Dog Love

It’s not my house, and it’s not my dog, so it’s not my rules. I didn’t think about it until recently, but then it occurred to me one night as we were on the couch fucking, and I glanced over with my eyes open in a moment of glancing when: there was the dog, with its head buried in a pillow. I didn’t let this moment of concern for another living creature stop me from doing what I was doing, but the next day the image of dog sitting there, looking slightly bereaved and trying to bury his head struck me. Should I not be fucking in front of the dog? Should I be saving my coital activities for the bedroom where the dog cannot see? (But can probably still hear. Not all things can be helped.) Is this traumatic for the dog? I’ve never owned a dog before, so I don’t know what the protocol for this one is. Do we take him to therapy so he can bark about his emotions? Is it bad to let the dog see me naked? I try to pet the dog the next morning when I leave, but he shies away from me as I walk out the door. I try not to let it get to my head as I go about my day, but I do have to wonder: is this an okay thing to do?

Morning Sex

I refuse to move during morning sex, and also I refuse to open my eyes or participate in any other exciting way. Morning sex is now and always will be my least favorite time to have sex. Mornings are just generally painful for me, and while I do enjoy sex, I have to admit that I prefer sleeping in. Sex is a pretty jarring experience, and I usually feel very delicate in the morning. Like a freshly dew dropped flower. Except now I’m getting tore up by a penis. Le sigh. I guess that’s okay, because it’s also nice to start the day off with a good deed, and, hey, I don’t mind morning sex actually. Really, it’s kind of comforting once I get into it and accept the fact that I am not sleeping right now. But, otherwise, generally, morning sex is a nonorgasmic experience for me. It’s not that I’m okay with that per se, but I know that I’m going to get mine later, so I’m willing to participate just for the fun of it. Can’t really knock sex. It is pretty cool.

The Failure of Friendship

It’s hard for us to admit that this friendship is failing, but it is. As we sit there and look away from each other, forcing our way through lonely moments. Trying to take ourselves back to the beginning of this friendship, like a love affair that is now ending. We used to be good to each other. This used to work. I think what happened was we started in the same place, but now we are both somewhere vastly different, and we have not arrived together. The ferocity of friendship has not survived time and space, and here we are, together but separate. We used to say things to each other that made us feel better. We used to laugh together, but now we can’t get out of a cycle of mutual hurt. Which is why we are sitting here, avoiding each other, but also avoiding saying what is going on here: this isn’t working anymore. We aren’t best friends anymore. We are merely claws at each other’s throats, and I would like to ungrip myself from the flesh of someone else before I cut in and draw blood. I would like to leave, but for some reason I’m still here. I would like to stop engaging in the mutual delusion that this friendship is the best thing that I can do right now, but I can’t. Instead I am here, and there is destruction in the air. Not the kind of active destruction that one thinks of, replete with images of demolition of old buildings, but, rather, a slow decay. There is rot here. There are noxious fumes. Both of which are invisible at first, but suddenly things turn ugly. Eventually things fall apart. Just by looking at it now, you can’t tell, but on the inside I am filled with nails and spit. He is the hammer in my stomach, swinging wildly, and even though he doesn’t know that all he does is cause me pain these days, what he does know is I hurt him, too. We hurt each other, yet we are both refusing to admit to our own culpability in hurting the other. Which is why we hurt in return. We hurt until we can hurt no more, and here we are, trying to hurt the other person into admitting what they have done, and it is destruction. I am watching us crumble, inch by inch, and neither of us has the strength to build ourselves into something better, especially not after having spent ourselves in this war game of mutual destruction. I wait for it to end. Not the hurting, just the friendship. I wait for the sham of friendship to disappear from the conversation so we can move into not being friends, which will be better. But it will take a long time.

Anal Conundrums

“Wait…do I like anal sex more than you do?”

I’m loafing around, feeling impish, stripped down and sultry. As usual, I have just had sex, and I am sitting there, giving my play by play review. Lately I’ve been feeling a little raucous and raunchy, which has inspired me to beg for both mercy and anal sex. Well, I don’t know…I mean, I know that anal sex is supposed to be one of those things that women do for men because men like it but women don’t really like it so they just suck it up and take it. I have always been under the impression that if you want a guy to love you forever (or at least a reasonable amount of time), you let him in the back door. But I’m also not the type of person to engage in sexual acts that don’t get me off, so my desire to get fucked in the ass has little to do with pleasing him as the primary goal and more to do with the fact that, yes, indeed, I do have anal orgasms! I must admit, sure, at first, when the dick is first sliding in, it can be a little painful. I’d be lying if I tried to act like anal sex was all a bed of roses. But with some lube, a considerate partner, and bit of patience and high pain tolerance, the pain subsides and is replaced by the ecstasy of anal sex. Yes, I am a woman, yes, I like butt stuff.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m from the Bay Area or what, but I was always under the impression that men liked anal sex best out of anything. Like, sex is cool, sure, and vaginas are nice because they’re warm and muscle-y and designed to take dick. But assholes are tighter, and everyone has them. There’s a firmer grip during anal sex, and also it seems that men like the slightly sadistic qualities of anal sex. Anal sex is special. Not everyone gets to have anal sex. Anal sex isn’t a daily activity for most people. Anal sex is how you show love.

“Yeah…I like regular sex better,” he responded.

“Wait – it’s not because you think anal sex is gay, right? Because it’s 2016, and anal sex is for straight people, too, now.”

“No. It just feels better.”

“Oh…okay,” I replied, feeling like all my illusions had been shattered. Which left me in a bit of pickle: if he’s not going to initiate and demand anal sex, are we going to have it? And if we don’t have anal sex, what does that mean? I sat there, feeling a bit mystified. Really, life had not prepared me for this situation: a man who didn’t want anal sex. On the one hand, I was beginning to feel that perhaps my sexual talent was being wasted, and my ability to take it all up the ass would be lost on him. On the other hand, part of the fun is the mutual thrill; just as if someone doesn’t like fucking my pussy, if someone is unenthused by anal sex it kinda brings the whole vibe down. (Although, as my best friend tells me, anal sex is only fun if someone really doesn’t want to do it. I see where she’s coming from, but, ugh, I prefer mutual eroticism, personally.)

I was trying not to feel sad, when it hit me: “Oh, well, maybe I’ll just put butt plugs in when we have sex instead then, is that okay?”

“Yeah!” he replied enthusiastically, obviously relieved to be free of the duty of stimulating my asshole. I think that’s a pretty fair win-win situation: he doesn’t have to stick his dick somewhere that he doesn’t want to, and I don’t have to be robbed of anal play. Plus I guess that’s kinda like DP, which I must admit I’ve never done, but now if I ever get the opportunity I’ll be better prepared for it.

A Fun Trip to The Sex Shop to Buy Lube on A Saturday Morning in Oakland, CA

“I’m serious. You need to buy some lube. We’re going to the sex shop right now.”

“What! But I thought you said you had lube!”

“Yeah, I do, but I keep it at my house. We mostly have sex at your house. And you don’t have lube.”

“Why don’t you just bring it over to my house and keep it there?”

“Because I use it throughout the week and I don’t want to be stuck at my own house without lube.”

“Huh? What are you using lube for on the daily?”

“For my kegel balls. Anyways, you need to be a good sex host and have some lube. You realize this is why we never have anal sex, right?”

“Fine, fine, you’re right. I’ll just go to Walgreen’s to get it this week.”

“No! We’re going to the sex shop, and I’m not letting you buy the cheapest shit they have.”

“What! You’re already making me buy lube, and now I have to cash out?”

“You realize that lube is a chemical that is literally going inside my body, staying there, and getting absorbed into my lower intestine, right? It’s not something I can just wipe off. You’re getting something that isn’t going to give me cancer twelve years from now.”

“Ugh, fine, okay…”

“On the upside, we can start having more anal sex now!”

“I think you’re more into anal sex than I am.”

“Yeah. I probably am. But, whatever! Win-win for me.”

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He’s Cumming

“Oh my god, I’m cumming!”

He whips out his dick and I look over in glee as, dick in hand, there it goes, squirting out, and now there’s come everywhere. I was kinda hoping he would cum inside me, but I think he’s dealt with too many pregnancies and abortions to fall for that one ever again, although, hey, I’m on the best birth control on the world. Maybe I should tell him. But now isn’t the time for that, as we’re lying there naked and both covered in cum and sweat. The sheets on my bed are slightly slipping off. The pillows are strewn across the floor. It’s like a stunned silence, this moment of afterglow. The sun breaking in from behind the curtains. Both of us lying there, too fucked to move, although I tell him there’s a towel over there, although should I stand up and hand it to him? I don’t feel like standing up. Not after all that fucking. Not after he made me cum like that and the delight of his dick inside me still has me reeling and nailed to the bed.

I don’t know if I should look at him or if I’m supposed to look away. I feel like a greedy child as my eyes graze over his thighs and his cock and the hair on his chest. I’m too afraid to look into his eyes and see what’s in there, so I lean for a little bit and kisses on neck. God, I love to watch him cum. I love to look at him right after he’s done cumming. I like the noises he makes, the things he says. I like feeling his body between my legs as slightly he loses it and succumbs to the sensation of cumming. And cumming. Sometimes I almost want to laugh when he cums, because there’s something inherently funny about cumming. The noises and the motions of cumming – it’s not very serious, but I know if I laugh it might be perceived as ridicule. But, really, I laugh because I’m enjoying every moment of everything that is happening, and I’m thrilled by his dick as he squirts out cum. The beautiful cum. I made him cum. I love making him cum.

God, I would do anything to make him cum. I would make him cum all day, every day, if only he gave me the chance. I would bend over backward just to make him cum, and sometimes I do. I would crawl through dirt with half the produce section rammed up my ass if it would only make him cum. I want him to be cumming forever, here, with me, or at least fucking as furiously as we possibly can. I find a slice of my self worth in his orgasms (and also mine), and I would do anything to make him cum because I know he would do anything to make me cum, too. But enough about me, because isn’t this blog about how much I like to cum all the time? And what about him, the one who makes me cum? The one who makes me cum like crazy whenever I want? I wish that there were some way I could repay him for all the orgasms he has given me, so kindly and so patiently. I know that I will never be able to make him cum as much as he makes me cum, and I guess that is okay, because there are so many men before him (and after, too) who didn’t care nearly as much about my orgasm as he did. It was not nearly as much fun to make those men cum. It is not fun to watch a man cum, after all the work, especially if you know that your own orgasm will never be arriving any time soon. But him? He makes me cum all the time, and all I want is to do the same for him. I want to lie here forever, naked and heaving, covered in his cum and satisfied by knowing that I’m his baby and I make him cum the best out of all the rest of them, ever. If only dreams come true. One day…

When Does Sex End?

Does sex end when the guy cums? Or when the girl taps out? When do we stop fucking? I can never tell, personally, because no matter how much my body might be hurting or shutting down or dried up and desiccated, there’s something in my mind that screams, “Keep going!” Perhaps because I know that this moment will end eventually, but isn’t this everything that I have been working towards all week? Haven’t I wanted, above all other things, to be close to someone else? In the most carnal way possible. We need to keep fucking right now as an act of desperation in order to transcend our skin and our bones, and maybe if we fuck long enough and hard enough, one day we will wake up and we will no longer be separate, but we will have finally become two people in one body. Connected. Not forever, but for as long as it’s pleasant, and cumming is not symbolic of the end of everything that I am trying to achieve here. Cumming is something that I can do over and over again. I go to the gym and work out every day so that when the moment comes for me to take off my clothes and dive in, I will be awake and ready and able to fuck for as long as we need. Until we can fuck no longer. Until I can’t keep my eyes open. Until it is impossible to do this anymore. When my body is wreck and your dick is falling off. Until I can’t possibly cum one more time. Sex ends in a moment of failure, realizing that we are separate now, and we will always be separate, so we might as well sleep it off before we get up and drift apart tomorrow morning (or afternoon). Because sex doesn’t end after one person’s one orgasm, or even if he can’t get it up, or if I’m tired. Sex ends when I no longer want to be close to you, or I can no longer be close to you. Although, if I had my way, sex would never end, and we would be here forever, cycling in and out of fucking and sleeping and eating while the rest of the world melts away. I would like that. Wouldn’t you like that? To fuck me forever? I’ll call it true love, but all you have to do is call me back and come over tomorrow night. It will be wonderful. Forever.

The Fuck Feast Sexual Literacy Test

And, speaking of call backs and sexual literacy tests, here’s a list of things that I expect a man to ace on the first hook up:

  • Mastery of Attraction So, this is everything that happens before we get into the bedroom. A mastery of attraction means that you have a rudimentary understanding of the female ego, interpersonal communication and lust. A little bit of flattery, well responded to text messages, and flirtation. This is also the mastery of being attractive, so, y’know, take a shower and put on some nice shoes, okay?
  • Ability to get it up This is crucial. Look, if you can’t get it up, that’s fine. You overindulged. Or you’re nervous. Or you’re just no that into this. That’s fine. However, if you can’t get it up, why did you wheedle your way into my bedroom? Why are my clothes off if you can’t perform? I understand that we all can’t be perfect all the time, but being able to get an erection is crucial to fucking, and if you can’t do that, then you’re just not ready for this, honey, and you’re wasting my time. It’s back to the friend zone for you. Unless, of course, you make up for it with copious amounts of oral sex. That’s cool.
  • Oral Sex To be specific, cunnilingus. This is so day one. If you don’t eat pussy, then get the fuck away from me. If you don’t eat pussy, I can’t imagine what else it is that you won’t do. Eating pussy is the most basic move in the book, and if you don’t have this mastered, then who are you and what are you doing with your life?

Read more →

A Woman’s Experience of Lust Part II

There are snakes in my eyes as I slither between these sheets to wind up the leg of some new beast, slurping up sins and sensation like a newborn Eve on her first night fucking Adam. And what does it feel like to eat meat, red, raw and dripping while white blankets carry the new stains of another night in heaven. I would like to know what it feels like to be good, but I am too busy being bad to ever stop and pause and consider any other alternative option. I just let my fingers do the talking, whispering sweet nothings to the buttons at the top of your pants, singing sweet songs to your zipper as I zip and unzip and pull down and around. We both know what kind of secrets are hidden therein, all those beautiful inches upon inches of – well, inches of you. Read more →

A Woman’s Experience of Lust

Lust, which is just how I like it. But this is my lust, not yours. This is my deep, red sin, not yours. This is my experience of lust, my singular experience. I cannot vouch for your experience of lust, but I am offering you mine in the hopes that it can illuminate and accentuate your own experience of lust. To make it better. So that we can all experience lust on an elevated level, fine tuned and tingling in the night. This is my experience of lust, gnawing raw through the night, while yours might be elsewhere, sipping tea in the sunshine on a vast, grassy field. My lust is a beast, but yours…well, what is yours? Is your lust a rabbit, soft and petting, or a shark, filled with teeth? Is your lust a car that goes fast and crashes through the median? Or an explosion in a coal mine, killing everything around it? Is it blistering and bright? Yellow and pretty? Or does it skulk around, alone through rooms, looking ugly and yelling loudly?

This is my experience of lust. This is my experience of that chafing, fast emotion. It is a dangerous situation that I wade through wantonly, and you are welcome, dear spectator, to watch me stumble down. But you? Well, I expect you to experience lust in your own way, and if you would like to laugh at me while you do, please be my guest. But if anything, make sure that you experience your lust as beautifully as possible, because I certainly am.