Posts tagged ‘oh god not more mushy stuff’

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

Is it still dirty if it just makes me feel all mushy?

So Bran came on my face last night. I opened my mouth and caught some of it on my tongue and everything, just like those scenes in porn movies I always fast-forward through. He was straddling me, and it got all over my mouth and my face. Instead of swallowing it, I pushed it out and felt it dribbling down my chin. But even though he was gasping and caught up, I didn’t want it to end yet. A woman’s orgasm can go on for a long time, and I think men are probably more like women in their ability to have multiple, full-body orgasms than we think. So I grabbed his cock, slick with his come, and worked it even as he was coming.

“No,” he gasped, racked with pain/pleasure of climax.

“Yes,” I insisted, and worked it, worked it, with my hands or my mouth or both I can’t remember. He was still on his knees above me, and unable to move. Even though I was supine, pinned below him, I was the one in control. He began to shudder and jerk. Too much. I began to worry that maybe he was going to have a heart attack, remembered those times when I myself felt like I was going to short circuit — but my body can take so much more, it seems, before I reach that point.

I put my hand against his heart, worried. Pushed him back to make him lay down. He collapsed to the side, but with his knees still bent. I still had his come all over my face and chest, but I didn’t want to get up for a washcloth. He was still convulsing, jerking, trembling, his knees half-pulled up, effectively keeping me at a distance. The convulsions — I couldn’t tell if it was just the aftermath of pleasure, or something more sinister.

I lay next to him, still covered in come, and tried to soothe him. Shushed him, gentled him with my hands. Too soon for cuddling. I was worried.

It reminded me of the time he burst into tears as he came inside me, and from the back, when I couldn’t hold him, couldn’t really see what was happening with him. He’d been fucking me up the ass, and I had to run off to the bathroom. When I came back, he was sitting on the side of the bed, still… not dazed, but not right.

“Are you all right? You were crying.”

“It just… it just reminds me how easy it is to lose control with you.”

Losing control can be a good thing. But safety… I can’t stand the thought of something going haywire with his body. I want him near me, and in good health, for a good long time. The thing about being in my 30s is realizing that it’s not going to be forever, or even as forever-ish as everything seemed when I was younger.

Eventually the jerking stopped. It was probably just the aftermath of orgasm — it’s certainly happened to me plenty of times. “I’ll be right back,” I said, and got up to clean myself up. Came back with a warm washcloth for him. And lay there beside him, head on chest.

“I like you,” he said, and the words were even more heart-warming than those other ones, the ones that go with all the hearts and flowers and Harlequin romances.

“I like you too.”

“I like having sex with you.”

“And I like this part here, too,” I said, snuggling my head in the spot between his armpit and his chest.

“It’s all part of it…” and the two of us settled into the light sleep, the afterglow, of an orgasm that comes not just from wild monkey lust, but from love-making.

Love doesn’t just sit there like a stone; it has to be made, like bread, remade all the time, made new.

September 30, 2008 at 10:06 pm 2 comments

Sex as the result of intimacy

We had our first fight this week. It was hard. We survived.

“I’m afraid you’re going to write me off as damaged goods,” I said, my voice tiny.

“I don’t think you’re damaged goods,” he said. “Not any more than anyone else I know.”

He cared enough to tell me he was mad. I cared enough — I was brave enough — to explain the less-than-rational thinking behind my freakout.

On Saturday night we went to Harvard Square to see Neal Stephenson read from his new book, and I got to introduce him to one of my good friends.

Afterward we took the bus back to my place. My place went ‘splodey this week. He sat there on the edge of the bed while I changed the sheets. “How do you feel?” he asked.

“A little ashamed,” I replied. When my head’s not right, my house gets dirty.

“I don’t think you have any reason to be ashamed.”

“Well thank you for saying that. I’m sure I’ll stop feeling ashamed any minute now.”

I couldn’t say it to him, but the shame is mine. Mine mine mine. It rises up from its little pool underground and all I can do is pick up the stuff I don’t want to get waterlogged until it subsides. And change my socks afterward.

Once the sheets were changed, he sat down to take off his shoes. I was suddenly hot, so I took off all my clothes but my panties — the ones with the little ruffles, which I’d put on for him, because I know he likes them.

We’re not ripping each other’s clothes off anymore, and that’s okay. We can be naked together and not sexual.

And there was still the separation between us, the fallout from the week’s mishegas.

We drifted into sleep, and in the morning I brought us coffee and toast on a tray. We read books next to one another. Whenever I moved to get out of the bed, he’d loop his leg around mine. “Come back,” he’d say, and it warmed my heart to hear it.

Later, as I lay on my side, he rolled over to spoon me. I felt the muscular hairiness of his legs against my own smooth, soft ones. His arm draped over mine and made me safe. His chest, strong, his belly, soft. And his cock began to swell against the small of my back.

September 21, 2008 at 10:09 pm Leave a comment

Why we say goodbye

“It has nothing to do with you,” he said. “It’s not about your curvaceous ass. Or your nifty breasts.”

I smiled. “You think my breasts are nifty?”

“Or your kissable lips.” And he kissed me.

We live on opposite sides of town. Ironically, he lives in a neighborhood heavily populated by lesbians. I told myself I’d never date a woman who lives over there because getting there from Camberville is such a pain. So I ended up dating a man who lives there.

I’d said I would drive him home last night, but I was really wiped from an extra-long day. I didn’t cook dinner either. So he took the T home. For an hour and a half.

I am a bad, bad girlfriend for not driving him home so he could wake up in his own bed and start his day off right.

But at least I have nifty breasts.

June 26, 2008 at 5:18 pm Leave a comment

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

First date, first kiss with Bran

It was back when it was still cold out. We met in Central Square and chatted a bit in a coffeehouse before dinner. His first impression of me was that I was angry, but really I was just thrown off by the Scally cap he was wearing. While we sat and talked over my cooling pot of tea, I remember an attraction blooming in spite of myself. It was something about the set of his neck.

I was still dressed for work in fairly dour clothes, a very utilitarian pair of pants and a long black cardigan. Over dinner, I remember his enthusiasm for the food, the way each of us was careful and generous with each other, gesturing to the other to have more. It was an Ethiopian restaurant, which means that you eat from the same plate with your hands. The plate itself is a sort of spongy bread that you eat as well. It’s a very intimate meal to share.

It was the set of his neck, that moment in the coffee shop, that really sealed the deal. But his conversation over dinner was pleasant and that helped as well. I invited him home to meet my cats. Heh. On the way back to my car, we linked arms, and he shivered in the cold and mentioned that he was tired, and I said, “if you’re really tired, you can go home now.”

“No,” he replied. “I want to see… what’s up.”

When we got home, I offered him a drink of water. I was so nervous standing there in the kitchen, trying to make conversation, that I dropped one of my good, stemmed water glasses. In my fumble to try to catch it, I dashed it against the sink. It shattered and left glass everywhere.

We sat on the couch and I put my feet up in his lap. But he wasn’t interested in my feet.

“You have an amazing ass,” he said.

“Yeah?” I said, flattered. And shifted so that I was sitting with my back to him, against his open legs. He put his arms around me, and our hips undulated. I turned to kiss him. Held him down, hovered with my lips close to his, savoring the moment.

I slid my hand under his sweater, his shirt, his undershirt, and pinched his right nipple, hard. He gasped. That harsh intake of breath, I’ve come to love it over the intervening months.

I kissed him then.

May 14, 2008 at 2:07 am 1 comment


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