Archive for July 31, 2013

I laughed

“Don’t laugh,” you warned as you pressed me against the side of the building.

I couldn’t help it. I could feel the bricks against my back, poking me through my dress. Hurting me.

I liked it. I liked the feeling of being held, being forced to do it. I liked the feeling of your chest, warm against me, and your hands on my wrists, pinning me to the wall. I liked your kiss. It was gentle and hard, both at once.

I liked feeling urgent and out of place on a busy street.

I liked the possibility of passersby seeing us, noticing that we were not just kissing. I liked their interest and their passing judgment. I liked the energy of their eyes on us, almost more than I liked your body against mine.

I liked the smell of chocolate in the air and I liked the echoing of metal against metal from the train. I liked the coolness in the air, the tightness in my belly, and my wetness.

I laughed. It was an ironic kind of laugh, a sidelong laugh that’s part self-consciousness, part pure joy.

I liked not quite believing that you wanted this, and liked even more when you showed me that you did.

“Don’t laugh,” you said. “That was hot.”

You grabbed my hand and pressed it against your hard cock.

I liked it.


Wicked Wednesday... be inspired & share...

I’m paying attention



1 a : settlement of differences by or by consent reached by mutual concessions

b : something between or blending qualities of two different things

: a concession to something derogatory or prejudicial <a compromise of principles>


If you think this has a happy ending, you haven’t been paying attention.

-Ramsey Bolton, Game of Thrones

Six months of therapy, and we’re at the exact same point we started.  Six months.  As a couple, individually, over dinner, with friends, over tears.  And yet last night we were right back where we started, still at an impasse, still uncompromising.

A few times I thought we might be making progress, though in hindsight I just wanted to believe it.

Jenna has been repeating the same narrative recently.  I can argue that her supporting me through grad school isn’t the same (after all, I did the same for her before we had kids), or that moving to the city really was a similar compromise to moving to the country.  But each time she ends it with how she’s not going to repress her feelings like her mom did, how she has to be true to herself.

There are a lot of places in our lives where we can compromise.  With this one, though, there’s no middle ground.  Sooner or later, one of us has to give in.

Last night I realized that Jenna isn’t going to be the one to compromise on this.  Either this feeling subsides on its own, or eventually she acts on it.  Six months, and we’re right back where we started.  Six months, and this feeling hasn’t subsided for her.  And while I’m no expert on these sorts of desires, I don’t expect six more months to be any different.

So last night, despite my feelings on the subject, as we sat on the garden bench together, I told Jenna to go try whatever she felt she needed to experience.  Last night I compromised.  Last night I gave up the fight.  Not because I felt differently about opening our marriage, but because it just feels inevitable, like fighting gravity.  I can’t quite tell if her tears were those of joy or sadness, only that as I sat there holding her, my own well had run dry a while ago.

I’m not for opening our marriage.  Despite Jenna’s insistence that it would make our lives more fun, I think it will add a lot of jealousy, anger, resentment, hurt, and stress to our relationship, among other potential feelings and complications.  Jenna says I’m the pessimist; I say I’m the realist.  But it’s evident to me that this discussion isn’t going to change; sooner or later we either open it up, or we walk away.  Right now I’m not yet ready to walk away – like I told Jenna a month or two ago, I’m (loosely) giving us until the end of the year to figure this all out.

I don’t really know yet how this plays out.  Right now I find myself up at 3am, unable to sleep, with the same feeling in the pit of my stomach I had last February.  I find myself looking for a parallel, wondering how she would feel if I suddenly insisted I wanted to deal cocaine, or enlist in the army, or become a bigamist.  Maybe the latter is the closest parallel – the idea of not just having sex with someone else, but becoming emotionally attached, moving that person into our home.

I’ve had feelings of anger and resentment for a while, and I suspect now they are only going to get stronger and more complicated.  I just hope I feel more positive about it once she starts exploring her sexuality with others, because 2014 is rapidly approaching.

Tell me about it

“Tell me about it,” he said.

“Really?” I asked, my heart jumping into my throat, even after all these months of blogging. It’s still new to me. “Will it turn you on?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. I could see his cock already beginning to strain against his boxers.

“Okay,” I agreed. I laid down on the sofa and put my head in his lap, close to but not touching his cock.

“I want to fuck another guy, from behind. I want him to pound his cock into my pussy until I’m moaning. I want him to press my head down while he fucks me. I don’t want to be able to move.” I’m squirming just thinking about it.

“Mmhmm,” he says, smiling a little. “What else?”

Of course he knows there’s more.

“I want you to watch. I want you to like it a lot. I want to see you stroking your cock in front of me.”

He starts rubbing his cock through his boxers, two inches from my face.

“When you can’t wait any longer, I want you to lift my shoulders so I’m on all fours. Then I want you to hold my head and rub your hard cock all over my face.”

“Yeah?” he asked deeply. He pulls down the front of his shorts and takes his cock out, rubbing it against my face in reality.

I want his cock in my mouth so bad I can hardly speak.

“I want you to hold my hair while you fuck my face, so I’m getting fucked two times at once. I want you to really, really enjoy it,” I say in a loud whisper and start licking his cock, which he’s holding tight by my mouth.

After a few moments I pause. “And when you’re ready, I want you to come all over my face.”

“You are so fucking dirty,” he says as he shoves his cock into my mouth. “I bet you want me to watch him shoot his come all over your back, don’t you?”

He’s good.

Do you have kids?

Last week I received this question from a thoughtful reader:

“Take a step back and look it like this: How would you feel if your kids were teenagers and inviting guys/girls over for meaningless sex?”


I’ve been turning this question over in my mind for a few days. If you’ve been reading here for a while, you know that I hate to be a hypocrite. And my kids are young, which makes this question more difficult to answer. We’re still dealing in hypotheticals.

I want to begin by officially switching the term “meaningless sex” to “casual sex.” By my definition, casual sex is any type of sexual contact outside of a full romantic relationship. Anything from sex between friends to one-night stands to groping at a party to flirting online could be included in this definition. And by casual sex, I mean sex that lies outside the realm of responsibility toward another, that is purely first person. This is selfish sex. This is the type of sex where you figure out what you like, what pleases you, what excites you. This is the kind of sex that we should all have before we get married.

Growing up, my mom taught me that sex was something special, only to be shared with a loving partner. Nevermind that she had lots of casual sex at different points throughout her life, some healthy, some not.

It’s true, sex with a loving partner feels emotionally great. It can feel physically great, too. But if you start from a place of trying to please someone else, of trying to assuage their emotions, you might overlook your own sexuality. At least, that’s what my experience has been.

In the case of me and Mark, our sexual relationship started after we were already emotionally indebted to one another. Our emotional attachment began when we were six years old or maybe younger. So our sexual relationship was always, from its very start, about each of us pleasing the other. The responsibility for giving the other pleasure rested solely on each of us.

Honestly, until this year, I had no idea that there was another way to have a sexual relationship. Stumbling across various things online has opened my eyes to things that have definitely changed my mind, and opened up what I can only describe as a fountain of desire within me.

I’ve come to realize that the emotional side of my relationship with Mark makes it almost impossible for me to express, or even feel, the flood of my desire. It’s not because of anything Mark does wrong, but because of my profound sense of responsibility for his pleasure and emotions. I need to know at every moment that he is okay. That’s how I love him, and it’s a fact of our relationship.

To get back to the question about the kids, I think there’s a window of opportunity when you’re young or on your own to figure out what you like. I think it takes a certain level of comfort with your own body and mind, and a willingness to take chances and play. It seems to me that this type of freedom is easiest when you have little knowledge of or responsibility toward your partner(s).

I want to add that knowing what you like goes a long way toward your future happiness with your mate. Knowing what turns you on mentally and physically lets you express your desires more clearly at the start and build your relationship from there. Sex doesn’t have to be a guessing game.

I want my kids to know that sex, like all other parts of life, is important. I want them to feel like it’s fun. I want them to take some time to figure it out for themselves. I’ll provide the birth control, the condoms, the safe place, the freedom, and the emotional support.

Maybe I’m wrong about this. Maybe I’m too idealistic about it. Maybe Mark disagrees with my approach. I only know that I’m not a hypocrite, and I don’t want to send my kids into the world before they are on their way to knowing themselves, completely.

Thoughts on date night

Receiving date night plans and instructions turns me on more than giving them.

Last-minute plans are so fun, but I like to have a few days to simmer.

We should always have drinks before dinner.

I’m sorry that I laughed when you pressed me up against the side of the building. I liked it, I really did. I want you to do it again. The laughter was a combination of my pure joy and my awareness of our changing.

I want to kneel for you on a bridge. But I don’t want you to ask me if I’m ready. I want you to set it up. I want you to tell me to do it. Be bossy. I want you to.

I like to be directed, not asked. If you don’t know what you want, then tell me that I’m in charge. Don’t ever ask me what I want you to do. If there is something, I’ll tell you.

Hotel sex is really fucking hot, even when it’s not dirty.

Thanks, Mark.

Date night

We’re doing it!


Yes. This.

I came across a great Tumblr blog today. It’s called bending submission. Its pictures are beautiful, and its words are beyond that. When I read this entry, I almost cried.

This is what I have known but not realized. This is what I’m feeling. I want to be wrecked over a counter.

I want to be forced to drop the pretense.

I have something on offer that cannot be given. It can only ever be taken, by someone who wants it. It is unnameable desire. It burns.

Principled beast, whoever you are, you are right. I am built very differently. Unravel me.

Thank you.

You could get fired for that

My boss used to tell us when he went commando.

Imagine it: a group of 20-something women gathered around a low-walled cube. We are laughing. Our company is large, well-known. We all like working here, and we prefer being in cube land over having our own offices. We are always talking, always laughing.

My boss just turned 40. He’s good-looking–no, legitimately handsome–blonde, small but muscular. He likes to tell us about the time he climbed Mt. Everest, the times he’s completed the Ironman. He’s a flirt and a show off, but nice. Always polite. Except occasionally, when he goes commando.

He usually tells us, laughing, on his way into his office. “Commando today,” he smirks. We laugh.