Daniel came over last night. I am so jealous! He invited Robin to Atlantic City, it wasn’t the other way around, as I’d been hoping. It hurt to hear that. It was hard for me to enjoy myself with him last night. I took him deep in my throat and rode him, and we fucked for a long time. Afterwards, I couldn’t think of a thing to say except, “What are you thinking?”– probably the most annoying question in the history of sexual relationships. At least I did not actually ask him what he was thinking. Since it means, “Are you thinking about me? Do you have plans with her for New Year’s Eve?” (NB This incident took place some weeks ago). Afterwards, we just lay there, him reading, and me fidgeting until finally I hauled out my copy of The Joy of Cooking to read about baking.
Knowing that he asked Robin to Atlantic City – and, by corollary, not me – made me feel terrible, just awful. The less liked one. And while we were fucking I thought, “Right, if you cry, you’re going to break this off.” So that’s my resolution: if I find myself upset about Daniel, I’m ending it. I really want to talk to Caroline about this. She always helps. I HATE being jealous. I hate it that I’m spoiling what has been such a great source of fun and… well, good cheer in my life for the past month and a half. I’m disappointed in myself. Because I suppose it’s actually an opportunity to grow or something ridiculous like that. And the fact of the matter is, I don’t want an exclusive relationship with Daniel. I just don’t want him having sex with anyone else. There’s really no way to justify those feelings, is there? I slept terribly, and had a number of bad dreams. When we woke up I had to have him in me to get rid of the nightmares, but for the first time ever I didn't come on top of him. And, oh, God, his mouth tastes so good, and he smells so nice… After each dream I’d wake up and shift closer, closer to Daniel, who murmured sleepily and just smiled.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
A Brief Rant (Jealousy, Redux)
Coming home on the train to day it hit me anew: he’s spending 48 hours with her! The entire weekend! What if I tried to commandeer his whole weekend? I am so jealous. In part cause I don’t have any plans for tonight. But IsweartoGod, I don’t know if I can do this. But I love having sex with him. I’m actually kind of angry, too. Mostly at myself though, which is nothing new.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Monday, December 18, 2006
Me and My Issues (Lots of Angst, Some Sex)
On Tuesday Daniel came over. I hadn’t seen him in over a week, since he’d been busy on the last two times we’d planned to meet.
When he arrived I was distracted – I was making a cake to take to my friend Polly’s apartment for dinner the following night. We went to my room, and kissed and fooled around a bit, but I didn’t feel that usual heat and knicker-dampening Daniel usually causes. During our last IM session (which I claim to loathe but apparently don’t hate enough to stop doing) I mentioned that I’d been “practicing” my blowjob skills (as per my date with Jefferson). I’d intimated that, thanks to my newfound knowledge, he might be the recipient of some unskilled but eager deep throating.
“I don’t think you can take all of me,” Daniel had pointed out. “I’m big.” No kidding!
So now he stood at the edge of my bed and I faced him, at eye level with his crotch. He dick sprang to attention when I undid his pants; very gratifying. I gave his cock a few welcoming licks, and then settled my mouth around him. “Don’t push, OK?” I said. And then I moved my mouth forward very slowly, trying to take him down into my throat. I kept saying to myself “Relax,” just as Jefferson had said to me, and I let Daniel’s cock rest against my tongue while I concentrated on breathing with a huge obstruction lodged against the back of my mouth. Each time I tried to take him further I gagged, but Daniel was enthusiastic, and I was determined. “It’s hard for me not to just grab your head and thrust down your throat,” he sighed.
“Don’t do that!” My poor throat.
Daniel suggested that we switch positions; he said that I ought to be on my back while he leant over my mouth; this would be a more comfortable angle for me. “You’re almost there,” he coaxed, “You’ve almost got me all in.” (He wasn’t totally hard; that might have been a bit much). So with him straddling my face, I opened my mouth over him again, and took him until I gagged: “You took it all, baby,” said Daniel, sounding delighted. “You’re the first person to ever do that.” And the last, I hoped, but that’s not likely.
Then we fooled around, kissing and stroking and chatting and somehow my roommate Jenny was mentioned and Daniel said, “Or we could just invite her up here!” Meaning, we could have a threesome.
“Uh!” I said, grimacing. “That’s in poor taste.”
“Sorry, sorry.”
That bothered me for a few reasons. One: I’m pretty annoyed with Jenny right now over the state of our kitchen. Two: Last week, when Daniel gallantly killed a cockroach (whose appearance I blame on my roommates, who seem incapable of taking out the garbage), she was standing in the kitchen in very tight, very short velour shorts. I guess he noticed that. Three: Though she’s not like this around anyone I’m seeing, she affects (she admits it; it’s her MO, just as awkward charm is – I hope-- mine) ditziness around men and, furthermore, is very open about how she manipulates men. Four: I don’t know, I thought it was in bad taste, I guess.
SIDEBAR Oddly enough, the other night, Jenny had a similar experience. She has what she terms “booty calls” – a stupid but pretty accurate description – with a former neighbor named Jack. And, as she informed me, “I think Jack wants me to set him up with Anna! I was a little offended!”
Anna is our other roommate. She is a nurse. She’s gorgeous and kind and speaks with a heavy Korean accent. She hasn’t had a boyfriend in five years. “Chuh!” I said. “I’d be offended, too!” Also, we both worry about Anna. We are both maximizing sluttiness at this time, and feel that her participation in the effort would enhance female solidarity. Just kidding. We’re worried about her because, like I said, she hasn’t had a boyfriend in five years. As Jenny pointed out, “That’s two marriages in my time.”
Jenny outranks me on the sluttiness factor, as I may have mentioned. In fact, one Sunday afternoon recently Jenny had sex with her soon-to-be-ex husband and then went round to Jack’s and slept with him. I’ve never had sex with two different people in the same day. But anyway. We both think it would be nice for Anna to date someone. But obviously not someone either of us are sleeping with. So when Daniel made that comment about Jenny, it made me think of Jack and Anna, and how I’d congratulated myself that, thank God, Daniel is nothing like Jack, who, in addition to being an emotional clod is stocky and short (but Jenny’s type, as it turns out).
So that comment about inviting Jenny to my room stuck with me, even when we started fucking, which was, as usual, lovely. I slid on top of him and almost immediately my legs were shaking as I struggled to come, stretching my legs around his long limbs. “Are you going to come for me, Lily?”
Hearing him say my name was almost unbearable. “Say my name,” I panted.
“Lily, come for me. Lily.”
I came then. “But I can do it again,” I promised, cause I wanted to work a bit more. But then that delicious post-orgasm lassitude swept over me, and I was content to rock back and forth on top and watch his face.
“I want to paint you,” he said. “On canvas.”
I smiled. “I want to be all over your pages,” I said. “I want you to look at your sketchbook and see me naked all over it.”
“And I want to take some pictures so I can look at you when you’re not around…”
“We could do that…”
He clutched at my breasts and kneaded them, sucking my nipples and bunching them up with his hands. Now that I don’t find terribly erotic, but he obviously does, and I’m glad to provide this pleasure.
Then he sat on the edge of my bed with my legs wrapped around him and I bounced up and down on his cock. “I like being close to you,” I sighed, because even though I find coming easiest when I’m on top at a certain angle, I love, love, love being thisclose to his skin and being wrapped up in him.
“I love being enveloped by you,” he murmured, and I thought fleetingly of college women’s studies classes: enveloping!
“I can feel you right here,” I said, pointing to a spot on my lower belly, where his dick fit in me.
I lay on my back and he fucked me more, and I kept urging him to come. Oftentimes he pulls out and I finish him off by hand. He has is paranoid about pregnancy, despite never having had sex without a condom (!) and is, I think, much more comfortable getting off via handjobs, but this time he came in me. I repeated what he’d said earlier: “Come for me, Daniel. Come for me, baby.”
Afterwards I made dinner, cause I was starving, and Daniel napped for a bit. While we were in the kitchen, with me at the stove, and him nuzzling the nape of my neck, the picture of domestic happiness, he told me about the other women in his life. Including Robin, and some woman he’s never met, who lives across the country.
“Robin told me that she likes to have three guys at a time,” he explained. “One she’s crushing on [his words], a regular boyfriend, and a fuck buddy [also his words, I hate the term ‘fuck buddy’ as well].” I burst out laughing. But then I sobered up, thinking, Uh, I’m seeing three people, though technically they’re all “fuck buddies”. The hell with “fuck buddies,” Robin and I are Daniel’s Regular Sex Partners, or RSPs. And I thought, I have a crush on Daniel. I want him to have a crush on me. I mean, I know he likes me; finds me amusing and fun and sexy, but I want his heart to race when he sees me, you know? Greedy girl.
So, Daniel went on, he and this girl apparently have lots in common. To wit: she’s had her tubes tied; he wants a vasectomy. She loves vintage clothing; he is Mr. Forties. And, uh, I’m petty -- I couldn’t help thinking, Everyone loves vintage. Big deal. “She sounds great,” I said noncommittally. “Sounds like you have a crush on her.”
“Yeah. Last night on IM I told her that if she were in New York I’d ask her to go dancing,” Daniel admitted. I smiled, wondering if this bothered me, and if it did, whether or not I’d be able to admit it to myself.
When we were done eating it was past 11:00 and we climbed into bed. He asked me about my date with Jefferson, and we discussed how hot it would be for him to go down on another guy while I watched. He keeps returning to this scenario. Then we went back to Robin: “She says ideally she’d like the men she’s seeing to be monogamous,” he said, and I laughed.
“No,” I said, after a minute, “I guess that would be preferable.” Then I said I was, by inclination, monogamous. But what I think I meant was that, by inclination, I’m jealous and insecure. And just now I came across an interesting article by William Saletan on Slate, called “Don’t Do Unto Others.” He illustrates my feelings very well:
“One isn't the number of people you want to sleep with. It's the number of people you want your spouse to sleep with.”
Then the conversation moved around to whether I liked hearing stuff about his sex life. I hesitated. “Well, I like it in the abstract,” I said. Because that story he’d told me about that nameless friend of his and himself both going down on some guy had turned me on, but when I hear about what Robin and he do in bed I start wondering if he’s comparing us. Also, I think the thought of Daniel being with a guy doesn’t seem like a threat to our non-relationship, whereas hearing about Robin always makes me tense. “I like to hear it anonymously,” I considered. “But, really, if I know it’s Robin, then I can’t help wondering if she’s prettier than me, has a better body, that kind of thing.” We lay facing one another, my fingers in his hair.
“Ohhh…” he said in that “You little scamp,” voice, sort of affectionately chiding.
I shrugged. It’s the truth.
Then he said, “Seriously, you’re the best looking girl I’ve ever been with. I’m constantly stunned that you’re with me.” Item: I’m not great looking. My nose is too wide and I have to the pluck dark hairs on my face, which breaks out. And also, item: when he said that I thought: So, how come you’re with this Robin, eh? If I’m so great?
I smiled and kissed him. “You’re gorgeous,” I said, cause it’s true.
SIDEBAR. Now, a few things. One: I included that he said I’m the best looking girl he’s ever dated in this blog entry. My passion for compliments about my physical features is apparently bottomless, as is my insecurity about my looks. I constantly take off my glasses and unwind my hair for photos, and I’m always aware of how I stand on the thin-fat continuum compared to other women in the room. I am not proud of this; it’s a fact. I used to think I wasn’t vain, just insecure, but maybe I’m both – an ugly combination. I think I’ve always thought I was ugly because my parents never told me I was pretty.
I don’t think they did it to be cruel. I think that a) it didn’t occur to them b) they didn’t want it to matter. They didn’t want me to think that prettiness was an attribute that really counted for anything. But it does, of course. Never mind all the studies that suggest prettier people are better paid, better liked and more successful; it matters because people want to feel attractive. And my parents never told me that I was pretty – they still haven’t for that matter, although of course I do receive compliments along the lines of “That looks nice on you,” and “You skin looks good,” “Have you lost weight?” etc., etc. But never an outright, “You’re so pretty.” Should I have a daughter, I will tell her she’s beautiful every day, until she gets tired of reminding me how looks aren’t important.
The other main reason I never felt pretty growing up was that my closest friends were often noticeable beauties. My very oldest friend (I haven’t seen her in years, though we do e-mail occasionally) was a girl named Brett Hallon. When we were kids, we had matching bowl-shaped haircuts (why? why?), but Brett had blond hair and blue eyes. It was just a given that Brett was beautiful, and in fact she was. When I went to high school I met some people who had known her. “Oh my God, she was the most beautiful girl in the world,” said this guy, who was famed in my class as being the handsomest guy. Another confessed he’d had a crush on her in pre-school. You get the idea.
One day my mother ran into Brett on the street. I must have been about 16. “She looks great,” my mom told me, “Her hair’s really long. She looked really pretty.”
I was livid. “Thanks, Mom. I really needed to hear that,” I spat, as though there wasn’t enough beauty to go around, as if Brett being beautiful meant I couldn’t be pretty. I was ashamed of my behavior, but now I think it upset me because it was the first time I could remember that my mother had ever commented on how pretty someone was. And it wasn’t me. Anyway, in addition to this, while I was in high school (not the high water mark for me, self-esteem or attitude-wise) my three closest friends had perfect skin, blond hair and blue eyes, and were all at least 5’5”. I was just used to being the plain one. It’s like in a group of girls, one of them has to be the prettiest, and one is the plainest. I was used to being the plainest.
So now when I receive compliments about my looks I feel vindicated, like everything I’ve learned in 33 years of living and more than half of that in therapy has made me pretty, like it’s a moral victory. Being told I’m smart or nice cuts no ice with me; I already know that. I crave being told I’m gorgeous, cause it makes me feel like I’m not this freak who’s too short and has spotty skin and dark hairs on her upper lip.
Anyway, I didn’t date seriously until I was out of college and, come to think of it, I was never fed a steady diet of compliments even by men who wanted to get into my pants. I mean, I was confident that these men – some of them, anyway – loved me, and found me attractive. And no doubt they did, though generally not attractive enough to stop what they were doing and remark on it. Daniel seems compelled to tell me I’m gorgeous when we meet up and then before, during and after sex. Maybe this is part of the reason I’m so enamored of him. That’s an interesting idea.
Bottom line: Daniel has a huge cock. No, wait, that wasn’t it…
Bottom line: I’m emotionally retarded and have yet to forgive my parents for things that were finished years ago. SIDEBAR ENDS.
Then Daniel fucked me doggy style. Now that’s when I like to be called a whore, I’ve discovered, so I hinted, none too subtly, that this was what I wanted to hear: “I want to be a whore for you,” I whispered, feeling his torso thrust against my back with that solid, thrumming pump.
“You’re such a good slut,” he breathed obligingly, pushing against me. “Cockslut. You’d like to have two cocks at once to please, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes…Oh…”
After a while I got on top of him and rode him. As usual, I was soon on the verge of orgasm. But I was so wet, it was like there was no tension between his cock and my cunt. All of a sudden it felt like he’d slipped out, or had gotten soft. But he was still there. I think that slickness might be attributable to my period. Then, with a shudder, I came, relieved.
“You’re so tight when you come,” he breathed, “It’s like you squeeze me out.”
Maybe that was the problem.
Then I lay on my back again, with my legs on his shoulders. It used to be that fucking like this was painful, but now I really like it. I wonder if my insides have become all loose and wanton, eh? Will that make my girl parts less appealing to men?
In the morning I thought I might consolidate my sexual power by blowing him, even though I was pretty tired. It occurs to me that I’m giving a lot of head lately!
“You’re converting me to blowjobs,” Daniel smiled as I worked him over with my mouth, and then my hands. When he came it was just a tiny spurt of thick white gunk.
“I think I’ve wrung most of it out of you,” I observed.
Then we had to get up. “What are you doing this weekend?”
I looked at my date book, and recited my plans. “I’m free on Saturday night… What are you doing?”
“Well, tonight Robin’s moving to her new place in the city, and she wants to break in the bed.” (Hmmph. She has a place in the city now, does she?) “And this weekend, we’re going to Atlantic City.”
I did a double take. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s so cool.” But I was thinking, Why not me? Why her?
And the upshot of the whole thing is I’m sure she’s his favorite (like we’re a harem, for God’s sake), and that she’s prettier, sexier, hotter and more fun than me.
Then I got to work and found out that my temp assignment is ending, which means I’ve got to make an effort to find a job. Ken Smith, whom I was fantasizing about seducing, brought me into his office. As soon as he told me to sit down, I knew; I’d never been asked to sit down before. He seemed nervous; I think he was afraid I was going to cry!
This was all so depressing, but then I got some good news: Jefferson has been tested, and he’s all clear. We have a date. Now it’s not 100 percent accurate, because, although it’s unusual, positive HIV results can take up to six months to become apparent in the blood, and even so, well, after we start having sex it’s not like he won’t be fucking anyone else. But I’ve decided that these are risks I’m apparently prepared to take. Also, Adrian, who works with Marc, invited me to their very swanky Christmas party. It’s on the same day as the one at Dor-Oops will be, so even though I have to bid farewell to my chances of pulling Ken Smith, I can still wear my pink dress and drink champagne that night.
Then last night I went to visit Polly, her boyfriend Theo and their new baby, Ginny. Seeing them so happy and exhausted in their tiny apartment, I just thought, I can’t have a baby until I have a decent sized home. Baby paraphernalia has taken over almost every inch of the place. And I’m sure I still have lots of growing up (or living somewhat dangerously, if you like) to do before I settle down.
It was a long 24 hours.
When he arrived I was distracted – I was making a cake to take to my friend Polly’s apartment for dinner the following night. We went to my room, and kissed and fooled around a bit, but I didn’t feel that usual heat and knicker-dampening Daniel usually causes. During our last IM session (which I claim to loathe but apparently don’t hate enough to stop doing) I mentioned that I’d been “practicing” my blowjob skills (as per my date with Jefferson). I’d intimated that, thanks to my newfound knowledge, he might be the recipient of some unskilled but eager deep throating.
“I don’t think you can take all of me,” Daniel had pointed out. “I’m big.” No kidding!
So now he stood at the edge of my bed and I faced him, at eye level with his crotch. He dick sprang to attention when I undid his pants; very gratifying. I gave his cock a few welcoming licks, and then settled my mouth around him. “Don’t push, OK?” I said. And then I moved my mouth forward very slowly, trying to take him down into my throat. I kept saying to myself “Relax,” just as Jefferson had said to me, and I let Daniel’s cock rest against my tongue while I concentrated on breathing with a huge obstruction lodged against the back of my mouth. Each time I tried to take him further I gagged, but Daniel was enthusiastic, and I was determined. “It’s hard for me not to just grab your head and thrust down your throat,” he sighed.
“Don’t do that!” My poor throat.
Daniel suggested that we switch positions; he said that I ought to be on my back while he leant over my mouth; this would be a more comfortable angle for me. “You’re almost there,” he coaxed, “You’ve almost got me all in.” (He wasn’t totally hard; that might have been a bit much). So with him straddling my face, I opened my mouth over him again, and took him until I gagged: “You took it all, baby,” said Daniel, sounding delighted. “You’re the first person to ever do that.” And the last, I hoped, but that’s not likely.
Then we fooled around, kissing and stroking and chatting and somehow my roommate Jenny was mentioned and Daniel said, “Or we could just invite her up here!” Meaning, we could have a threesome.
“Uh!” I said, grimacing. “That’s in poor taste.”
“Sorry, sorry.”
That bothered me for a few reasons. One: I’m pretty annoyed with Jenny right now over the state of our kitchen. Two: Last week, when Daniel gallantly killed a cockroach (whose appearance I blame on my roommates, who seem incapable of taking out the garbage), she was standing in the kitchen in very tight, very short velour shorts. I guess he noticed that. Three: Though she’s not like this around anyone I’m seeing, she affects (she admits it; it’s her MO, just as awkward charm is – I hope-- mine) ditziness around men and, furthermore, is very open about how she manipulates men. Four: I don’t know, I thought it was in bad taste, I guess.
SIDEBAR Oddly enough, the other night, Jenny had a similar experience. She has what she terms “booty calls” – a stupid but pretty accurate description – with a former neighbor named Jack. And, as she informed me, “I think Jack wants me to set him up with Anna! I was a little offended!”
Anna is our other roommate. She is a nurse. She’s gorgeous and kind and speaks with a heavy Korean accent. She hasn’t had a boyfriend in five years. “Chuh!” I said. “I’d be offended, too!” Also, we both worry about Anna. We are both maximizing sluttiness at this time, and feel that her participation in the effort would enhance female solidarity. Just kidding. We’re worried about her because, like I said, she hasn’t had a boyfriend in five years. As Jenny pointed out, “That’s two marriages in my time.”
Jenny outranks me on the sluttiness factor, as I may have mentioned. In fact, one Sunday afternoon recently Jenny had sex with her soon-to-be-ex husband and then went round to Jack’s and slept with him. I’ve never had sex with two different people in the same day. But anyway. We both think it would be nice for Anna to date someone. But obviously not someone either of us are sleeping with. So when Daniel made that comment about Jenny, it made me think of Jack and Anna, and how I’d congratulated myself that, thank God, Daniel is nothing like Jack, who, in addition to being an emotional clod is stocky and short (but Jenny’s type, as it turns out).
So that comment about inviting Jenny to my room stuck with me, even when we started fucking, which was, as usual, lovely. I slid on top of him and almost immediately my legs were shaking as I struggled to come, stretching my legs around his long limbs. “Are you going to come for me, Lily?”
Hearing him say my name was almost unbearable. “Say my name,” I panted.
“Lily, come for me. Lily.”
I came then. “But I can do it again,” I promised, cause I wanted to work a bit more. But then that delicious post-orgasm lassitude swept over me, and I was content to rock back and forth on top and watch his face.
“I want to paint you,” he said. “On canvas.”
I smiled. “I want to be all over your pages,” I said. “I want you to look at your sketchbook and see me naked all over it.”
“And I want to take some pictures so I can look at you when you’re not around…”
“We could do that…”
He clutched at my breasts and kneaded them, sucking my nipples and bunching them up with his hands. Now that I don’t find terribly erotic, but he obviously does, and I’m glad to provide this pleasure.
Then he sat on the edge of my bed with my legs wrapped around him and I bounced up and down on his cock. “I like being close to you,” I sighed, because even though I find coming easiest when I’m on top at a certain angle, I love, love, love being thisclose to his skin and being wrapped up in him.
“I love being enveloped by you,” he murmured, and I thought fleetingly of college women’s studies classes: enveloping!
“I can feel you right here,” I said, pointing to a spot on my lower belly, where his dick fit in me.
I lay on my back and he fucked me more, and I kept urging him to come. Oftentimes he pulls out and I finish him off by hand. He has is paranoid about pregnancy, despite never having had sex without a condom (!) and is, I think, much more comfortable getting off via handjobs, but this time he came in me. I repeated what he’d said earlier: “Come for me, Daniel. Come for me, baby.”
Afterwards I made dinner, cause I was starving, and Daniel napped for a bit. While we were in the kitchen, with me at the stove, and him nuzzling the nape of my neck, the picture of domestic happiness, he told me about the other women in his life. Including Robin, and some woman he’s never met, who lives across the country.
“Robin told me that she likes to have three guys at a time,” he explained. “One she’s crushing on [his words], a regular boyfriend, and a fuck buddy [also his words, I hate the term ‘fuck buddy’ as well].” I burst out laughing. But then I sobered up, thinking, Uh, I’m seeing three people, though technically they’re all “fuck buddies”. The hell with “fuck buddies,” Robin and I are Daniel’s Regular Sex Partners, or RSPs. And I thought, I have a crush on Daniel. I want him to have a crush on me. I mean, I know he likes me; finds me amusing and fun and sexy, but I want his heart to race when he sees me, you know? Greedy girl.
So, Daniel went on, he and this girl apparently have lots in common. To wit: she’s had her tubes tied; he wants a vasectomy. She loves vintage clothing; he is Mr. Forties. And, uh, I’m petty -- I couldn’t help thinking, Everyone loves vintage. Big deal. “She sounds great,” I said noncommittally. “Sounds like you have a crush on her.”
“Yeah. Last night on IM I told her that if she were in New York I’d ask her to go dancing,” Daniel admitted. I smiled, wondering if this bothered me, and if it did, whether or not I’d be able to admit it to myself.
When we were done eating it was past 11:00 and we climbed into bed. He asked me about my date with Jefferson, and we discussed how hot it would be for him to go down on another guy while I watched. He keeps returning to this scenario. Then we went back to Robin: “She says ideally she’d like the men she’s seeing to be monogamous,” he said, and I laughed.
“No,” I said, after a minute, “I guess that would be preferable.” Then I said I was, by inclination, monogamous. But what I think I meant was that, by inclination, I’m jealous and insecure. And just now I came across an interesting article by William Saletan on Slate, called “Don’t Do Unto Others.” He illustrates my feelings very well:
“One isn't the number of people you want to sleep with. It's the number of people you want your spouse to sleep with.”
Then the conversation moved around to whether I liked hearing stuff about his sex life. I hesitated. “Well, I like it in the abstract,” I said. Because that story he’d told me about that nameless friend of his and himself both going down on some guy had turned me on, but when I hear about what Robin and he do in bed I start wondering if he’s comparing us. Also, I think the thought of Daniel being with a guy doesn’t seem like a threat to our non-relationship, whereas hearing about Robin always makes me tense. “I like to hear it anonymously,” I considered. “But, really, if I know it’s Robin, then I can’t help wondering if she’s prettier than me, has a better body, that kind of thing.” We lay facing one another, my fingers in his hair.
“Ohhh…” he said in that “You little scamp,” voice, sort of affectionately chiding.
I shrugged. It’s the truth.
Then he said, “Seriously, you’re the best looking girl I’ve ever been with. I’m constantly stunned that you’re with me.” Item: I’m not great looking. My nose is too wide and I have to the pluck dark hairs on my face, which breaks out. And also, item: when he said that I thought: So, how come you’re with this Robin, eh? If I’m so great?
I smiled and kissed him. “You’re gorgeous,” I said, cause it’s true.
SIDEBAR. Now, a few things. One: I included that he said I’m the best looking girl he’s ever dated in this blog entry. My passion for compliments about my physical features is apparently bottomless, as is my insecurity about my looks. I constantly take off my glasses and unwind my hair for photos, and I’m always aware of how I stand on the thin-fat continuum compared to other women in the room. I am not proud of this; it’s a fact. I used to think I wasn’t vain, just insecure, but maybe I’m both – an ugly combination. I think I’ve always thought I was ugly because my parents never told me I was pretty.
I don’t think they did it to be cruel. I think that a) it didn’t occur to them b) they didn’t want it to matter. They didn’t want me to think that prettiness was an attribute that really counted for anything. But it does, of course. Never mind all the studies that suggest prettier people are better paid, better liked and more successful; it matters because people want to feel attractive. And my parents never told me that I was pretty – they still haven’t for that matter, although of course I do receive compliments along the lines of “That looks nice on you,” and “You skin looks good,” “Have you lost weight?” etc., etc. But never an outright, “You’re so pretty.” Should I have a daughter, I will tell her she’s beautiful every day, until she gets tired of reminding me how looks aren’t important.
The other main reason I never felt pretty growing up was that my closest friends were often noticeable beauties. My very oldest friend (I haven’t seen her in years, though we do e-mail occasionally) was a girl named Brett Hallon. When we were kids, we had matching bowl-shaped haircuts (why? why?), but Brett had blond hair and blue eyes. It was just a given that Brett was beautiful, and in fact she was. When I went to high school I met some people who had known her. “Oh my God, she was the most beautiful girl in the world,” said this guy, who was famed in my class as being the handsomest guy. Another confessed he’d had a crush on her in pre-school. You get the idea.
One day my mother ran into Brett on the street. I must have been about 16. “She looks great,” my mom told me, “Her hair’s really long. She looked really pretty.”
I was livid. “Thanks, Mom. I really needed to hear that,” I spat, as though there wasn’t enough beauty to go around, as if Brett being beautiful meant I couldn’t be pretty. I was ashamed of my behavior, but now I think it upset me because it was the first time I could remember that my mother had ever commented on how pretty someone was. And it wasn’t me. Anyway, in addition to this, while I was in high school (not the high water mark for me, self-esteem or attitude-wise) my three closest friends had perfect skin, blond hair and blue eyes, and were all at least 5’5”. I was just used to being the plain one. It’s like in a group of girls, one of them has to be the prettiest, and one is the plainest. I was used to being the plainest.
So now when I receive compliments about my looks I feel vindicated, like everything I’ve learned in 33 years of living and more than half of that in therapy has made me pretty, like it’s a moral victory. Being told I’m smart or nice cuts no ice with me; I already know that. I crave being told I’m gorgeous, cause it makes me feel like I’m not this freak who’s too short and has spotty skin and dark hairs on her upper lip.
Anyway, I didn’t date seriously until I was out of college and, come to think of it, I was never fed a steady diet of compliments even by men who wanted to get into my pants. I mean, I was confident that these men – some of them, anyway – loved me, and found me attractive. And no doubt they did, though generally not attractive enough to stop what they were doing and remark on it. Daniel seems compelled to tell me I’m gorgeous when we meet up and then before, during and after sex. Maybe this is part of the reason I’m so enamored of him. That’s an interesting idea.
Bottom line: Daniel has a huge cock. No, wait, that wasn’t it…
Bottom line: I’m emotionally retarded and have yet to forgive my parents for things that were finished years ago. SIDEBAR ENDS.
Then Daniel fucked me doggy style. Now that’s when I like to be called a whore, I’ve discovered, so I hinted, none too subtly, that this was what I wanted to hear: “I want to be a whore for you,” I whispered, feeling his torso thrust against my back with that solid, thrumming pump.
“You’re such a good slut,” he breathed obligingly, pushing against me. “Cockslut. You’d like to have two cocks at once to please, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes…Oh…”
After a while I got on top of him and rode him. As usual, I was soon on the verge of orgasm. But I was so wet, it was like there was no tension between his cock and my cunt. All of a sudden it felt like he’d slipped out, or had gotten soft. But he was still there. I think that slickness might be attributable to my period. Then, with a shudder, I came, relieved.
“You’re so tight when you come,” he breathed, “It’s like you squeeze me out.”
Maybe that was the problem.
Then I lay on my back again, with my legs on his shoulders. It used to be that fucking like this was painful, but now I really like it. I wonder if my insides have become all loose and wanton, eh? Will that make my girl parts less appealing to men?
In the morning I thought I might consolidate my sexual power by blowing him, even though I was pretty tired. It occurs to me that I’m giving a lot of head lately!
“You’re converting me to blowjobs,” Daniel smiled as I worked him over with my mouth, and then my hands. When he came it was just a tiny spurt of thick white gunk.
“I think I’ve wrung most of it out of you,” I observed.
Then we had to get up. “What are you doing this weekend?”
I looked at my date book, and recited my plans. “I’m free on Saturday night… What are you doing?”
“Well, tonight Robin’s moving to her new place in the city, and she wants to break in the bed.” (Hmmph. She has a place in the city now, does she?) “And this weekend, we’re going to Atlantic City.”
I did a double take. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s so cool.” But I was thinking, Why not me? Why her?
And the upshot of the whole thing is I’m sure she’s his favorite (like we’re a harem, for God’s sake), and that she’s prettier, sexier, hotter and more fun than me.
Then I got to work and found out that my temp assignment is ending, which means I’ve got to make an effort to find a job. Ken Smith, whom I was fantasizing about seducing, brought me into his office. As soon as he told me to sit down, I knew; I’d never been asked to sit down before. He seemed nervous; I think he was afraid I was going to cry!
This was all so depressing, but then I got some good news: Jefferson has been tested, and he’s all clear. We have a date. Now it’s not 100 percent accurate, because, although it’s unusual, positive HIV results can take up to six months to become apparent in the blood, and even so, well, after we start having sex it’s not like he won’t be fucking anyone else. But I’ve decided that these are risks I’m apparently prepared to take. Also, Adrian, who works with Marc, invited me to their very swanky Christmas party. It’s on the same day as the one at Dor-Oops will be, so even though I have to bid farewell to my chances of pulling Ken Smith, I can still wear my pink dress and drink champagne that night.
Then last night I went to visit Polly, her boyfriend Theo and their new baby, Ginny. Seeing them so happy and exhausted in their tiny apartment, I just thought, I can’t have a baby until I have a decent sized home. Baby paraphernalia has taken over almost every inch of the place. And I’m sure I still have lots of growing up (or living somewhat dangerously, if you like) to do before I settle down.
It was a long 24 hours.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
In Which More Stuff Comes to Pass (Part II of II)
Later we lolled around, discussing whether we should watch a movie. “Do you want to stay over?” Jefferson asked.
I had thought that was the plan, anyway. “Yeah,” I said.
We kissed and rolled around, while the Todd Rundgren album played in the other room. “I feel like I’m making out in someone’s basement,” I said dreamily.
“Teenage sex,” agreed Jefferson.
After a while I said, shyly, “You could hit me, of you want.”
“Yeah?”
I shrugged. I was ambivalent, but surely this time would be better. "Just..." I swallowed. "You hit my face,” I reminded him. I was still smarting (geddit? Smarting!) over that.
“It’s OK, I’ve got a better idea now,” Jefferson said.
I saw him bend over and drag a box out from under his bed. I caught a quick peek of a pair of handcuffs.
He laid me on my stomach, across his bed. “Do you trust me?”
“Yep.”
“Are you scared?”
“Yep.”
“Don’t worry; I won’t be rough.”
“Hmmph,” I said.
He laughed.
I felt something drag lightly across my ass – a tasseled leather tool of some kind. Lightly, quickly, he slapped my ass. OK. I breathed.
He hit me again, and again; now harder. When it grew very painful I said, “You have to stop; please,” and he did. Then he took out another tasseled leather thing, much like the previous instrument, but bigger. He slid it through my legs, just brushing my pussy and, I couldn’t help it, I thought – does he clean this thing? Stop thinking! I ordered my brain. But when I wasn’t thinking, I was in danger of being in pain.
He hit me across my ass, and then against my back. Actually, when it wasn’t too hard I rather liked that – it felt like a firm massage. But again, it got painful, and when I couldn’t stand it anymore I pleaded for him to stop, which he did.
Then Jefferson gently pushed me back onto the mattress and covered my head with a pillow, so I couldn’t see. I heard a crack, like a whip cutting the skin of the air in the room. Good lord.
“I’m going to do this very lightly,” Jefferson promised. I felt a thwack against the backs of my calves. It was a cane. Hey! It didn’t hurt, or rather, it wasn’t so bad. Then he lifted the stick from my legs and the sting was unbearable.
“Jesus Christ!” I said.
“I know,” said Jefferson. “It doesn’t really hurt while you’re being hit, it hurts afterwards.”
Was that some kind of Zen thing? Jefferson hit me again, across my back, then across my ass, and again, eventually, I begged him to stop. Then I sat up. “Jesus Christ!” I said again. “That’s unbelievable!” I meant how the cane hurts when it’s over, not during the actual caning.
“I know.” Jefferson held up the stick for my inspection.
“Is that wood?”
“Bamboo.”
I shook my head. “This is what Victorian schoolboys got punished with?” He nodded. “Those headmasters must have been complete pervs. OK,” I said at last. “So what else did you hit me with?”
“Well,” he brandished a long braided black leather switch. “This is a cat of nine tails.”
I knew that, thanks to a long-ago production of The H.M.S. Pinafore. Again, Victorians: total pervs! Just in case you don’t know, a cat o’nine tails is a leather whip, which has nine braided leathers “tails” attached to the body of the whip. “I didn’t even hit you with the braided part,” said Jefferson, “Just the ends.”
“Oh,” I said. Apparently I hadn’t been able to manage the braided part. Sigh. “And what’s this?” I pointed to the first thing he had hit me with, which looked like a cat, only smaller.
“That’s a flogger,” he said dismissively. It looked like an oversized chenille pillow tassel.
“Oh.” Well. I hadn’t gotten very far, and I didn’t feel like this had been much fun for him, what with me making him stop every minute or so. Nonetheless.
Then he pulled out his box from under the bed and brought out a little cord, attached to two lipstick-shaped tubes. “A bullet vibrator,” he explained. “Have you used one?”
I shook my head. “I’ve never used a vibrator.”
“What? Never?”
It was like a replay of my conversation with Daniel. “No, never.”
“How do you masturbate?”
“With my hand,” I sighed. “And I wear my underwear, cause I like the friction. Most of my underwear is worn through by the crotch.”
“I bet that’s hot.” Jefferson smiled. “I’d like to see that.”
I was embarrassed: “There’s nothing much to see, really. I just lie on my stomach.”
“Oh, I could tell you were the type who lay on her stomach to masturbate!” Jefferson sounded pleased at the idea. “Do you use a pillow?”
“Uh, no.”
“Really?” He sounded disappointed.
“No, no pillow.”
He slipped a condom on one of the bullets, and slid it inside me. Then he placed the other bullet over my clit, and turned the vibrator on, handing me the lever to turn it off. “You never use a pillow?”
“No, sorry.”
“I’ll be back,” Jefferson said, and disappeared.
So there I was, with a vibrating piece of plastic inside me like a tampon, and another device thrust against my groin. Hmmm. Nothing much going on. At last I realized that I could adjust the pressure on the vibrator: aha! I turned it up. Still not much of a reaction… a little more. For an instant, I felt a shudder through me, but my body adjusted quickly. I turned it up a bit more, and again, a restless twitch shook me before I grew used to the humming. I looked at the switch; it was almost on the highest speed. I turned it all the way up.
Gah! Ow. I flicked it down a bit, and lay there. It occurred to me that Jefferson had introduced this vibrator to many people’s orifices. He’d put a condom over the bit inside me, but what about the part currently snuggling up against my clit? Did that part also go into various anuses and cunts and whatnot? Oh, God, what a thought.
Eventually Jefferson returned. “I didn’t realize I could turn it all the way up,” I explained, turning the vibrator off and yanking the bullet out. “Um, does this part always go here?” I meant, does this particular bullet always go inside? Which part gets covered by a condom, etc?
They can go anywhere,” Jefferson lectured, “This can go in your clit, or your ass, or…”
“I know, I mean, do you put condoms on the other parts? I mean, this part,” – I pointed to the bullet that had been rubbing my clit, “Could go into someone’s ass, you know? I mean--”
“Well, that would be a problem if I didn’t clean my things,” Jefferson twinkled.
“Ah.”
“Do you want something to drink?”
“Do you have Diet Coke?"
“Yes, but it’s been up someone’s ASS!” Jefferson hooted with laughter, and collapsed on top of me. I smirked, relieved he wasn’t offended that I’d worried about his sex hygiene.
He pushed me against the mattress and lay on top of me, shoving his body against me. “You know I’m going to fuck your ass,” he crooned in my ear, “And you’re going to say, ‘Oh, Jefferson, don’t stop!’” Here he switched into falsetto, presumably imitating my voice. “And I’ll say [and here Jefferson lowered his voice to a bass rumble,] ‘Yeah, take it!’”
I snorted against the pillow. “That’s very sexy.”
Jefferson continued in this vein for a while, acting out a dialogue in which I moaned with delight and he grunted macho platitudes. It was like I had been transported to Planet of the 14-Year Old Boy. It was pretty ridiculous. “Do you do this with everyone you sleep with?” I gulped with laughter. “Cause I can see it must be a huge turn on.”
Eventually we fell asleep. I am a light sleeper, and a restless one. At one point Jefferson woke me up: “Suck my cock,” he said. His voice was thick and dark with sleep.
I slid right down and took his cock in my mouth. First the lesson, now the practical! I was strangely nervous.
He shoved his dick into my mouth, all the way in. I could hear the saliva slap against his dick. I kept gagging and choking, it was sloppy and loud and I went at it eagerly.
Eventually Jefferson pulled his cock out of my mouth and groaned. He came, and came and came, with a series of sighs and jerks, a long spume of liquid. It was everywhere. I was leaning over him, watching his face as he came, and his come was all over my stomach. It got into the ends of my hair, my face, even my right nostril. I blew my nose.
It got light and we lay close together. I stroked his thinning hair, which stood up around his head like a crown. “I love your hair,” I smiled
Thursday, December 07, 2006
In Which I Learn Something New (Part I of II)
Once again I turned up at Jefferson’s with alcohol. Since he hadn’t had a chance to get tested, we weren’t having sex, but still, I was nervous. Maybe more nervous that we weren’t having sex. Cause that left more time for … stuff.
As usual, we nattered away for an hour or so, sitting on his sofa. At one point Jefferson observed that we hadn’t kissed or anything – was it his responsibility to make a move? I had kind of expected him to. In part because, you know, part of what we’re doing is dominance/submission, but also, I don’t know, I was just waiting for him to take the lead cause it’s easier that way. Easier for me. If I don’t make the first move, then I can’t be rejected. I said as much. But then I launched myself at him eagerly, and we made out on his couch, listening to Todd Rundgren.
In his bedroom he sat in the armchair while I undressed. I was wearing tights, which seem to demand a teasing, stripper-like unveiling, but, I don’t know, it seemed so calculated. So instead I just dragged them off. Jefferson observed that my disrobing technique seemed a little perfunctory.
“I know,” I complained. “It just seems coy to strip off like that.” What’s my deal with coyness? I’d like to be sexy, but I hate the thought of being sort of … well, the only way I can think of it is Jessica Simpson-like. The combination of total obliviousness and salaciousness. I’d like to be sexy because I’m straightforward, not sexy because I’m too dumb to realize I’m being a tease. But really, I have to work on this. There ought to be a happy medium between taking off my clothes and pretending I’m Carmen Electra performing strip aerobics. Perhaps I should undress slowly – but not too slowly-- while maintaining eye contact and not smiling. Not frowning, but not smirking, either. Hmmm.
“I like you in skirts,” Jefferson said, eyeing me. “That’s a good look on you.”
I like wearing skirts cause I hate the way my legs look in jeans.
“Thanks.” Naked, I edged into his lap. “I’m insecure about my looks,” I explained. I don’t know why I felt compelled to reveal that, but as he’s read much of this blog I guess it’s not a surprise. I squinted at Jefferson thoughtfully. “I bet you tell all the smart girls they’re pretty and all the pretty girls they’re smart,” I realized.
“I don’t think--”
“No, you’re not calculating,” I said. I looked at him. “I like that.”
“Why don’t you undress me?” Jefferson suggested at last. I lifted his pullover and t-shirt over his head, and then tugged at his pajama bottoms. He was pale, and freckled. “Wow,” I said. I liked the way he looked, especially his paleness. I commented on this.
My mouth traveled down along his belly and towards the crop of fair, curly hair that covered his groin and lower abdomen. I buried my face in his groin and sniffed. He smelled sort of sweet. “You smell like maple syrup!” I said. “Or maybe a granola bar…” I sniffed again. “An Oat and Honey one?” I considered.
He laughed.
My mouth moved around to his cock and I breathed him in, and licked at him, like a cat. He stood up and I repositioned myself, on my knees, so I could suck him off.
“Here,” he said after a moment. “The underside, here, is the most sensitive. You don’t have to pay much attention to the tip.”
I felt chastened. I have always felt proud of my blowjobs, but perhaps they are given with more enthusiasm than skill.
“OK.” I wrapped my mouth around his cock again, and started sucking away. He pushed his cock further into my mouth, and started to gag when I felt the tip hit the back of my throat.
“Relax,” said Jefferson. OK, OK. I took a deep breath, and took him in again. “Don’t give me a blowjob now, just concentrate on taking it in,” he said.
“Ah,” I said. When his cock reached the back of my throat I thought for a minute I couldn’t breathe, but of course I could. It’s like when you swallow but keep the back of your throat closed. It was just pressure in a place I wasn’t used to. I held up one finger to signal, Wait. I got a bit more comfortable with his cock sitting against my throat. Then I moved a bit, and Jefferson pushed his cock forward, and I felt it slip into my throat. Tears sprang to my eyes; I gagged.
“You took a lot in!” Jefferson said encouragingly.
I sat on my haunches, bemused. “I always thought deep throat was a metaphor,” I gasped. “I didn’t realize you could actually swallow a dick.” I felt like the world’s biggest ignoramus. What had I thought deep throating someone meant? I guess that if you gagged, you had done it. Jesus Christ! How come I hadn’t realized that, logically, after it hits the back of the throat, the cock can go further? Down? I rubbed my eyes.
This is what it means to have your mouth fucked, I thought. Never mind blow jobs, this is having your mouth fucked. I took him again, and as I struggled past the tension and pressure Jefferson said, “I’m all the way in.” I looked down and saw no part of his dick whatsoever, it was all in me, hard and full. I was thrilled. He pushed his dick a little farther into my throat, the farthest it had been. I felt my throat widen a bit. Then I gagged, and gasped.
“I thought it was a metaphor,” I repeated. How did I get to be 33 without realizing this?
***
He went down on me. That is generally a source of anxiety for me, since I rarely get off. My mind always wanders, and I feel guilty that I haven’t come. He flicked his tongue over my clit with professional skill. “How’s that?” he asked, squinting up at me.
“It’s good,” I gasped. Only every time I thought I might come the mechanism in me sort of broke, and I was left on the edge. “I keep reaching this plateau,” I said. “Um… a little higher…”
We sat on his floor with my legs wrapped around him.
“Wanna get married? Let’s get married,” said Jefferson.
“I want six kids,” I warned him.
He started to laugh: “I’m halfway there.”
I started thinking about myself, and Jefferson, and Jordan and Daniel. And I thought, maybe I’m submissive because that way I only have to obey; and if I obey, I can’t be bad at it. That is, if I’m no good, it’s not my fault. (Is having things not be my fault my driving motivation? Sometimes I wonder). Perhaps my submissiveness is an aspect of sexual insecurity. Funny. Although I didn’t start regularly having sex until I was about 24, I’ve never thought of myself as sexually insecure. I guess it’s because I come pretty easily. As though that makes me savvy, rather than just lucky. Anyway. I wanted to tell all Jefferson this.
“I just have the urge to keep yattering at you,” I said.
“Well, we can talk,” he pointed out. We clambered up onto his bed. “Do you want another drink?”
I looked over at the bedside table, where a quarter inch of whisky sat in a glass tumbler. “I think I’d like to sip yours,” I said at last. “Maybe a very small whisky, please.”
See, when I come across insights like the one above, I don’t generally share them with anyone but my therapist Caroline, and sometimes Marc. I mean, I express my anger and happiness and whatnot, but I don’t like to emote about my thoughts. I just think that most emotional revelations are interesting primarily to the people they happen to. It’s so easy to talk about oneself (ahem!) and while I can do that for hours, I do not want to bore the guy I’m fucking. Oh, and I might as well admit it, I think my instinct to not always talk preserves a little mystery. There. All right. I said it.
SIDEBAR I don’t deliberately withhold information, it’s just that stuff like this – the idea that my instinct for submission might have its roots in my fear of being bad in bed – well, like I said, this isn’t fascinating to anyone but me, I should imagine. Plus, I am wary of revealing just how insecure I am, about my sexual prowess, and my attractiveness to men. There’s no value in that kind of vulnerability, I think. It’s just a roundabout way of asking to have one’s ego stroked with statements like “No, you’re totally hot, you’re the best ever!” And those statements, under these circumstances, mean nothing except that the person asking for them (i.e. me) has self-esteem issues. Self esteem issues are never attractive, and I always want to be attractive to the man I’m sleeping with. Anyway, it’s not Jefferson’s, or anyone else’s, job to convince me that I’m pretty. (That job belongs—or belonged, as that ship sailed some time ago-- to my mother, who missed that part. But we’ll leave my grievances against my mother for the time being, since they’re not nearly as good copy as my sex life). It’s only his job to believe that I’m pretty. Cause I do think any man I sleep with should believe I’m good looking, and that he’s lucky to sleep with me. I would hate to go to bed with someone who didn’t think I was attractive. God willing, I will never, ever do that. I do think a responsible and respectful lover tells his/her partner s/he’s gorgeous. That’s just polite and aids the shedding of inhibitions. Anyway. SIDEBAR ENDS
Jefferson brought me a drink and lay on the bed, and I straddled him. “It’s just,” I started. “I don’t want to fail you. I want you to enjoy yourself here.”
“Are you saying that I don’t have to like you?” said Jefferson.
“No!” I was horrified. Like I said, I have self-esteem issues, but I should hope my sense of self would demand a little more than a man merely tolerating me. “No, you have to like me,” I said sternly, though it’s hard to be stern when you’re naked and sitting on top of someone. “Otherwise there would be no point. No, that’s not what I’m getting at.”
I thought for a minute. “You know,” I said, “With Daniel, it’s like I’m in charge, cause I’m older, and I can’t do anything wrong. We have a great time together,” I hastened to add. “And with Jordan, I can’t do anything wrong with him, either, because he’s in charge. I can fail, but it’s his responsibility. He can direct me. With you, there’s a little more to it. It’s not just me being submissive, and it’s more demanding than what I do with Daniel. And I want this to be fun for you, and not just about you giving me lessons.” At least, that’s the gist of what I said. I was feeling muzzy and rambling. What I think I meant was: with Jefferson, I feel the responsibility not (just) to please him, but for him to have a good time. I know Daniel has a good time. Jordan… I dunno, it’s not about that, exactly; we’re not friends.
“It’s not like there’s only one way for you to be with me,” Jefferson observed. He said some other insightful and nice things, too, only I can’t remember what they were. But he said, “I want to do lots of things with you, have sex with you and watch movies and beat up on you…” That last part was perhaps not the most traditional declaration of intent, but I got the idea.
As usual, we nattered away for an hour or so, sitting on his sofa. At one point Jefferson observed that we hadn’t kissed or anything – was it his responsibility to make a move? I had kind of expected him to. In part because, you know, part of what we’re doing is dominance/submission, but also, I don’t know, I was just waiting for him to take the lead cause it’s easier that way. Easier for me. If I don’t make the first move, then I can’t be rejected. I said as much. But then I launched myself at him eagerly, and we made out on his couch, listening to Todd Rundgren.
In his bedroom he sat in the armchair while I undressed. I was wearing tights, which seem to demand a teasing, stripper-like unveiling, but, I don’t know, it seemed so calculated. So instead I just dragged them off. Jefferson observed that my disrobing technique seemed a little perfunctory.
“I know,” I complained. “It just seems coy to strip off like that.” What’s my deal with coyness? I’d like to be sexy, but I hate the thought of being sort of … well, the only way I can think of it is Jessica Simpson-like. The combination of total obliviousness and salaciousness. I’d like to be sexy because I’m straightforward, not sexy because I’m too dumb to realize I’m being a tease. But really, I have to work on this. There ought to be a happy medium between taking off my clothes and pretending I’m Carmen Electra performing strip aerobics. Perhaps I should undress slowly – but not too slowly-- while maintaining eye contact and not smiling. Not frowning, but not smirking, either. Hmmm.
“I like you in skirts,” Jefferson said, eyeing me. “That’s a good look on you.”
I like wearing skirts cause I hate the way my legs look in jeans.
“Thanks.” Naked, I edged into his lap. “I’m insecure about my looks,” I explained. I don’t know why I felt compelled to reveal that, but as he’s read much of this blog I guess it’s not a surprise. I squinted at Jefferson thoughtfully. “I bet you tell all the smart girls they’re pretty and all the pretty girls they’re smart,” I realized.
“I don’t think--”
“No, you’re not calculating,” I said. I looked at him. “I like that.”
“Why don’t you undress me?” Jefferson suggested at last. I lifted his pullover and t-shirt over his head, and then tugged at his pajama bottoms. He was pale, and freckled. “Wow,” I said. I liked the way he looked, especially his paleness. I commented on this.
My mouth traveled down along his belly and towards the crop of fair, curly hair that covered his groin and lower abdomen. I buried my face in his groin and sniffed. He smelled sort of sweet. “You smell like maple syrup!” I said. “Or maybe a granola bar…” I sniffed again. “An Oat and Honey one?” I considered.
He laughed.
My mouth moved around to his cock and I breathed him in, and licked at him, like a cat. He stood up and I repositioned myself, on my knees, so I could suck him off.
“Here,” he said after a moment. “The underside, here, is the most sensitive. You don’t have to pay much attention to the tip.”
I felt chastened. I have always felt proud of my blowjobs, but perhaps they are given with more enthusiasm than skill.
“OK.” I wrapped my mouth around his cock again, and started sucking away. He pushed his cock further into my mouth, and started to gag when I felt the tip hit the back of my throat.
“Relax,” said Jefferson. OK, OK. I took a deep breath, and took him in again. “Don’t give me a blowjob now, just concentrate on taking it in,” he said.
“Ah,” I said. When his cock reached the back of my throat I thought for a minute I couldn’t breathe, but of course I could. It’s like when you swallow but keep the back of your throat closed. It was just pressure in a place I wasn’t used to. I held up one finger to signal, Wait. I got a bit more comfortable with his cock sitting against my throat. Then I moved a bit, and Jefferson pushed his cock forward, and I felt it slip into my throat. Tears sprang to my eyes; I gagged.
“You took a lot in!” Jefferson said encouragingly.
I sat on my haunches, bemused. “I always thought deep throat was a metaphor,” I gasped. “I didn’t realize you could actually swallow a dick.” I felt like the world’s biggest ignoramus. What had I thought deep throating someone meant? I guess that if you gagged, you had done it. Jesus Christ! How come I hadn’t realized that, logically, after it hits the back of the throat, the cock can go further? Down? I rubbed my eyes.
This is what it means to have your mouth fucked, I thought. Never mind blow jobs, this is having your mouth fucked. I took him again, and as I struggled past the tension and pressure Jefferson said, “I’m all the way in.” I looked down and saw no part of his dick whatsoever, it was all in me, hard and full. I was thrilled. He pushed his dick a little farther into my throat, the farthest it had been. I felt my throat widen a bit. Then I gagged, and gasped.
“I thought it was a metaphor,” I repeated. How did I get to be 33 without realizing this?
***
He went down on me. That is generally a source of anxiety for me, since I rarely get off. My mind always wanders, and I feel guilty that I haven’t come. He flicked his tongue over my clit with professional skill. “How’s that?” he asked, squinting up at me.
“It’s good,” I gasped. Only every time I thought I might come the mechanism in me sort of broke, and I was left on the edge. “I keep reaching this plateau,” I said. “Um… a little higher…”
We sat on his floor with my legs wrapped around him.
“Wanna get married? Let’s get married,” said Jefferson.
“I want six kids,” I warned him.
He started to laugh: “I’m halfway there.”
I started thinking about myself, and Jefferson, and Jordan and Daniel. And I thought, maybe I’m submissive because that way I only have to obey; and if I obey, I can’t be bad at it. That is, if I’m no good, it’s not my fault. (Is having things not be my fault my driving motivation? Sometimes I wonder). Perhaps my submissiveness is an aspect of sexual insecurity. Funny. Although I didn’t start regularly having sex until I was about 24, I’ve never thought of myself as sexually insecure. I guess it’s because I come pretty easily. As though that makes me savvy, rather than just lucky. Anyway. I wanted to tell all Jefferson this.
“I just have the urge to keep yattering at you,” I said.
“Well, we can talk,” he pointed out. We clambered up onto his bed. “Do you want another drink?”
I looked over at the bedside table, where a quarter inch of whisky sat in a glass tumbler. “I think I’d like to sip yours,” I said at last. “Maybe a very small whisky, please.”
See, when I come across insights like the one above, I don’t generally share them with anyone but my therapist Caroline, and sometimes Marc. I mean, I express my anger and happiness and whatnot, but I don’t like to emote about my thoughts. I just think that most emotional revelations are interesting primarily to the people they happen to. It’s so easy to talk about oneself (ahem!) and while I can do that for hours, I do not want to bore the guy I’m fucking. Oh, and I might as well admit it, I think my instinct to not always talk preserves a little mystery. There. All right. I said it.
SIDEBAR I don’t deliberately withhold information, it’s just that stuff like this – the idea that my instinct for submission might have its roots in my fear of being bad in bed – well, like I said, this isn’t fascinating to anyone but me, I should imagine. Plus, I am wary of revealing just how insecure I am, about my sexual prowess, and my attractiveness to men. There’s no value in that kind of vulnerability, I think. It’s just a roundabout way of asking to have one’s ego stroked with statements like “No, you’re totally hot, you’re the best ever!” And those statements, under these circumstances, mean nothing except that the person asking for them (i.e. me) has self-esteem issues. Self esteem issues are never attractive, and I always want to be attractive to the man I’m sleeping with. Anyway, it’s not Jefferson’s, or anyone else’s, job to convince me that I’m pretty. (That job belongs—or belonged, as that ship sailed some time ago-- to my mother, who missed that part. But we’ll leave my grievances against my mother for the time being, since they’re not nearly as good copy as my sex life). It’s only his job to believe that I’m pretty. Cause I do think any man I sleep with should believe I’m good looking, and that he’s lucky to sleep with me. I would hate to go to bed with someone who didn’t think I was attractive. God willing, I will never, ever do that. I do think a responsible and respectful lover tells his/her partner s/he’s gorgeous. That’s just polite and aids the shedding of inhibitions. Anyway. SIDEBAR ENDS
Jefferson brought me a drink and lay on the bed, and I straddled him. “It’s just,” I started. “I don’t want to fail you. I want you to enjoy yourself here.”
“Are you saying that I don’t have to like you?” said Jefferson.
“No!” I was horrified. Like I said, I have self-esteem issues, but I should hope my sense of self would demand a little more than a man merely tolerating me. “No, you have to like me,” I said sternly, though it’s hard to be stern when you’re naked and sitting on top of someone. “Otherwise there would be no point. No, that’s not what I’m getting at.”
I thought for a minute. “You know,” I said, “With Daniel, it’s like I’m in charge, cause I’m older, and I can’t do anything wrong. We have a great time together,” I hastened to add. “And with Jordan, I can’t do anything wrong with him, either, because he’s in charge. I can fail, but it’s his responsibility. He can direct me. With you, there’s a little more to it. It’s not just me being submissive, and it’s more demanding than what I do with Daniel. And I want this to be fun for you, and not just about you giving me lessons.” At least, that’s the gist of what I said. I was feeling muzzy and rambling. What I think I meant was: with Jefferson, I feel the responsibility not (just) to please him, but for him to have a good time. I know Daniel has a good time. Jordan… I dunno, it’s not about that, exactly; we’re not friends.
“It’s not like there’s only one way for you to be with me,” Jefferson observed. He said some other insightful and nice things, too, only I can’t remember what they were. But he said, “I want to do lots of things with you, have sex with you and watch movies and beat up on you…” That last part was perhaps not the most traditional declaration of intent, but I got the idea.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Just Like a Real Date
We had our weekend date. Daniel met me at the station platform near his house and we rode down to the village together, to see a jazz singer he likes a lot. As we were walking to the café – one I used to go to in high school with my friend Amy– Daniel mused, “I have a feeling we’re going to run into my brother tonight.” Daniel had called him before leaving his apartment but got no answer, and was convinced his brother, Matt, was on his way to hear the singer, too. They’d recently run into one another outside a K.T. Tunstall concert, so this wasn’t unprecedented.
As it turned out, this was the case: “Hey!” said Daniel, clapping his brother on the back. Matt was tall, bulkier than Daniel, with a round, handsome face. He introduced us, and we went inside, where we caught the end of the set of a cute singer/songwriter, who lamented, “It’s getting worse…” in a soulful voice over his guitar, the very cliché of the emo boy. Which I thought was pretty funny.
His brother was waiting for a friend. Matt didn’t seem especially taken with me; at least; I didn’t find him particularly friendly. But this may have been because, as Daniel later explained somewhat sheepishly, his brother is used to seeing him with Robin. Ah. Eventually Matt’s friend showed up, and they retired to a nearby table. I leant against Daniel, and he absently stroked my hair. Just like a real date.
“There’s this swing party next month, after Christmas,” said Daniel.
“That sounds fun,” I said. Note the noncommittal-ness.
“Do you. Want to come with me?” he grinned, aware of his awkwardness.
“I'd love to.” I wondered what he was doing for New Year’s Eve, and if I’d have the courage to ask him if he wanted to do something. Probably he’s already committed to Robin. But still!
The singer was great, although I’m not crazy about jazz, and it was nice to just sit in a small café and listen to music, even though I was eating the most boring food and couldn’t even have a drink, thanks to the South Beach Diet. When it was over we bid his brother goodbye and headed back to the train.
At his place we climbed into bed but it occurred to me that Daniel was too tired for sex. Grr! “I can stop nudging, you,” I offered, nobly. “I’m sensitive to your need for sleep.”
“But I’m sensitive to your need for fucking,” he responded gallantly.
“That makes me sound so … needy,” I exclaimed, dismayed.
We turned off the light and spooned, but after a minute or two his hand sneaked over to my pussy and started stroking me. “Not too tired?” I asked, and rolled over on top of him.
As it turned out, this was the case: “Hey!” said Daniel, clapping his brother on the back. Matt was tall, bulkier than Daniel, with a round, handsome face. He introduced us, and we went inside, where we caught the end of the set of a cute singer/songwriter, who lamented, “It’s getting worse…” in a soulful voice over his guitar, the very cliché of the emo boy. Which I thought was pretty funny.
His brother was waiting for a friend. Matt didn’t seem especially taken with me; at least; I didn’t find him particularly friendly. But this may have been because, as Daniel later explained somewhat sheepishly, his brother is used to seeing him with Robin. Ah. Eventually Matt’s friend showed up, and they retired to a nearby table. I leant against Daniel, and he absently stroked my hair. Just like a real date.
“There’s this swing party next month, after Christmas,” said Daniel.
“That sounds fun,” I said. Note the noncommittal-ness.
“Do you. Want to come with me?” he grinned, aware of his awkwardness.
“I'd love to.” I wondered what he was doing for New Year’s Eve, and if I’d have the courage to ask him if he wanted to do something. Probably he’s already committed to Robin. But still!
The singer was great, although I’m not crazy about jazz, and it was nice to just sit in a small café and listen to music, even though I was eating the most boring food and couldn’t even have a drink, thanks to the South Beach Diet. When it was over we bid his brother goodbye and headed back to the train.
At his place we climbed into bed but it occurred to me that Daniel was too tired for sex. Grr! “I can stop nudging, you,” I offered, nobly. “I’m sensitive to your need for sleep.”
“But I’m sensitive to your need for fucking,” he responded gallantly.
“That makes me sound so … needy,” I exclaimed, dismayed.
We turned off the light and spooned, but after a minute or two his hand sneaked over to my pussy and started stroking me. “Not too tired?” I asked, and rolled over on top of him.
Friday, December 01, 2006
I'm a Big Girl Now
I had a date with Daniel. On Monday, despite my avowed hatred of IM, I had, again, ended up online with him for a bit. And I said, Two things: One. I’d really like to see you on a weekend night, cause I’d like to spend a lazy morning with you. And two, the weekend is a long way from now.
Daniel can take a hint, and said, Well, let’s get together tomorrow and on Friday. Ha!
We were fooling around in my room when I heard a shriek. It was Jenny. We were half dressed. I figured she had seen another roach. I am on a tough love drive regarding Jenny and the kitchen: dirty protest! I’m sick of constantly taking out the garbage. She can do it. Maybe I’m not the only one who takes out the garbage, or cleans the kitchen sink of vegetable peelings. But it certainly does feel that way sometimes. Anyway.
A minute later there was a knock on the bedroom door. I opened it.
“There’s a cockroach,” Jenny said. “Please?”
“Daniel!” I called. Just like he was my boyfriend. My non-boyfriend good-naturedly took care of the problem. Jenny was wearing a tee-shirt and super-short shorts, and I wondered if Daniel found her attractive.
“Thank you,” I said when we’d repaired to my room, the insect crisis averted. “For that you get the sex act of your choice. Within reason,” I amended.
We were fooling around, talking and kissing, when he interrupted me: “I’m going to suck on your tits,” he announced, and bent his head to my breast.
It was the matter-of-factness that did me in. I got wet.
We fucked and it was lovely. Being with Daniel is so sweet, and the terrible undercurrent I feel, that it’s dangerous for me to see him, has abated.
Daniel can take a hint, and said, Well, let’s get together tomorrow and on Friday. Ha!
We were fooling around in my room when I heard a shriek. It was Jenny. We were half dressed. I figured she had seen another roach. I am on a tough love drive regarding Jenny and the kitchen: dirty protest! I’m sick of constantly taking out the garbage. She can do it. Maybe I’m not the only one who takes out the garbage, or cleans the kitchen sink of vegetable peelings. But it certainly does feel that way sometimes. Anyway.
A minute later there was a knock on the bedroom door. I opened it.
“There’s a cockroach,” Jenny said. “Please?”
“Daniel!” I called. Just like he was my boyfriend. My non-boyfriend good-naturedly took care of the problem. Jenny was wearing a tee-shirt and super-short shorts, and I wondered if Daniel found her attractive.
“Thank you,” I said when we’d repaired to my room, the insect crisis averted. “For that you get the sex act of your choice. Within reason,” I amended.
We were fooling around, talking and kissing, when he interrupted me: “I’m going to suck on your tits,” he announced, and bent his head to my breast.
It was the matter-of-factness that did me in. I got wet.
We fucked and it was lovely. Being with Daniel is so sweet, and the terrible undercurrent I feel, that it’s dangerous for me to see him, has abated.
“What kind of vibrator do you use?”
“I don’t have one.”
“You don’t have a vibrator?!”
“Nuh uh.”
“How do you masturbate?”
“I use my hand.” I’m very low tech.
We were cuddling and nattering away when he said something and I thought, “Can’t he be qui-” and it hit me: Hey! Daniel is not perfect, and he’s not the perfect man for me. He’s nice, and sexy, and cute and smart and lovely, but it’s not the end all and be all if I’m with him. This was compounded by the fact that he soon brought out this idiotic computer game thingy he has (sort of like a PSP, but not) and began playing it. It is a remarkably stupid Japanese game which plays pop songs that the gamer has to tap out the beat to in order to win. Listening to him concentrate on that game I thought, God, can’t you turn that thing off? Then: Hey. I’m a big girl. I can do this. And I believed it.
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