31 October 2007

TMI Tuesday #11: Statistics Are My Life.

Why one day late? Because my sexual peccadillos and observations are so important that they need your complete attention. Yes, I'm that important to your psyche's libido.

1. If they kept stats of your sex life like they do in sports, what would you lead the league in? what all time record would you hold?

I'm currently leading the league in FPPH — fantasy positions per hour. Why, just as I wrote this entry, I fucked Amy on a staircase, one of her legs pointing to the sky; and she rode me cowgirl while simultaneously handling a work-related cell phone conversation with her boss.

And I will undoubtedly make it into the Sex Hall of Fame with my strong hold on the official TCSD. That would be teasing clitoral stimulation duration. Amy hates that I have this record, and believes I should be banished from all major league sex-realted sports for my "bad sportsmanship." To which I reply: "When all is said and done, who loses?"

2. What song gets you in the mood to have sex? best music to fuck to? best music to make love to?

This questionsis so relative to the moment. What would get me going right now? Probably something sung by the more gravelly-voiced singer in Gomez. I have no idea why.

But if we want to go with a more traditional "what would get me in the mood" song, it would probably be Prince's "Darling Nikki." Trés predictable, I know. It has to do with Purple Rain's placement in time during my high-school / college years. The song had this taboo quality — not so much because I was listening to it, but the fact that the nation was listening to it. Even a censored version of "Darling Nikki" got mega-airplay in the early 1980s, and that amazes me to this day. Perhaps memories associated with the song is underwritten by teenage hormones, but it really seemed like there was this secret my generation carried around with us, like a pop-music version of our own pocket-rocket vibrator.

Plus, Prince makes Amy horny. Period. I'm sure that's related to her memories/hormones from that time as well.

Best music to make love to ... Why is that more difficult? Maybe because when we do have sex, we fuck more than make love. But okay, I'll bite. Coldplay's first album, Parachutes, has this magic that, quite frankly, the band has never captured again. (Which is not to say the later stuff isn't good, they just went in a different direction.) There is an intimacy on tracks like "Spies," "Trouble," "High Speed," and the superb, enthralling "Everything's Not Lost" (sorry about the Harry Potter vid link for that last one — just close your eyes and listen) that totally turns me on. Amy and I had a wonderful weekend in a bed and breakfast listening to this record. Ah, those care-free, pre-parenting years.

3. Where is your favorite place to have sex in your house/apartment?

There's a couch in the basement I like a lot, because it's the perfect height to bend Amy over, stand up, and fuck her. Optionally, we can watch porn from this position quite easily.

But the real interest for me is in the places I want to fuck her in the house: let me assure you that Amy desperately needs to be fucked on our kitchen island and on our dining room table. The kitchen counter would be so perfect. A nice, high level, so I don't have to bend over far when I eat her out while her curled-toe feet are hooked under the counter ledge on each side. The bright light just a couple of feet above her would give it this spotlight-on-stage quality — further enhanced by the fact that our next-door neighbors could look down outside their master bedroom suite bathroom window and enjoy the show. (To my knowledge, they never have — the window is a bit high to make that an easy maneuver for them — but the thought still tantalizes.)

And the dining room table, that's all about this common area, this community place that everyone visits on a daily basis. I mean, the couch is the same way, but everyone fucks on a couch. To be sitting at that beautiful mahogany table with my whole family at a Thanksgiving feast, and to lean over to Amy's ear and whisper: "Do you remember when I was pushing your face, your tits, into this surface a couple of weeks ago? How your breath condensed on the wood and you asked me to fuck you harder?"

I mean, come on. Does it get better than that?

4. Have you taken/asked for a girls panties before? What did you do with them?

I haven't. Panties off of a woman don't do much for me. I love to play with panties while they're still on a woman ... pull them up and into her slit ... try to eat her through them ... pull them aside and fuck her without taking them off. But actually doing something with them when they're off beyond throwing them as hard as I can against the far wall in my aggressive passion ... Nah. I've even tried a pair on to see if it did anything. It didn't. Not in my wiring, I guess.

5. What makes a kiss a great to you?

It's all in the approach. The simmering intention behind the eyes. The warm, parting lips that take an extra modicum of effort to separate. And then slightly missing the bullseye target lips, either purposely or not. An imperfect landing for me implies that passion is more important than technique. It's more important that this kiss happen now than it happen in a Hollywood moment.

Bonus: Who pays for a date? If the girl asks a guy out, does she pay? If you are interested in same sex partners, how do you determine who pays?

Who pays for our date? Everyone pays for it. The gas that we expend getting their is adding to the pollution. The food we consume is adding to humanity's reckless destruction of our planet. The movie we attend adds to the belittling of intelligent thought in our popular culture. The noise of our frenzied sex on the sixth floor of the parking garage adds to the noise pollution, not to mention the embarrassment of the ultra-conservative Christian couple who walk by the car and try their best, with small talk about the romantic flick they just saw, to ignore the female voice they just distinctly heard screaming Do my ass NOW, you fucker! from behind the fogging, tempered glass.

Oh yes. We all pay.


I have a little project for November: I'm writing a novel. No, sadly (for you), it's not a sex novel. (But maybe another year I'll try that.) I'm only mentioning it here because, heck, I just showed up again, and now I may not be posting a lot during November. Have no fear: I will try to post occasionally during the next 30 days, but I expect to be more "present" in December and beyond.

25 October 2007

H is for ...

Hi again.


There has been much speculation (in both blog comments and in my private email) regarding what precipitated my disappearance six months ago (almost to the day). Among them:

  • I'd had a relapse of the flu I'd suffered shortly before my hiatus.
  • Amy was upset about the blog.
  • I'd died (!).
  • Amy and I were breaking up.
  • Amy was pregnant (!!).

I'm happy to say that none of these suppositions were correct. (Though if I'm going to be perfectly honest with you, there are fleeting moments when I wouldn't mind if Amy were pregnant again. But don't tell her.)

If I were feeling inspired to be dramatic, I could probably spin a yarn about how Amy and her secret lover kidnapped me (after leaving the kids with the neighbors) and took me to their Costa Rican love dungeon, only releasing me lo these months later after I had achieved a sexual nirvana heretofore unexpereienced by humankind.

But it's not that interesting. In fact, it's not even as interesting as what the rest of you came up with. It was just ... life. Among the "lowlights" y'all missed (all of which contributed, in greater or lesser degrees, to my prolonged absence):

  • deadlines for major projects at work, taking me out of commission for most of May, August, and part of September;
  • two family vacations this summer!
  • a ridiculous number of commitments related to a kid's school and extracurricular activities;
  • numerous visits to our home by family members; and
  • many medical- and work-related issues for Amy

Notice anything in particular missing from that list?

Yep. Conspicuously absent would be Energetic, sweaty, ball-slapping fucking like the feral creatures from which I'm sure we evolved.

Most of the items on that second list will explain the lack of cum-dripping adventures, but none more so than the last one. It's been one of those years for Amy where one medical "event" after another has made her feel much, much older than her years. I know that many of you can relate. And all of this preoccupation with her health has put a severe damper on our sexual activity. It's not that there has been zero orgasms; we did "fit it in" (wink wink, nudge nudge) a few times this last half-year. And some of the sex has been truly awesome. But fun nights have been few and far between, and time to document them simply hasn't been there.

Since I defined this blog pretty narrowly from the outset as being about sex ... well, there hasn't been a lot to write about. But if I'm going to be honest, this wasn't the only reason I stopped. Honestly, with the amount I posted for the blog's first four-and-a-half months, it was going to be hard for me under the best of circumstances to keep up that sort of pace. I was feeling burned out.

But I wasn't expecting to take this long of a break. And I also wasn't expecting that the event that would get me off my middle-aged ass and get writing again would be the "hiatus" of one of my all-time favorite bloggers, La fille mariée. The blogosphere was robbed of an important voice when she decided to type the light fantastic. And while I'm not for a minute believing that my voice can in any way fill the void left by her departure, her leaving did make me realize that I didn't want The Concupiscent Husband to die completely.

So, I'm back, if in a slightly less regular form. One of the ways I hope to keep this blog (and myself) fresh is to not feel the need to post as often as before. I'm not short of ideas: I currently have 26 posts in draft form, all different topics, waiting for my attention. And there is such a good amount of material out there from the sex blogs that are out there that I am certain I will be able to take in your experiences and ideas, chew them for awhile, and spit them back into the atmosphere with a new flavor. If, uh, that metaphor of regurgitated sexual philosophy wasn't too disgusting for you to dwell on. Quick, think of big cocks and tits and get back to what you really want to be dwelling on in your office cubicle.

There's something refreshing from starting at Square One again. Maybe I build a whole new audience. Maybe some of you who still find my posts relevant might give me another gander. But this blog thing doesn't really work if I don't write for myself first, and trust that the audience will find me.

I'm actually looking forward to doing this again. Okay, okay. To be honest, I'm actually looking forward to doing that again . . . and then describing that to you in all its energetic, sweaty, ball-slapping, over-wordy detail.