quizzical pussy

Many, many butts are perfect. And every perfect ever known to this world has had a but. Enjoy a few of each.

I started the SexLog as a whine to myself. She wasn’t having much sex with me, so every time she did, I would send myself an email about it, and put that email into a folder in my email. Every time I enjoined her to have a tryst with me, I logged it. At first, it was just a sad bitter little series of notes on the rare occasions that we had sex. But when the sex was great, I had to detail it, in fairness. When it was hot, I would detail the situation, how it started, and what positions we got into. I might mention what we said during sex.

Reading back over the last year, I see that we’re only averaging once a week. I wish it were more. But reading those times that we do have sex? Some of ’em are pretty damned erotic.

Once again whining is foiled by awesome sex! This happens a lot, I’m certain.

He makes me laugh until all the muscles in my torso feel sprung. He can make me laugh about anything — the crash and burn of my last relationship, the weather, my simultaneous lust for and terror of taking his clothes off, how mind-numbingly stupid bureaucracies are, what he wants to do to me with handcuffs and an order of Chinese take-out (extra sweet-and-sour sauce).

He’s outrageously, gratuitously beautiful to me, like sunrise in the Sangre de Cristos. The fact that other people seem to consider him either strange-looking or utterly gorgeous, no middle ground, only escalates that. It’s like being part of a secret club of people with good taste.

Every day I find something new to admire about him: His good humor about others’ assumptions, his damn-near epic determination, his delighted embrace of any kind of silliness that makes life a happier place to be, the core of stunningly improbable sweetness that underlies his nature, his playful and seemingly infinite patience with me.

It boils down to this: It’s harder for him to be just my friend than it would be for me to be his lover. But he’s making the effort anyway, because I am so goddamn scared to have sex with him, I damn near hyperventilate when he gets close to me.

It isn’t that he doesn’t want friendship; he’s been a good friend, including when I’ve deeply needed one. It’s that he wants to be more. When he says something or touches me in a way that leaves no doubt he wants me naked and writhing under him, it’s not news to him at all, but the bulletins are just starting to come in at my station.

It isn’t that I don’t want the sex, either. He makes my brain ache for it, never mind the standard achy naughty-bits. He makes me want to lick, bite, suck, pull hair, snuggle, see what his o-face is like, hear the sounds he makes (quiet? grunty? down-and-out nasty talk?). He knows all this, too; I’m pretty sure everyone who gets within 100 yards of us knows it. Might as well be tattooed on my forehead.

So what’s the problem? The past. Naturally. This is the sudden and unexpected beginning of the thing for me — and the end of a long process for him. He waited through my ill-advised relationship with his friend, and through my own blindered foolishness about the kind of man he is. Now he’s waiting through my absolute certainty that sex is going to ruin us, like it ruins everything else it touches in my life. It’s a good thing he’s patient; the more he’s my friend, the more we become something I don’t want to see ruined…and the longer his wait is going to be.

I hate that I feel that way; it’s not fair to him, and I’m religiously certain I’m missing out on an amazing lover, so it’s not fair to me, either. But I know that the moment the orgasms ended, I’d start counting down the days until I lost him — friend, lover, everything — just like every other time. And that thought is unbearable to me.

I hope you’ve worked through your past enough to look back on this confession and shake your head and smile, and maybe twitch a little from some muscle soreness from the mindblowing, love-affirming sex you had last night. Sex doesn’t ruin things; people do, and from how you describe it you are two people who are amazing together.

My friend and his wife really want to mess around with my wife and me.

I want to mess around with them.

My wife’s not sure. She hasn’t said ”No,” but she’s shy.

I don’t want to put pressure. The guy who puts pressure is That Guy. And we all know that That Guy sucks.

But any good partner should let his or her partner know what he or she wants.

So, it’s out there.

And I’m waiting. Tick. Tock.

Don’t be That Guy, no. But I guess you could always send her a link to this ConTuesday and tell her you thought she’d enjoy all the pics of nice asses, and oh, by the way, some guy wrote in about a foursome, so that’s interesting…

Send me a confession, won’t you please?

(image sources: 1, 2, 3, 4)