Sex and Disability

(photo from Ina Mar Disability Awareness product catalog)

I’ve been writing and recording erotica for 5 years now, and in those 5 years I’ve gotten feedback from a subset of my readers/listeners saying how much my erotica benefits them because they are somehow disabled — in that they can experience things vicariously through my words that they otherwise cannot.  And from that group, a number of people have asked me if I’d write erotica for or about sex and disability.

Not quite 2 years ago I had a medical emergency that left me temporarily disabled — and made sex a tricky proposition — for several weeks.  I’ve been involved in a three-way relationship (couples domination) with a couple who are both blind, and I’ve friends with disabilities in various areas, from autism to impotency, multiple sclerosis to spina bifida. I’ve had sisters fighting cancer — going the chemo and radiation route — and talked with them about how it impacted their sex lives. So I’ve some knowledge and experience with sex and disability, but not enough for what I’d like to do.

And what I’d like to do is write a collection of erotic stories — and possibly a series of podcasts — basically “Silken on Sex and Disability” and I’m reaching out to everyone I know, both in person and online, who is either disabled/experienced disability or is/was partnered with someone who is disabled. I’d love to talk with you. I know from my own personal experience that people with disabilities are just as sensual and sexual as the next person. I’d like to explore that, explore the fantasies and realities, the challenges and opportunities that come with the territory.

Please contact me at the following email address  SILKENnotVOICED at GnotMAIL.com (without the nots) if you’d like to share your insights, fantasies, and experiences with me with the understanding that they might become fodder for erotic material 

(cross-posted from SilkenOnSex.com)

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My imaginary friend: The G-Spot

Soon to appear in the Journal of Sexual Medicine is a study involving 1,800 women (900 twins) that found no proof of the G-spot in the women they questioned. Questioned, not even examined. And this despite the fact that more than 50 percent of the women questioned, many of them young women, did indeed insist they had a G-spot -- but their sisters were no more likely to make the same claim, the scientists said, leading them to conclude that if a female claims to have a G-spot, it is only because she thinks she has one.

I'm sorry, but this is like saying a recent study proved the foreskin is a myth because all the twins they questioned were circumcised! And this, despite anecdotal evidence to the contrary. Ask any woman who can squirt if she has a G-spot. The answer is "Hell yeah!" But then again, I am sure the same scientists would debunk squirting as a myth, too!  And by the way, shouldn't the study have been performed in a society that is more open about sexuality and sexual pleasure? No offense intended, but the British are notoriously sexually repressed. 

Interested in learning more about the controversy? Here are some links:
What An Anti-Climax: G-Spot Is A Myth [TimesOnline]
The G-spot 'doesn't appear to exist' [BBC News]
The real G-spot myth [Guardian]
Sexy G-spot a myth [NY Post]
The Great G-Spot Debate [Salon]
G-spot is a myth! [Times of India]
Scientists Say “G-Spot” Doesn’t Actually Exist [Jezebel]
Sorry Ladies, Study Finds G-spot May Be Myth [Fox News]
How a group of scientists made the G-spot disappear [Susie Bright]
Death of the g-spot 'myth'? [Daily Loaf]

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The First Amendment, Feminists, and Our Christian Nation

I am one of those feminists who often finds herself at odds with other feminists. My mother was an old-school Andrea Dworkin-style lesbian separatist. I went to a women's college, the same one that produced Betty Friedan (when I met her at a reunion she was a sharp-tongued, witty, and crotchety old woman) and Gloria Steinem, and, well, lets just say that the fact that I subscribed to Playboy raised more than a few eyebrows. For years I stopped self-identifying as a feminist because the young women around me demanded such conformity of opinions, particularly when it came to things like "pornography". It always seemed to me that the distinction between healthy erotic objectification of women and exploitation of women was being missed, to the detriment of women, men, and families. On occasion I would quote Betty Freidan to my cohorts: "To suppress free speech in the name of protecting women is dangerous and wrong." But most people don't want to consider differing opinions. People cling to their own opinions like they do to their faith in their religions.

Even though my days at what FrontPageMag.com called "Radical Feminist U" are far behind me, I keep up with what women are doing out there in the world to further the empowerment of women. Feminists for Free Expression has a great site that I visit periodically, and when I visited earlier today I noticed a call for essays on how the First Amendment impacts our lives, as well a note that a recent survey revealed that young people don't consider the First Amendment to be an important factor in their lives.

I decided to respond for their call for submission with the following essay:


I find it ironic that young people, who constantly complain about being told what they can and cannot do or say, would think that the First Amendment is not vital to their lives. One could see that as an indictment of our educational system, if our educational system wasn't a reflection of societal values. I don't blame our educators, who are doing the best they can within the stifling framework we provide, but rather today's intellectually lazy children and their parents, who, for the most part, don't want their children educated so much as baby-sat. And certainly this apathy works for civic and religious leaders to whom freethinking is a threat, always a threat, to the status quo.

As a writer and narrator of erotica, the First Amendment and the Rights it protects are of great importance to me. There are people out there who would, without ever reading or listening to my work, determine that it is obscene and without merit, and would love to shut me up. Since the First Amendment protects my right to express myself and be published, they cannot stop me, however, they can try to censor me, to moderate how I express myself, and to reduce the venues for that self-expression under the guise of protecting others from my words. Despite the opposition I endure and the censure I receive, I continue to give voice to the sensual immediacy of life. Why? Because it seems wrong to me that people are so repressed and knotted-up about something as integral to their being as their sexuality.

The obsession with sexuality and sexual repression endemic in this country is engendered by the revealed religions like Christianity, Judaism, and Islam. This is supposedly a Christian Nation and Christians seem to think that sex is dirty and the urge to copulate must be repressed, and therefore, anything that inflames the libido, intentionally or not, must be eradicated. What most forget is that the actual Founders of this country, the ones who declared Independence and wrote the Constitution, were Deists, not Christians, and in fact many of them were anti-Christian.

While the first European settlers of this land were indeed the fanatical religious rejects from Northern Europe, The Founders were children of the Age of Enlightenment and the Age of Reason, and their distrust of the centralized power of government and Christian fanaticism is addressed by the First Amendment's guarantees.  George Washington, John Adams, James Madison, Benjamin Franklin, and Ethan Allen were Deists. Thomas Paine, a prominent American Revolutionary, wrote an indictment of institutionalized religions and the political and financial power-grabbing of the Christian Churches in his book The Age of Reason. Thomas Jefferson, whose is name and image is known to every American, was anti-Christian. He despised the religion, and stated in his Notes on Virginia: "Difference of opinion is advantageous in religion. The several sects perform the office of a common censor over each other. Is uniformity  attainable? Millions of innocent men, women, and children, since the introduction of Christianity, have been burnt, tortured, fined, and imprisoned; yet we have not advanced one inch toward uniformity. What has been the effect of coercion? To make one-half the world fools and the other half hypocrites."

Fool I may be for insisting in the value and necessity of upholding the First Amendment, but a hypocrite I am not. Thank you, FFE, for your efforts to preserve our rights to produce and access the materials, media, and messages of our own choosing.

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Polyamory: Safer-sex

I received an email from someone the other day asking:

Hey Silken, this whole polyamory thing makes me nervous because I'm paranoid about getting an STD.  Doesn't being poly increase your risk of STDs? I'd think poly people practice safe sex, but doesn't that get in the way of intimacy?

 1) There is no such thing as "safe sex".  Not even masturbation is safe sex, since you can give yourself something if you don't keep your toys clean. So, when we take precautions, it is safer-sex, but its still not 100% safe.

2) Practicing safer-sex is very, very important. But in poly-sexual situations it is critical. This is the 300# gorilla in the room that no one wants to talk about because it may seem paranoid, untrusting, crude, or melodramatic. As a proponent of polyamory, I am also an advocate of safer-sex practices, because the last thing I want to do is transmit something to someone I love.


3) Some people think that practicing safer-sex means using a condom during intercourse. This is naive, almost criminally so. If you are using condoms when you fuck but not when you suck him, or don't use gloves and a barrier when you are giving her oral, then you aren't practicing safer sex, you are playing at it. (Read more about how to have Safer Sex at About.com)


4) Polyamory is Polynomial. In the not too distant past, I had three partners. Three. Now lets do the math. If I have three partners, and each of them has one other partner, and each of their one-others has one-other, how many body-fluids are possibly being inter-exchanged? 10. That is a lot of semen and vaginal secretions, saliva and mucous membranes, and if I hadn't been scrupulous about screening my sex/play partners, then I put myself and everyone I was with, and everyone they were with, at risk.


5) Everyone who is sexually active in non-exclusive relationships should have regular screenings for STIs (sexually transmitted infections). You may trust your partner(s), but do you trust your partner's partners? Is your inner circle sexually responsible enough for fluid-bonding (Don't know what fluid bonding is, read this clear explanation at SmartSexTalk.com)? There are many stories of fluid-bonded couples who have had to go back to using barriers because one of them had poorly-protected sex or took on a secondary partner who couldn't provide proof of recent screenings and the other partner(s) felt it was prudent to practice safer-sex during the 6 month testing interim. 


6) The importance of confidentiality and/or anonymity for screening. Consider whether or not to use your insurer / primary physician for screenings. I know we are in the middle of a health care crisis and reform, and Insurers are Big Brother in all this. The have the pot of gold, they want to keep it to themselves, and they use your medical records to discriminate against you. If they know that you are regularly tested for STIs, they may consider that an indicator of "risky behavior" (rather than health maintenance) and drop you or raise your rates. There are companies out there like getSTDtested.com, as well as various local clinics, that offer testing at a variety of rates without compromising your medical history.



Just a few anecdotes:
   It is not uncommon for poly-couples to have a contract for themselves and their secondary partners -- contracts that are reviewed and signed prior to intimacy, not after. Such contracts often require that all partners be tested semi-annually, disclose any and all exposures, and to use barriers during sex for at least six months before considering moving to a "fluid-bonded" status. I've been presented with and signed more than a few of these over the years and I've always found them to be an affirmation of my judgment in my partners.


STIs can show up in surprising places:

   I have some friends in a monogamous relationship that were "serial-monogamy sluts" before they got married. They didn't realize they had genital herpes until he had a flare-up -- in his eye. He is one of those pussy-eaters who really likes to rub his face in it, soaking himself from his hairline to his chin. They aren't sure who gave it to whom, and though they've tried to notify past partners, for them, its too late. They've got it for life, and he gets to worry about going blind if he doesn't keep it under control.

   I have another friend who learned that a wart on her husband's finger have been transmitted to her vaginal and anal openings. The treatment was embarrassing, extremely unpleasant, and so painful she screamed every time she went pee for a week.

The message of this post? Even monogamous couples transmit STI's to each other. Practicing safer-sex isn't just about taking care of you: it is about taking care of the ones you love, and the ones they love, too. Yes, you might think it would interfere with intimacy -- if intimacy was just about sex. In my book, sexual intimacy (as delicious as it can be) is just the icing on the cake.

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Why can't I come?

One of my listeners contacted me recently:

I must admit that I'm envious of you, Silken. You express yourself so eloquently and you describe experiences that are beyond my wildest imaginings. Tame as it may be, my greatest fantasy these days is to achieve orgasm during intercourse. Why can't I come? Do you have any advice for me?

I do. And the advice that follows is good for women and their lovers to hear:
For men, orgasm is required for procreation, and so you've evolved to go from limp to ejaculation in 3 minutes. For women all that is necessary is to have an egg in the chute. So if orgasm isn't necessary, why is it possible? Well, part of it is that women have the same or simlar muscles that are involved in male orgasm. But the other part, I think, has to do with keeping men around--so listen up guys. In terms of procreation, if a male has no way of knowing when a female is fertile, then his object is to have intercourse with her as often as possible until she is impregnated -- and what better way to make sure you will be welcomed again and again than to make a woman come?

In my experience, in order for a woman to reach orgasm during intercourse, she must be comfortable with herself and her partner, and highly aroused.

To facilitate your goal of orgasm during intercourse, my first recommendation would be to masturbate frequently--if you can't come solo, it is unlikely that you will be able to come with anyone else. For me, any excuse to masturbate will do, especially when I am feeling frustrated. Most women need a fantasy in their minds, whether it is watching a sexy movie, reading or listening to erotica like mine (shameless plug inserted here) or playing through your own personal sexual fantasy. It is important to begin with this, with getting your mind into the mood, because your body will follow, and your mind and body both have to be aroused in order for orgasm to happen.

If you have difficulty climaxing with masturbation, I would recommend purchasing a Hitachi Magic Wand. It is an amazing vibrator, useful both for sex and for muscle massage. There are different places to press the vibrator--some women put it directly over the clit(with or without padding) while others, like me, press it against the pubic arch between the clit and the vaginal opening, or against the perineum between the vaginal opening and the anus. Experiment. There is no wrong way to do it--however it feels best is what is best for you.

Once you've got masturbating to orgasm down, I recommend that you invite your partner to watch you. He or she can learn a lot from watching where you touch yourself, what tempo you use, and what your body language looks like as your arousal level peaks. From there, the next step would be to let your partner help with your masturbation, whether it is massaging your clit or nipples, or slipping fingers inside you. A woman's capacity for pleasure is immense and women are amazing when they climax -- most partners are only to happy to be a part of the process.

I had difficultly climaxing with partners when I was younger, in fact, for years, the only way I could come during penetrative sex was with a vibrator on my clit and my partner pushed deep inside me with my legs locked around his hips. Once I got coming in that position down, I tried others. Doggie style with a vibrator on my clit was amazing, and in that position, it is possible to do the pre-orgasm muscle-lock without interfering with his pumping action. I also find that sitting astride my partner with the vibrator on my clit is a great way to climax--supposedly the easiest position for most women. In discovering what works for you, you must learn not to be shy about experimenting and asserting what you want, whether it is "Right there. Don't stop", or "Move a little to the left." Also, Don't expect your partner to be a mindreader, especially when you yourself aren't certain about what you want. You might also consider inviting him or her to be a part of the process, lending your their experience and creativity.

I also recommend something many people don't think about: Anal stimulation. There are as many nerve endings around that little spot as there are on your lips. This means that your ass is very sensitive and can be a source of tremendous pleasure. There are little bullet vibes that can be pressed against it -- you don't need penetration to experience incredible sensations. However, I can say that the most consistently amazing orgasms I've had involve anal penetration so I encourage you to go to an online shop like www.BabeLand.com and look at what toys are recommended for anal play.

For most women, vibrators and other toys are an integral part of sexual intercourse, and most partners, male and female alike, understand and accept it. Most people are willing to do whatever it takes to see that our partners get to experience the pinnacle of pleasure.

Ultimately, achieving orgasm, solo or with others, and with or without toys is about you. Being comfortable in your own skin, being comfortable exploring your body, and being comfortable finding erotic material that arouses you. Own your body. Relax into it. Accept the challenge of mastering your own pleasure. Recognize that youy don't have to come to feel very, very good. Build on the erotic energy and you will come.

She threw herself at me

She threw herself at me.

Well, not really -- but it sounds good, doesn't it?

Actually she was standing too close to a tiki torch and when the wind blew the flame toward her, she leaped away from it -- and into me. It was rather nice having my arms full of a buxom blond who smelled like Lolita Lempicka. I helped her steady herself and smiled as she blushed and apologized profusely. The man I was talking to when she stumbled into me made introductions. As we shook hands, I noticed her wedding ring.

"Emily?" I said. "A lovely name for someone so warm and soft and sweet smelling."

The way she looked at me, I knew I'd read her right. Married she might be, but Emily liked girls. And dominants.

Our mutual friend Bruce laughed. He and Emily had a lot in common, apparently. Both were married, bisexual, and submissive. We chatted for a while, and I enjoyed the energy they sent my way. Subs do that in the presence of Dominants--they bend energy our way.

I turned to Bruce. "I brought my Sybian... if you help carry it in, I'll let you choose who rides first."

"Oh!" gasped Emily. "Me-me-me-me."

I smiled at Bruce and he gave his delightful laugh.



He laughed the same way when Emily climaxed later that night, her hips bucking on my Sybian and her eyes wide. She kept saying "OhMyGodOhMyGodOhMyGod" like a Buddhist reciting a mantra that had her on the cusp of enlightenment. And maybe she was. She looked utterly transformed: luminous, uninhibited, joyous. Her hair was a disheveled mess and her nipples, her little pink nipples, were incredibly hard, the large aureoles crinkled up tight.

I had slowly been turning down the vibration on the Sybian as she slid down her peak, looking drowsy and replete, but Bruce gave me a thumbs-up sign and moved behind Emily. He kneeled and pulled her back against him, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and another under her ribcage. Once he had her secure in his embrace, I goosed the power on the Sybian. Emily's eyes popped open.

"NoNoNoNoNoooo," she screamed. "Make it stop!" Her head tossed from side to side.

"Ever heard of forced orgasms, Emily?" I asked her. I knew I had a devilish expression on my face. I love making women cum.

Emily shook her head wildly. She choked on something that could have been a moan or a sob.

Bruce slid his fingers down her belly. I watched him tease her clit as I stepped out of my skirt, leaving a pool of silk on the floor. As I walked toward them, my fingers flicked my right thigh, the thigh that the holster for my strap-on dildo usually rode on. But not tonight. Tonight my tool of choice was the Sybaan.

I stood over them and gave first Bruce, and then Emily, a kiss. Then I took her hair in my hand and pulled it downward until her upturned face left her no where to look but my eyes.

"You are going to eat my pussy, Emily love, and you are going to make me cum. You are going to cum on my clit, making it vibrate with the force of your own screaming orgasms. And only your being limp and senseless will make it stop."

I tightened my fingers in her hair and pressed her face against my pussy. With my other hand, I pressed the control box against my thigh and turned it to its highest setting. Bruce leaned into Emily, forcing her pussy and clit down against the machine.

When she came, it was with an explosion of hot breath against my clit that went off like an explosion in the back of my mind. The keening sounds she made were muffled against my flesh, but the vibrations rippled through me, pebbling my skin with wave after wave of gooseflesh.

So close! I pressed myself firmly against her face until I could feel the suction of her mouth and nose struggling to find air. She sucked pussy juice deep into her nostrils and then I set her free, letting her gasp for air. Mmmm. So close!

I watched as Bruce humped his cock against Emily's ass, a blissed-out expression on his face.

"Finish in her mouth," I instructed him.

Bruce staggered to his feet and moved to stand before Emily while I got behind her on the Sybian. Even without the dildo attachment the vibration of the machine was enough to make me cum. I wrapped my arms around Emily and humped against her and the Sybian as Bruce cradled her head in his hands.

As profane as the scene might have seemed to someone else, to us there was something transcendent and sacred about the giving and taking of pleasure, of the abandonment of inhibitions and fears, and the release of our primal selves in this ages old dance to the orgiastic, orgasmic beat of carnal love pounded out in the drums of our flesh until we fell asleep in a sodden, tangled heap, our bodies imperfect instruments of the tireless, divine spark within.

What happens in Vegas...

Vegas.
In July.
Is HOT.

The sidewalks are shimmering by 9am. The palpable heat rises upwards, forming thermal air currents. The wind blows one way, then another, evoking the experience of a convection oven. If you're unlucky, it blows your hair about, making it stick to your sweaty forehead. If you're lucky, you're inside, gambling just to have an excuse to be where it's cool. If you're really lucky, you're winning at the tables or the slots. Or at the game of love.

We checked into the MGM Grand around noon. Our room was on the 20-something floor. From the windows I could see the fountain show at the Bellagio, and the construction of the monstrous new Cosmopolitan Resort, which was rather depressing. Given the state of the current economy, I wondered when its three towers would be completed. Plaiting my hair in twin braids that gave me a girlish look, I took a quick shower and changed into a flimsy white muslin sundress with a plunging vee neckline perfect for hanging my sunglasses on. I've got plenty of décoleté and I was fully aware that eyes would be drawn there--especially since my nipples get very hard and long in the air-conditioning.

My lover gave me a long, level look when he saw what I was wearing. His eyes are dark, and while they are often as open and transparent as a child's, in this case, I sensed a good deal of ambivalence. He walked up to me and gave me a long kiss, then snaked a hand up between us and tugged on one of my prominent nipples, making me moan and lean into him. I hadn't seen him in weeks and I was so hungry for him all I wanted to do was tie him to the bed and keep him there for days.

His other hand slid searchingly along my backside. He broke the kiss and said authoritatively, "Wear panties under that dress."

I pouted and considered going commando anyway, but in the ever-present struggle for dominance that is our relationship, I knew he'd simply pull his trump card. He'd deny me what I wanted most from him: the feel of him over me, on me, and in me. In the world of D/s some people are controllable through pleasure, some through pain. Me, I am controllable via my turbo-charged libido. I'll do anything if I'm denied sex long enough, and silly me, I'd taken a vow of monogamy -- albeit a rather loosely defined version that would not be recognized as monogamy by most vanilla couples.

So I went and put panties on. And for revenge I put on the granny panties I always pack just in case Aunt Flow decides to visit. And then we took the elevator down to the casino.

I like the MGM Grand because it's one of the more understated hotels on The Strip. Not as understated as the Park Hyatt in Tokyo, mind you, but for Vegas, it's quite bearable. Since I choose not to watch television or listen to the radio (I think I was Amish in another life) most of the Las Vegas casinos overstimulate me within minutes, and seeing as I had been high up in the Sierras just a few days prior to visiting Sin City, my sensory net was particularly sensitive. It didn't take long for me to blue-screen, and I lost count of the number of times I bumped into people because I was wandering around in a daze. Finally, my lover pulled me aside and asked how I was doing.

"Protein," was all I could think to say.

He took my hand and towed me over to the Rainforest Cafe, where I devoured my lunch to the accompaniment of trumpeting elephants, nodding leopards, and thunderstorms. When I finished, I wanted a nap.

"Let's play the slots," he said.

So I followed him to a bank of slot machines and watched him sit in front of something that looked suspiciously like a video game for 8 year olds. Push a button and watch five rows of three symbols roll around until they stop. And when they stop hopefully there is a row of three symbols matching, and hopefully on the line you bet on. I'm not a gambler. It goes against the grain to throw money at something where the odds of coming out ahead are so low. Sitting in front of slot machines is suspiciously like the grinding one does in MMPORGS like World of Warcraft. Push button. Spin spin spin. End turn. Push button. Spin spin spin. End turn. Repeat. Yawn. I grew bored of watching and pulled out my iPhone. Heros of Sparta was far more interesting.

Eventually he grew concerned about my apparent boredom. Was there something else I wanted to do?

To reassure him, I pulled a dollar out of my pocket. For all the times I've been to Nevada, I've never gambled there. I fed the dollar into the penny machine I was sitting at and blindly pushed a button. It cost me ten cents to watch the video screen tumble. Nothing.

A man sat next to me, drink in hand. He looked at my breasts, noticed me noticing him looking, and asked, "How's your luck?"

"Nothing yet," I said, and turned back to my machine.

I pressed the button again.

The screen rolled, same as before, only this time, when it stopped, the machine started dinging. And kept dinging. And dinging. Apparently I'd hit a jackpot for 1300 credits. Which on a penny machine means I made 13 dollars.

I cashed out.

My lover smiled at my good luck and asked me how I wanted to celebrate my win. I leaned over and whispered something into his ear, then hit the 'cash out' button on his machine.

Time to head upstairs to our room.

We threaded through the casino, following the 45 degree angle of the floorplan from one side to the opposite end, where the hotel access was. The elevator was empty and he teased my ass with his hand on the way up, making me squirm. I leaned forward to kiss him, but he blocked me, giving his head a firm shake.

He let us into the room and I went immediately to the bathroom, which was quite spacious, with black and white marble tiles and a big oval mirror on the wall between the shower and the commode. I ran the tap on warm and stripped down, then stepped into the tub to give myself a quick anal douche. I knew what I wanted, and I wanted to be ready for it.

Feeling clean and confident, I rinsed off and towelled dry, then slipped into a short and slinky black satin nightie. When I stepped into the bedroom he was waiting for me, completely naked. I felt an anxious thrill as he slipped his arms around me and gave me a long, lingering kiss. His hard cock pressed against me and I took it in my hand, wincing a bit as I did so. Even after four years, his size was a bit daunting.

Suddenly, he pushed me forward onto the bed so that I landed face-first and somewhat sprawled, with my legs mostly over the edge. His hands gripped my hips and he pressed himself against me, searing me with his heat. I wriggled a hand under me and guided the head so he rubbed against my clit a few times, making me gasp with pleasure. I moved my fingers farther back, opening myself, fingers seeking the wetness deep inside, but he pushed my hand aside and shoved into me. It hurt. A lot. He's so thick that I can't take him without serious lubrication, and so my body produces a profusion of it -- only this time he wasn't waiting for it. This time he wedged his cock incrementally into me, making soothing sounds whenever I cried out. He brushed my hair aside and kissed my back, grazing it with his whiskers. Another shove, this one easier than the last.

"There we go," he said. "I found what I've been drilling for."

He pulled back until he was almost all the way out, then pushed in again, seeking to tap all that moisture. Within moments we were both well-lubricated. And within moments, I was coming. It was a voluptuous orgasm and I relaxed into it, my body lengthening and my throat releasing my pent-up breath on a long wail of pleasure.

No sooner was I finished coming than he pulled out and pressed the big mushroom head of his cock against another opening.

"Oh wait, please wait," I begged him. "I'm not ready there. It's going to hurt."

"You like it when it hurts," he reminded me.

"Yes, but it's been weeks since we had anal sex and I'm not opened at all."

He backed off a bit and planted both hands on my ass, separating the cheeks. I collected some of my juices on my fingers and worked them up against the dark rosebud he'd been pressing on. I knew he wasn't going to give me much time, so I slipped my fingers inside, opening myself up, frantically trying to get as much pussy juice around that little hole as I could. Anal sex normally pushes the pleasure/pain barrier, but with him, well, accomodating him was akin to fisting -- and I'd tried that with one of my girlfriends. (Yikes!)

Apparently, watching me slide my fingers in and out of my asshole got him worked up even more. He grabbed my wrist and pinned it to the small of my back, then pressed his cock into me. I drew my breath in between my teeth, alternately hissing and whimpering. I wiggled my ass around under him and squeezed and released my sphincter, doing everything I could to ease the pain. Then with a short little shove the glans popped through the over-stretched ring of my anus. He moaned and I gasped. His hands dug into my flesh, pulling the cheeks of my ass apart like one pulls apart the segments of an orange. He pressed relentlessly into me, and every time I begged him to slow down he told me I'd taken him this way hundreds of times and I was going to take him a hundred times more. My hands fisted the coverlet on the bed and I buried my face against it, crying into it, alternately begging him to stop, and begging him to push on. There is something about anal penetration that is both excrutiatingly painful and exquisitely pleasurable.

He paused for a moment and then pushed on, wedging himself into me in the same way he had worked himself into my pussy -- incrementally, backing off and pushing forward, bit by bit, until at last I could feel his shaved mound pressing against my ass. Deep. It-can't-get-any-deeper-than-that deep.

I sighed and whimpered and begged him to be still, to give me a chance to adjust. He was so huge and so deep and I felt so impossibly stretched that I would have cried if I hadn't known that crying would only make it hurt worse. In response he leaned forward until his chest was draped over my back. As he lay there on top of me, his weight pressing into me, I danced my ass around, wriggling and jiggling and squeezing, trying to get past the "ouch! what the fuck, get the hell out!" stage.

Finally, it happened, whatever it is that happens that changes the terrible stretching from pain to pleasure. Like a leg muscle being repeatedly stretched and worked in different ways, the muscles in my backside finally relaxed and warmed up to my intruder. Something in me changed at the same time. That thing that always happens when I'm pinned under him with his cock in my ass. I became a supplicant, a penitant, a mendicant, and a full-blown anal slut. I released my grip on the coverlet and raised my head.

"Fuck my ass," I said to him. "Fuck it like a pussy, baby."

And oh, did he ever. He arched himself up and grabbed my shoulders in his hands, using them as leverage for penetrating me deeply. He fucked me slowly at first, using slow strokes that reminded me of how long he was, and then he'd clench my shoulders and push deeply, making me gasp. Sometimes he pulled all the way out, and sometimes he pulled out just until the head of his cock was inside, and then he'd fall forward into me like a meteor down a gravity well.

"You love this, don't you, you dirty girl?" he asked after my first orgasm.

"Yes," I gasped, taking his cue. "I love it. I'm such a dirty girl, I love the feel of you fucking my ass. Fuck it so I'm sore for days, lover."

He turned onto his side and brought me with him, and his fingers dove between my thighs. I hooked a leg up over his to give him easier access, and soon he had three fingers buried inside me, pressed up against my G-spot, while the heel of his palm ground against my clit. He cradled my head against his shoulder and gripped my breast in his hand and started fucking my ass with short fast strokes that had me moaning deliriously. Shudders ran up and down my spine, making my fingers tingle like they were sparklers on the fourth of July. I came on his fingers, came hard, a triple anal-vaginal-clitoral orgasm that totally wrung me out. I went completely limp in his arms and he pulled me back to the edge of the bed. I had no resistance left. Conquered completely, I balanced on unsteady legs as he stood behind me. And then the ass-fucking began in earnest.

He pounded my ass through the languidness of the post-orgasmic endorphin rush. Pounded it past the tingly phase. Pounded it into over-sensitivity. Pounded into me until I was begging him to cum, begging him to fill me with his cum, begging him to end it soon because the pleasure arc was no longer smooth. It was jagged with points of pain.

"Please baby, please. I'm such a dirty little anal slut, you know I am. I want you to cum deep inside me. I want to feel your cum inside me all night."

And then he slapped my ass, a hard flat-palmed slap on my sweetspot, which made me bolt forward, and he followed me, mounted me higher, his knees up by my hips, sawing his cock between the cheeks of my ass until he came with a roar, his body jerking and swaying as he pulsed inside me again and again.

He leaned forward and kissed my shoulder. "You're going to feel that for days," he said smugly. "And when you I notice you're no longer wincing every time you sit down, I'll do it again."

I moaned, half in supplication, half in anticipation. As a Dominant, I know how to make a man mine, but this man, he knows how to make me his. Like no one else, he knows how to make me his.

Opening the gate to the land of pleasure

In many ways, one could say that a woman's sensual energy is boundless, and that when she readies herself for her lover she opens a gate to her sensual self. This gate is the barrier of restraint, and beyond it lies the Land of Pleasure. We know this land, and we do so love crossing over into it, and yet most women rarely enter. Why? Because we have a near-infinite capacity for pleasure, and men do not. Because arousal for us is not the flipping of a switch, but the unfolding of a flower following the rising sun. Because men aren't as intuitive as they could be. And because the habit of disappointment is difficult to break. How often do women open themselves to full arousal only to find that their lover has finished just as she was getting started? What woman doesn't half-expect her burgeoning arousal to become instant irritation because her boyfriend misread the signals and gave her nipples a hard tweak instead of a suck?

In their defense, men aren't mind-readers -- and neither are women. Each of us has a fair chance of getting our needs met if we communicate them clearly, provided that we understand what those needs are. And this is where it can get tricky for women. We need the long build-up. We need our minds aroused first, and then our bodies follow. We need to feel connected to our bodies, to be fully present to the pleasures of our own flesh before we are ready to grant a lover access. Only, sadly enough, many women don't even know this about themselves. This lack of coherency means we expect our partners to intuit our needs -- or expect them to fail miserably. Thus the habit of disappointment.

My recommendation to men is to begin the seduction of their lovers 5 or 6 hours before they hope for consummation. Send suggestive text messages to her cell phone. Leave an innocent voicemail in your sexiest voice. Tell her you can't get the scent of her off your mind. Remind her of an encounter that you know was pleasurable for you both. Depending on how she responds, build the tension up. Ask her to remove her panties. See if she will meet you at lunch to give them to you. Message her that you have to go into a meeting but your cock is hard from the memory of her taste / smell / skin / sounds. Ask her to take off from work an hour early so she can go for a massage / pedicure, or to find the surprise waiting for her at home. Be creative, appreciative, and if possible, both raunchy and respectful. Women have their raunchy sides and they'd show them more often if not for the fear of seeming 'less' in their lovers eyes.

And my advice to women? Take the time to open the gate to your sensual self -- prepare yourself for your lover. Take a long bath in scented water. Shave yourself slowly, letting your fingers trail over the smooth skin. Imagine your lover's enjoyment of that silken flesh. Rub oil into your skin -- everywhere. Touch yourself. Enjoy the weight of your breasts and the sensitivity of your nipples. Slide your hands down over your hips and dip them between your thighs. Caress your neck and shoulders. Put your hair up in a suggestive bedroom-do. Wear something soft, something that makes you feel sexy. Tease him with naughty messages. Tell him you're not wearing panties. Wear a garter belt and stockings under your skirt on a windy day, and enjoy the knowledge that you've made several men happy when you walked by. Flirt. Exercise. Glow with happiness and sensuality. Be feminine in a way that is natural to you. Tell your lover exactly what you want, in the most explicit language you can use. Do these things and you can walk through the gate to the Land of Pleasure without fear of disappointment. You will be ready for a banquet of sensuality, and he will be your devoted diner.

The Forfeit, part 2

(While this can be read as a stand-alone vignette, it is intended as a follow-up to this story.)

I massaged him first, anointing his flesh with faintly scented argan oil. From memory I recited the poetry of Rumi and Neruda, and parts of the Songs of Solomon, sensually guiding the words with their vivid imagery into his mind. I left no inch of him untouched, and when I finished, his body was completely limp with the exception of his cock, which I'd brought to full attention.

It took some effort to rouse him up off the massage table, and when he was vertical I had to help guide him over to my bed, where I put him on his back and bound his limbs with silken sashes. When I kneeled next to him on the bed his eyes fluttered open. They were warm and lustrous, the pupils dilated. He smiled at me, a slow, sensuous smile that brought my attention to his lips.

I leaned over him, slowly lowering my head until my lips hovered over his.

"I love you," I said, and as I said it I opened myself completely, letting the love flow from me.

"Mmm.... I love you too," he mumbled back almost drowsily, and pursed his mouth for a kiss.

How do you describe a kiss that commingles elements of the sacred and profane: awe and love and passion and desire? It was all there and more as we breathed each other in and let the energy flow between us.

I straddled him, and as I lowered myself onto him, as I worked the wedge of him into me, I felt myself splitting open on so many levels: physically, emotionally, spiritually. A prayer came to my lips unbidden, and as I sat, unmoving, upon him, I slowly recited, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul..."

His eyes opened, and he watched me, and his expression transformed from uncertain to transcendent in a few heartbeats. He felt it, I knew, that sense of the sacred that seemed to pervade our joining.

I leaned forward, moving my hands so they pressed into his upper arms, so the weight of my upper body restrained him further, and my eyes holding his gaze, I put my inner muscles to work. I sat unmoving astride his immobile body and yet we moved together, our PC muscles undulating. His cock twitched within the fist I made of my pussy, and it was intense, oh so intense.

We maintained the stillness as long as we could, but eventually his thigh muscles were clenching and releasing and I was swaying. I brought my hands up to my nipples and with one tweak I went off like a fireworks display, keening louder and louder. He convulsed under me, his entire body straining, pulling at the sashes that bound him to the head and foot boards. He lifted his head up off the pillow, his eyes wide and wondrous, and then his face contorted and his hips raised, lifting us both up off the bed. The power of his orgasm awed me, blew through me like the breath of God, and left me tingling with profound joy.

I untied his arms before I curled up next to him, drowsy and sated in a way that was soul-deep. My love for him and what we'd shared radiated from within. I felt like a small sun had been born inside me.

"We should do that more often," I whispered into his ear.

"Peace, woman," he gasped in response. "There is only so much God and sex the human body can take."

I smiled ruefully and nodded my head against his shoulder. I wondered briefly how many people really experienced Divine Sex, then drifted off to sleep.

Angry Sex

We had angry sex, something I'd never done before.

It began when he reached for me, his hands hard on my flesh, and I tried to move away, but his hold was too firm. I dug a hand into his shoulder, squeezing hard, and he winced. The benefits of so many years as a massage therapist: I have thumbs of steel and know exactly where to press them for a desired effect.

"I don't want to fight about this," I said through gritted teeth. "Its ridiculous."

"Then lets not," he answered, and pulled me into the circle of his arms.

I was too angry to want a hug, but I recognized the peace gesture for what it was. I leaned my forehead into the place where his neck and shoulder meet, and instead of nuzzling him as I'd intended, I bit him.

"Owwww!"

He shoved hard enough to unbalance me. I fell backwards onto the couch, my arms and legs akimbo, my skirt landing high on my thighs. He started to walk away, but I flashed him. He changed direction, moving toward me and unfastening his pants at the same time.

"No panties, hmm?"

"I know how you like to touch me while you are driving..." I answered, thinking about the dinner date we had arranged for the evening.

I scootched farther up the couch, until the arm hit the middle of my back, and then he was on me. He pressed himself between my thighs, his hand guiding his formidable angry-red cock. It was my turn to wince as he barged inside. The oil I'd applied to myself after shaving my pussy bare eased his way. though. We both groaned from the pleasure and pain of it, of the pain of penetration and the pleasure of him spreading the walls of my pussy apart as he drove the wedge of his cock inside.

I looked into his eyes and saw that the pupils were dilated very wide despite the lamp behind me. He slipped a hand under my neck and kissed me hard as he made his final push and slammed against my mound.

"Owwww!" I cried as he bottomed-out. Normally he was conscientious about it, but this time he didn't care if he made me bleed by going to deep.

"Fucker!' I slapped my hands on his chest. "That hurts!"

"Oh?"

His fingers tangled in the hair at the back of my head, holding me immobile. He watched my face as he slid back an inch or two, and then slammed back into me.

Again, that deep pain. It made me flinch and him smile.

I tighted my body up, tightened my thighs, trying to mitigate the force of his thrusts, but it didn't help. He was there, using the full weight of his body to drive his point home with enough force to expel the air from my lungs.

I closed my eyes and focussed on the seeds of my arousal. I could feel the lips of my pussy clinging to his cock as he moved, could feel the warmth of my pussy from the friction. Another deep push and then he was no longer leaning over me. His fingers sought and found my clit, rolling it. I gasped and bucked under him, then locked my legs around him.

We battered each other with our bodies, trying to break down the barriers that our anger had become, seeking the momentary oneness that blinded our eyes and blended our spirits. And we quickly found it. When climax hit, my breath caught and my eyes flew open. I exhaled a wail and then his face contorted. He made those signature noises that accompanied his own orgasm, and then collapsed onto me.

I wrapped my arms around him, and awash in a flood of endorphines that overpowered the earlier adrenaline, realized that I was no longer angry. Sometimes love looks like war, I thought. Yes. Sometimes, love looks like war.

He teases me

I like the way he teases me.

Correction. I love the way he teases me.

How is it that he's gotten into my mind, learned where the buttons are, the buttons I used to keep well-hidden but now seem to be revealed to him? Sapiosexual I am, and he knows this, knows to start with my mind.

He starts with little puns. Clever little puns that his clever big brain comes up with on the fly. The first one always catches me by surprise. Makes me laugh. Me. He hits my laughter button regularly. I know people who have made it their mission to make me laugh and he does it with a single pun.

More delightful puns and then comes the sly innuendos. He has a way with words, this talent at finding the twist necessary to alter something innocent into something sexual. Early on he is so deft that I am uncertain as to whether or not the sexual connotation is intentional, but as time goes by my reactions egg him on.

Eventually, he will ask questions that focus my mind upon areas of my body, heightening my awareness of my arousal. He'll slide in a comment about something I'd said or done during love-making that makes me blush. And then the brushes. His arm will brush my nipples with accidental deliberation. His hips will brush up against my ass. He'll whisper something in my ear and his whiskers will brush my neck or shoulder, making my shiver or gasp.

And finally, when I am wet and scented with my own arousal, vibrating with need, he makes me wait. Dinner. A movie. A trip to the store. Always a delay, but an enjoyable one. He'll give me knowing looks. He'll comment on my squirming. Teasing me.

When we get home, he takes me. Bent over the couch. On my hands and knees by the door. Pressed up against a wall. It doesn't matter to me. What matters is that empty place that needs filling, that aches to be filled, and the hardness sliding into me, into the warm and welcoming wetness.

And then its my turn to tease him, to squeeze my muscles around him, to squirm and wriggle and moan and sigh. And when he is on the edge I beg him not to come, even as I grind myself against him, even as I try to wedge him farther into me. I look into him and he looks into me. We watch each other's eyes. And when the moment of ultimate superfeeling arrives, we ride that wave together, crying out, clinging to each other like castaways clinging to a life-raft.

Yes, he teases me so well.

The sexual is political

I am standing up to be counted, and I'm telling the world: "This is my voice. There are many like it. But this one is mine." (Inspired by "This Is My Voice"--Shane Koyczan's performance poem on politics.)

Humanity is a political body. And we seem to politicize everything that touches our lives, because every aspect of our lives that involves social interaction/relations also involves the acquisition and/or application of power via social/societal influence. In understanding this, I understand that politics is innate and thus deeply personal. Each person wants to be Right, and wants others to recognize that Rightness, and thus begins the application of influence in order to attain acknowledgment of that Rightness, which translates directly into power via the "mandate from heaven" archetype. Proof of this is easily observed in any schoolyard.

Sexual relations and all that it touches is deeply political because it is deeply personal. While two or a handful of people may arrive at an agreement regarding matters of sexuality, it is truly impossible for a large social body to achieve a consensus regarding issues of gender and sexuality, because it is impossible to establish a transparent, democratic dialogue. Dialogue itself is the primary battlefield for power relations, a venue for attempting to influence others (to control/modify their perceptions) in order to gain access to their power and thus wield power over them. The current Campaign 2008 here in the States is an illustrative example of this in action.

In general, I avoid discussing politics of the interpersonal and cultural types, for a variety of reasons. But the politics of gender and sexuality, seeing as they directly affect my personal life, often cause the Libertarian in me to rise up during elections, saying "keep your laws off my person." So here I am, looking into the eye of the hurricane-in-a-teacup that Campaign 2008 is, and wishing I could read tea leaves. But augury is not my talent. There is no guarantee that any person elected will have the ability or intention to follow through with the things they've promised. Thus, I rarely vote for a person, but rather, against specific ideologies. Every person in politics thinks his/her ideology is Right and is looking for the majority mandate that will empower them to act upon that ideology "for the greater good."

Ours is an imperfect world. And mine is an imperfect country. Don't get me wrong, I love my country. But mine is an imperfect country. Mine is a country in which worker productivity has increased dramatically in the past two decades and yet the profits of that productivity have been passed on to corporate executives in the form of $100 million compensation packages while their employees earn less in today's dollars than they did two decades ago. Mine is a country in which women comprise the majority of the workforce and heads of households and yet they still earn considerably less than their male counterparts. Mine is a country in which most women exchanging sex for money are criminals, but women marrying a man for economic security (hah!) are not. Mine is a country in which you have the right to starve and be jailed for panhandling if you beg for food or money. Mine is a country in which most of the Christians seem to have forgotten Christ's mandates to love one another and to give aid to the less fortunate. Mine is a country in which we have the right to bear arms and yet few who are terminally ill have the right to die with dignity and ease unless they want to use a gun to blow their brains out. Mine is a country in which corporations have all the rights of individuals, even to the point of buying votes, and none of the responsibilities. Mine is a country in which some would have us guarantee fetus' right to life without thought to guaranteeing the quality of that life.

People come to me. They say, "Kay, you are a smart woman. I respect your clarity of thinking. I'd like to know how you will vote, and why?"

To them, I say:
Anyone who upholds or favors the implementation of laws that interfere with my ability to do what I want with my body, or with my partner behind closed doors, or who would interfere with other's rights to live free and happy lives, will be voted against, no matter how good their rhetoric is, no matter how kind or fiercely protective they seem. The sexual is political, and this unchaste unmarried woman will never spread her legs to a man or woman who promises to deposit a little godliness in her womb in exchange for her power and amenability. Never. Never fucking ever.

(podcast: listen here)

She's got a sybian to ride

I've got a sybian to ride. It is black vinyl. It is horse-shoe shaped and buzzes like a motorcycle. The rubber-like penis attachment rotates, and the ridge of raised nubs vibrates deliciously.

I decided to make it a part of my exercise routine. I go to the gym first thing in the morning, and in the evenings, when I am usually too tired (or it is too late) to go to the gym, there is the sybian. It waits patiently in its place under the antique school desk. It makes a comfortable footrest, a titillating footrest. With my feet resting on it, it provides an incentive to finish up paying my bills or writing my emails. Orgasms await, it seems to say, taunting me, testing my self-discipline, making my pussy wet with anticipation. I dare not use it until I have completed my work, because I know how senseless I am when I am done riding it.

Ah, riding it. As I write this, I am astride the sybian. I have lubed up the attachment and slid slowly down on it, until I am sitting upon it and balancing flat-footed on the floor. This is the exercise portion. I am building up my riding stamina, strengthening my riding muscles, and working on maintaining the jockey position and continuing to post even when I am climaxing. The latter is the greatest challenge.

Shall I turn it on? The control box has two switches and two knobs, one set controlling speed/vibration intensity, and the other controlling rotation.

There.

It is on. A low setting at first--I do not want to come too soon. Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade is playing in my ears, loud enough to be heard over the sybian's insistent throb. Up and down I go, lost in my own little world of classical music and modern eroticism.

My nipples are so hard they ache. I can see them all crinkled up, and past them, the bare mound of my pussy pressed against the vibrating ridge as I lean forward to type this. I turn the settings up a bit and enjoy the intense pleasure of my pussy and ass vibrating. The little cock inside me rotates a little faster, hitting my G-spot with greater frequency. I can't help but moan.

When I tire of riding in the jockey position, I rest on my knees. I turn up the vibration and the rotation. This is a wonderful place to be, with the sybian vibrating my inner thighs as well as my pussy and ass. I cannot help but close my eyes. Moans cycle through me with each pass of the attachment against my G-spot. Waves of gooseflesh send shivers through me and the tiny hairs on my body are standing up. It is that intense.

I allow myself a couple of minutes of this and then I am back up on my feet, riding the sybian like a jockey rides a horse. Posting up and down, up and down, stopping every few bounces to grind my perineum against the hard, vibrating ridge.

About half-way through the second movement of Scheherazade I come. Hard. I've been fighting it for a while, trying to hold it off, but it hits me like a rogue wave and I slam my pussy down against the sybian, rocking, rocking, rocking. Such a sweet sweet ride, my sybian. I am more fond of it, even, than my first motorcycle. It certainly takes me places a motorcycle cannot. I have a very strong urge to switch to a kneeling position, but I do not. I remain in my jockey-squat, balancing on the balls of my feet, and jerk and sway through an orgasm that screams along every nerve-ending.

YESSSSSSSSS.

I reach a pleasure plateau and ride the sybian, oblivious to the passage of time until the third movement, Scheherazade's The Young Prince and the Princess. Sweet and whimsical music, teasing. I lift myself up until the rotating attachment is rubbing against my clit. My pussy, empty, opens and closes. My clit sends zings through me. Delicious. Another orgasm, and this one makes me tremble. I slide back down onto the attachment and put my knees under me before I fall off.

Another orgasm as the damned dildo rotates against my G-spot. My teeth clench and my muscles strain like they are trying to keep my body from flying apart. I fall forward and my body presses my clit hard into the sybian. It goes off like a firecracker in my groin and I come so hard my eyes pop open and I scream my self breathless.

Panting now, hands trembling, legs trembling, heart pounding. Sexual tension released. What a workout! I lasted 30 minutes. Mission accomplished.

(podcast: listen here)

Her cleavage captured my eyes

Her cleavage captured my eyes. Her breasts were full, ripe. I could imagine a child nursing from them, suckling with deep draws, fingers splayed against the pale globe, feeling the beat of heart and the pump of milk. The intimacy of a nursing mother and child always awes me.

And then she moved, leaned over to pick something up off the floor, and my mind sexualized the swing of her breasts. I imagined her over me, her lush body naked and gleaming, feeding me her nipples. I imagined her riding my fingers, my fingers curled deep inside her, pressing against her pubic bone, pressing into her G-spot. I imagined her sounds, her whimpers and grunts and moans, as sensation overwhelmed her, and her animalistic side took over.

And then she spoke, and I set aside the images, and listened to her, and admired her fine mind and her nuanced self-expression.

Women are such complex creatures. And I do so appreciate them.

(podcast: listen here)

The skirt

We explored the jungles of Central America searching for El Dorado on his 50-something inch plasma TV. The video game had wonderful graphics, and I soon lost track of time.

Eventually my cell phone chirped a reminder at me.

"I need to get going," I told him, and got up from the couch. I started gathering my things together--briefbag with laptop, winter coat, shoes...shoes... where were my shoes? I turned around to find him laying down on the couch, hands smoothing his jeans over a respectable erection. I looked at him and shook my head.

"I have to go."

"You're wearing a skirt," he said. "Seems a shame to waste it." He opened his arms and smiled.

Anxiety tightened my throat even as I felt myself flushing with warmth. He does so love me riding him, my skirt pushed up my thighs, his hands alternating between gripping my hips and squeezing my bouncing breasts.

"I'm going to be late," I said, despairingly. I had pushed the time-limit already so I could be with him for as long as possible.

I looked away and when I did, I spotted my shoes. I shoved my feet into the black pumps and adjusted the fabric of my 1940's style skirt so that it would flow freely.

"A kiss then," he said, his arms still raised.

"Ok," I said, and moved back to the couch. I raised the hem of my skirt and straddled his legs, then moved forward until my hands dug into the cushion on either side of his chest. Looking down at him, I could not help but see the love and concern on his face. He was worried about me, he wanted me to take some time off and stay with him, get some rest. I lowered myself to kiss him and my hips moved forward, rubbing my mound against his hardness.

It was my undoing.

I moaned as we kissed, nipping and nibbling and sucking at each others lips and tongues. Grinding. He pushed up with his hips as mine moved against him. I could feel the inevitable wetness building inside me. God, he makes me so juicy.

"You've got time," he said, his hands working at my skirt.

I stood up and dropped my coat off my shoulders, then hooked my fingers under my skirt and dropped my panties too. He watched me, unbottoning his fly and opening his pants. I reached in and freed his balls, then let my hand glide upwards along his shaft. Thick. I gave him a squeeze. So thick.

I straddled him again, one hand bracing against the couch, the other reaching between my thighs. I wanted him inside me, the urgency pressed at me, and he, he was worried about lubrication. I have to be wet to take him, or I bleed.

He gasped when he slid into me, when that hot moistness enveloped him. His eyes closed and this blissed-out expression settled on his face. It was only when he opened his eyes that I started my descent. We gazed into each other, eyes wide and filled with wonder. So much joy and pleasure in something so simple as joining. I wanted to savor that moment, but I was concerned about the time, and so I rode him hard and fast.

I rode him through three orgasms in twenty minutes. He showed every sign of enjoying himself immensely, but no sign of coming, himself. So I got unsteadily to my feet, dropped to my knees, and put my mouth on him. With my lips, tongue and fingers I coaxed from him the gift of his seed, and I swallowed it with a smile.

I stepped into my panties, put on my shoes and coat, and grabbed my bag. The scent of him was on my hands and face, and my center glowed from the warm friction of him moving inside me. My panties were already drenched. I was covered in a fine layer of perspiration. I was short on time and anxious about it. But for all that, I was flooded with endorphines and grinning like a fool.

The skirt had not been wasted.

My December so far

December:

I awakened to the feel of his whiskers scraping my back and the sound of my own voice, purring.

I had a tremendous series of orgasms and discovered how to squirt.

Comice pears, bleu cheese, and Chateau Montifaud 30-year old XO cognac. Oralgasmic.

My car died.

I wore thick socks and jackets against the cold, but my nipples were hard anyway.

I came so hard and so often that my pelvic and abdominal muscles were sore for days.

My sister's cancer metastasized.

Tantric hugs, inside and out.

I worked several 10 to 12 hour days at the office.

I stood with my face upturned to the rain, and let it fall on me like permission for tears.

She took my blood, and left bruises behind.

He said he wanted to go shopping and would buy me anything I wanted -- and I couldn't think of a thing I wanted. Except him.

He watched me savoring a bite of ribeye, a gleam in his eye.

Word-play, a volley of bad jokes and puns.

Scrabble and chess over tea.

I wound her hair around my hand and shoved her face onto her husband's cock while I painted hot-pink hand-prints on her ass.

A thousand shades of gray, the kiss of moist air, the scent of woodsmoke, and thee.

10 days left to December.

The sexual is spiritual

It had been 6 weeks since I'd felt him moving inside me, and as always, that first time it was difficult to fit him in. Even kneeling astride, juicy with longing, my weight pressing down, I struggled to fit him in. A few inches and I wanted to start moving, to rock on his cock, but he likes to savor the feeling of being fully engulfed. So I worked myself down on him, feeling him stretching me open, feeling the upward glide of his heat. I stopped and moaned. "Almost," he said, and turned himself into a bow, his body arching, pressing the arrowhead of his cock deeper. I gasped, winced a little, my body stiffening. I love the place we were approaching, but getting there is not without discomfort. "Almost," he said again, and we pressed against each other and I tilted my hips a fraction and then, ah then, I felt like swooning. "There!" he said, and smiled up at me, and his eyes glowed. "You can feel that?" I asked him, as I ground myself against him, as I ground that spot inside me against the head of his cock. "How can you tell?" I wondered in awe. How could he tell that where he was, right there, gave me so much pleasure that my nipples tightened and my entire being felt like it was balancing on the point of orgasm. "It fits like lock and key," he answered. I smiled, knowing the analogy to be an apt one. We stayed that way for a full minute, at least, and I worked my muscles around him, and he purred with pleasure, and then I started moving, posting on him, up and down, the thickness of him charging through me, forcing me open again and again. I came, hit an orgasmic plateau, and rocked with a series of orgasms that hit in waves, one after another. My body tingled, I felt light-headed, the way I would after a fit of sneezes, and I rode him still, sliding the key home in its lock, over and over again, until my throat was raw from my cries and I was swaying atop him, all equilibrium gone. I slid off him and sprawled on the bed, my chest heaving, my thighs trembling. "Water, please," I whispered, and he got up and brought me a glass of blessedly cool water and helped me hold it to my mouth. He put the glass aside and got back into bed. "Mmmm... thank you," I purred and moved to snuggle up to him. "I'm not finished yet," he said, and fit himself between my thighs. I said hello to the gibbous moon on my way to the stars. Our heavenly bodies moved together, slowly at first as he gave me time to adjust to the different angle of penetration, then faster and harder, until his sweat fell on me like divine rain. Little sounds and changes in breath, harbingers of male orgasm, alerted me, and I worked my muscles around him, clenching and releasing, worshipping the divine spark in him, intent on maximizing his pleasure. We kissed as he climaxed, and it tasted of salt, and he pulsed inside me, and moaned incoherently, his sounds a benediction, his seed a sacred gift. Love was the afterglow, spreading through me even as he continued to gasp and twitch on me and in me. Tears pricked my eyes. I was reminded that beyond the urgency of orgasm, sex grants access to the sacred. Love is sacrosanct in all its forms of expression, and the sexual, in particular, can be deeply spiritual.

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?

Conquered and conquering

One of the people I see is a natural alpha male. He is dominant--and he wants to possess me. He thinks he prefers a quiet, respectful woman. He thinks he wants the woman to be womanly and yielding and submissive, but really, he wants an equal, someone to challenge him, to make him work for it.

I am contrary and defiant, I tease him, deny him, push him, until his patience and endurance are exhausted and then he takes from me what I will not give him. He takes what he wants--what we both want--and gives me what I want. His passion. All that emotion normally so controlled. I push at him until he drops the veneer of the civilized man and gives me the primal man underneath. I have challenged him, beyond the veneers of civilized man, making him reach for the primal, carnal, pre-historic man who is non-verbal and devoid of restraint... engaged his mind, his conscious self, with rational things, while pushing the buttons of the wild man inside. I make him submit, not to me, but to himself, to that man deep within himself. I call him forth by frustrating his civilized self beyond reason. And then, in that moment, I possess him as surely as he thinks he is possessing me. Every mark he makes on me marks his soul, every mark I leave on him marks my soul, makes him mine, makes me his. We conquer each other, vying for dominance. And it is deeply, intensely satisfying...

The bully and the bitch

Given the subject matter that I write about, I am continually reminded of how many men out there have submissive sexual tendencies and are looking for a dominant woman. Which is natural, I know. There are various statistics out there, supported by studies of everything from schoolyards and fraternities to dance clubs and tribal societies, which basically state that a very small percentage of humans are leaders, and the rest follow them. I suppose it would be fair to say that humans are pack animals. But what does this have to do with submissive sexuality?

People confuse power and sex all the time, probably because, from an evolutionary standpoint, those who are powerful are the ones who get sex. But in contemporary terms, powerful leaders are inspiring, charismatic. They have an energy that is infectious, that excites people to sign on with whatever the leader is turned on by, regardless of whether or not they understand, and this excitement is often experienced as sexual arousal. Such people are dominants, alphas, whatever word you like -- they are natural leaders and people follow them without coercion, and with out the leader needing to be a bully or a bitch.

However, our social hierarchy implies that for male to be a 'real man' he must take charge, take control-- in the workplace and the home-- regardless of whether or not it comes naturally to him. And women have a lot of power. We are the sex-objects, the child-bearers. We are mysterious, enigmatic, encompassing, nurturing. And so, I think, it is inevitable that when a man is in the privacy of his own sexual space, one of three things happens. Most commonly, I think, is that men indulge in masturbatory fantasies that have power-exchange contexts. Some, perhaps those more self-aware, want to give up control and seek to do what comes more naturally to him--they seek to submit, to worship, and to be nurtured by Woman. And then there are those who, knowing themselves outclassed as a dominant 'out there', seek to prove to themselves that they can dominate others, usually the wife and children.

I've accumulated enough knowledge and experience to comfortably state that most men who think they are Doms are really just men who have issues with women or their own masculinity, and who think being abusive or demeaning others is an expression of their dominance. But in fact, its just a pathetic display of denial. Men who bully or abuse women aren't dominant, they are submissives in denial. And they think I am a bitch. Which turns them on. And then they suddenly change their tunes, and roll over on their backs and show their bellies and beg me to take control of their pleasure. And in that moment, I am also reminded that so many women out there are incapable of playing a dominant role without being a bitch. Or rather, so many people out there, male and female, think that being bitchy equates to being dominant. And it just isn't so. A woman who resorts to being a bitch in order to get her way is about as dominant as a man who as to be an asshole to get his way. Anyone who stands in that place does so quite precariously, fearful of losing that foothold, and thus their 'dominance' is illusory, existing only so long as those in their lives are in collusion with that bullying behavior, and tolerant of it.

What most people do not understand about dominance and submission is that the submissive is not in any way diminished by submitting, that submission is not a demeaning experience, in general, and that the submissive is really the one who has the power, not the Dom. The Dom gives structure and controls the flow of the power, but without the submissive's energy and submission, the Dom is merely a man (or woman) with an itch to dominate/be in control. A real Dom doesn't feel more of a 'man' when he is controlling a submissive. A real dominant feels more alive, fulfilled, more sensitized to the eroticism of power exchange, filled with a profound sense of the rightness of the moment. But a true dominant feels no more or less him or herself as a consequence of such encounters, because they are confident in and at peace with themselves, with their status and their sexuality, and D/s encounters are simply another example of the natural order of things, not a power-trip.

Submissive males approach me. Am I looking for an obedient boy, they ask? They would love to be humiliated and teased and used by me, they say. Females, too, begging to be controlled, objectified, made abject. There are those, male and female, who want to please and be pleased. They want to feel treasured and cared for and more than anything, they want to make a contribution to their dominant. And while I occasionally dabble in D/s, I'm not in the lifestyle at this time and I don't seek out submissives. But they find me. Oh they find me. And while some of them tempt me and I do engage them, most of them annoy me with their persistence, with their begging and pouting, but I do try to be kind in my firmness, rather than a bitch. Which, a friend of mine assures me, makes me all the more compelling.

I rarely consciously use my innate dominance, because I've noticed that if one steps up to shepherd, one is burdened with the sheep. I don't like the tendency of people to unconsciously develop a dependency on alpha males and females to do their thinking for them. I know that our species is a pack/herd animal and I know that some of us are genetically predisposed to be leaders of the herd. But I also, as a woman, am highly conscious of the social responsibility and personal cost. Outside of the bedroom, I prefer not to use other's submissive tendencies and energy, because am VERY aware that I then have a responsibility toward them in exchange. I think a lot of people playing at being Dominant miss this very important part--the ethics of power exchange. Which is why I don't consider bullies and bitches dominants...and why I'm always sad to see a submissive mistaking them for such.