Saturday Afternoon

We were over at a friend's house, leaning against the stone wall that separated us from a 300 foot drop into the ocean. The sun was shining and the sky was clear of any clouds. If we'd been further inland the temperature would have been in the 80's, but as it was, the ocean breeze was brisk enough to make me shiver once in a while. He put an arm around me and I nuzzled his neck. His body warmth and the naturally spicy scent of him immediately enthralled me.

"When we get home..." I started.

"Yes?"

"When we get home I want to tie you to my bed and ride you."

He made an interesting noise and pressed himself into me. I could feel his hardness against my belly. It was a tease and a promise.

A couple of hours later we headed home. I reached into the glove box for a toy and then reclined my seat. He didn't complain when I plugged the vibrator into the outlet, but he did shoot me an exasperated look that said can't you wait? My answer was to put my right foot on the dashboard and slide my left hand under my skirt. Waay up under my skirt.

Every guy fantasizes about having a girl who is always ready for sex, he told me once. Until he gets one and realizes what a nightmare keeping her satisfied can be. I chose not to take offense to this wry self-honesty on his part. I've found that my sex drive intimidates most of the men I date.

The drive home from Pacifica took seven or eight minutes. Enough time for me to have an orgasm and perfume the two-seater with the scent of pussy. When we pulled into the garage I leaned over and kissed him, teasing his mouth with my tongue. When he reached for me I opened the car door and dashed up the stairs.

He chased after me and caught me just inside the door. He pressed me up against the wall with his body and ground his cock against my mound, making me gasp when the seam on his jeans rolled over my clit.

I would have dropped to my knees right there if it wasn't for the fact that my mind was fixated on tying him to my bed. I wanted him that way. And so I grabbed his hand and pushed past him toward my bedroom, toward the scarf-draped hat stand that beckoned with promises of silken ties.

Stages of pleasuring

I have lived an interesting life. Before I reached puberty I witnessed a wider variety of sexual intercourse than most adults see in their lifetimes. As a child, I did not know that other kid's parents only slept with each other. I did not know that the limit was usually two adults to a bed--my parents always seemed to have friends in their bed--nor that sex is usually reserved for the bedroom. I did not know that boys having sex with boys and girls having sex with girls was taboo. I did not know that nudity in the home was uncommon, etc.

Masturbation was something we were very open about. When I was 4 or 5 and my mom found me touching myself in a sunny spot in the living room, she didn't slap my hand. Instead, she told me that if I wanted to do that it was probably best to do it in my room. I understood early on that sex was something grown-ups did, and it was not something I was eager to rush into. It did not have the secrecy, the shame, or the thrill of the forbidden for me that it did for most kids. In this environment, my sexual identity flourished, unfettered by the boundaries most people develop. I am free, uninhibited--my sexual self is fully expressed. But this does not mean I am promiscuous or indiscriminate, an assumption that mainstream, vanilla humanity tends to make when they catch wind of my lifestyle.

I am polyamorous. I date a wide variety of people. I have sex with two of them. Most of the ones who are not my lovers I have been dating for a year and more. I form deep, intense connections rather quickly, but I do not rush into sexual intercourse, or sexual intimacy for that matter. Without a mental connection, sex is just a form of exercise that may or may not result in orgasm, and if I want to cum, no one can do it better for me than I can.

Recently someone asked me what I did do with these people if I did not have sex with them. Heh. It depends. Some get kisses, which may not sound like much, but I have it on good authority that kissing me is better than some sex people have had. Kissing is wonderful, delicious, arousing. It makes me feel sooo good. It is its own journey and destination. Then there is frottage. I love to frot with people I feel connected to. I'm very good with my hands after so many years of practicing massage. I like pleasuring others with my hands and I love the rub of bodies against each other, both languidly and with rising urgency. I haven't dated a woman for a while but there is nothing quite like scissoring with a woman, rubbing together on a dance floor or in bed, lost in the tribadic subset of frottage. Mutual masturbation (to orgasm) and languissement is something I've experienced with two of the men who are not my lovers. Lastly, there is the intercrural form of 'outercourse'. This is very intimate and little different from actual coitus save there is no penetration... just delicious friction and body movements that simulate coitus. I particularly enjoy it from behind, while spooning. There is someone I am dating that I am approaching this stage with. We had a frot session a couple of weeks ago that had my roommate convinced I was having some amazing sex, when in fact he was worshipping my back with his mouth and grinding himself against me in a way that had me moaning deliriously with pleasure. Or maybe it was the nipple-play that had me moaning that way? Its a sensual blur, to be sure.

The point is that there are many ways to enjoy others, many stages of pleasuring without sexual intercourse, depending on the level of mental, emotional, and spiritual intimacy I feel I have with that person. We each define 'sex' differently, and pleasure, particularly pleasure that results in sexual arousal, is so nuanced. So coloured by the experiences of childhood and adolescence. So limited and charged and judged by social mores and conditioning. I've thought about my sexuality, the stages of sexual arousal and pleasure, about intimacy and what it means to love and be with--to really love and be with--others. Have you?

Pleasure-centric (another story start)

"You are so pleasure-centric," he said.

It was a complaint. One I have heard from others over the years.

"What is wrong with being pleasure-centric?" I asked, genuinely puzzled. I ran my hand lightly down his forearm and threaded my fingers through his. He is intelligent and articulate, this one. Perhaps he can help me to understand.

"Nothing, so long as I don't have to be, too."

Ah, I thought, finally, someone who is accepting of my hedonistic nature.

But my joy faded when he added, "The whole concept of being pleasure-oriented... it upsets me."

"Why?" I asked.

"That is a very complex question to answer," he replied.

"That is not an answer, Gabriel, its a cop-out. Please explain?" I asked again. Surely he, of all people, must be self-aware enough about his discomfort to explain it to me.

I released his hand and ran my fingers through my hair before massaging the back of my neck. It felt good, making me tingle. I pressed two fingers into a small knot and sighed deliriously as I leaned my head back to deepen the pressure. After about thirty seconds, I straightened my neck and tucked my thumbs in my belt loops, assuming a patient stance.

Silence.

I waited some more.

He did not answer.

He struggled, but he could not put into words the reasons for his discomfort with my shameless enjoyment of the sensuous immediacy of every waking moment. I think it has to do with the Mennonite values his mother passed on to him, even though she married and raised her children outside her 'faith.' Puritanism prevails in North America, and with it, the concept that life must be wrung dry of all that is pleasurable in it in order to be worthy of the rewards of the after-life. I was reminded of what Nietzsche had said: "The Christian resolution to find the world ugly and bad has made the world ugly and bad." And I remembered my conviction that if there is a God, there could be no greater insult to a deity than to shun and revile Creation. I was born into this world, I was given this life, this body, these senses, and it is only fitting that I live it to the fullest of my meager abilities.

Into the silence I said, "We all act out of our own self-interest, Gabe. The fundamental drive of the unconscious is the Pleasure Principle. Read up on your Freud. I'm just more aware of it than the masses, and certainly at lot less hung-up on doing what makes me feel good. It is a hedonistic, pleasure-centric approach to life, and I'm unapologetic about it--and probably happier than most people as a result."

"It just doesn't seem ethical, or moral, or something like that," he complained, oddly inarticulate. He held out his hand and started ticking things off on his fingers. "You masturbate more than anyone I know, Kay, male or female. You eat a pear like you are having an orgasm, and when you give me a taste, its just a pear. You use real whipping cream in your coffee--its just too decadent--and besides, aren't you worried about your cholesterol? And then, there is the fact that you act like a child. You stop in the middle of the sidewalk to watch leaves fall or a caterpillar cross. You spend hours down by the river doing nothing when you could be furthering your career." He threw his hands up in the air and gave me a frustrated look. "And what the hell is meditation anyway?"

I took Gabriel's hand, held it between both of mine. I could feel the coolness of his skin, the smoothness of his palm, the long, tapered fingers with their blunt nails. A lovely, well-cared for, expressive hand. It and its pair wreak such divine havoc on my senses sometimes.

"Close your eyes," I told him, and he did.

I held his hand for a moment, took a centering breath, then lifted it to my mouth. I kept my eyes on his face as I breathed on his hand, a warm, moist breath just millimeters from his skin. He sighed, started to open his eyes. I made an irritated noise in my throat and he closed them again, tightly. I rotated his hand and touched the prominent wrist bone lightly with my tongue, then pursed my lips and inhaled. Cool air washed over his skin and his unique scent flooded my senses. He gasped at the temperature contrast and shivered. I watched the hairs rise, and gooseflesh pebble his skin. I moved again, and this time I kissed that fleshy spot between thumb and forefinger, a nice, moist kiss with full lips, slightly parted. He moaned. I lowered his hand. My eyes picked out the bulge that had sprung up in his pants, and I smiled inwardly.

"Open your eyes," I said softly. "How did that feel?"

"Great," he answered with a smile, his eyes glowing.

"And this?" I asked, repeating my earlier actions, but without the attentiveness and languid timing. "How did that feel?"

His brows drew together and he gave a little shrug. "Ok. Nice, I guess."

"What made the difference between 'great' and 'nice', Gabe?"

"Great was... slower," he said thoughtfully.

"And what else?"

"It was..." he closed his eyes, trying to remember. "It was... more..."

"More what, Gabriel?"

"More intense."

"I eat my pears the first way, sweetie," I gave his fingers a squeeze. "You eat yours the second way."

He pulled his hand away from mine and frowned. "I don't get it."

I sighed in frustration and raised a hand to rub the back of my neck. The world needs more sensualists, I thought to myself, instead of self-absorbed moralists.

Questions poured out of me in a torrential, impassioned speech. "What is so wrong with being aware of the world, with savoring it? What is wrong with being sensitive to shades of colour and texture, to the subtlety of sounds, to the brush of someone's hand on my skin? What is wrong with swooning over my first bite into a ripe pear? Why is it wrong that I enjoy the scents that others don't bother to smell?"

I looked at him, and I could feel my frustration and bafflement welling up. I took a deep breath, noticed my shoulders were raised and consciously dropped them. Took another deep, calming breath.

"Am I too indulgent in the sensual, at the expense of something more important, Gabe? I work, I pay my bills, I contribute to causes I believe in. I take time to contemplate the meaning of life. I rarely say unkind words, think unkind thoughts, do unkind things. Yes, with a little more ambition, I could further my career. Yes, if I played less, I would 'have' more. But what for? I don't want like most people do. I don't feel the need to go shopping in order to assuage that restlessness that so many people seem to feel. I rarely feel trapped, unhappy, unworthy. I like my life. I like who I am. I am, for the most part, comfortable in my own skin."

He pulled me close to him, his hands sliding down over my hips until they cupped my ass. He kissed the side of my neck, running his lips along my flesh.

"I'm comfortable in your skin, too," he murmured, making me shiver as his breath puffed near my ear.

Son of a bitch! I grumbled to myself. I tilted my head back, exposing more of my neck to his mouth. He complains about me being too pleasure-centric, but he's not above using it to distract me from an argument.

His lips traced the muscle extending from behind my ear down to the hollow of my throat. He pressed his tongue there, then nibbled along my collarbone as far as the neckline of my blouse would permit. The nip of his teeth made me suck in my breath, made my nipples hard. His hand came up, brushing the underside of my breast, and then he ran this thumbnail over the hardened point. The pleasure haze rose in my mind like mist from my flesh, clouding coherent thought. I leaned forward and sank my teeth into that place where the neck and shoulder meet, and he made a sibilant hissing noise that turned my arousal-level up another notch.

He twisted one of my arms behind me, making me arch against him. I could feel his sex pressing against my belly, hard and thick, and I wanted him then, I wanted him so much that my breath starting coming in those tell-tale shallow puffs, the precursors to panting and dizziness. I ground myself against him and whimpered, knowing he would make me suffer for my pleasure-seeking ways. And wanting it.

When it comes to pleasure, men get the short end of the stick, I think. I've queried most of my friends, and I've decided that, as a general rule, men are results-oriented pleasure-seekers and women are process-oriented pleasure seekers. Most men get aroused and orgasm, all very quickly. They want the big-bang, the ultimate superfeeling, and they want it now. Theirs is results-oriented pleasure. Whatever it takes to "get 'er done." Women get aroused, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly, and orgasm usually takes time, but orgasm itself is not the ultimate goal. The pleasure is in the arousal itself, in the slow build of orgasmic tension and its slow decline. During sex a woman may not orgasm or she may, or she may do so many times, but the emphasis for her is actually on intimacy and the arousal process--on feeling good for as long as possible--not on achieving climax.

And then there is me.

I do so love to suffer pleasure, though most people do not seem to understand what I mean by that. In the Buddhist sense I am very attached to pleasure, and attachment is a source of suffering, but that is far too psychological a reasoning behind my use of that expression. No, I suffer because my senses are very acute. One side-effect of this acuity is that I am multi-orgasmic. I come readily and often. The other side-effect is that I am hyper-sensitive and thus easily over-stimulated, and there are times when I have gone from urgently aroused to rampantly irritable in a split second. It usually happens when I have not been allowed to come, when I have been kept on the edge of orgasm for too long. The frustration builds, the frisson of sexual tension stretching out like an elastic band until my nerves are quivering and something in me finally snaps. When that happens, I am done. So very done, and there is no reclaiming my arousal. And so it is that I seek and suffer pleasure, riding the tides of my sexual energy, enjoying the teasing and slow buildup to frequent and intense orgasms, savouring each one, knowing that at any moment my lover may commit the fatal error that sinks both our ships.

And Gabe knew this, he knew this because he was my friend as well as my lover, and we had talked for many an hour about sensuality and sexuality and the perversion of both in our culture. When we became lovers he delighted in making me come quickly and urgently until I plateaued, and then he would keep me on edge for forty-five minutes, an hour, sometimes longer, until he pushed the erotic button that sent me toppling over the side into a shockingly intense orgasm that robbed me of all sensibility and left me limp as a slumbering kitten.

Gabriel liked to push the pleasure-envelope with me. And on this particular evening, my demonstration of sensual attentiveness as the key to my hedonism goaded him to new heights...

Everybody's got a story

So.. I was contacted by a gentleman via my stories on Literotica and we've entered this dialogue . He told me a bit about himself and asked me if I had any advice as to how he could be more sensual. I responded as follows:

If you want to be more sensual in a sexual way, more comfortable with your sexuality, then I would recommend that you make love to yourself. Masturbation, with self-love. I masturbate daily. I treat myself to long baths twice a week... I shave, oil my legs and mound, and retire to my bed for an evening of fantasy and voluptuous masturbation.

And because he'd not had much success in his intimate relationships the past few years. I asked him some questions:

You say that the women you have been with in the past you were able to be open and sensual with, but now, you aren't sure you can. What has changed? What happened in your past that you are getting hung up on?

He responded with his story. A good story, a painful story, an honest, self-revealing story that moved me and inspired me. A story of a man who suffered a profound loss and still went on to create an extraordinary life for himself. I responded with:

As for what you wrote.... There isn't anything wrong with you. Really.

I think that what went awry for you in your relationships is what happens to most of us, including me. And it has to do with Fear.

The thing about Fear is that we will always feel fear. Our fears will never go away. We may resolve some of our fears, but we will always encounter situations in our lives that cause us to feel afraid. And most of us respond to life out of fearful places. We let our fears get in the way of living life. We allow our fears and our pasts to dictate how we respond to the current situation instead of being present to what is really going on. But I've learned that it doesn't have to be or stay that way. Before I tell you what I've learned, let me share a bit of my story with you, so we can establish that I do understand where you are coming from and why you feel as you do.

My mother left me with my grandparents when I was 10. My grandfather died that same year. My father got custody and moved us to a new town, and he moved my sisters and I nearly every year from then on. I lost my mother, my friends, the life I knew, over and over again. I was so tired of the pain of loss, and so afraid of losing people, that I stopped bothering to form attachments at all. When I entered romantic relationships, I insisted that my lovers understand that the relationship would end, sooner or later, and that I could not, would not, be possessed. I was an emotional coward hiding under the guise of being a 'free spirit', and I knew it, and I knew myself for a fraud.

In my early 30's things started changing. I faced the fact that the way I approached life and the methods I used to cope with the stresses, disappointments, problems, and fears in my life were not working, and I went looking for something that did work. I read self-help books, did two years of therapy, wrote in my journal, conversed with people, attended worshops, and contemplated my life.

And one of the things that became apparent was that I needed to be courageous. I needed to have the courage to face that I would always have fears and problems--that there was no magic wand that would smooth out the road of life ahead of me--and that I needed to find the courage to not let those things stop me from living my life right now.

One of the Christophers in my life told me that I also needed to stop trying to plan and predict life. Intellectually, I understood what he said. I understood the argument that if one can plan and predict life, then one is not living life... one is re-living the past by over-laying it on the future. But recently, I GOT it. I got what he meant on a visceral level. I got the whole thing Jung said about neurotic suffering. I got the whole thing about fear of the uncertainty of life causing me to pull as much of the familiar past forward into my future as I could. I realized that in my fear I was forcing myself to re-live the past, even though I really didn't want to. I really, really, don't want to relive the past. It is dead, and there is nothing for me there.

Today, the future is wide open. It is a vast nothingness, a place of potentials, and I have the power to chose to either fill it with the expectations and fears and disappointments of the past, or create the life I want to live out of it. And I want to live an extraordinary, vibrant, fulfilled life. And since I want to live an extraordinary, vibrant, fulfilled life, I am choosing to BE an extraordinary, vibrant, fulfilled person. But in order to be those things, I had to accept that fear would always be a part of my life, and find in myself the courage to not let it stop me from living the life I want to live and being the person I want to be.

So there it is. That's my story, and my advice. Find the courage to let your fears remain where they belong, in the past. Sure, you may open up to someone and you may get hurt. That's Life. That's the risk we take. But being hurt isn't so bad, and adults are by nature far more compassionate than we give them credit for. So open up to lots of people. Play the odds. Keep trying. Keep living. Keep being the person you want to be, and you will find that others will be drawn to you, to that person you are being, and you will have the love and companionship you have chosen for yourself. Really.

It will be interesting to see what happens next.

On the foundations of sexual psychopathology

[click here for audio / podcast]
I expect that, to the average American, I would seem to be a "sexual deviant", however, I think it is fair to say that my spontaneous, free-flowing eroticsm is but a extension of the way my mind works. I am a divergent thinker, and so I consider myself "sexually divergent" rather than "deviant". But again, that is a question of semantic nuances, I suppose.


Which leads to my next topic.... sexual psychopathology.

My morality, ethics, and sexuality were heavily influenced by two diametrically-opposed lifestyles: the hippie-hedonism of my parent's communal lifestyle, and the fundamentalist Christianity of my missonary evangelist grandparents. Perhaps as a consequence of being caught in the middle of their battle for my mind, body, and soul, I have long been aware of, and fascinated by, how the socio-religious regulation of sexuality is internalized to produce sexual psychopathology. I have long wanted to understand what it is about our society that creates 'child molesters' such as the one I fell prey to when I was 11. What I have learned over the years is that children have always been eroticized, but that the abuse factor is a fairly recent evolution in response to the Church's attempt to bring sexuality and reproduction under its control. It took centuries for them to bring marriage under the umbrella of Its authority, proscribing fornication and adultery, and condemning all non-procreative sexual practices as "unnatural".

The history of sexuality in the West is rather interesting and very convoluted. The Hellenic (Greek) culture tolerated pederastic and male homosexual relations for centuries. It was not uncommon for men and women to reserve feeling of higher 'love' for people of their own gender, or for children. It was understood that sex was required for procreation, but that loving sexuality was fluid in its expression, rather than static. Sex was recognized for the primal and necessary bodily function that it is, rather than being wrapped in and confused with 'love' like it is today. This ended rather quickly with the rise of Christianity--the pleasures of the flesh were directly at odds with the prospect of salvation in the imminent 'last days'.

In my readings, I found it interesting to learn that being a catamite in Hellenic days was not only accepted, but expected by those of honoured houses. It was an honour even, to the family whose boy was chosen. And homosexuality was no more looked down upon then as heterosexuality is now. I also find the evolution of prostitution from something accepted and deemed a necessary, if not always desirable thing, to the apparent abomination that some view it to be today. In fact, a great many things viewed as 'immoral' today were not so before the rise of Christianity.

In the 19th century, Darwin's work began to influence most aspects of Western Thought, and through it, religious views on sexual difference were provided with a biological and eventually an evolutionary logic, which then in turn was used to determine that departures from sanctioned demonstrations of heterosexuality were not only 'sins', but pathological deviations from physiological norms. The emergence of what could be called 'scientific sexology' at the end of the nineteenth century completed these developments by identifying as sexual 'deviants' the prostitutes, masturbators, and perverts whose sexual practices supposedly posed a biological and moral threat to the health of families, nations, and the 'race.' This was the pivotal moment in the modern history of sexuality -- when homosexuality, sadism, masochism, and the other 'perversions' were invented. It was not a simple medical or scientific conspiracy, but a decisive cultural revolution that,
when interwoven with the upwelling of charismatic Christian evangelism during the same era, left pyscho-social marks so deep, indelible, and socially transmissible, that most people in America assume that this 19th century construction is both natural and eternal.

In the end, I think it all comes down to pleasure. Pre-Christian cultures elevated pleasure and happiness as goals to be achieved in daily life. Early Christians, believing that Christ would come again within their lifetime/generation, embraced an ascetic lifestyle that renounced pleasure today in favour of the rigors needed to be worthy of the joys salvation in the afterlife. When it became apparent that Christ was not coming as soon was originally promised, the emphasis shifted to control, to controlling pleasure and pain, marriage and procreation through fear. The eyes of the Heirs of Paul ceased their inward look and turned to those whose lives were free of the oppressive fears of their Christian brethren, and seeing them as threats to the continuation of the Church, sought to bring them under the authority of the Church lest they influence new converts to return to the 'old ways'. Little did the Church elders know that the use of fear to control sexuality would last for thousands of years, and mutate to turn expressions of non-procreative sexuality into an underground phenomenon perpetuated from generation to generation by guilt and oppression. Christianity, and the culture it spawned, has a dark, twisted, and seedy underside. It makes sinners of its subscribers, who, knowing they are powerless to prevent themselves from participating in the cycle of Original Sin, become twisted by fear and the need to exert power and control -- over themselves and others -- in the most deeply personal and private aspect of their lives: their sexuality.

Perhaps, for ha-has, I should begin identifying myself as a Fundamentalist Pre-Christian, and begin dialogue on getting back to sound, healthy, pre-Christian values: de-nuclearization of the 'family' in favour of a return to the community as the basic social unity; the return of sexual worship to temples and other sanctums; rites of fertility and sexual initiation; placing procreation back in the hands of women, who, after all, bear children, and who for millennia, made the decision to bear or expose to the elements children born 'untimely'; viewing masturbation as a healthy and desirable expression of self-love; all as an effort to root out the sexual psychopathology, guilt, and repression rampant in our current society. I can just see their faces now. Wheeeee.

Sweet Saturday

Friday night I went to sleep fairly early. My friend M called from Kona and caught me in that twilight state between rest and sleep. I do not remember the conversation, but apparenty, he planted some thoughts that flowered into naughty dreams. So the first thing I did upon awakening Saturday morning was masturbate voluptously. Then I brewed some micro-roasted coffee put on a robe, and sat out on the patio. It was a beautiful morning...the air was moist with an autumnal bite to it, redolent with the scent of humus and the call of birds. It was the birds that drew me to the river, where I meditated on one of my favorite rocks. When I got home, I felt...bouncy...again. Less weary. Refreshed. I had planned to leave for the Coast before midday, but did not get moving until 2pm. Which is fine. I cajoled my roomie into coming along (she's been here 5 months and not been) and away we went. The drive from southeast Portland to the Oregon Coast is about 90 minutes, depending on traffic, and it is a beautiful, scenic drive. Since I was so desperately in need of renewal that I cancelled dates on both Friday and Saturday, I headed straight for Ecola State Park. Its a beautiful second-growth forest, the original one having been chopped down by thoughtless, greedy men who thought the old growth forest ran forever into the horizon. Well, it once did. Ecola was distinctly uncrowded. There was a fine haze that gave a certain misty, ethereal quality to the light, and the breeze was bracing, and tangy with salt. On the path to this overlook there is a tree. A great, noble, dead tree. Seeing it, I was reminded of that odd notion I had when I was a small girl--that trees had silver hearts. The bones of trees are silver, see? Stripped of bark, of the living flesh of xylem and phloem, a tree can turn to silver, as this one did, standing upright and noble, eternally yearning for the sky, its limbs freed of the responsibility of sheltering life. From Ecola we went to Mo's in Cannon Beach, where we ate chowder and I sipped a Haystack Black Porter. Its a rich brew, tasting a bit of chocolate and coffee, with a thick, carmel-coloured head. From there we went to an expresso shop, got warm drinks, sat and talked a bit. I cradled the cup in my hands, warming my fingers, my shoulders hunched to conserve warmth as I learned into the wind. It was a timeless, silvery moment, sweet and savory, and just what I needed. We left Cannon beach after just a few hours, and were home by 8pm. It was a short visit, but not too short. I can still smell the salt, feel it on my skin. I will be showering soon, before I to go to dance, and I will be sad to wash it away.

Doing the right thing versus doing what makes you happy

So this friend of mine since college, this brilliant programmer who writes books for the dot.NET platform, etc, he's feeling guilty. He found a dream job, and took it, and now he is moving his family across country and he's having trouble reconsiling the joy he feels at finally getting to do what he wants to do, and the guilt of pursuing doing what makes him happy. Poor man.

I responded to him as follows:
Sybarite: Do what makes you happy, and it will be good.
Dotnet: I've lived a life where satisfying myself had negative connotations, made me feel dirty and guilty, and was something to be avoided. Its hard doing something so big that I want SO much.
Sybarite: I hear you on that.
Dotnet: But I'm enjoying the new "make me happy' thing.
Sybarite: I'm so happy for you!
Dotnet: I'm happy for me too, but its hard. Every time I buy something for myself, or do something purely for the sake of making me happy - a childhood of catholic "thou must be poor and love it" guilt comes flowing over me
Suybarite: Guilt is self-flagellation. And my opnion is that that Church has it all wrong. Self-denial in this life in the hopes that you will be rewarded in the next life is bunk. Its a remnant of the feudal era, in which reconsiling the poor to their lot was essential for maintaining control of the masses.
Sybarite: We are given this life, these abilities, these senses, and in my belief, it is an insult to God not live life fully, not to become everything you can, and not to enjoy the world through the body and senses we have been given. Pleasure and Happiness are the ultimate good. They are the fruit and goal of living, and striving for happinees and enjoying life is the only worship you can direct toward 'God' that truly means anything... Because you are appreciating what God made by using what God gave you.
Sybarite: So there!
Dotnet: I couldn't agree with you more.
Sybarite: Breathe. It will work out.
Dotnet: I know it will
Sybarite: Then stop getting in your own way. Just step aside and let it flow...
Dotnet: I just don't like giving control of my happiness to outside factors
Dotnet: You'll have to show me some of your erotic relaxation techniques to show me how ;)
Sybarite: I recommend frequent masturbation. Veeeery relaxing.

a thought on happiness

I think sometimes doing the right thing isn't necessarily the right thing to do. Especially when it comes to Happiness, which is so subjective, because Happiness is, was, and will always be the ultimate end toward which every human being strives. I am reminded of what Oscar Wilde said: When we are happy we are always good, but when we are good we are not always happy.

I think right now I'll go do what makes me happy: I'm going to masturbate. Release all that tension from a long day at work.

Sister-talk

Mentally exhuasted, I tumbled into bed last night around 8:30, only to be awakened by the ringing of the phone. Middle Sister was calling from her nightclub. She was surprised I was sleeping so early, but I assured her I wanted to talk to her. We do it so infrequently, what with our different time zones and her odd hours. We do it too infrequently.

We discussed the sensual appetites that seem to be our birthright. She confessed to me that she loves her boyfriend, but that doesn't stop her from wanting others.

"Sometimes, all a man has to do is touch me in passing, and I'm wet," she confessed. "I don't know what is wrong with me."

I told her there isn't anything wrong with her, and I'm the same way, except for me, the person who makes me wet can be male or female, though usually male. It is something with being in our Thirties and being our mother's daughters, most likely. Our notoriously sensual mother, may she be at peace.

Middle Sister told me that she is masturbating a lot, because her boyfriend just isn't as sexually inclined as she is. She tried a couple of younger men, and it was wonderful sex, but its not the same as sex with someone you care for. She said she misses jump-starting her day with a quickie, she misses him bending her over the back of a chair, and she misses the urgent fondlings in the back room of her club. But he's nearly 40 and he's running his businesses and trying to finish their house, and he's up at 6am and she's usually just gotten into bed a couple of hours earlier, and when they do see each other, he's too tired--he just wants to hold her and go to sleep.

I had no words of advice for her. Perhaps for Xmas I'll send her a Hitachi Magic Wand. I know she has a vibrator, but hers is a full-sized Panasonic and the Hitachi one is smaller with a better vibrational frequency. I know I enjoy mine.

Libidinous Celibacy

Presently I am a committed practitioner of libidinous celibacy. At first the juxtaposition of those two words would appear to be paradoxical, but I know that such is not the case. Most people think that the adjective libidinous describes someone who is acting lustfully or lewdly, but in fact, it is not limited to actions. A libidinous person may be someone who has lustful thoughts or is otherwise preoccupied with the drives of the libido...without necessarily acting upon them. Few adults can abstain from sexual intercourse (ie, be celibate) and not experience rising frustration at the sublimation of such a primitive and instinctual biological drive. As time passes, this biological drive manifests as a psychological one as well, and the mind becomes preoccupied with libidinous thoughts. Thus, the term libidinous celibacy is not an oxymoron, but an apothegm.

Its good for me to be single for a change, good for me to take all that energy tied up in exercising my libido and use it more productively elsewhere. Not that I'm not getting off. No, indeed. I'm masturbating now more than ever, and loving it.