Posts tagged ‘men’

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.

September 16, 2008 at 9:10 pm 9 comments

Identity politics: moral high ground or happiness?

I’ve been reading S/He, by Minnie Bruce Pratt, and also a new blog called Sugarbutch. This post in particular, where she backpedals on an earlier statement on not trusting femmes, really hit home with me.

Reading both these things makes me nostalgic. It’s taken me a long time to figure out who I am. In my early 20s, I tried on a lot of labels. Some of them stuck, sunk into the borg of my sense of self. But my identity changes. It’s fluid. It’s the curse and the… specialness, I suppose… of being a bisexual woman. In this society, it’s hard not to be a self-hating bisexual. Even after all those years of activism, still at the kernel of me is a voice whispering traitor, traitor, traitor.

Because the thing about identity politics is that they’re useless for me. In S/He, Minnie Bruce Pratt talks about a femme being a case of mistaken identity. People think that femmes are straight. Butch dykes claim to love us, but that love is conditional–at least in my experience. Am I still a femme if I sleep with men? Or am I something else? Something so slippery and undefinable that I belong in no camp at all?

Yes, yes, bisexual. That is what I am, ultimately. But even that changes. It slides, the same way my appetites slide. I’m neither fish nor fowl, a member of no tribe, but condemned, like Cain, to wander the earth forever, with no set home.

In relationship with April, with Angie, and with Kristen, I often referred to myself as a lesbian, or a dyke. It was easier than the constant qualifying — lesbian-identified bisexual, woman who has been in love with men and fucked a lot of men but is now in love with a woman, in a committed, monogamous relationship with a woman. Who, while looking gender-typical, is in many ways not because she likes to be on top and in control in the bedroom. But also wants someone to flip her.

At times, I’ve lived the good, virtuous lesbian lifestyle. At other times, I’ve lived the life of a kinky bi poly slut. At times I’ve loved men deeply, faithfully. These things shift. I’d like to live in a world where people don’t make assumptions about my sexuality, about the potentiality of it, by whom I’m sleeping with. I know this post-modern sexuality is all the rage these days. All the kids are going pomosexual, or so I hear. But I’m not a product of those days. Identity politics are still important to me. Useless perhaps in describing my sexuality, but still important.

But not so important that I don’t know a good thing when I see it. Angie, for all that she gave me lesbian cred, was a terrible partner. She constantly shamed me about my sexuality, took advantage of my own shame around it. Worse yet, she was controlling, manipulative, and emotionally abusive. She withheld all sorts of nurture from me and neglected to perform the most basic of courtesies. Not only did she never validate my emotions, but she never held the door for me, or even thanked me when I held it for her.

These patterns present themselves again and again, regardless of my lovers’ gender. On this blog, I mostly talk about the things I do with Bran in the bedroom. But it’s the things that happen outside of the bedroom that have made me love him. He possesses the rare ability to listen to me, to validate my feelings, and to express his own in a responsible, respectful way. He shows up. I’m terrified, of course. I can’t believe it’s happening, and I can’t help but wonder if my own perceptions are blinded by love and hormones. But my inner voice — the good one, the one who knows things, not the one who calls me a traitor — tells me that he’s a rare gift and that I should hold onto him. I think I’d rather be happy with him than unhappy with anyone else.

June 16, 2008 at 6:33 pm 3 comments

Saturday night sex (plus: panties! on men!)

I can’t even begin to tell you how happy I am with Bran. We’re settling into a bit of a regular pattern. No, let’s make that a definite regular pattern. It was Tuesdays for a while and then he slipped into Saturday evenings as well. Which may, in the long run, prove problematic as things progress with Chiquitita, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. The hardest thing about polyamory? Fitting infinite sexual and relational possibilities into finite resources of time, space, and energy.

Regardless. In the present, he’s my Saturday date. Last Saturday evening he rang the bell right around 6pm, all of half an hour after I got home from a lovely salon of women artists. The day was pretty exhausting. But of course I was eager to see Bran. And after our initial exertions, I felt rejuvenated.

Okay. It’s a sex blog. You want details, I know. So the details, well, I’ll do my best, but to tell you the truth, after weeks and weeks of amazing sex, the sequence of events sort of blurs together. And I’m not sure that a catalog of sexual acts really makes for the most compelling reading. The fact that we were both exhausted — him from the last stretch of grad school exertions, me from pursuing my multiple non-sexxay interests — probably doesn’t help. But we do like to talk about it later on the phone. We live on opposite sides of town from each other. And while I live in a smallish city, schlepping across town can be a major pain in the tuckus. Especially during certain times of day. I’d never really gotten into phone sex before Bran, but it’s a fairly regular part of our interactions now.

So Saturday. The moment I kissed him as I let him in downstairs, I knew we weren’t going to get out of the house without taking our clothes off. His face was smooth — I’d made a point of telling him I wanted him to lick me on the phone, since it had been a while — and his breath was sweet. After a whole week of not seeing him, it felt good to hold him in my arms again. Later, I came all over that smooth face, and licked it off. But first, he did that thing with his tongue — must have been taking notes as I described how to find my shy little clit, and how I liked to be licked (with a hard, pointy tongue, and fast). Because I was screaming fairly soon, in the bedroom. He came hard and long and fast inside me, filled half the condom. Later, I came copious amounts, a veritable fountain. Before and after dinner. He was there above me, touching himself and saying in that wondering, admiring, encouraging voice, “look at you!”

This is all jumbled I know, but it’s how I remember it. Him taking his belt off, folding it in half, and smacking me once, hard, on the ass. I think my panties were gone by then. The ones with the frills around the edge. He’d finally brought back the pair he’d taken from me weeks ago, the purple ones with the black lace around the legs and “spoiled” written across the back. He came back wearing them under his cargo pants. They look very different on him than they do on me — if I may be so egotistical, I fill them out much more nicely.

Bitchy Jones has a lot to say about how annoying the whole sissification phenomenon is, and in general I have to agree with her. But I’ve come to realize that so much of whether I kink for something has to do with the intention behind the activity. See, Bran is undoubtedly a guy. Not super-macho in an annoying way, but most definitely a guy. In the same way, I’m very much a woman (although from the inside I’m aware of my two-spirit nature). When Bran wears my panties, it’s not because he wants to be humiliated into being a woman. It’s because… well, in his own words:

-It reminds me of how wet and open you get.

I remember going to his house one day and, as per usual, he sported a hard-on pretty much from the first kiss hello. Of course, bending over a bit on his bed probably helped encourage it — he does love my ass so. But we were both very hungry. In fact, you’ll notice a pattern of competing drives when we spend time together, often between food and sex. So I told him to put it away. I took the pair of black cotton panties he’d had under his pillow for a week and slipped them up over his legs, binding his hard cock nicely to his belly. Then, his boxers went over that and a pair of pants over that. Then we walked in the rain to Doyle’s and had lunch.

Later, I lay next to him on his bed, touching him and encouraging him to touch himself, telling him dirty stories, his cock and balls emerging from that black cotton binding, and flicked my tongue across his nipple while he came, long and hard, across his belly. He stayed there, up there, in that place where we stay after we’ve come.

“You don’t have to come down,” I said, holding him, rocking him, stroking him. “You can just stay up there.” And we floated there together, coming down to earth as delicate as a soap bubble.

April 15, 2008 at 4:42 pm 1 comment

Quickie

I should be bathing right about now. Instead I’m sitting in the bathroom with the laptop on my lap. Shut up, I can stop any time I want!

I’m still sticky from things Bran and I did last night. I don’t have the time to give it a proper description, in part because of that 8:50 AM dentist’s appointment. Yes, my friends, I would rather be describing my kinky sexcapades than getting ready to go to the dentist. But clean teeth make for better kissing.

I got Bran a little tag to go with his collar. We talked a bit more about why he likes being a puppy — and I get it. You don’t have to think when you’re in puppy headspace. You can put all those complicated words away. Cats and dogs are just there to love you and make you happy. It’s nice work if you can get it.

He didn’t get here until 8:30 or so. I had a pot of chicken soup cooking when he arrived. About three or four hours after he walked in the door, I brought him a bowl of it in bed. He was naked, on his stomach, eating soup. I dipped a piece of bread in the broth and fed it to him.

“The next time we see each other we should go out,” he said. “We should do something date like.”

As if I needed another reason to like him.

March 25, 2008 at 12:27 pm Leave a comment

Enormous cock, box of rocks

There was a boy I dated briefly in the summer of 2007. He had a very nice body: tall, high cheekbones, washboard stomach, enormous cock. He also either had Aspbergers or was just your garden variety asshole. Whatever the reason, he had the emotional vocabulary of a box of rocks. Excerpts from my journal:

I fall in love with him in the lazy afterglow of lovemaking, after I’ve cried out and clenched and shuddered more than once, after he’s bellowed and fallen against me. Our bodies curl around each other and we fall in and out of sleep. I feel my heart unfurling like a fiddlehead. I know it’s not really love, it’s just that trick my body plays on me after orgasm. I can never tell him how I feel.

It’s not important that I do. To love is my sole purpose in this life. To cut the channels of love, to navigate the currents of love, to set the boundaries of love. All the different kinds of love there are:

The love of letting another driver in to traffic
The love of sending a postcard to a friend
The love of sucking a man’s cock and doing it well
The love of showing up to a meeting on time
The love of expressing displeasure at unacceptable behavior
The love of calling my friends regularly
The love of feeding people

The next time I saw him was the beginning of the end. I made the mistake of doing something other than having him over for dinner and sex.

We actually went on something like a real date. We saw Paprika at the Kendall–this bizarre anime about a technological breakdown that blurs the line between dreams and reality. Japanese attitudes toward female sexuality are always somewhat disturbing to me, but one scene in particular made me cringe: a man plunges his hand inside Paprika, this sort of spritely dream-visting character, the alter ego of a very buttoned-down scientist. His hand sinks into her at crotch level, then pulls his hand upward, splitting her in two to reveal the real-world scientist, but naked. My date watched it all with an impassive face.

When we got back to my place, we were both wiped–me from a busy day of social engagements, him from his retail job. We sat on the couch, his head cradled against my chest, and it was nice, very nice. Eventually off to bed in a very unromantic, unpassionate way. I stopped to take my medicine, take my contact lenses out, brush my teeth.

“I was beginning to think you forgot you had a boy in your bed,” he said when I finally came to bed, straddling him in his white undershirt, white briefs.

“Not just any boy,” I replied. “My favorite boy.”

He’ll be losing his Most Favored Nation status pretty soon, though. Yes, he has one of the longest, thickest cocks I’ve ever had the pleasure to take into my mouth and other orifices. But his lack of enthusiasm for cunnilingus is beginning to show.

Sigh. What a sad state of affairs that I can’t find a man who is both well hung and skilled and enthusiastic with the munching of the kitty. I know they exist — I dated one in college.

Poor me.

The coitus last night was surprisingly brief. This is a pattern I’m recognizing. First, the sex is enthusiastic, creative, varied, prolonged. Then, eventually, habituation sets in. One or the other of us gets tired, makes other things the priority. The sex becomes perfunctory, a chore. God, sex with Kristen felt like mowing the lawn by the end of things.

The morning’s performance left little room for complaint, though. I think that I will always love the groan he makes when he comes, a bearlike sounds deep in his throat. And the look on his face–his eyes open wide–the drowsing that follows, the falling asleep in each other’s arms.

His heart will remain ever closed to me, though. I know I will never really know who he is–never really know him, no matter how many times our bodies collide and clench and pleasure each other.

Even as my heart does its inevitable uncurling in the aftermath of orgasm. Silly, illogical, lovable heart. I will take you, heart, to a well with water in it. Don’t confuse pleasure, orgasm, bare skin on bare skin, with love, with intimacy. He has no love to give.

I was right. Things ended abruptly about a week later.

January 18, 2008 at 3:30 am 2 comments


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