Um, what?

I’m a post-op Trans Woman, I’ve had my new vagina for seven and a half months.

I just found the vibrator that works for me and had my first vaginal orgasm…

My shoulder is super sore and I can’t stop shaking… no regrets, so much self love and discovery!

Woohoo! Motherfucking internet high five!

I’m just wondering if I’m the only one who finds masturbation to be really boring. I mean, the few times I try I can’t focus on any fantasies or what-not, I get really bored, and I stop a few minutes later to watch funny videos or do something I find entertaining.

I guess I’m wondering if I’m normal, because all of the blogs I read give me the impression that I’M DOING SEXUALITY WRONG. Like, I get that masturbation is supposed to feel good and orgasms are awesome and “if you don’t use it, you lose it.” But I’m just not feeling it.

I feel like whenever anyone wonders if they’re the only one who does or does not do sex a certain way, the answer is always “absolutely damn not”. If anyone’s normal, which I doubt, pretty much everyone is. And people normally don’t maintain blogs dedicated to things they find boring, so bloggers like me who write about masturbating are generally going to be pro-masturbation, and get excited about masturbating, I should think. But it’s not for everyone, and that’s totally cool.

I made myself squirt today!
Apparently, masturbating a whole lot (by way of positioning myself in the shower so that one stream of water hits me juuuust right) and thinking about Jon Stewart whispering dirty dirty things in my ears while spanking me and biting me and/or doing other fun hitty things was all it took!
It wasn’t even intentional. But now that I know I can…well. Let’s just say I shall be happy to devote more time to exploring this phenomenon.

I love it when the most specific fantasies do the most particular things. It makes me feel like life is a fighting game with combos.

A little backstory: I have a tiny office in my university, shared by three other students. There’s a small window on the door, so someone nosy could peek in if they wanted. No outside windows. My desk is right next to the door, but the other two desks are behind dividers.

Last weekend I was doing some work in my office, and after a while I needed a break — consisting, of course, of reading sexy stories and touching myself through my jeans. I was pretty furtive about this, even though I was alone in the room, the door was closed, and someone would have to actually make a point of looking inside the window if they want to see anything interesting. (If you’re not in academia, you might be surprised at how many people — mostly grad students, but sometimes even faculty — work during the weekends and evenings.)

Eventually I got worked up enough that I wanted more than fingers. Heart racing, I turned off the lights, climbed on one of my colleague’s desks, unzipped my jeans, and slipped my balled-up sweater in between my legs. My favourite maturbatory position is facedown and humping something — I loved the feeling of my breasts pushed up against the hard wooden desk, and feeling my clit rub against something firm but with a bit of give, while I imagined my boyfriend pounding me from behind. I migrated to my fantasy of donning a strap-on, and fucking another girl with a vibrator inside of me. I could hear nearby office doors opening and closing, locking and unlocking, and it gave me the good kind of chills to be reminded exactly where I was — the person whose desk I was pleasuring myself on could have walked in at any time. I’m not remotely attracted to him, but the thought of him walking in and turning on the lights to find me, apparently a Good Girl, squirming and sweaty on his desk — GOD that pushed my buttons.

But here’s my favourite part of the act: my cheek was pressed against the cool wood of the desk, and my hot breath curled the papers next to my mouth. When I was done, I considered replacing the blank sheets of paper — but I kind of liked the mystery, the slight confusion it might cause, and the wonderful little secret of what exactly caused those sheets to curl. :)

I’ve never been more attracted to you. (I don’t think.)

I was house-sitting last week for a friend, who happened to own a removable showerhead. I quickly discovered that it was the most awesome thing EVER. Then I realized that it was leaking and I thought I broke it, but no– the head came off and all that was left was a tube with a stream of water. Once I turned the power of the water down a little, I realized I’d been wrong before: THAT was the most awesome thing ever. :D I hope the sound of the water drowned out anything her neighbors might have heard…

Access to removable showerheads is a human rights issue. I’m not saying it’s high on the list, but certainly the world will never be quite right until all of us who want them have them.

I was on a long plane ride this week and I was having a lot of trouble focusing on the work I needed to get done. So I waited for a quiet moment and took myself to the bathroom. I locked the door, undid my belt, and slid my hand into my underwear. I began to rub my clit and with the other hand I grabbed my breast. At first, I wasn’t sure I would be able to come, but the tension grew rapidly and soon I was wetter than wet and coming hard. After I caught my breath, I cleaned myself up, checked my hair and noticed the rosy glow in my cheeks. When I left the bathroom, I gave a big, cheeky grin to the hottie waiting outside the door.

I have mad respect for anyone who can feel sexy on an airplane. I normally just feel sleepy.

Not that I’d say no to an orgasm, to be fair.

I’m slowly coming to terms with my sexuality being, uh, strangely non-sexual when other people are involved. I’ve always considered myself bisexual, pretty much attracted to men and women equally. But while I love cuddling, fondling, making out… I don’t enjoy sex that much. Yes, there have been boring/bad sex partners, but there’s also been at least 1 great one, but even that doesn’t compare to just masturbating alone. I’d think I was actually a romantic asexual, but, damn, I love masturbating, watching porn, thinking/reading about sex… Sexuality can be so confusing!

Sexuality can be wonderfully varied and confusing and fancy! And I suspect if all the spectra had more visibility, we’d find that romantic asexuals who like to masturbate and fondle are not that terribly uncommon. But you’d still be fancy.

Tell me something about yourself.

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They say other things too, and sometimes those things are also true. Or at least, if you believe that there is no real truth or some other loophole thing, feel correct. For instance, they say that doing something is making a choice, but doing nothing is also making a choice.

I’ve never been to the Atlantic ocean, but I fell in love once with the Pacific. Have you ever been to the ocean? Have you felt the electric ozone air spin around you and seen the stuttering waves beckon you? Staying where you stand is a choice, and so is plunging in. I mean, I know you might not have your bathing suit on and the water might be cold or hide sharks in the depths or display garbage on the shore, and all that might inform your choice. But you’re making one.

Is it the choice you’ll want to have made in twenty years?

Christ. I work in a law firm. I had drafted up a confessional about telling my partner that as much as I love the sex we have and as close as I feel to him I ‘hide’ some of my pervier fantasies and desires out of fear it will change things between us, and how after that we had the most spectacular sex because he was not shocked, but turned on, and because we knew we could really play because we’d discussed boundaries first. Anyway – it was this LONG confession about how we ended up playing with submissiveness and how great it was to be on all fours in front of him with my hands bound and licking and sucking his cock while he held it out for me with one hand while stimulating me with the other, and how we had such incredible sex that later I skulled about a litre of water because my mouth and throat were so dry from all the heaving and panting and groaning, and how just the feel of his face on my skin afterwards when I’m all post-orgasm electrifie d was amazing. Then I remembered I was at work and needed to make some amendments to a document and send it out a.s.a.p. Tried to shift a legal paragraph up in the document, and suddenly there’s my sex confessional in the middle of a letter to Council requesting a transfer of a strip of land. Glad I caught that in time. Just wanted to say I am so going to enjoy exploring previously unspoken desires with my partner, and stumbling across your blog was a big part of me saying ‘No. He knows so much of me, if I don’t show him this I don’t get to enjoy someone knowing all of me’. And joy of joys he was not shocked and appalled but entranced and excited. Safe, supportive, wonderful, sexy play. I’m so happy right now! :)

Every part of this confession makes me happy, perhaps especially the part where you don’t send your sexual fantasies as an Easter egg in legal documents.

I’m a 20-something bisexual girl. I have a wonderful fiance, and I love, love, love women. But it’s not something I share with many people–just those close to me. I’m not ashamed of being queer. But lately I’ve been wondering if I should come out to my family. I don’t feel like it is any of their business, and I know my mom who is a judgmental Christian will react poorly (she has every time I’ve stood up to her). The only reason why I would want to do this is because I think it may give my younger brother the courage to come out as well. I want him to be happy with who he is.

Sometimes coming out is purely an act of courage and love and not at all of necessity. I feel like this would be one of those times, and I want to give you props for considering it, whether you end up coming out to your family or not.

I wish my wife would have an affair.

And that I could catch her doing it.

It would make all the time I’ve been fighting for her, loving her, giving up so much for her, only to realize now that it can’t work and she’ll never change because she doesn’t really want to (no matter how much she’s sworn otherwise) so much easier to swallow. Because the break could be quick and simple. And easy to explain. No one questions when you end a relationship because one was unfaithful. And I’m so tired, I just don’t want to deal with questions. I just want it to be done. It would hurt, but it would be done. I find myself fantasizing about it. The relief I’ll feel when the divorce is final (because, affair or not, there will be one) is sometimes all that gets me through the times I’m with her. It was beautiful and I was optimistic once, but now I’m broken. And if she could just go out and fuck the shit out of someone, it would be so easy.

But if I’ve learned nothing else from this roller coaster, it’s that nothing about it will ever be easy. I look desperately forward to the day the decision is made, and even more forward to the day it’s over. The awkward conversations, the anxiety of just being in the same room, the mess of divorce, of one (or both) of us moving out. Things will be hard for a while; any change is an adjustment, but I can almost taste the relief. And no matter what’s difficult (emotional reminders, loneliness, losing friendships/family, money), my life will be so much better. I can be happy again. I need to stop this cycle; I’ve given it my all and more. And that’s all there is.

But the next few months will be difficult and complicated and, hard as I try to avoid it, full of blame and angry words and fighting. But at the end, I can start the rest of my life.

But man, it feels like if she’d just go cheat, I could skip a lot if it.

I wish you an amazing new life, whether you get to end your current one as “the good guy” per public perception or not. But really? Fuck public perception. You deserve to be happy today, and so does she.

Since I got a copper IUD fitted, my periods are twice as heavy as they used to be. Fortunately, my boyfriend isn’t squeamish about it – he’s perfectly happy to fuck me at my goriest. What I haven’t told him is that I actually like the blood. The intimacy of it, and I find the sight of red blood on pale skin weirdly beautiful.

“Fuck me at my goriest” may be the best phrase that’s ever appeared on this site, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.

So for the longest time I’ve had this crush on a super hot sex blogger (I know this because I know her secret identity. The only reason I visit Google+ is to see her profile picture. It’s just her face, but daaaaamn. Anyway).

But she’s *just* broken up with her boyfriend! I have no idea how to proceed! Do I start getting more involved in the blog comments? Do I jump right to emailing her penis pictures? Buy her a sex toy? Is it too soon to tell her, or do I risk waiting and some other admirer beats me to it?

HELP!

Okay, I’ve got to be honest here: Based on when I received this confession, I almost suspected that it could possibly be about me. But then I realized how easy it would be to anonymously ask “Hey, how does one successfully hit on QP?” so I will assume it’s about another, even hotter sex blogger who broke up with her boyfriend at about the same time. And I would say that maybe you should talk to her on Google+ because at least there you’ll have some privacy.

Zing!

P.S. Do not send her a picture of your penis. This almost never works.

You probably hear confessions like this all the time…
I’m a married female who hates giving head. I can count on both hands the number of times I have gone down on my husband, and I have never been down there long enough to get him off.
Lately I’ve been fantasizing about surprising him with an anonymous woman (an escort? a random woman from the bar?) whose sole purpose would be just to give him head while I concentrate on the rest of his body. I think it would be very intimate and very hot, as long as she was not involved in any other way except getting him off and leaving. Selfish? Unrealistic? I don’t know. But I can’t stop thinking about it.

I can’t help thinking how much better so many people’s sex lives would be if prostitution were safe, legal, unburdened by its current crushing social stigma. What would be so wrong with bringing in a pro once in a while?

Hey, so confess things!

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For years I maintained that polyamory was synonymous with drama. With slogging through relationship issues twice as much as doing actual relationship stuff. With inexhaustible neediness. Otherwise, I liked it in theory. I agreed with the overall idea that a person could be in love with more than one person at once. But in practice– every time I’d seen it– its implementation was irredeemably messy and awful, and I made assumptions based on that. Which, as you have likely concluded yourself, was dickish and logically unsound.

I mean, I could have stopped for a moment to consider the fact that most human relationships stoop to varying degrees of messy and awful at some point.

I wasn’t actively shunning and judging poly people, mind, but my main reasons for not choosing it for myself were the potential for drama and my smug estimation that it just didn’t work. There were other factors that made me cling to monogamy and then open-not-poly for a while. I had partners who didn’t identify as poly. I had trouble believing anyone wanted to date me, let alone multiple people, so the whole thing just seemed fantastical. Then there was my rich and storied history of trading my freedom for love. The prospect of a relationship that wasn’t limiting in fundamental ways confused me.

Really, this is just more support for my growing suspicion that when person A waxes critical of the concept of person B’s perfectly harmless, minding-their-own business lifestyle, it really just means person A has some related shit to work out on their end.

Then I met more poly people, some of whom executed their multiple relationships in ways that made more sense to me than what I’d previously witnessed. I even met people who did it more or less the way my open relationship functioned, but called it poly, and that made the word less scary. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, polyamory kind of started seeming like an increasingly attractive idea for me. Well, let’s be frank: I probably never wasn’t attracted to the idea. I harbor no doubt that person A is actually often just a mite envious of person B.

I realize I’m single and in zero relationships now, so it may not be the optimal time to declare myself poly (fun fact: most people call the multiple partners thing that single people do “dating”). And it’s certainly hard for me to conclude that it’s my orientation without actively trying it. But I have come to the decision that I prefer not to be entirely monogamous in the long-run, and that I am entirely open to polyamory, inclusive of casual as well as more serious multiple relationships.

In short, I think I might be poly. I’m going to try to check that out.

(image source)

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I’m loath to write about spirituality here. Partially because it is so deeply personal that I anticipate the majority of people judging me no matter what I say about it, and being judged is so not my kink¹. Also because I’m very newly discovering mine, and with my long and bumpy history of attempting stone skepticism, anything beyond Secular Humanism still breaks my head a little. Or shames me, I don’t know. But mostly I don’t want to get too esoteric because this blog is technically supposed to be about boning, and I want to honor that.

But I still wanted to write about the Sacred Sexuality workshop I attended over the weekend. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that it has almost nothing to do with spirituality unless you want it to.

In truth, sexuality has always been sacred to me. No matter how much of a good, skeptical-of-everything atheist I was trying to be, sex always carried with it the potential for transcendence. Reginald Sleeth once asked me if he could be my god², and I replied that I already had one. Beauty was my god: a day in the park could feed me like communion, art could deliver a homily, and the spark of skin on skin, at its best, was transfiguration. The beauty I found in people was scintillating, variable, overpowering. What I got from touch sometimes seemed to verge on mysticism.

No matter what you believe, it’s hard to deny that human connection is possibly the most powerful and transformative force in human experience. Love between people can help us feel pure joy, can inspire us to greatness, can lead us gladly into profound sacrifice. Fear between people can unravel lives.

So really, Sacred Sexuality is all about accepting and intensifying whatever magic we personally find in the positive aspects of human connection. It’s being fully present with the person you’re with, and truly seeing them, feeling them, tasting them. It is to sex what savoring is to food. It is using attention as a sex toy.

It’s really not that weird, actually.

When I’m touching you, kissing you, fucking you, I am grateful for you. I can be grateful to God or the Universe or the process of evolution that put you on this planet: all of these, none of these. I can just be grateful that you’ve chosen to share yourself with me for this little time. Gratitude is never careless– it takes nothing for granted. It doesn’t even have to be slow and sensual; even if I’m urgent, devouring, I’m completely present. I am with you. I am being with you. That’s how you allow touch to be a sacrament.

You know, from the couple of hours’ experience I had over the weekend hearing about it, at least.

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1. It is probably weird that I have no such fear of judgment writing about the madcap ways I like to have orgasms, but there are clearly different kinds of exposure and vulnerability.
2. No red flag there, right?

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In short, life is roughly as awesome as this.

Things about my life right now:

1. I have no longer not had sex in 2012. It was the kind of sex that you think back on whilst furiously masturbating later on, too.
2. I’ve been busy doing the whole “working on myself” thing lately, as mentioned here. This doesn’t really make for sexy prose, but it’s kind of changing everything. Or at least how I see everything. Profound personal journey stuff. Let’s move on…
3. It took a lot of angst and at least seven of the five stages of grief, but I honestly believe I’ve made my peace with the recent breakup. I absolutely would have preferred that the details had gone down differently, but they didn’t, and that’s okay.
4. I’ve made a shocking amount of peace with some other things too. Actually quite a lot of things. Forgiveness really is for the forgiver, not the forgiven. Go figure!
5. Life is blithe and fancy and filled with interesting, exciting doings. For instance, did you know that I’m going to learn about sacred sexuality tomorrow? Am I even entirely sure what that means?

I hope your list of the moment kicks at least this much ass.

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The sentiment that you have to love yourself first before loving another person never rang true for me. There are dark places in me, places where I use my own face as a dartboard and trample my own spiritual tulips because bitch stole my sweater. Oh, and also because when we get right down to it, I’ve never cared for her much.

But with other people, I can be very loving. I try to plant and nurture their tulips, lend them sweaters. Once I get warmed up, I love unstintingly and honestly and sweetly. I’m really rather good at it. Until it blows up in my face. A lot. Every single goddamn time. Maybe that’s the point of the adage. Maybe you can’t successfully love someone else until you love yourself.

But then I see all these people in seemingly successful relationships and I wonder if I’m really so much more messed up than they are. Don’t we all secretly loathe ourselves¹? How many people on the planet actually love themselves? Are those sixteen people the only ones capable of real, healthy love? I don’t buy it.

However, I do generally like the idea of loving myself. So there’s that.

I’m afraid of it too, though. As far back as I can remember I’ve worked tirelessly to avoid arrogance and self aggrandizement. Maybe it was because early on, a lot of flashy things like getting good grades and the arts came naturally to me; maybe at some point someone told me to keep my head down and stop showing off and I took it ridiculously seriously. I don’t even know. I just know that I became convinced that overconfidence is more repugnant than crippling self-abasement. I no longer actually think this is true, though. And if it is, I’m pretty sure I no longer care.

I’m usually good at projecting confidence even when I don’t feel it. I’ve also mostly avoided outright self-destructive behaviors; I’ve always been terrible at giving up and pretty good at finding silver linings. And I have to admit that I do often suspect I’m rather awesome. I think my nature is probably fundamentally confident, but I’m afraid to really commit to it, and instead I’ve taken on a lot of fucked up beliefs about myself.

This isn’t even about my romantic life, although I have been told multiple times that my self-esteem issues are by far the least attractive thing about me. Really, I’m just sick to death of being so hard on myself. It’s irritating to spend so much time with someone who doesn’t appreciate me. And yes, it is worrying that I have consistently sought out relationships with people who one way or another end up treating me how I feel I deserve to be treated², and I would prefer that that change. Honestly, though, me treating myself like I’m worthless is more troubling, by far.

So I’ve started working on all that self esteem shit, more aggressively and purposefully than I’ve ever done before. If I overcorrect and start seeming at all egotistical as I work through things, I hope you’ll understand. I’m trying out this new thing of not being a dick to myself, you see.

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1. I understand that I may be projecting a rather lot, but really, don’t we?
2. Although, it needs to be said, this is trending better and better.

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I joined OKCupid recently, as one is supposed to after getting dumped. They actually have a recruiter come to your house, pound on your door, tell you to stop watching Dawson’s Creek, and ask you what you want your username to be.

True story.

It feels too early to jump into another serious relationship. It feels like a good time to develop a crush or six, though, or to start the vetting process that will eventually, possibly lead to making out and orgasms and stuff. I’m ignoring the fact that those things are how serious relationships usually start; I’ll cross those legs when I come to them.

I like OKC so far, I do. Mostly. I like taking the wacky tests. I like answering match questions. It feels like placing an order for the perfect lover, even though you know it could turn out more like a botched pizza delivery and you may end up trying to choke down a pie topped with legos and felt. I love the fact that it tells you your match percentage with people. I’m in the 90%s with many of my friends who happen to be on the site, and I find myself idly wondering about all the others. And various exes. And my dog, but not in a weird way.

All this before I have any actual experience proving that a high match percentage means anything, really. The very savvy Viola Sharqtipus once told me, however, that she really does get along better with exceptionally high OKC matches. So because of that and the clinical comfort of numbers, I’m paying attention to my percentages with people.

But on the other hand, the whole dating site thing is proving kind of annoying. I could spend stupid amounts of time just answering messages, which are mostly inane. I want to understand how I’m supposed to respond to a message that says “You seem interesting,” which is more or less what half of them say¹. I’m assuming here that people are not actually intending to have a conversation about how interesting I am, but rather saying “You’re interesting; I, not so much. Say something interesting to me now so we can talk about that!” This comes off as lazy and impolite, contacting me first only to put the burden of starting any actual conversation on me.

I realize it’s not always easy to start a conversation, and maybe it’s not worth the effort if you’re opting to use the shotgun approach to contacting broads on the internet, but do you know what kind of people I want to talk to online and date and be interesting with? People who are a) interesting themselves and actually interested in me, and b) can have conversations.

I had no idea I’d feel so strongly about this, but it seems I do. In fairness, I’m more misanthropic than usual lately. It took me very little time to earn OKC’s “replies very selectively” warning label, and it doesn’t look like it’s going away any time soon.

But I have found a few gripping new people to talk to, and perhaps someday meet. I even met one already, and we got along so well we’ll likely get really wacky and out there and do it again. Of course, because one of my rules for myself on the site is not to initiate contact with anyone over 25 miles away because right now I’m a little burned out on the “driving hours every week to see my paramour” relationship model, all these people live over an hour away so far. But they messaged me first and actually said stuff and asked questions and shit, and you can’t put a number on that².

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1. Along with an astonishingly not-infrequent “I didn’t understand half of ur profile lol.”
2. Although technically I think they all happen to be high percentage matches. Score one for Viola.

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I like to think of this moment in my life as mirroring the nascent winter, when legends say the sun dies and is reborn.

It’s probably not, in actuality, quite so dramatic.

I feel dormant, but changes are afoot. I’m exhausted and restless, quiet and crouching. I’m an irritable, hopeful malcontent. I need a nap and a pick axe, among other things. I have a lot of needs, you see.

For most of my like I’ve felt like it was by far the most shameful thing of all to need things. Anything. Almost as horrible was being noticed.

In seventh grade I was supposed to go on a class field trip, which probably cost about twelve dollars. I decided that instead of asking my mom for the money to go I would just skip it. My family wasn’t desperately poor, but I remember worrying about money a lot as a child. My parents had so many kids, and what if they really couldn’t afford us?

My first period teacher noticed that I hadn’t turned in my permission slip and asked me about it. I shyly (I did nearly everything shyly in those days) told him I wasn’t going. Later that day the school counselor called me in to see her, and it became increasingly clear that “I’m not going” wasn’t a valid position to take. Why wasn’t I going? I answered honestly that I didn’t want to bother my parents for the money.

The last thing I wanted, in the entire world, was to be a bother to anyone.

The counselor told me they had a special field trip fund for students in need. I stammered out that it wasn’t necessarily that we didn’t have the money, understand, but things were kind of tight and I didn’t want to add to expenses if I didn’t have to. She assured me that she understood, and that’s exactly what the fund was for. I looked on in horror as she produced a permission slip and told me to just get it signed; the money part was taken care of. My plan to bother no one and skip the field trip had completely backfired and somehow I had scammed this woman into giving me twelve charity dollars.

I went on the trip, but it felt wrong. Between calling a great deal of attention to myself, miscommunicating my situation horribly, and possibly taking money from someone who needed it much more, things hadn’t quite gone the way I’d planned.

This is pretty much what happens whenever I ignore my needs, neglect to ask for things, try to make things smooth for everyone at my own expense. I make a mess of things. I steal twelve dollars. Every time. I am only recently realizing how reliably this happens.

So lately I’m feeling that quite a few things in my life (not the least of which being the way I treat myself) are going to change. Because I need them to. Because I’m ready. Because I’m restless. Because I am the sun returning triumphant from the land of ice and shadows.

Or I could be. You don’t know.

(image source)

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But I was expecting to arrive, feel awkward because I didn’t know anyone there very well, hang back and politely watch people tie each other up and whatnot, and maybe learn something about what kinds of BDSM play might appeal to me at an unspecified future time when I could experiment. My prime directive: not to watch them creepily.

I mean, I knew I was going to a place that was amazingly welcoming and fun, and everyone I’d met there at more casual, non-play events had been awesome. But I tend to just assume that my patented blend of social clumsiness and assuming people aren’t going to like me will pretty much always carry the day.

What actually happened is that before that party ended I was topless(!) and had a sexy welt on my back, courtesy of a man from who does things with whips that could make Indiana Jones weep from envy. I’d been set on fire several times. I’d discovered that knife play is probably going to be one of my favorite things ever. I’d participated in what I can only describe as a violet wand electro-orgy.

Perhaps the weirdest part, I was completely comfortable throughout. Eerily comfortable. Even the having-my-boobies-out part. I was nestled in some magical envelope of kinky trust that I truly didn’t expect to find anywhere, and certainly not at my first play party. People kept pulling out new toys and trying them on one person, and someone else would ask “Ooh. Do me next?”, eyes all bright. Giggling would intermingle with the hissing recoil of strikes, slaps, and sighs and harsher sounds of pleasure. It wasn’t too super serious. It didn’t feel like there was all this inaccessible, Byzantine protocol in play. It was glee and exploration and camaraderie. And yes, respect. And, full disclosure, I may have had an orgasm or two, just from the kind of pain that isn’t truly pain, but intensity.

I’d spent the evening, night, and very early morning with people who somehow felt like friends already. That would have been enough, but the delicious sensations didn’t hurt.

Er, they did hurt. Kind of. Just in a very surprising way.

And after all this, I lay in my bed back at home completely wired. My brain was crackling, mildly euphoric. Just a couple hours from dawn, I couldn’t get to sleep. Not until I rode out the strange, jittery aftermath of something. Something I knew I’d already begun to crave.

And I admitted once and for all that there exists a not insignificant chance that I might, in fact, be kinky.

(image source)

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There’s this guy. We work together. He’s a nice guy but because I’m very shy and socially awkward, we never talk. A couple of weeks ago I noticed his body. I have known him for several months and yet it was one of those moments I never believed in. When you look at someone and suddenly realise… ”sweet!”.
He’s not my type. He’s the opposite of every guy I’ve ever (wanted to) shag(ged). And I don’t notice him the same way. I don’t want to jump him. It’s not the same feeling.
Instead, I want to kiss. I want to lie somewhere and kiss. Him. And talk. Nothing else. The thought of having sex with him doesn’t do it for me. And believe me, I’ve tried, just to make it a little less weird.
Just thinking these things, of how I want to kiss him, of how I definitely want there to be strawberries and cream involved (random, huh?), it feels dirty. Far more dirty than thinking about shagging that really hot guy who works a couple of desks down. And more intense. I want to kiss this guy more than I want to shag that really hot guy. Even if there are no orgasm involved.
Strange.

I have a theory that sexual orientation is much, much more complicated and gloriously varied than most people have the time or inclination to think about. This would be an example.

I hope you get a chance to make out. I hear that office holiday parties are good for hook-ups, so if that’s not just TV and movies making shit up like they do, you have a little time to screw your courage to the snogging place.

I like to play with myself after good p in v sex. Because really, what’s better than orgasms than more orgasms? There’s something awesome about getting another while he’s in the kitchen pouring our next drink, and I’m in the living room continuing the fun.

I can find absolutely no flaw in your logic here.

My wife asked me to fuck her.
In our pool.
In the backyard.
Outdoors.
At 4 p.m.
In full view of the neighbors.
Neither of us came, but it was enthralling nonetheless. She did, however, follow it up with jerking me off in the shower. Then later that night she jerked me off while massaging my asshole. The next morning I made her scream like a pot star while licking her clit. It was a GREAT weekend.

This sounds hot. I’m clean distracted, though, trying to decide whether I should assumptively correct “pot star” to “porn star”, or if it’s possible that the former is a real thing and I should get with the times. Best to just leave it.

I have a drama I want to figure out on my sex blog, only I can’t, because the guy involved reads it. AIIIIIEEEEEE!

I never realized how dependent I was on the blog for my processing until I suddenly couldn’t have it.

Sometimes I wish I could just write exactly what’s going on with my love/sex life, and be completely honest, and more vulnerable, and a hell of a lot dirtier on my sex blog. But at this point way too many people I know read it, and there’s just no way. So I really feel you on this.

ConTuesday to the rescue? I hope?

I’m the girl who’s having an affair with the guy who’s 8 years younger. I guess I should say ’had’ since I haven’t seen him in 3 months. I’ve still had more sex this year with him than with my husband. Is it bad that I’m counting?

You know, there was a time when women weren’t allowed to learn math at all! So no, it’s never bad to count. But I hope that either you and your husband have caught up by now or that you don’t mind the disparity. I hate to see people feeling stuck in sexually frustrating relationships, and I hope that’s not you right now.

Now go here, everyone, and spill your sexy secrets!

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