words. I wanted to show him. I whimpered.

Once again he prevented me from wrapping my lips around his cock.

“Not unless you want to,” he repeated.

And I knew then that I really wanted to. It wasn’t about him, his pleasure, it was about mine. Oh shame, shame! What will the Seven Sisters grads say! But it’s true, I loved to take him between my lips, and to taste myself on him, and to take him all the way down to the back of my throat. To have him fill that most hungry and forceful and overused of orifices.

“Watch what you do,” he said. And I knew he was close to coming. And I pulled up next to him on the bed, and pulled his hand to his cock, and stroked it along with him, our hands together, our bodies together.

“Please come,” I pleaded. “You’re so beautiful when you come.” And he did. And he was.

The mushy
So I came down with a UTI a couple days later. The fact that I was in a hurry and didn’t pee after sex probably had something to do with it. But I knew what to do, even though it hurt like the dickens, and now I’ve got enough uva ursi and nettle tea, plus a few other kinds of herbs (because you really can’t visit the bulk herb section of your favorite natural foods store and buy just one) and will probably float away any day now.

On Saturday we went for a long hike in the woods, which are still yellow but not yet orange-red, and had dinner at the Whole Foods hot- and cold-bar (it makes me homesick for New York). And watched a romantic comedy which I found annoyingly formulaic, although he pointed out the idiosyncracies of some of the characters.

“Given the fact that my parents will probably be divorcing in the next year, romantic comedies give me a hope for my own future,” he said as I pulled out of the parking lot of the theater.

“I’d say your future is looking pretty good,” I said. The fact that Bran’s parents are still together after forty years of marriage completely blows my mind. I wonder what my view of the world would be like if mine had stayed married. Well, if we’re talking about my parents, I’d probably be a serial killer right about now.

We didn’t have sex that night. Or in the morning. We had something far more intimate.

October 6, 2008 at 10:18 pm 3 comments

Ways Bran and I fucked this weekend

  1. Missionary
  2. Girl on top (do they call this cowgirl? is that why they call the other one reverse cowgirl? I hate reverse cowgirl)
  3. Side to side
  4. Me on my belly, him behind me
  5. The really cool one where you keep fucking and turn every few minutes, starting in missionary and ending up facing the other way
  6. Wheelbarrow (my face and chest on the bed, my ass in the air)
  7. Standing up, me bent over with my arms on the dresser
  8. Double penetration with a dildo in my ass
  9. His cock in my ass
  10. My strap-on in his ass
  11. His cock in my mouth, straddling my shoulders
  12. His entire hand inside me — he slipped it in while I was screaming and making a mess with the Hitachi
  13. My little clit tickler in his ass. Oh, he liked that one. He liked it all over his belly.
  14. 69

I think I’m forgetting something.

I’m a little sore. But happy. And satisfied. And still horny.

September 12, 2008 at 9:02 pm 4 comments

Bind the beast and watch him snarl

He was on my bed, face-down. There’d been some tussling on the couch, and halfway to the bedroom I had to stop at a conveniently placed chair and put him over my knee. He was halfway in puppy headspace, halfway somewhere else, I’m not sure exactly. Not subspace, not really, or maybe subspace with Bran just looks different than it does with other folks I’ve played with.

I’d gotten new cuffs and tethers (links NSFW) from JT’s Stockroom about a week before. I didn’t recognize the return address (they’re all so discreet that way), but when I got through the packing materials (eco-friendly crumpled butcher paper and a lollipop on top!), I really did squeal to see it. Sort of the way I squeal sometimes when one of the women on Men in Pain does or says something really hot, really powerful, really… rrrr. So they’d been sitting there hooked to the top posts of my bed, discreetly tucked away under the mattress. Less butch than the 1″ criss-crossed sailboat rope I’ve also got under the mattress (the first time I pulled those out, he looked at his wrist and said, “you tied a clove hitch!” in surprise), but infinitely more secure and convenient.

I strapped him in. He struggled a bit but behaved, grabbed me and caressed me while he could. And then there he was, face-down, arms tied down and open wide, delicious.

“Try to get out,” I said, thinking he’d do some gentle testing of the ropes the way the boys in Men in Pain do (ah, the tropes of porn). Some men like the bonds and don’t really want to throw them off — that’s been my experience with sub boys (Bran isn’t really a sub boy — he matches me for power and strength, and we pass it back and forth between us). With submissive men, I usually have to really egg them on to watch how they get out of my ties. And my rope-tying just isn’t that good that they won’t get free eventually. But those velcro cuffs! Neoprene on the inside, wide enough that they won’t cut off circulation, struggling doesn’t make them contract, and the velcro is virtually impossible to get out of, since he can’t reach over with his teeth to grab the edge.

And Bran struggled! Struggled like a wild thing! He snarled as he struggled, which turned me on even more.

I was on top of him, and with his legs free he kept trying to throw me off — he’s got some good wrestling moves. I’m strong though if not as well trained, and I stayed on top of him, using my superior weight to advantage.

I spanked him a bit more, and he — well, do I say he liked it or he hated it? I think he liked it. He certainly brought his knees forward to make his ass more accessible. And he made the noises that said he liked it. And that wasn’t a banana in his pocket, seeing as how he was wearing no clothes.

I wasn’t prepared for how gorgeous his arms and shoulders and back would look as he struggled with the ties. I love the muscular definition of his arms and shoulders; it’s really one of his best features. And from that angle, and in that context, bound up and strong, pulling up the sides of my mattress and still unable to get free, snarling and struggling. Gunh.

I pulled out my bag of toys, but when I came at him with a clothespin (his nipples are extra-sensitive), he pulled back, said “No!” in that small voice that tells me he’s serious. I had to stop pushing. I lay down next to him, inserted my body half under him so I could put my face close to him, kiss him, caress him.

“What is it?” I said. “Do we need to establish consensus? You don’t want me to use clothespins?”

“I’m afraid you’ll lose control,” he said — small voice again.

“Have I lost control before?” I said. I didn’t think I ever had with him.

“Once, you almost did. You just get so excited.”

It’s true, I do, but I’d like to think I’m careful with him. Not careful enough, apparently. Sadism is scary for everyone, I guess. Something to work on — but not that night, not with Mercury in retrograde.

I kissed him, slipped my legs under him, and he went back to snarling and struggling, and now he was on top of me, hard, I was pushing him, pinching him, scratching him, and he was a wild beast. A beast I’d bound. The bonds let him be a wild beast, sweating and straining to get free. Unbound, he had to keep himself in check. But restrained, he was free.

I’d made the mistake (was it a mistake) of putting myself in a compromising position. He was still bound, but he was on top of me, and he was hard, he was forcing his leg between mine and I was gamely trying to keep him from completely covering me, I was trying to get loose, but I was inside the arc of his arms, tied to the bed as they were, and he was using his legs as leverage and frankly, how motivated was I to get away from this snarling, sweating beast? A beast that thrilled me but didn’t scare me? How motivated was I to prevent him from pushing his hard-on against the lace barrier of my panties and all the trembly bits underneath?

Not very. I even pulled the lace aside a bit to feel his cock rubbing against my lips, and he was humping me and snarling and I was encouraging both. Even wild and struggling, he was still in control of himself enough to keep from slipping entirely inside of me — at one point he came awfully close and I felt him catch himself, pause. Neither of us wants to make a baby yet (one of the inconveniences of sex with men is all that tedious contraception). I struggled out from under him far enough to grab a condom and slap it on him (“Can you see it? Is it okay?” he asked, suddenly gentle). It was, and I double-checked, made sure it was down the length of him, and then I was pushing my panties aside and he was sliding into me — no need for extra lube. He was fucking me with arms open wide, the worst sort of push-ups, and my bed is extra-soft (memory foam), and bouncy, and it felt fucking fantastic.

Ah, fucking. The journey. How do you describe it without sounding boring? Because it wasn’t boring in that moment, it was intense and powerful and being fucked by a beast I’d bound and slipped under and I was egging him on and the sheen of sweat he’d already worked up was getting more intense, and I called his name without thinking about it, and then I was coming, coming, all over the middle of the mattress without putting anything down first.

“If I let you go will you promise to be good?” I asked. Because I knew having his arms spread wide like that was probably not good for his back, and because–well, because. He snarled.

When I did let him go, he grabbed me by the hips and picked me up and fucked me like no tomorrow, and then later put his tongue on me and I came again, all over the bed and his face. And later he lay on his back and I fucked him from the top and went wild myself, went red in the face no doubt, and he was egging me on to come, come, in that insistent voice, and I was. And later I found his little p-spot with my finger while he told me a particularly raunchy fantasy and I stroked it and murmured while he came all over his belly like a fountain, and had aftershocks for a long time afterward and I climbed back up to lay my head beside his and stayed with him there, which is a beautiful place to be.

But this is where I’d like to leave us: Asking him what would happen if I let him go, and him struggling, a bound beast, wild, inside me.

May 29, 2008 at 3:11 pm Leave a comment

Greet me at the door

I was working on papers. The papers on my desk. The paper tiger. I’d been working from home all day, and after a while it becomes like swimming in an aquarium. More and more ungrounded, sure, getting work done, but never feeling like it’s enough. Missing the touchstone of coworkers and cubicles and printers whose cartridges you don’t need to replace yourself.

He rang at 6ish. I greeted him at the door. With a kiss. And then the kiss became another kiss, and then the heat was there, always there, distracting, maddening, delicious.

“I’m drowning in papers,” I said, and he put his arms around me. Maybe he was wearing that Scally cap I think makes him look kind of old and silly, I don’t know, but his face was kind.

“Why?” he said. And I tried to explain but it didn’t matter, and then I was running up the stairs, knowing he was looking at my ass. The door was open, the radio was blaring something about our civil rights being eroded, or how Hillary is a bitch and by implication shouldn’t be POTUS, I don’t know, I wasn’t paying attention really, because then the door was closed and I was kissing him there in the front hallway, and my arms were around his neck and he was biting me, biting my shoulder and giving me that sweet pain. Or maybe I was biting him, I don’t know.

He slid his hands into the front of my pants. That wasn’t part of the plan. We were supposed to get dinner and see that movie down in Kendall Square. But his hands, and the heat between us, and I was wet, and then I was unbuckling my belt and fumbling with my fly. Feeling him through the fabric of his corduroys.

I pulled him up against the wall, to feel the weight of him pushing me against it. I pulled his shirt out from his belt — the professional button-down shirt with the undershirt under it, so respectable and confidence-inspiring to his clients. And I was reaching under, to feel the curve of his stomach and his chest hair and to pinch his nipple, always erect. And he made that sound, that harsh intake of breath. Once, he said it was like a bolt of lightning when I pinched his nipples.

But he grabbed my arm and pulled it up over my head, down the other side in some kind of wrestler’s hold, I don’t know. I was kissing him and I didn’t care about anything anymore but the heat between us and the lust and the openness.

“I thought you were going to collar me,” he said, teasing. “What happened?”

As if he didn’t know. As if it’s not why I love to be with him, to wrestle with him, fight him, as if his strong, strong arms that have worked harder than mine or anyone else’s I know, as if they didn’t fill me with desire just as much as his mouth, and his eyes, and the stubble on his face, and his taught ass, and his lovely cock, that pleasing appendage that stands at attention for me even when I’m on the other side of town and we’re saying naughty things to each other via IM.

“I want you to fuck me against the wall,” I said. I wanted it rough and dirty, up against a tree, in the alleyway behind the pub. I wanted him inside me. I ran into the bedroom for a condom, and then back to where he stood, stroking himself through his pants, unzipping them. Kneeled down to unroll it, not even give it a proper suck, because he was pulling me up then and guiding himself between my legs (when did my pants come off?). I was wet and he was almost in, but the angles were wrong — he’s just that much taller than I, and while he’s strong he’s not so strong he can support the whole weight of my peasant-stock thighs and hips. So I pulled back into the kitchen, hiked myself up on the edge of the sink. And he was pulling off his shirt, now completely naked. His tattoo stood dark between his shoulder blades.

“No, leave your clothes on,” I said, but it was too late and I didn’t really care, and now the sink was just too high for it to work.

“I need a phone book,” he said, and I remembered the obsolete volumes downstairs — downstairs in the lobby, and there was no way I was putting my clothes back on to retrieve them. We tried the step-stool, but that didn’t work either.

“Get on the floor,” I said.
“You first.”‘
“Make me.”

Which he did, and I put up a fight, but not entirely too much of a fight, and he was on top of me, and I was scratching his back with my stealthy little nails and he was inside me, fucking me.

Fucking me.

I wasn’t warmed up enough to come properly. But it didn’t matter. I came anyway, not as forcefully perhaps, but because I wanted to, wanted to come with him inside of me, there, on the kitchen floor that needed mopping, in the doorway between the front hallway and the kitchen.

And he was coming inside me too, with his face–you know you can’t really describe the way someone’s face looks when they’re coming. You have to just experience it.

I didn’t want him to pull out. I wanted to feel him there inside me for a while. With my arms around him. The aftermath. Of fucking him hello.

Then we put our clothes back on and went to a movie.

March 20, 2008 at 4:17 pm 7 comments

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.

February 20, 2008 at 1:33 pm 7 comments


The search for truth, love, beauty, and mind-blowing orgasms

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