quizzical pussy

Laramy and I were lounging with Viola on her bed, and somehow the conversation came around to blowjobs. Already your shock is palpable.

We came to a consensus that however fun it is to give and receive them, they’re particularly good as a warmup for intercourse. This is how Laramy and I do them about two-thirds of the time, probably. But not always. I also love those times when I get to make him come.

Penis-in-vagina/ass intercourse is unique for me because it feels like we’re making us come¹, giving each other simultaneous and reciprocal pleasure. Sure, I normally get to have more orgasms, so maybe my partner feels differently, but I round up to Team Us. Most of the many fantastic and varied other kinds of sex tend to have less of that particular “simultaneous and reciprocal” element for me. They can still be awesome, of course.

I can get off just from giving a blowjob, but that’s a completely different feeling than climaxing through intercourse. The stimulation is less direct, largely mental. When I come that way it feels more like I’m really bringing myself there, although I’m getting some of my favorite sort of help with that.

Laramy, on the other hand, once told me he generally doesn’t get off from blowjobs at all. Liked them, he insisted, certainly wasn’t planning on turning any eligible offers down, but he just didn’t come from oral sex. He said this after the first time I made him come in my mouth, though. Surely he was rearranging his belief system by then. Because I’ve never known him to lie to me, I see no reason to think that it was just a line to make me feel like a god damn sexual Tyrannasaurus, although it did. Oh, it did.

Anyway, back to Viola’s bed. There are limits, she are I both agreed, on just how long we’re willing to suck cock. At a certain point you wonder what you’re doing wrong, and why your jaw needs to be punished for it. Perhaps we were making my boyfriend nervous. While Laramy can and does come from blowjobs, he admittedly tends to take a while to get there sometimes. This is part of why it can be preferable² to just transition to fucking. “It’s not like I take that long,” he reminded me.

“No,” I agreed. “Sometimes it can be a challenge, though. It’s not like I can get you off in, say, four minutes or something.”

That’s when Laramy started to remove his pants. Enthusiastically. “Let’s see!”

“I mean, I’ll suck your cock for four minutes, sure. Happy to. But I doubt you’ll get off.”

“You’re on,” he grinned. The pants were off, the penis rampant, the challenge accepted. One doesn’t say “I’ll suck your cock for four minutes” to this man and expect him to laugh it off. Viola offered to time us. Laramy reclined on her bed, pants abandoned, head in her lap.

“All right then!” I probably didn’t say out loud, “I came here to suck cock and chew bubblegum, and luckily for your cock, I’m all out of bubblegum. Because otherwise, ouch.” My eye was of the tiger. Four minutes wasn’t long, but I was going to do my damnedest to make sure it was long enough.

I’d never strategized a blowjob before. Would a little preliminary teasing help or harm the cause? Should I mostly suck and bob, or concentrate more on doing that thing with my tongue? I did my best. Laramy might have been playing with some Viola boob.

“It’s interesting to watch from this perspective. This is what I’d see if QP were giving me a blowjob,” I heard her say³. He was getting close at this point.

When Laramy came in my mouth, I got that little jolt of triumph I always get, even when we’re not going for the four-minute blowjob title. Giver of Orgasms and Swallower of Seed am I, and mighty shall be my reign! Rawr, bitches.

“How was that for time?” I asked Viola in an all-business tone as soon as the cock was out of my mouth. Laramy, still blissed out from his orgasm, found this hilarious.

“Just about four and a half minutes. I was going to stop you, but I knew he was getting close.” High fives happened all around. We hadn’t quite made blowjob history, but it was hard to call it anything but a win, considering.

Between you and me, though? I probably would’ve gone longer, if need be. You know, for the team.

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1. I’ve heard rumors that you can have sex without having or even trying to have an orgasm, and that it can be splendid. I honestly wouldn’t know anything about that. Sex without any orgasms seems like a frustrating endeavor to me. [↩]
2. For my jaw and inside upper lip. [↩]
3. Note to self: remind her that I willingly service strap-on cocks as well. [↩]

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It seems to me that virginity is one of those things that you pretty much get to define for yourself, like cheating or happiness. Other people, institutions, even laws may have their opinions, but when you break it down enough any definition of virginity seems arbitrary at best. Virginity is so confusing that some people don’t seem to know whether they’re talking about it or not.

I’m about to don my pedantry hat for a minute. Also my seldom seen, but very jaunty, theology hat. You’ve been warned. Immaculate Conception doesn’t mean what most people think it means. In common use, it’s become confused with virgin birth and used synonymously, but it’s never meant “conceiving a child while one is a virgin”. Immaculate Conception is an explanation by the Catholic Church going back to the year Way Long Ago A.D. as to why Mary (the mother of Jesus Christ) was good enough to carry and bear God’s son¹. They decided that Mary, unlike regular non-god-bearing people, had been conceived without original sin (a legacy from Adam and Eve) and was thus pure, immaculate. Later Mary conceived a baby while she was a virgin² and gave birth, but her Immaculate Conception was only a distant prelude to that virgin birth, and has very little to do with virginity whatsoever.

My personal theory is that people use the wrong term because it sounds fancier. People are suckers for fancy. Hold on for a second. Removing hats.

There. That’s better. Where was I? Oh, virginity. I don’t know what the fuck a virgin is. I don’t really know when I was one. My hymen broke twice, but neither of those were the first time I had an orgasm from someone penetrating me. And then it was still two years before I had a dick inside me. Except my mouth. Are we counting my mouth? Suffice to say I lost my virginity, if it was even a thing, but at this point I don’t really know or care when.

But when Laramy commented the other day that he’s never fucked a virgin, I’m almost positive he meant someone who’s never had penis-in-vagina intercourse. That seems to be the most common definition, although I can only imagine how gold star lesbians feel about that. Anyway, he’s mentioned it before.

“Is that one of your goals?” I asked him, curious, but smelling trouble from where I sat. Now, at our age virgins are getting a bit thin on the ground, so it wouldn’t be terribly easy to find one without actively hunting. And a casual, drama-free deflowering with one older, experienced partner who already has a girlfriend and one partner who doesn’t remember that pogs were once a thing can happen, of course. But it feels like it would be asking a lot of the universe.

“It’s not something I’m actively looking for, but it might be interesting.” One interesting thing about Laramy is that he says this about virtually all forms of heterosexual sex he’s not having at that precise moment.

“If you’re that interested, I’ll just get one of those fake hymens³,” I shrugged.

“That’s a thing!?”

Of course it’s a thing! Because sadly, some people still buy into one of the weirdest definitions of virginity: the intact hymen. And there are still places in the world where a woman’s future might depend on her ability to fake that, whether she’s a virgin by any other definition or not.

But I guess it could be a sex toy too. If you’re not too cautious with your mucous membranes.

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1. The later Protestant explanation is that she quite simply wasn’t, just like no one on Earth was good enough for a god to die for. This is probably why it took a Protestant to write “Amazing Grace”. [↩]
2. Or as a young, unmarried woman, depending on how you like to translate ancient texts. [↩]
3. Just for the record, I was in no way serious. I have no idea what’s in those things, but I can guess it’s not all medical grade silicone and hypoallergenic red lube. [↩]

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There is an ancient prophecy. It’s been passed down from crippled harlot to slutty gimp through the generations¹. Though originally recorded in ancient Sumerian, the English translation somehow manages to be a perfect Petrarchan sonnet. Disabled trollops must have been quite magical at one point.

The tablet upon which it was carved so long ago is kept in a secret underground vault at the base of a wheelchair accessible ramp, and is guarded by vicious Gila panthers. I’ve seen all this with my own eyes. Once.

Of course, I didn’t memorize it. Even if I did I couldn’t share it on the internet, not verbatim, on pain of Hitachi Magic Wand torture. But trust me, the rhymes are ingenious coming from people who couldn’t have possibly known the English language would even be a thing.

I can tell you the gist of the prophecy, though, and it’s this: Someday thou, Quizzical Pussy, shalt stoppeth being so damn insecure. Verily.

It’s actually a little surprising that this ancient, precious prophecy ended up being about me, when I stop and think about it. Was that nice of those Sumerians or what? Anyway, knowing the future like that is a great comfort to me in times like this.

Because really, I am ridiculous.

I told Laramy a few days ago that I’m kind of waiting for him to get sick of me and leave². Which, as it turns out, is not a charming thing to say to one’s sweetheart. In retrospect, it was hurtful. It brushes up against ignoring what we have together, telling him I don’t really think he loves me even though I absolutely know he does. The problem is really that I don’t understand why, so I keep waiting to fuck it up by accident.

This is all mostly-to-entirely because I’m insecure. This is the same reason I lose touch with friends while I’m trying not to bother them. This is the same reason I feel like a creepasaurus creep whenever I try to flirt. It’s even why I’m afraid to say no to people I don’t want to have sex with. Insecurity has gotten me into so much more trouble than cockiness that I wonder why I’m still careful not to brag or build myself up. It should really be the other way around by now. But! Here we are.

Laramy never seems insecure about our relationship. We have a good thing going, and it doesn’t seem like I want to end it, so he doesn’t worry about it. This is pretty much just sense, but it feels like alien logic. I can’t imagine feeling that way. I’m glad he does, but it’s so counter-intuitive to me that part of me insists he’s not worried about losing me because it really wouldn’t matter much. But that isn’t fair. He’s probably just doing what emotionally healthy people do.

Why should anyone assume they’re on borrowed time in their relationship? What good does it do? And it’s not even that being single scares me as a general rule; I just specifically don’t like the idea of not being with him. We really do have a good thing going. And I think my insecurities have the potential ruin it more thoroughly and efficiently than anything else.

Does anyone ever really know why they’re loved, anyway? Is it necessary? Is it possible?

1. Did you not realize we have a sacred fraternal order? Cause we do. [↩]
2. This is not because of something he’s done or anything in particular about us. I’ve tended to feel this way even while in shitty, ill-advised relationships. [↩]

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The other key, of course, is Pong.

If someone with a not too terribly impressive amount of judgment were to come to me and ask, face so straight and tone so earnest: “Quizzical Pussy, what’s the key to a good relationship?” my first priority would be to not snort while I was doing all the laughing. Really, the “I Make Wonderful Romantic Decisions, And In Case You Were Wondering, Yes, That’s Sarcasm” sash I was awarded in 2004 didn’t win itself.

And then I’d be tempted to say “blind luck” because that’s certainly how I’ve landed in the one I’m in. But then I’d give my real answer.

Inside jokes.

Yes, love and trust and patience. Absolutely. And fabulous sex usually doesn’t hurt either. But it’s harder to quantify those first three things, and sometimes even tricky to detect when they’re fading away. And the sex? It’s possible to have fabulous sex with someone you actively dislike.

But if you’re always laughing together at things that would elicit shrugs and eyebrow twitches from all the rest of humanity, you have this secret language. You’re each choosing to be in closed, joyous company, which in my experience is the last thing you want when you’re fundamentally unhappy with each other. In essence, inside jokes are an old magic that transports you to the island nation of Us, a place of moderate climate and ruthless border control. You are never dragged to Us, although you can often convince the other person you’re already there just by smiling and nodding politely. But there will still be an ocean between you.

And this isn’t just romantic relationships. Not at all. I never feel like I’m fully friends with someone until we have at least one inside joke together. We’re just on the shore, friendly together but sharing no homeland.

Maybe this is just me. I could be biased by the amazing sex Laramy and I had yesterday between spates of laughing at things that are sheer nonsense to everyone else. I could be placing too much value on laughter for this to apply to anyone but me. But that would be my answer anyway.

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I should go see my doctor, and soon. I think my thyroid levels are starting to slip. The major clue is that my indomitable sex drive seems to be, well, domitting¹ a little.

How do I know? Same way the world knows a Uew Boll movie is going to suck: Experience.

Starting about four years ago I stopped having periods for ten months. Once I stopped freaking out over whether or not I was with child, which took at least two or three months, I noticed that my orgasms– usually so delicious, volatile and true– had vanished into thin frustration, and eventually I became pretty much indifferent to having sex at all². Blood tests, when I got around to them, showed that my thyroid hormones were stupid low. It turns out that those are important for non-sexual functions as well. Like, being alive and stuff. Oops.

Recently, my periods have been, to use the technical term, wonky. And my sex drive has seemed a lot more, for lack of a better term, normal. I still want sex. I still masturbate. I’m just less fixated on getting off than I usually am.

Having a lowered sex drive is actually a good thing right now. I don’t see Laramy all that much, so we don’t get a chance to fuck more than a couple times a week. Sex outside of my primary relationship only happens occasionally. I have not yet turned down sex. I wouldn’t even say that I’m entirely satisfied with how much I’m getting, but I’m much more content with my libido this way than the gnawing, snarling sex-hunger I’m used to feeling. It’s comfortable. It’s manageable.

But it’s not healthy. I’m almost sure the cause in an actual medical problem, and I’m fairly certain of what it is. There’s every reason to believe it’s going to get worse if I don’t run the blood tests and adjust my medication as necessary. There’s the actual health stuff to consider, as well as the risk that I might stop having orgasms if I’m not careful. I also don’t feel like me unless I’m a nympho.

If mad horniness is my superpower, kryptonite is happening right now inside my glands. And being the flawed character I am, I’m conflicted about it, but I’m going to do the right thing. For great justice.

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1. Don’t bother looking it up, by the way. It’s not a word. [↩]
2. At least with my boyfriend at the time, honestly. [↩]

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There is an art to giving a handjob. You will notice here that I don’t claim to have mastered this art, simply that it exists. I’ll admit that this is one of my weaker points when it comes to sexual skills. To me, a handjob is usually an entirely pragmatic maneuver: I’m trying to get or keep a penis hard until I can put it somewhere more exciting than between my hands. Handjobs, however artistic they have the potential to be, usually end up being transitional for me. I enjoy the penis touching, of course, but I can’t help thinking about what parts of me it could be touching forthwith.

And I have to admit, that sort of bugs me about myself.

I’m not a big fan of downtime. I would prefer that every moment with me be mindblowing for my lovers. In a perfect world my lips would vibrate, my cervix would have a tongue, and my hands stroking a penis would be as Aphrodite’s hands. In a perfect world. As it is, they are regular hands, and I sometimes worry that my handjobs are boring. There. I said it.

This is not why I gave my boyfriend Laramy the Tenga Egg Babeland sent me. But it’s part of why I offered to help him try it out. Also, though, sex toys are a hobby of mine, and you’re supposed to share your hobbies with your partner, right? It’s what couples do. Astoundingly, Laramy seemed much more eager to explore this than my equally avid interests in yoga and belly dancing.

The Tenga Egg is a cute, clever disposable masturbation sleeve. You can wash and reuse it if you’re careful, but it’s not the most robust sex toy ever made. It’s made of soft, flexible silicone elastomer, and available in six different textures. The cute, clever part is really in the packaging: these sleeves come in little plastic eggs with colorful labels. You can buy a fairly adorable single egg for $8.50, or you can save money and get a set of six in a crazy adorable egg carton! I haven’t seen a men’s sex toy presented this whimsically since some wag made it suddenly seem possible to fuck Yoda Yaddle.

You know you wish you'd thought of it first.

I was excited to see how Laramy liked the Tenga Egg, and maybe even get to feel like a handjob goddess. Why should my mouth get all the accolades? I mean, seriously!

The "Stepper"

The different textures include: what seem to be twisty vertical ribs, wavy horizontal ribs, a spider web (clearly the most erotic pattern known to man), knobby polka dots, thin spun thread patterns, and, the one Laramy ended up with, the “Stepper”, which looks– just to put this in the sexiest terms possible– like semicircular flaps arranged like scales. Or something. It seemed promising… stimulating.

We tore open the little packet of lube that comes with the Egg, applied it to both toy and tool, and took turns stroking. The sleeve is kind of like a looser, thicker, stretchier condom. Laramy said it felt good and the material was pleasant, but he didn’t seem to feel transported, as you might be if you were getting a handjob from, say, a goddess. Gradually, two problems became  apparent:

1. The lube provided was more sticky than it was at all lube-like.
2. The textured part of the Egg was concentrated around the sides, instead of the tip. All that exciting, scaly sensation was focused on the less sensitive parts of his penis. When fully stretched, the sleeve was completely untextured around the head of his cock.

The first problem is easy: inferior lube tends to get sticky. I would generally recommend someone use a lube they know they like when playing with a new toy anyway. But the second issue? Made no sense to either of us. Why would anyone design a toy with an emphasis on interesting textures and make sure those textures only touched shaft?

“Maybe it’s having to stretch too far because your cock is too big,” I suggested. Laramy did not hate that postulation. I think that might actually be what it was, though. Laramy does have a formidable dick, and otherwise we’re looking at just a glaring design flaw. Whatever the issue, the Tenga Egg didn’t work for him, although he thought it was promising in concept. He actually asked me if it was okay if he threw it away.

We ended the session with Laramy washing that horrendous lube off his cock and fucking me, which is usually exactly what I’m hoping to get out of a handjob.

Thanks, Babeland!

(image source)

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Guess whose desktop PC bricked out the day after her computer genius boyfriend went home after visiting? Yeah, totally me. And I may be a nerdy in my useless, fact-spouting, “It’s a Fact” girl way, but I don’t know enough to get myself out of this kind of mess. That is a fact.

Laramy, aforementioned computer genius boyfriend, insisted on making a special trip back up here yesterday after work to fix it for me, which he did. Utterly. Then he insisted on taking me out to dinner. Why, you ask? What did I do to deserve all this, you ask? Nothing. I’m just unreasonably lucky and he’s incredibly amazing.

And the very best part? I got to see him an extra bonus day.

(image source)

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I made up one hundred people and asked each of them their favorite source of anonymous internet sex confessions on websites with cartoon mascots. Would you believe that 38 of them indicated ConTuesdays right here on quizzicalpussy.com was absolutely unrivaled? Such is the power of ConTuesday.

Today we have one confession quite long, and one short-but-sweet confession.

I had the oddest dream last night, and I’m hoping you’ll get something out of it.

I dreamt that I was involved in a pornographic photo shoot as a contestant of sorts- apparently I had to be a winner of a contest in order to get involved. (Somewhere along the way it had a side-diversion into sibling incest where one party had a bag over their head, but I digress.) After walking through a crowded office where my contact gave various demeaning comments on the photographers (”Oh, I would’ve give you to that ancient.” ”He couldn’t shoot a barn properly,”) I ended up in a semi-outdoor pool area with roughly fifteen other contestants. The women all wore bikinis and were generally college aged, whereas the men were a little rounder in both age bracket and appearance.

There was a man leading the contest, telling us that we were vying for position in the next bracket of the contest. The women had already gone by the time I’d arrived. The announcer told us the nature of the game was that we, the men, were to ”assume the position” and be bent over a bench on the far side of the pool, legs spread, while the women shot at us with what looked to be cannons. Sure enough, they fired cannonballs (soft ones,) and they were aiming for our anus.

The twist? We also had to dress as pirates for this. I was in a red and yellow tube-smock, bent over a bench with hot girls trying to shoot a cannonball up my ass. And I couldn’t be more turned on by it.

(To finish the story, I’ll continue. This was part of the dream as well, and I feel compelled to share, even if it’s TL:DR.)

After being shot at by the ladies (I was last to go, since I was last to arrive) and they all pretty well failed to hit more than my sack, I was advanced to the next round. What I wasn’t told was that the next round involved floating around in an inner tube with a stick up in the air, while someone on the other side of a wall none of us could see over shot oversized rings into the air. The women and men both pushed and manuevered to get the ring to land on their stick, and I unfortunately didn’t quite figure this out until the last thirty seconds of the round.

As I was cast aside from the current group, I noticed a blonde girl on the far side of the first pool that I knew from school. I pulled the announcer aside and told him, ”hey, I want another shot at the ringtoss.” He decided that not only was he going to be a prick, but my chance at continuation was going to depend on mine- ”Fine, but this time, the ring toss is closer, and you have to catch with your dick. Are you sure it’s long enough?” I proceeded to tell him that while I was roughly 4-5” at the moment (semi-soft) I could reach 9.5” if properly aroused. Amusingly, the blonde heard this also, and I grinned, telling the announcer ”Let her do it, the one in the blue. I’ve been wanting to show it off to her for a while now.” She blushed, I caught the rings, and got a date out of it.

—-

I had another dream a bit later on, where as a result of my winning, an old friend was willing to let me and her bf DP her. (Must’ve won a bet!) I told her that I wanted picture proof that she was ready, that I wasn’t going to half-ass (har har) things with her this time. I received on my phone a series of images of her bf balls-deep in her rectum, so I decided to head over to her area to seal the deal. However, as I was kneeling down to slide in, someone came by wearing a welding mask (at this point I suddenly recognized that we were in some sort of industrial factory) and nearly pulled me off of her, demanding to know what I was doing. After taking a walk away, and talking to who ended up being a cute woman, I convinced her that everything was on the up and up. Apparently satisfied, she was about to let me go, until she paused and asked me if I was indeed involved in the photo-shoot contest or not. Suprised, I responded yes, I was, and she asked if I could in deed reach 9.5” if I was ”so inspired.” Blushing, I replied in the affirmative, and I was rewarded with quite a large grin, her phone number and an admonishment that I’d better not wait long before calling her. A slap on my ass later and I was heading back to my friend, slightly bewildered and, again, extremely turned on.

(hope you enjoyed my two stories, I had to share them with someone whom I thought might enjoy them as I have.)

Recently I was trying to tell Laramy and Viola about a dream I had about blossoming lesbians and a good deal of weird psychotropic drug trafficking. It had been such an intricate plot at the time, and I so little conscious while observing it, it just unraveled and slipped through my fingers as I tried to describe it. So I gave up and we all just fucked instead.

I feel like I have earned the right to say I’m kinky after my partner spanked, caned, paddled me hard and long enough 8 days ago that I still have a big deep purple bruise on my ass. I love knowing something all my friends and colleagues don’t, and I loved the fact that it hurt to sit down for 2 days afterwards :-)

Yay!

Want to confess? Right here.

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Sometimes… okay, often, I get this nagging feeling that I’m most likely Not Awesome. I’ll tally my list of accomplishments and it’s just so damn short, with this dearth of recent entries. I’ll look in the mirror and I won’t even see myself, just an unqualified failure to be a Victoria’s Secret Angel. Or, easiest of all, I’ll just listen to the people who tell me I’m a walking suckgasm and deserve nothing good out of life.

But then I look around me and see all these amazing people I have in my life. I have friends who are more interesting, brilliant, accepting, and tolerant of my flakiness than I ever dreamed possible. Some of these friends, shockingly, even find me attractive and want to play together: an outcome far beyond my loftiest fantasies. And my boyfriend? He challenges everything I used to believe about relationships, after years of making stupid, harmful-to-everyone-involved decisions in my love life, just by being himself. I didn’t know what it felt like to be loved and respected by a partner until Laramy showed me. Did I mention he’s awesome? And he picks me.

Even on the most superficial level possible: I, Quizzical Pussy, mere mortal, have gotten to have sex with some of the most exquisite, intriguing, and frankly hottest people I’ve ever had the privilege to meet. Not bad for a cripple who sucks at flirting and can’t tell whether people are into her or not.

So with all this evidence in front of me I have good reason to wonder if maybe I’m just a little awesome after all. Otherwise wouldn’t these seriously cool people shun me? I mean, even allowing for the fact that they’re also kind, wouldn’t they at least try to keep some distance?

Of course it doesn’t do to base my entire self-worth on the fact that people of excellence want to know and possibly even fuck me. But it’s good to remember that maybe I have some good points I’m not seeing, that they might. And I love these people; I trust them. Maybe they have a point.

And even if I’m seriously Not Awesome in any way, shape, or form, which I accept as a distinct possibility, life is making up for that by being boundlessly awesome in some of the ways that matter most.

(image source)

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In one sense, my memory is positively elephantine. I remember conversations I had when I was four years old: not dramatic, important ones, but mundane, forgettable ones. I remember what cigarettes my best friend smoked Sophomore year of High School, and which ones she switched to when we were Juniors. I remember the descant to a choral piece I learned in fourth grade, and all the words to mc chris’s Fett’s Vette.*

I can basically never find my keys. If they aren’t in one of my two I-will-not-lose-them-if-I-consciously-put-them-here-every-time places, one of which is my coat pocket, there’s a lot of frantic searching punctuated by screams of “DEAR GOD MY KEYS HAVE GONE FERAL!” in my future.

This is how I know that there’s more than one kind of memory, and I suck at at least one of them.

So if I’m packing stuff up for a day or two away from home, I’ll inevitably end up forgetting something. Sometimes it’s totally unimportant, like a DVD I promised to lend a friend who’s been super excited to see it and possibly even planning a party around it, and at other times it’s of vital, national security-level importance, like my moisturizer.

A couple months ago, I was visiting my boyfriend for the weekend, and the thing I forgot was my birth control pills (also my thyroid medication, which is less relevant to the story but is not much better an idea).

There are people in the world who’d just turn their cars around, trek back home, get the necessary medications, and return triumphant. Those are exactly the kind of people who forged this great nation and will eventually launch a manned trip to Mars. I’m more the kind of person that drives for an hour to her boyfriend’s house and then majestically proclaims, “I am feeling rather tired. Do you mind if I lie down?”

Once I’d realized my mess up I did feel like a tool, though. Laramy has mentioned several times how nice it is that we’ve gone condom-free with each other, and I didn’t love the idea of him having to use them just based on my defective brain’s fuck-up. That’s when I remembered those little magical sponges.

Several years ago, an ex and I had a ton of condoms break. They probably broke almost half the time; I still can’t quite figure out why. After trying several kinds, we just gave up and started looking for other options. Enter the sponge, a little foam disk filled with spermicide. You added water to get it frothy, shoved it up against your cervix, and could fuck all day!

I decided if I picked up some sponges at the pharmacy the forgotten pills would barely be missed! When Laramy and I went out on errands I asked him if we could swing by Walgreen’s. “Are you sure? We can just use condoms…” Laramy offered. “No,” I insisted, “We should get the sponges.” Condoms are great, but it’s hard to deny the fact that they kill some sensitivity. I was determined that Laramy wouldn’t be punished for my forgetfulness.

We found the sponges on the bottom shelf, below the rubbers. “They want fifteen dollars for three of them? That’s insane!” Laramy opined. I’d remembered what sponges cost, but I forgot to realize that he wouldn’t love the idea of me “wasting” my money just to keep him out of latex. Just then, a box of Encare spermicidal eggs right next to the sponges caught my eye, on sale for about half that much. My ex and I had used those too, and they’d worked just as well, although they were less convenient because you had to use a new one every time and wait a few minutes after insertion before fucking could commence. “I’ll just buy these, okay? Eight bucks. No condoms. Awesome!” and waltzed to the front of the store to pay for them. I had saved the day! Albeit from my stupid memory. Still, I was a hero. Maybe I’d get America to Mars after all!

Later, as we were making dinner, I felt a hard cock press against my ass and a pair of hands on my tits. Moments later Laramy was inside me and I was halfway to coming. Mercy, do I love spontaneous sex.

It wasn’t until he declared “I’m gonna come” that it occurred to me that we’d planned to use backup protection and we kinda, well, hadn’t. “Wait! Wait! Come in my mouth!” I suggested enthusiastically. He enthusiastically complied. Later I learned that guys find this sort of thing hot anyway, in addition to being a practical, last-second measure. Score.

Upstairs, the Encare eggs sat unused in their little, slightly squished box, biding their time…

The next day it was sex o’clock again. We were thinking ahead a little better at this point. “Do you want me to put a condom on?” offered Laramy. “No,” I said, “I can just put in one of those insert thingies, if you don’t mind waiting ten minutes.” He did not. We found other things to do than intercourse for a bit, and then I looked at the clock and it was ten after sex! Oh yay!

He started fucking me. Then he started fucking me harder. Then a look of what I thought might be profound concentration came over his face. “Maybe my vagina just feels too amazing to contemplate, but he’s trying anyway,” I told myself, “Yes. That must be it. How ambitious!” Then he slowed down, paused. “This is really hurting!” he confessed.

Oh my God. My vagina feels too ouchy to contemplate!? An alternative interpretation that hadn’t yet occurred to me.

“Shit! Then stop!” I suggested. He pulled out and ran to the bathroom to wash his dick.

“It must be the spermicide in that stuff! I’m allergic to it or something!”** He called as I followed him. He was sitting in the bathtub,. scrubbing with soap. Truth be told, his cock wasn’t looking a comfortable shade of red. This is when I started apologizing, I think. I felt like a total douche. I’d insisted on the Encare thinking I was being helpful, when all along he hadn’t been quite sure about the plan and was too polite to say anything.***

Sometimes I honestly do not know how he puts up with me. But this is how incredible my boyfriend is: he wanted to keep going! “I’ll just slip on a condom,” he explained. That way he’d avoid the allergens in my pussy. After everything we’d been through to avoid them, the condoms were coming out anyway. Ah, well!

I can honestly say it was good for me. For Laramy, less so. “Condoms really aren’t that bad,” I concluded after my ninth orgasm.

“…I think some of that spermicide must’ve gotten lodged in my urethra…” he replied. Oh, so not that good for him after all. Oh.

“WHY DID YOU KEEP GOING?” I asked, appalled.

“A champion fucks through the pain.”  Indeed.

Laramy says that the events of that weekend had nothing to do with his decision to finally schedule that vasectomy he’d been wanting for years. It’s likely just coincidence that a few weeks later he made the appointment at last.

(image source)

* Not to say that I can perform them all with the correct rhythm in the original tempo…
** Turns out lots of people are. Oops.
*** Never be polite to the detriment of your cocks, lads.

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