Sex Is Never Meaningless

I learn just as much about myself from solitude, contemplation, and quiet meditation as I do from arguements, crowds, and racous fucking.

A week ago, I had a guy over for a fuck. The first thing he did when he walked in the door was to say “Cute place.” The second, to kiss me. Third, to gag me with his huge cock slamming into the back of my throat.

This is significant for two reasons

1. I am a control addict. I do not like giving it up. I have severe withdrawl which results in bitchiness, a tender ego, and acute anxiety.
2. I don’t like physical discomfort. I don’t like being spanked, pinched, bitten, slapped, cut, burnt, etc.

But as my eyes watered, and my breath faltered, I felt myself push his dick deeper.

“You like sucking my cock, don’t you?”

And as he pulled out, and air flooded my lungs, all I could do was moan as I grabbed his hips to pull him back in again.

 

I did not know that about myself. That I could be so hungry for cock that I would – momentarily – give up my air supply. It’s something I’ve been thinking over for the past week and mostly what I keep thinking is I want that cock back in my throat.

Domestic Kink

I love wearing aprons, baking bread, making sauces, knitting, sewing, cleaning, organizing, hosting, roasting, anything domestic or homey. In an ideal world, I would work quarter-time and spend most of my time at home or out doing errands and seeing friends at their homes. In short, I would be a housewife.

Why? Why would I want to spend so much time at home, making things for other people, slaving away over meals for other people? Why wouldn’t I go out, travel, go to the theatre? Why would I want to do that?

Because it gets me hot.

To imagine my shirt pushed up and my pants pulled down, bent over the counter in my apron and my hands covered in bread dough getting my ass slicked up and rimmed before I’m fucked senseless and then going back to kneading bread and washing my hands before I can pull my pants up again. My ass is bare and pink and he can see it, slap it, grab it whenever he walks by. I think that’s hot.

To blow him in the humid laundry room while I wait for the spin cycle to finish, swallowing his hard dick and his cum and then changing the loads of clothes before sucking him off again. I think that’s hot.

To greet him at the door with a kiss, which turns into necking, which gets me pushed against the front door and my clothes torn off and he fucks me against the door with my legs wrapped around his waist and my hands clutching his jacket, smelling his cologne and cumming on his work clothes. I think that’s hot.

Knowing that he sees my beauty, my talent, my skills, my love for him. Knowing that because he sees, he loves me. He loves me because he sees me.

An Unforseen Happening

I don’t like lube, not for jerking off. And frankly, at this point in my life I find that a few deep breaths and some muscle control make a lubricated condom more than adequate. Usually if I’m going to be having sex with somebody, I tell them to bring lube if they want to use some.

Though I’ve always felt like lube was something I SHOULD have on hand. Especially recently when I had jerked off so much I’d rubbed a small part of my dick a little tender.

Being circumcised has never hurt so much.

So began the search for the Perfect Lube. I dont like things that are too thick, too slick, or too runny, or too thin. I wanted something that would provide enough slip to slide my cock through my hand, and would stay where I put it. In the past, my problems with lube have mainly stemmed from them being so slippery that I, literally, coudln’t maintain a grip on myself. I would have to squeeze the living crap out of my junk just to get some basic sensations. Inevitably, I would wipe whatever it was off with a towel and go back to life without lube.

But now, thanks to all the reviews on Babeland, I have found exactly what I wanted in Eros Bodyglide. On the plus side, it actually conditions and protects latex and is recommended for fetish wear as well as lubricant. Not that I’m interested in wrapping my body in latex – except for one very important part.

I’ve been thinking of all the ways I want this new boy to fuck me with this stuff slicking up his condom-covered cock and it’s delicious pondering the possibilities.

There’s another post brewing in the back of my brain on the topic of domestic kink. What’s that? I’m not sure yet, but I have some ideas.

Cycling Through

This boy and I.

We are just friends. This beautiful, smart, funny, shining boy and I are just friends and that does not break my heart. In my life I am learning to take people on the terms they present to me, especially when they are comely, lovely souls. But just as this possible romance fades away into friendship, a new boy has entered the picture.

He fucks me so good. The light in his eyes is hot and scary and makes me so horny. His touch sears my skin, his dick makes me drool, his lips are painfully soft and I love to bite them, crush them with my mouth. I think we are going to be good friends and better fucks. He is in an open relationship, so I have no illusions of being his boyfriend, his partner. I have plenty of fantasies of all the many ways we’re going to debauch our beautiful selves together. I like this new boy a lot.

With Legs Wide Open

I forgot that repressing my sexual desires usually means I get a little voriacious when I finally let go again. After giving my best friend his first good blowjob, I’ve met with four guys only one of whom actually made it all the way to giving me a halfway decent fuck and the other who automatically went into my Top Five Fucks I’d Like Again list. The other two were total flops.

I don’t think that it’s going to work out with the boy, as painful as that is to admit. He thinks that I’m weird for liking him. Weird? What am I supposed to do with that? I don’t know, so I decided to get laid in the meantime. The boy’s away at a conference this week, so hopefully by the time he’s back I’ll have gotten my ya-ya’s out and I can talk to him and see what’s what for real. I don’t want to stop seeing him, as I feel like he would be an amazing friend but part of me is still dissatisfied that our relationship – such as it is – has played out this way thus far. I always get afraid when I get invested so quickly, because inevitably it ends poorly.

Now that I’ve gotten three positive reviews about my head-giving skills I find I am much more interesting in sucking cock than I was just a week ago.

Experimental

I just spent the evening with my best friend. We hadn’t talked since before Christmas, maybe the end of October, and he called me up to go out to Thai food. This is how we generally reconcile after fights or long-periods of not-talking. It’s familiar, and it’s our favorite restaurant, and we love going together.

One of the things I learned while we were spending time apart was that I hold on to him so tightly that sometimes I ruin our friendship for us. I learned that I have to let go and be just a teensy bit more zen about what he does with his life, because being his best friend doesn’t mean being his keeper.

We talked about what we’re doing, we’re both seeing people. I’d just had my 4th date with the man, he has had a girlfriend for two months. He wants to break up with her already, and I surprised myself by laughing and saying “You have to stop doing this.” I explained my disinterest in his girlfriends like this, “I never know how long you’re gonna keep them around, so until I see a hint that she’ll be a part of our life together I don’t feel much need to get to know these people.” To which he did not have much of a response.

Afterwards we came back to my apartment and lay in my bed together, which is not unusual. We’re affectionate a great deal of the time, to the point where I have to point out to crestfallen-looking girls that he’s actually straight and not my boyfriend. We cuddle, hug, stand close, even sometimes dance around. My point being, it’s not unusual for us to be in a bed together.

Once, about a year ago, he asked me if I would ever want to blow him. I told him that if he sincerely wanted me to give him a blowjob, I would. We almost got there one night, as he stood in his boxers and I started to get on my knees he got nervous and pulled his pants up.

Tonight he brought it up again, as he has a few times since then. Usually to tease me. I think he finds it interesting that I would offer to suck his dick, and that I find him sexually attractive, but that I don’t actively pursue him. I let him know that if he wanted to do anything, I’m open to it and would want to do it safely and give him all the possible knowledge of any potential consequences. I think that it’s important, as his friend, to offer that kind of outlet and safety. I’d much rather have him get a blowjob from me than from a stranger at a party, or at an anonymous gloryhole. First of all, who knows if he’d catch anything. Secondly, to assure quality of experience. I know that I give amazing head, and if my best friend is going to be getting a blowjob from a guy I want it to be the best and safest he can get.

As we were cuddling in my bed we were talking about it, and I answered his questions the same way I always have.

“Can I get up and leave afterwards?”
 Isn’t that how you usually leave anyway?

“What if I don’t like it?”

You can ask me to stop. 

“I don’t want it to make things awkward for us.”

I’ve already decided that it wouldn’t be awkward for me. I love you, you are my best friend and we have already fought about most of our differences and still we love each other and want to spend time together. If it would be awkward for you, that is something you have to decide for yourself.

“I think I want you to.”

Yeah?

“Yeah. Would you blow me?”

If you really want me to.

“I want you to blow me.”

So I did.

I don’t feel bad about it. I want to do it again. I’ve decided this is something he has to control, since its his feelings that I think are going to be most affected. Afterwards, he said that he felt perfectly fine except for the plus of having just had the best blowjob of his life.

I don’t feel guilty about his girlfriend. I don’t feel guilty about the boy I’ve been seeing. I don’t feel guilty about playing out the gay-guy-loving-straight-cock stereotype. I feel almost like because of our friendship, it’s not the same. It’s not cheating. It’s not dishonest. It’s not anybody’s business what two friends make of their friendship.

P.S. His cum was delicious.

When Your Heart Holds You Back

A friend asked that I write about sexual freedom, and being as I am a pretty sex-positive queer kid I figured I’d write about how I got my freedom. What obstacles I’ve overcome to reach the place in my life where I feel free to express my sexual desire, show off my sexuality.

But I couldn’t. I can’t write about that, because it hasn’t happened.

It’s been said here that when I get emotionally invested in a person, I find it hard to initiate or indeed display any kind of physical need or attraction aside from some bumbling flirting. So yes, free-wheeling my way through life and having sex with nice guys – and sometimes not-so-nice guys – that I don’t plan to see much of. I can do that. I don’t really care what a guy I sleep with one night thinks of my sexuality or whatever, as long as he’s happy to fuck me and I’m happy to be fucked.

Then there’s Love. Or the feeling of falling in love anyway. I can’t do it. I can’t show you how sexy I am, how attracted to you I am. I’ll hide the wanton, the lusty, the filthy thoughts I have about you. Not just from you, but from myself. I’ll refuse to daydream about the possibility of sliding your cock between my lips. I won’t even for a minute think about what it might be like to see you naked. I shove it all down, deep down, and away from sight. Because I’m terrified that you won’t think I love you. That you’ll think I only want to fuck, to screw. That I won’t want to hold you all night after, or spend the day with you later. I don’t want you to miss the strength of my heart by distracting you with my hard dick. Ultimately I’m afraid that if you don’t know how much I love, you will feel unloved.

In many ways, this is how I can tell that I care. This is how I try to tell the difference between love and lust. If I remove all the sex from the equation, do I still like you? Do you still inspire me? Are we still what I want to see when I see myself with somebody? In hiding it all, in repressing my (incredibly strong) tendancy to have sex with anybody I share a mild liking with, I am merely trying to see if I’m in love. To see if maybe you love me too, and not just for sex. I live in fear of being somebody’s Permanent Booty Call, of putting my heart in the hands of somebody who would mistreat it, ignore it, shove it to the back of the drawer and leave it in the dark.

Fear for the pain you might cause my heart.

Such A Boy

I went on a second date with my Current Interest, out to get food. I’ve picked restaurants both times that we’ve been out to eat, and for some reason it makes me unsettled. I’m not used to leading without much feedback. “Yeah, that’s fine.” should be enough to allay any concerns but for some reason it doesn’t. In my family, “Yeah that’s fine” is usually code for “I don’t care enough and/or I’m mad at you so don’t wish to discuss it BUT I ACTUALLY HATE THE DECISION YOU’RE MAKING RIGHT NOW.” That’s probably the reason it doesn’t.

I’m reacquainting myself with Trust. I don’t do it easily, even though I’m very open to new people. If I can’t trust, I at least force myself to take things at face value because there is only so much worrying I can handle, even being the Bionic  Worrier that I am. It helps that he has never shown me anything but sincerity and genuine emotion.

Every time I’m around him or I think of him, I am overcome with a sense of amazement. He is so amazingly kind, open, smart, sweet, funny, and handsome.  Today we were texting and I told him to pick a movie for us to go see since I don’t know what’s out or even what’s good right now so he texts me back.

He picked that James Bond movie.

He’s such a boy and I love every god damn second of it.

Limerence

Limerence is a word coined by Dorothy Tennov to describe a complex state of internal affairs. If my feelings were paperwork, we’d be filing triplicates and extensions for the next four years at least.  Limerence mostly consists of involuntary thoughts on a person, usually a romantic interest, fuelled by uncertainty over the mutuality of one’s desire. Other languages have words to describe limerence that, according to WikiPedia, roughly translate as “fallen-in-love-ness.”

This is the word I’ve been searching for, to describe those feelings that are far beyond a crush, edging around the outside of love, but above all includes the aspect of uncertainty. For me to be in love there has to be a reciprocity. I’ve tried to do all the loving. Let’s just say that I am not made of KrazyGlue. If you don’t love me back, then I’m not in love, even if I love you a lot. That was a hard thing for me to realize, because I like to think that with enough willpower and gritting of teeth I can do anything.

But limerence, that’s something I know all too well. If I were to guess what percentage of my life since the age of 12 has been spent in limerence I would probably irrevocably depress myself . It seems that the only way out of limerence is to know for certain if somebody loves you or not. Information that is usually harder to get than not and unpleasant to get when it’s easily had.

Thinking: Kinky Brain

I would not feel comfortable calling myself kinky. I don’t identify with that word, it doesn’t mean much to me. Convoluted though I may be, I’ve never called myself kinky. Physical restraint or roleplay interest me as exercises of the mind, but for the time being I don’t see myself making them a permanent part of how I get off with other people. I’ve realized that my kink is mainly in my head. What gets me hot half the time isn’t even the prospect of the sex itself, but more the anticipation of the interaction between myself and this man or that guy. Frequently when I daydream about fucking somebody, the planning of flirtations and the nuances of posture soak up the majority of my fantasy. Those moments are drenched in meaning, both real and imagined.

One of the best ways to persuade me to open up is to play along with the seduction. If you got an RSVP invitation, you wouldn’t just show up at the party no matter how great your wine (or cock, in this case) may be.  There’s the process of deconstructing your guard, getting closer inches at a time. Slowly rolling into each other. Savoring the release, give and take, the push and pull. Push you down, pull my shirt off, release your cock, all moments of incredible satisfaction.

To watch your reactions, see what kind of sex you want. The first time I always ask, “Do you want to hear me say your name?” This has been a decent indicator for me of the type of sex. “Yes,” is wild, screaming fucking. Raw around the edges, like a wound. “No,” is quiet and powerful, with more calculated force than reckless abandon. Both make me pant and squirm and grab on tight. I am always interested to know what kind of fuck he wants me to be, and since I enjoy putting on a show as much as the next ex-drama-club kid I usually oblige. Playing a part is sexy, to leave behind things like my grocery list, the projects for work, my weekend plans, and for a little while try to be your fantasy – to slip on that role and feel the power of being just outside of reality.

When or if I ever fall in love, I hope that he does not mind when we come back to reality. Dreams can’t live on bedroom eyes and naked flesh alone.