The Great Divide

Well, I'm sick. With a stupid, energy-depleting cold, and it's been a struggle to concentrate long on anything. This is particularly frustrating, since a new sex toy and movie arrived in the mail on Friday, but I just haven't had the energy to check this stuff out with Amy. Hopefully you'll be hearing about that soon ... but apparently not this weekend.

Finding the time to write — or the privacy to have sex — is going to get tricky this coming week, as my mom is coming to visit. Looks like it might be a good time to spring the "100 things" list.

+++
A few weeks ago, Dan Savage had a column that took me by surprise. The topic was what to do about differing libidos — specifically, what a high-libidoed male does when paired with a low-libidoed female. The man had recently discovered the existence of Joan Sewell's I'd Rather Eat Chocolate: Learning to Love My Low Libido, and he was understandably worried. "My spouse can now point at this book," he wrote, "and say, 'I'm normal, live with it....'"

Dan's response caught me totally off guard: He first restated the basic premise of the book — "Women have naturally lower sex drives.... [M]en are hornier—and all the Sex and the City repeats in the world aren't going to change that," he explains of her premise — and then ... he didn't refute it.

Dammit. Et tu, Dan?

The column really got my dander up, and I was fighting to write a blog entry here. But work and my natural laziness kept me from ever writing that. This was lucky, because the next week, Dan's true endgame was revealed: His "silence is assent" approach was only a setup to guarantee that lots of oversexed women would write in and unveil their unbridled lust. Really, how silly of me to not see this coming! I've been reading Dan for years — he's a sort of hero for me. Perhaps I was blinded by my empathy for the writer (though let's face it, I do significantly better than his "5-20 times a year" he gets from his wife). Nevertheless, I was happy to see the outpouring of mail that Dan received. Clearly, I was the only one not in on the joke.

An example: "... I wanted to pipe up as one woman who has never—I mean never—met a man whose libido could match mine," one wrote. "If it were up to me, I’d be having sex twice a day. I’ve never met a man who could handle sex once a day (every day) after the first flush of lust."

I'm not afraid to admit, as I read that one, that I thought: You never met me! But the truth is, I don't really know; I've never been with a woman as insatiable as some of the ladies who star in these letters. Which, I suppose, lends credence to Sewell's book's premise. These are probably the exceptions to the rule.

If I feel any sense of "hope," it's the same kind of hope that writing this blog and (especially) reading other sex blogs has given me: That I'm not the only one dealing with this problem ... that others out there dealing with it have seen improvement (at least when both partners want to change the situation) ... and that I've seen little signs for the better right here at home.

And I'm thinking that the start of blogging and the sudden somewhat-more-regular sex may not have been coincidental. Amy's and my differing libidos seemed to be a locked-in reality. But Amy had suddenly expressed a desire for desiring more sex, to be more of the "old" Amy. It's too early to tell if we've really turned a corner, but the will is there, and that's really all one could ask for, right?

If Savage is to be believed, I should be expecting more:

The one thing that hasn't changed in the wake of Sewell's book is my advice to women with low libidos: You can have strict monogamy or you can have a low libido, ladies, but you can't have both. If monogamy is a priority, you're gonna have to put out, i.e., regular vaginal intercourse and the occasional tide-him-over handjob and/or blowjob, cheerfully given.

I understand where he's coming from here, but this is not a message that I believe can be delivered as an ultimatum. This is something that needs to be realized — by both partners. There needs to be an understanding. Perhaps it's a conversation that Amy and I will have one day. The thought of a context in which such a conversation were to occur ... it frankly scares me.

But I'm thinking. Thinking. Thinking.

One of the libido-related issues that seems to keep coming up for us is the fact that simply having sex makes me want more. If Amy fucks me on a Friday night, I'm all over her all day Saturday, trying to set up another tryst for that night. For her, it seems to be more like a "We've done that already!" It's a chemical thing, I think: Energetic, passionate sex raises my testosterone levels, thus making me even hornier. But I can't possibly expect the same thing to happen to her — not as intensely, at least.

A couple of weekends ago, we had amazing sex on a Saturday night. Sunday, I knew, was going to be all about getting "domestic" things done — errands, work around the house, etc. But I woke up with one thought on my mind: If we have an incredibly productive day and get all that stuff done, we could go another round on Sunday night. Amy gently spurned my flirting and groping that morning, easily saw my goal, and warned me up front that this wasn't going to be happening.

I became a petulant child for quite a bit of the rest of that morning. And the only thing worse than acting this way is knowing that you're being an asshole. I was finally able to turn my attitude that day around, but it wasn't easy for me. As we drove to a mall, Amy called me on my pissy attitude, and I admitted that it was this "sex breeds the desire for more sex" thing that I always seem to have.

"And when I act this way," I said, "I'm afraid that you're going to think you don't want to bother having sex with me at all, because you know you're just going to be asked for more right away."

The issue didn't get resolved, but at least it was out on the table. I'm sure it'll get revisited sometime.

I had to laugh, though, when I noticed this letter among the responses to Savage's column:

I love my husband. I love fucking him. I also know that I do say no more often than yes. I’m working on this. I wish he would cut down on the sulking. He’d get fucked a lot more “if only” he would.

Hey! I think Amy wrote in!

Tag, I'm It (I)

Sweet Bekah "tagged" me recently. I've never been tagged before, so Bekah, you took my tag cherry. I suddenly feel a strong desire to cuddle. Do you still love me? Do you think I'm pretty?

(Sorry, La fille mariée, you missed having that by a coupla hours. I'll be fulfilling your tag request in the next coupla days.)

The gig is this: I have to come up with five things about myself that I've never written (or isn't immediately obvious) here.

One would think this would be a piece of cake, but here's the rub: I completed a "100 things about me" list back in early February, and I'm waiting for "the right moment" to unleash that on you. Since this is a sex blog, my one requirement is that all posts have to be sex-related, so every one of my 100 things is about sex in some way. And that, my friends, took a seriously long time to complete.

Now I had to come up with five more! Thanks, Bekah. You're a peach.

Nevertheless, I persevered. For you. Here are five sexual things about me. Consider it a teaser for the upcoming 100-things list (which, I must say, is even juicier).


1. I've taken purity tests a number of times, dating all the way back to the first 500-question version that showed up on Usenet in 1991. I just took one again, and my score: I am 53.96% pure. I am bound and determined to get "over the hump" and slip below 50% by the end of this year!

2. I have a thing for Meredith Vieira. Shut up. I'm serious. I would totally do her. The way she flirts with male contestants on the syndicated version of Who Wants to Be A Millionaire? makes me want to audition for the show just so I can show her my "lifeline."

3. I don't really masturbate in the shower. I mean, I suppose I have, but ... it doesn't really work for me. It doesn't go anywhere. Considering my love for shower sex, this seems odd to me.

4. Not only was I involved in all the plays during my three years of high school, I was also involved in just about every group shoulder- and back-massage in which the crew and actors engaged in the wings, just offstage. We did this a lot. Like, daisy-chain massages. Looking back on this, it's hard to believe that the grown-ups nearby would allow such sensual activity to continue unabated through the entire run of our shows. I mean, didn't they know that when I was working Hallie's shoulders, I was also looking straight down her black Danskin top? Were they really that dense? I know Hallie wasn't. She loved it.

5. How am I hangin'? Usually to the right. When I'm not, you know, pull-and-sweepin'.


So I'm supposed to tag five more people. I kinda hate this part, but I better do it in case there's one of those Internet curses where if I don't follow through, something bad will happen like my testicles will break off and work their way down my pant leg. My right pant leg, as you now know.

So: amy.elle ... Lena G. ... Penelope / Odysseus ... preheated ... and WM ... You're all on. And your five things dont' have to be about sex — that's just my thing. (But it's always more fun when it is!) If you go for it, the general link above will change to that specific post on your blog.

Sugasm #72

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Detached

We were on the couch last night, Amy and me,¹ and it was getting on the later side (so what's new). This was how I put it:

"I'm not sure if you were thinking we were having sex tonight. Do you wanna do anything?"

A note to ladies reading this: I understand if my powers of seduction, exhibited in this steamy proposition to my wife, overwhelm you with moist desire. Please, take as much time as you need to "take care of bidness" before continuing with this entry.

"I mean ..." I continue, my libido twisting in the wind, "... I don't want to do anything you're not in the mood for. It's not that big a deal." This is sort of true. But even so: What the hell am I thinking when I say this?

There are two opposite forces at work here.

The first force is a simple, testosterone-based need. It's been a week since I've had any sex that didn't feature my hand in the starring role. Now we stand on the precipice of another work week. The odds of sex before next Saturday are slim to none. Some part of my brain screams: You have to try!

The counterforce is the knowledge that Amy hasn't responded to my overtures all day. These gestures have spanned the gamut, from simple (a caress of the ass, a kiss in the hollow of her neck) to heavy-handed (After repairing a child's toy that Amy [inadvertently] broke, thus silencing a 15-minute tantrum/pouting session, I whisper in Amy's ear: "You owe me an amazing blowjob tonight for this one!").

We had a stupid-busy weekend which included a to-do list that proved size does matter. The only way to gain ground was to split forces. Amy and one kid get a haircut while I take the other kid with me grocery shopping. I take one kid to a birthday party while Amy does yard work. We were detached for the whole weekend. And even when we were together, one or the other of us worked on different chores or dealt with different kids. We weren't spouses these last few days, we were co-workers.

And then there are the examples of the sexual disconnect:

- While watching Rome, I comment: "Man, do Atia's breasts get larger with every episode?" Amy's reply is a question: "Does your mind always have to be on that one track?" She kind-of-apologizes when I point out that such observations about women's bodies on TV usually come from her.

- We hear an ad for a Viagra-style product on the radio, and Amy muses: "How come they don't make a drug that lessens a man's sex drive?" Me: "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Her: (defensive) "It was a joke." Me: "Um, so was mine." This is one of those cases, I think, where that maxim about some truth in every joke might be applicable.

And still — after all this evidence! — "Don Juan" here barreled ahead with a proposition for sex.

Anyroad² ... If you think my come-on was sexy, just wait 'til you get a load of Amy's response:

"I could probably be talked into something."

I'm not sure that she physically shrugged, but I swear I could hear it.

+++
And the red flags just kept popping up.

I got ready for bed while Amy stayed in front of the television, watching cake decorating. Friends, this never happens.

I was in bed when Amy came into the bedroom, and she asked if we could work on a crossword for awhile. It was almost 1:00 a.m. Any sane man would take the hint; any sane husband would gracefully bow out, letting his wife off the hook.

I hate to give away the ending to my story, but you all know where this is going, don't you?

+++
Lights off, we started kissing. And everything felt a little ... off. Like we'd been away from each other, lost our groove. I commented on this.

"I've felt so disconnected from you." I wasn't sure where this was going, but I hoped she could help me get there. But it was a dead end: Amy acknowledged that we've been really busy recently. End of discussion.

My hands worked around her body. My tongue traveled from neck to ear. I was gettin' ... nothin'.

As she stroked my chest, she said: "My hand is hurting a lot from this eczema thing tonight. I'm sorry, but I can't really touch you a lot." I told her that's fine. But the thought that it hurt to touch me dug deeper than I let on. I crave Amy's touch. Often, when she slips a hand under my shirt and strokes my back, there is a physical release of stress. I'm sure she thinks I'm overdramatizing when I react. It's as if I discovered a delicious treat I had no idea I was hungry for.

I slipped a hand inside her panties, and she giggled. "You're tickling me!" she said between laughs.

"I'm not doing anything! I'm not even being that gentle!"

"I'm sorry," she said. "You just went in soft and swiftly."

"Then let me try it again. This time I'll go in hard and clumsily," I joked.

"Well, that definitely won't tickle."

I try again, and again, she writhed in ticklish laughter. "I'm sorry, but your hand is just doing that to me tonight!"

I sit up and roughly start to pull off her panties. "Let's see what my tongue does to you, then."

I stayed knelt by her side, my head lowered to her pussy. A typical "69" position, except that my cock is off to the side. Usually she manually plays with me, but not tonight. My tongue went to work, but momentarily she bucked me off in another fit of laughter. One more try: This time her legs squeezed my face as she laughed into the pillow.

"You have got to be kidding me," I said, a little irked now.

She collected herself and finally allowed me in. I was all business. I had something to prove! What, exactly, I'm not sure. She had a pretty good orgasm. And then I did something slightly passive-aggressive: Instead of backing off after her orgasm, I locked my mouth over her cunt and continued to go at her like she still had somewhere to go. I guess I was trying to give her a second one, show her how good this could be. Whatever I was thinking (and calling it "thinking" is charitable), she finally had to force me off. I fell back on the bed panting.

Amy sat up and pulled off my boxer-briefs. With no preface, she came right down on my cock and went to work. It was really nice at first — some variation up and down the sides and underside of the shaft, combined with taking me deep. I slipped my hand into her hair and did some mild guiding. She winced.

"Gentler," she whispered in between sucks.

"Sorry," I said, and decided not to chance hurting her.

Instead, I slipped a hand between her legs, let a thumb stray into her ass crack. Immediately, she clinched and moved away. "Okay," I whispered, getting the message.

My hand slinked up her sides to her tank-covered breasts. I gently teased one, stimulating a nipples. Again, she flinched.

"I can't do that either?" The words came out of my mouth before I could stop myself. I think I was whining.

"I'm really sorry," she said. She repositioned herself between my legs, putting her bits out of reach. I sighed and put my hands over my head, grabbing the footboard of the bed.

I stared at the ceiling, realizing there was no way I was coming now. I was completely out of the mood. What's more, Amy, was totally overblowing me at this point. She was going up and down at breakneck pace on my dick, and the teeth were slowly creeping into play, more than they should. It was getting uncomfortable. (Perhaps she was just returning my passive aggression!) When she came up for air, I slipped a hand onto my cock and started jacking, encouraging her to work my balls instead.

But it was already over. Shortly, she came up beside me. She started licking my nipples as I continued to jack myself.

"Tell me something dirty," I suggested. With a good spate of slutchat from Amy, I could probably come off quickly.

"I was thinking about Cleopatra's small tits," she said, another reference to Rome. "What it would be like to have small tits like those. The kind that are barely there. Where you would just be able to suck on my nipples and really nothing else...."

This was the oddest direction she'd ever gone with such talk. She must have known that, because she abandoned it.

"It's just not my night," she sighed.

"No, I guess it's not," I acknowledged, though lovingly. I kissed her head. "You should just go to sleep."

With little hesitation, she flipped around, putting her head back at the top of the bed. "Are you going to finish?" she asked.

"I don't know. Maybe. Yes." But ten strokes later, my erection was gone. I turned around too.

I tried to talk a little more about the disconnection. I commented on feeling far away from her.

"Well, you stay up late, and I get up early," she said. And all I could think was, I'm not the one falling asleep at 9:00 every night! But saying that out loud would have definitely started a fight, and it would have been unfair anyway. Instead, I redirected my frustration, putting the burden on the child who hasn't been sleeping well. Amy didn't respond. She was falling asleep.

I looked at the clock. It was 1:45 a.m. I stared into darkness. I thought about the fact that there are going to be nights like these; we just hadn't had one in a long, long time. I thought about how borderline-petulant I was acting about all of this. I thought about masturbating again. But all masturbatory fantasies lead back to Amy, and any "fantasy Amy" would morph into tonight's Amy. The only possibility was a raunchy porn video to drown out my overactive head. But I didn't move. I just lay there and stewed.

I looked at the clock again. It was 3:02 a.m.

+++
"It's 6:51," said Amy, cuing me to get out of bed. I showered, the previous evening's events slowly coming back to me. Back in the bedroom, I stood at my dresser, pulling on underwear.

"It's a miracle," Amy said behind me, "that none of the kids have woken up."

"Yeah, that's cool," I said. I reached for an undershirt.

"So," she said, "you want to try again?"

I froze. Laughed. Shook my head. Walked over to the bed. "Bless you for that," I said. "But I have a hard time believing we won't be interrupted."

"But we could try," she said.

"You don't have to do this," I said.

"I want to do this," she said. Convincingly.

So, how cool is that?

I tossed the undershirt on the bed, stepped out of my underwear. Before I could say, "Alright, we can try," she had my flaccid cock in her mouth.

Three sucks later, it was rock-hard. I stood next to the bed as she lay down, encouraging me to fuck her mouth. I kept it gentle. This morning felt like it needed gentle.

"You keep yourself good and hard," she said after a moment, "and I'll be right back." She peed while I stretched on the bed, lazily jacking. She returned with a wicked grin and attacked my dick with gusto. It took just a few minutes before I quietly came. It was the thought that counted.

"Wow," she commented, "they're still not awake."

"Yeah," I said, slipping my underwear back on.

"So you could get me off again."

I turned around, and now she was stretched out, her hand already warming things up. I fell between her legs.

After several minutes of bringing her to the edge, she would fall away again. Finally, she pounded the mattress with a fist. "I don't know what's wrong! I get close, and then I lose it. I feel like I'm a long way away!"

"For what it's worth," I offered, "I'm having a hell of a time finding the pocket and getting a rhythm."

She pulled me up beside her. "Thanks anyway."

"No, thank you," I said. "This was a nice surprise."

She kissed me. "Gotta get moving." She headed to the shower.

"Breakfast?" I asked.

"Oh ... oatmeal or smoothie. Whichever you want."

I headed down the hall to the kitchen. We had managed to delay the start of the week by some twenty minutes, but now it was officially here.


--
¹ Sometimes I think I could rename this blog "A Marriage Held on the Couch." [Return]

² My new favorite word. I picked it up from Rome. Which, sadly, ended its run on HBO last night. Damn, I'm gonna miss that series. Even if there wasn't much of a series left, as all but three of the main characters were dead by the final credits. [Return]

TMI Tuesday #9: Men's Secret Revealed!

Forty-eight hours late. But it's not about timeliness, is it? No. It's about my brutal honesty when TMI Tuesday puts my feet to the hot coals of truthiness. It's about my bearing my soul to you. And, if you're lucky, it's about some embarrassing tidbit regarding my sex life.

A bonus this time 'round: I introduce a new sex term. Help me spread it like an STD! I challenge fellow bloggers to incorporate the term into their own blogs.

Onward!


1. When you are out in public, do you often get hard/get wet?

Not as often as I used to, certainly. There are many curses to getting older; this one is probably more of a blessing. Junior high was rough for me in this regard (as it is for most boys at that time). It's the age where we all perfect the "pull and sweep" move. (No, that's not the term I alluded to above. Wait for it — it's coming.)

Oh, you don't know pull-and-sweep? Have a seat, ladies. It's time to get schooled. (Men are excused — they know this so well, though most of them have never told their lovers about this aspect of their youth.)

Picture, if you will, Our Hero, sitting at one of those desk-chair combos in French class attempting to conjugate être, when he suddenly realizes that, apropos of nothing, the right front pocket of his jeans is tenting. The dull ache in his crotch reveals the "tent maker." And oh boy, trouble is a-brewin': Monsieur Grastorf is about to dismiss class. Our Hero could choose to sit there and wait for his raison d'être to subside, but the problem is that Phys Ed — on the other side of the school grounds — begins in six minutes.

Oh, one more complication: Ingenue, who just happens to be Our Hero's current love interest (read: masturbatory fantasy), has approached the boy. Clutching her French primer to her budding chest, she asks Our Hero if he would walk to the gym with her.

If he were to stand up right now, Our Hero could very possibly be arrested for inflicting this Weapon of Mass Distraction on the poor, unsuspecting young lady.

What is a boy to do?

Step 1. Misdirection. Our Hero will begin an answer to Ingenue ... an answer that will be a "yes," but first things first. Before a word passes from his lips, he shifts his gaze momentarily over Ingenue's right shoulder, and allows a small smile to almost escape his lips. It's just enough to cause the girl to follow his gaze: She turns her head and looks to the front of the classroom, looking for what distracted Our Hero. (And his parents thought all those books on sleight-of-hand magic were a waste of time!)

Step 2. The Pull. Things must move quickly now — in microseconds, Ingenue is coming back around to complete her transaction. One hand is used, and it needs to be the hand from the side opposite the direction the offending appendage has encroached. The hand grabs the fold of his jeans' excess material — you know, that part that folds up against the stomach when he sits down — and pulls this away from his body. This creates a larger tent of space, leaving room for Step 3 to occur.

Step 3. The Sweep. The hand not currently holding The Pull in place comes down, and with one or two fingers, the pesky erection is pushed to a vertical (or, if you're a flight attendant, the "upright and standing") position. When the "clock hand" points to 12 o'clock, the "Pull" hand releases the material.

Step 4. Business As Usual. "Why, yes, Ingenue, I'd be delighted to accompany you and your gorgeous, hot ass across the school."

Okay, so Step 4 is hopefully uttered with a bit more ... aplomb.

In any case, Our Hero is now free to continue merrily on his way, safe in the knowledge that the deftly executed maneuver has hidden his stiff boy-meat behind the extra material of his jeans zipper. Since that part of any pair of jeans is already thicker than the rest of the pants, no unsightly bulge is evident. The aroused member can even shrink back to its usual pathetic shape (in plenty of time for Our Hero to be thoroughly self-conscious in the gym locker room in 5-1/2 short minutes) without anyone being the wiser.

By the way, the advanced-skills version of this is mastered with one hand: The forefinger and thumb perform The Pull, the remaining three fingers (or some combination thereof) effect The Sweep. If a woman were to witness the adeptness of a skilled Pull-and-Sweeper, it would take her breath away.

Ladies, before I let the men come back in and read the rest of this post, that you will never tell them that I revealed this information. I would sacrifice full faith and credit of all men everywhere. Do we have a deal? Good.

"Come on back, guys! Nothing to see here!"


2. When you masturbate, how long, typically, is your session and what do you think about (other than having an orgasm)?

I have had nights, when I'm particularly tired but still wanting to pull one off, where I will literally fall asleep and wake up again with my limp dick in my hands ... only to coax it back to life and finish the job. I've had times where I've fallen asleep more than once. These are certainly extended sessions, though hardly stimulating.

And there are times where I'm all about the tease ... just bringing myself along slowly with slow strokes, coming close and backing off ... starting again. I usually need some good masturbatory material for these. I usually prefer reading over pictures/movies for this kind of jack. The fun thing about these jackoffs is that there is much more semen involved in the money shot.

And then, there are the "maintenance" tugs: I need to get rid of this itch so I can get back to work. This style is all business. Movies work best in this case. I can get myself off in less than five minutes in these situations from a dead stand-still, if I need to.

If I don't have other materials available to me, I usually conjure up a re-creation of past sexual experiences. The vast majority of these involve my wife.

The fallback scenario — the one that is guaranteed to bring my seed boiling to the surface (and beyond) — is the re-imagining of the first morning I ever work up with Amy. The morning after the first night I met her. The morning I woke up sandwiched between her ... and her best friend. Who also happened to be my ex-girlfriend.

But that's a story you'll have to wait for. It's too important to not be told properly.


3. What is your most pleasurable intercourse position?

Usually sitting across the table from the someone, each of us with a cup of coffee. I can talk for hours in that position! Hmm? Oh. Not that kind of intercourse.

Of course, you're not going to get me to commit to just one. Why else do you think I'm known as The Equivocating Husband?

Missionary has its advantages — the big two being a) my cock hits her in just the right places (if my angle is a little bit higher than usual), the base almost rubbing against her clit; and b) it puts our mouths right next to our ears, where we can weave all sorts of prurient threats into each other's ears. Downside: I'm prohibited from staying close to her face and really letting loose a serious fuck session.

"Furniture" Missionary — Poising her on the edge of a bed, couch, or table, but still essentially on her back — allows for a more frenzied screw, though it does pull me away from her face. It allows me to watch her body, specifically, her tits jiggling to the beat of our dance.

Doggy is really nice for the more raunchy fuck: I grab on to those life-bearing hips and try to make 'em hear our animal applause¹ in the next county. In this position, my cock feels bigger to Amy, so my ego gets stroked. She usually gets a lot more vocal. And it's this position that has brought her closest to orgasm during intercourse. Drawback: A little more impersonal. This position should not ever be used in conjunction with the term "making love."

T-Square is one we don't do often, but it's really nice when we do. She gets to control the speed with her heels, if she wants. I get to look at her body in profile and play with her tits. It's another slow-moving position, typically. I wrote about this recently. It was almost too effective.

There is one position that Amy and I did more than a decade ago, and we haven't tried it since. I would love to try it again. I'm not sure how to describe it, but I'll try: Amy was lying on her back, with her legs up and separated. I laid down on my stomach in the opposite direction, and inserted my cock. It's sort of like a "reverse cowboy," if you can imagine that. Movement in and out of her was extremely limited and slow, but that's part of what made it so effective. The other effective element? Amy took the seven-inch vibrator we had out that night and stuck it in my ass. Whoa, Nelly!


4. How often do you use the word "fuck" (or its derivatives) in casual conversation - frequently, occasionally, rarely, never.

Having kids, I've gotten pretty good at squelching the "wirty dords" when they're present. In a mixed group of adults, I'm also pretty solid, unless there is a moment (like, during a joke, or quoting someone else) when it feels "appropriate." Alone with Amy, I let it fly whenever. She doesn't care.

But here's the thing: When I'm around only guys (and granted, that's not often), I'm much more likely to let the f-bomb go. Which, after the fact, always seems odd, because the guys I hang with, they don't really talk like that. It's like some machismo thing I do. What the f-- um, hell is up with that? What am I trying to prove?


5. Have you ever had a spontaneous orgasm? How when why where?

Never had one. I've been brought to the brink through sheer visual or verbal stimulation. But as Johnny Cochrane would always tell me when we lay in bed on our long weekends together, "to get it to spit, you must touch it!" Man, I really miss that guy. Good times.


Bonus (as in optional): Post a link to a picture you consider a strong sexual turn-on.

This works for me because she's not quite ready. I have to talk her into something. It's fun when there's some work to do.

--
¹ That's the sound of my hips clapping against her ass. I just made that up. Ya think the term will catch on? [Return]

Girl's Gotta Have A Dream

It was late Sunday afternoon. We had so much to do around the house that we'd given in and let the kids park themselves in front of a DVD. As soon as the movie title was up on the TV screen, Amy grabbed my hand, led me back to the bedroom.

This is too good to be true, I thought.

In the bedroom, door closed, she snaked her hands around the back of my head, pulled me into her mouth.

Waaaaaaaay too good to be true.

I wavered between going with the moment and questioning. When she finally broke the kiss, I asked point-blank: "Okay. What gives? Are you really starting something?"

She sounded deliciously sinister when she giggled. "No, I just wanted you to help me sort the dirty clothes in here."

Told you so.

"You know, I would have been happy to do that without the seduction. But now that I know how badly you want my help...." I started to unbutton my jeans.

"Ha ha," she said.

I was working on a pile of dress pants that showed my neglect via their desperate need for an iron, if not an all-out trip to the dry cleaners. Amy was sorting through lingerie and talking about how good she felt about the recent underwear purchases she (well, sometimes we) have made.

"It's my dream," she said from the closet, "to have matching bra-and-panty sets. Seven of them. One for each day of the week. Wouldn't that be awesome?"

I dropped my pants — oh, the ones I was sorting, sorry about that — and stepped to the closet. I locked my eyes on hers and searched for the perfect tone of voice that would deliver the high level of import I wanted my words to carry. I said:

"You. Must. Do this."

She started to smile, but my look confused her, and she wasn't sure what to do. "Huh?"

"Amy...." I put my hands on her shoulders. "Of all the dreams you have expressed, this is one of your most worthy goals ever."

She guffawed. But I continued.

"This is an exceptionally, egregiously, supreme goal. You must have seven matching bra-and-panty sets."

She rolled her eyes as she squeezed past me and headed back to the bed, where a pile of socks awaited. "I still can't tell if you're being facetious."

"I'm serious. You totally have to do this."

Okay, so I was being a little silly about it. But my reaction was only a slight exaggeration.

So what's the big deal? It's the fact that Amy might be looking at herself through a prism of sex appeal again. I mean, thinking this way outside of when I've gotten her all heated and horny. This may be the first time in ... what, years? Maybe.

Perhaps all my sorties of carnal reverence, my "shock and awe" blitzkrieg of ardor, have finally begun to chip away at the battlements that prevent her from realizing that this woman is smokin' hot. Amy carries herself with such confidence in her work environment; if her sexual self can find the strength to do the same ... well, there's no telling what might happen. Despotic empires could be destroyed. Literacy rates across our country could skyrocket. Reality television could fade from view. Gas prices could fall!

Of course, the concerns of global warming would increase greatly with the temperature emanating from her heaving, barely encased chest ... with the heat rising with the scent of appetite and ambrosia from the coordinated bottoms. But it's a small price to pay for my wife's new sexual esteem.

Not to mention, it'd be fun to get that panicked cell phone call from Al Gore.

"I'm sorry, sir, but if you saw Amy's ass in this sheer black number she slipped on this morning, you'd just ... What's that? You'd like a picture for future Powerpoint presentations? Well, I'll ask her...."

Swinging from My Trial Balloon

Despite how late Saturday night had gotten to be, the energetic sex we'd had a few minutes earlier had keyed us up enough that Amy and I weren't falling asleep right away. It provided an opportunity to ask her a question I'd been thinking a lot about lately.

"I don't want you to think that I'm killing to do this ..."

An odd way to start this question. It puts me sort of at a weak place. But I was uneasy about pushing the topic of swinging out there. I mean, in a non-fantasy, serious context. I'm sure my discomfort was showing. Even after all these years, the fear of rejection persists!

"... but would you ever consider checking out a swingers' club? You know, we could go to those places and not do anything ... just check it out."

There was a long pause. Somehow the pause actually assured me that she was okay with the conversation. It wasn't that she was so aghast as to be speechless; she was seriously considering my question and her answer. Why do I find myself amazed at her open-mindedness ... over and over again?

She finally said: "I think the hardest thing for me, still, is the idea that someone who didn't love me as much as you do would find me attractive enough to want to fool around."

"Again," I reiterated, "it's not like that would even be up for discussion the first time. I would want to go with the agreement that we'd keep our clothes on. That said, I think you'd be surprised how attractive you are, how much attention you'd get."

"Well, I'm sure that once I was there and I saw what the other people there looked like, I would see that this wasn't as much of a concern," she said. "But I can't help it."

"I totally understand."

We kissed a bit, and then I said: "I have my own misgivings too. I wonder what it's like to be in a world where these people have made it so much a part of their life ... where the lifestyle has become so prevalent to them. I think it would feel strange to be around people who had made sex such the major driving force in their lives."¹

And there's another misgiving I have too, and it's probably an unfair judgment against these kinds of establishments: From the pictures I've seen of the public areas in many of these clubs, they just seem so ... tacky. I've seen rooms that look like they jumped right out of The Ice Storm, circa 1973, and I imagine a lot of somewhat impersonal surroundings. I worry that we (well, Amy, mainly) are viewed as "fresh meat" from the moment we walk in. I worry that there's not going to be anyone at these places to talk to ... who I would be the least bit interested in spending time with outside of the confines of the club. None of which is to say that I'm fascinated to cross the threshold and see what it might be like inside. Maybe it'll help me get over some of these prejudices.

"I think the other big thing for me," Amy said, "is that I'm at a point my life where I'm feeling pretty risk-averse. I think when the kids are a little bit older, I'd be more willing to consider things like that."

The truth is — and I told her — I can't really imagine something like this happening in the near future either. For all my fantasizing about "expanding the marriage bed," when I look at the reality of the situation, I come to this conclusion: Hell, we can't even sleep through a whole night right now! We're a long way from having the "freedom" to head out for a long evening away from home.

I'm sorry, in retrospect, that I didn't plumb Amy's mind some more about what "risks" she was specifically thinking about when she said that. But I will come back to her later on that.

This was maybe a very gentle sort of ice-breaker. But I feel like there's no need to bring it up again soon, after we both acknowledged we're several clicks away from the fantasies involving other people becoming a reality. Thankfully, there are a number of other fantasies still in play! If nothing else, I know that I can continue to explore these threesome/foursome/moresome ideas with Amy in the privacy of our own bed and discover interests and predilections related to these scenarios in the future.

--
¹ Oh, shut up. I know what you're thinking. Your "bullshit meter" just went off, didn't it? But honestly, you'd be surprised how much more to my life there is besides sex. Really. This blog is only about sex. If you read my other blogs, you'd see there are actually other things I think about! But you're not here to read about that stuff, are you? [Return]

Big-Titted Muses

God bless grandmas — especially the ones who offer your children an occasional "sleepover." Only one of our two kids was out of the house Saturday night ... but that didn't stop Amy and me from tacitly agreeing that it would be a night of raunch.

One problem: The kid taken off our hands was not the one lately having trouble sleeping. It was past 10:30 before Amy and I were the only conscious humans in the house. The bedtime process exhausted us. I assumed Amy was beyond "recovery" for sex, but she surprised me by asking to be woken up with an episode of The Black Donnellys. ("It is St. Patrick's day, after all," she explained.)

"I'm sorry this evening isn't turning out the way we'd hoped," Amy said after the show. She was stroking my head in her lap.

"What were you hoping for, exactly?" I inquired.

"Oh ... I was thinking we'd watch a porno...."

We stared at a muted television playing some South By Southwest band I had lost interest in. I debated internally whether to reveal my fun secret.

"Well ..." I started, "I do have something on my computer that I've been saving to show you. It's the greatest blowjob I've ever seen filmed."

I always feel weird about revealing to Amy that I've been looking at porn, even though she's totally cool with it. She knows I masturbate a lot, and that I use "educational materials" accordingly. Still, it feels a little ... seedy.

"Okay," she said, sounding genuinely interested. "But ... You shouldn't have that stuff on your computer."

"I know. This is the only thing. I just put it on there for you to see, and then its gone."

"'Cause you don't want someone finding that by accident and being forced to fire you."

"No, you're right. It's gone after tonight. So ... You want to see it?"

"Oh yeah, sure," she said. She went to get a snack while I opened the laptop.

The video is a semi-amateur thing — meaning that the women in it are probably in the industry, either as dancers or as low-level porn actresses, but this is an improvised, small-time, Internet-only cheapie, shot with a single handheld consumer camera in a nondescript bedroom. The cameraman talks way too much, making inane smalltalk and frat-boy comments. Most of the videos I've seen by this guy is ruined by his bullshit logorrhea.

But this one video transcends his blathering.

The stars are two (naturally) large-breasted women. ("So it's a real departure for me!" I explained to Amy.) They spend the first one-third of the video playing with each other's breasts, adeptly incorporating baby oil, hands and mouths. I skipped this part for Amy's viewing and cued it to the point where the male is introduced. The women give his (large and very nice) cock a tandem blowjob. Both women are then fucked in numerous positions while they continue to kiss or play with each other's tits or go down on each other. It concludes with a money shot on their tits.

Pretty basic, vanilla stuff. Except ... Except for that blowjob. You see, these two women have sizzling chemistry. I'm not a huge fan of girl-girl, but what these women essentially do, as the guy is reclined on his back, is have an incendiary makeout session ... and the guy's dick just happens to be perched between their mouths. Their kissing is wet, wild, slow ... almost longing. They savor each other. And ... yeah, there's this huge cock that, almost as a side-effect, gets sucked.

The moment this video becomes worth every penny (even if I did download it for free) is when both men — the one in front of the camera and the one behind — unconsciously cease their nonstop chatter. Suddenly, there is silence, except for the moist sound of lips sucking on lips ... lips sucking on cock ... under-the-breath alto moans. In the span of fifteen seconds, these two lovers instantly own the room, the camera, the cock.

Two minutes later, they break with a nervous giggle; they sense the sea-change. "How's that?" One of them asks. The cameraman/director, clearly caught off guard, is almost speechless, outside of a couple of "Holy fucks." He says that he has filmed probably 1,000 scenes, and this is easily the hottest blowjob he has ever witnessed. I've probably watched that many scenes, and I don't doubt for a minute that he's right.

Amy, watching, clearly agreed. The video is broken up into four files, and this amazing head (later continued with the two women on their knees and shot from the suckee's point of view) happens in the part two. When it ended, I asked Amy: "You wanna keep going?"

"Yes!" she said, enthusiastically.

"You know," I added as I get part three open and running, "if you ever want to set something like this up for me...." She laughed.

We continued watching the whole thing, through all the fucking (both of these women have larger-than-your-usual-pornstar asses — it makes it that much better when they get fucked from behind), right up to the payoff. Just for good measure, the women have one last passionate soulkiss as their cum-covered tits rub together.

(For those interested, I've provided a link to the teaser page for this video in the comments section of this entry.)

The video over, Amy wordlessly popped off the couch and walked around the living room, dining room and kitchen, turning off lights. "After that, you probably want the lights on, though," she considered.

"There's plenty of light," I said, knowing outside ambient light would cast the room in a nice, cool blue wash.

Amy sat down on my lap, straddling me, and began a passionate kiss. Shortly, her top came off. "You get to enjoy my new bra," she said. Few things are hotter than a really well-fitted bra. I played with her covered tits until she popped the front closure and pushed a nipple into my mouth. I'm not sure if it was the focus the video put on my predilection for tit-play or if she was just that turned on, but the she was making tonight about her breasts. She and I shared one of her nipples for awhile, semi-recreating the makeout blowjob we'd seen, with a nipple in place of a cock.

She slid down off my lap, pulled off my pants. So typical of Amy: She never takes my pants off and then my underwear — they always come off together, getting her to the "prize "faster. She rubbed one tit, then the other, up and down my shaft. Finally, her mouth enveloped me, and she primed me with wetness and warmth. She wrapped her breasts around my cock and absorbed my hip thrusts. She seemed to want me to fuck her tits, but she kept coming back to sucking on my dick. At one point, she slowed down and tried her best to re-create a solo version of what the young ladies earlier had accomplished. "I'm imagining you teaming up with someone else as you do that," I suggested.

She stood up, pulled off her pants, straddled me again, pressing her wet cunt against my dick, and sliding up and down. "Am I catching your clit?" I asked her. She moaned in the affirmative. "Use my cock," I encouraged. "Use me to get yourself off." She tried, but what Amy really wanted became obvious when she stood up on the couch and pushed her pussy in my face.

I went to town. So did she, rubbing her cunt all over my mouth, and finally collapsing sideways onto her back — but taking care to keep my mouth in full contact with her clit through the fall. From this position, I brought her to an intense, bucking orgasm.

After a short rest, I asked, "More?" hoping to get to eat her out again.

"More with something else," she said.

I got up on my knees and pushed into her, starting slow and building a rhythm.

"Tell me what else you liked about that video," she ordered.

"I loved their asses," I said. "Nice, big asses, made for fucking."

Amy giggled and kissed me. "How come you never see a video where women are lusting after a man with a big ass?" I had no good answer to that. I was laughing too hard anyway.

I continued: "I have to think it was a good thing that guy didn't fuck 'em in the ass."

"He was huge," Amy said, stating the obvious.

"And I know they're passé, but I loved the one woman's back tattoo," I said. "It's so ... slutty."

Amy laughed. "Don't put too fine a point on it!"

"I'm serious!" I said. Our hips were starting to pick up speed. "You know, you can get temporary tattoos like that," I said, remembering the image of Penelope on her and Odysseus' blog. "You should try one sometime. Then you can be my whore." We both laughed, and things ratcheted up into another gear. I reiterated: "I would fuck my whore." She moaned and pushed back against me harder.

I pulled away and said, "Let's try reverse cowgirl, so I can watch your gorgeous ass."

"I love the way you call it by it's 'official name,'" Amy said with a roll of her eyes.

"What? That's what it's called!"

"I know," she said, straddling my legs, lowering herself onto my cock. "But .... Mmmmmmmmm."

This was a very good position for Amy. She really started getting vocal now. But her thighs weren't holding up; she had to beg off long before either of us wanted her to. Instead, she took up on her hands and knees, on the couch. I took a moment to admire the view before sinking into her once again.

At some point, I found the right spot. "Oh yeah," she panted. "Right there."

I really wanted some talk tonight. "This the way you like to be fucked?" I said.

"Yes!"

"I can tell. Come on, fuck me back." Her rocking became more punctuated. Then I held her ass still while I pulled out, just the tip still in her folds ... and I slammed home.

"Oh God, yes!"

Well, that worked. I tried it again.

"Uhhh. Yes!"

I gathered my strength and fucked her hard with those same long strokes, but faster. And harder. I wanted to hear how loud I could make the hollow clap of my hips hitting her ass. The sound competed with her rhythmic screams. I could tell she was on the verge of new territory. I upped the ante, measuring my palm against her ass, and I came down hard with a slap.

"You know where I'm gonna come?" I hissed.

"Where?"

I slapped her ass again. "I'm gonna come all over your tits."

"Yes, please come on my tits! I love your come on my tits!"

That was the last thing she was able to say. This was just about my highest gear. The only reason I hadn't already come was because I had become momentarily preoccupied with the thought of how incredibly sore my already-wobbly legs were going to be on Monday. Amy brought me back to the moment with sounds I'd never heard before — simultaneously guttural and high-pitched. Was this it? The closest she'd ever been?

Her seeming transcendant state put me over the top. I laughed as I shot my load deep into her: There was no way I was going to pull out of her for the promised breast cumshot. My cock needed to be buried right where it was.

And after we'd come down, our panting the only sound in the room, I realized: I would have been hard-pressed to pull out at all. My hard-on was in a vice grip.

"Jesus, Amy ... You're pussy is holding onto my cock."

This never happens. I mean, she doesn't work to keep those muscles toned. But something had happened.

"I can't relax," she said. Funny, because at that moment, she was probably more relaxed than she'd been in ages. Just ... not her cunt muscles.

We finally were able to disengage, and she fell back into my arms, her eyes closed, her hands searching for my face, her lips devouring mine.

I asked: "Did you actually come?"

"I think so," she said. "If not, it was the closest. For the first time ever, I was able to lose myself and let a door open that I never let open before."

"Damn," I whispered. "Let's work on keeping that door ajar."

"It's funny that, after 16 years together, we're still searching for the ever elusive orgasm-while-fucking," she observed.

"I think it's pretty great," I said, "that we still have a goal like that after 16 years. Most couples have played it all out by then."

We hobbled to the bedroom, leaving all our clothes and the couch pillows all over the living room floor. If we'd tried bending down to pick that stuff up, I doubt we would have been able to get back up again.

Why I Will Never Teach Writing to Kids

My wife and I are in a nationally branded bookstore over our lunch hour, just picking up a hot chocolate. Amy wants to go to the children's book section to look for the availability of a certain book for one of our kids.

I meet her up there, beverage in hand. She's thumbing through the book.

"It drives me crazy," she notes, "that every time someone speaks in this author's books, it's always 'said,' 'said,' said.' Never anything else."

"That's one of the hardest things," I muse. "Coming up with other words besides 'said.'"

"Well, at least the child learns that word really quickly," she concedes. "They've seen it a thousand times."

"I struggle with finding options to 'said' in my own writing all the time," I offer. We're headed down the escalator now. "Luckily, I've found one that works better."

"What's that?" she asks.

"Moaned."

She body-blocks me into the elevator rail.

"Hey, careful with the hot chocolate!" I warn.

"Let me know if you want some," she says.

Long pause. And then I say:

"The hot chocolate, right?"

Her, Um, Cup Runneth Over.

Against our better judgment, here we were on another late night — it was 1:00 a.m. — with a kid still not sleeping well, and we were starting something. What the hell were we thinking? A night or two in a row like this can ruin Amy, putting her off her game for several days. She really, really needs her sleep. Apparently on Sunday night, she also needed better judgment.

"Think we can each have orgasms in less than ten minutes?" Amy asked. I promised. This would have to be shorter than Friday night, which had put us both at a point of major exhaustion for the rest of the weekend.

So in the name of brevity — and in keeping with my personal vow to make sure she got "Ye Olde Big O" this time (no more of that feinting orgasm bullshit) — I quickly established a good, rhythmic melody on her clit with my tongue. It's empowering to me that, when I want to, I can bring Amy off very quickly. Sure enough, in very little time, her right hand was down by my face, her middle and ring fingers rubbing against her pubic bone in quick circles, not unlike my tongue. There was no equivocation this time when she went up and over the top: Her whole body shuddered, and she "tossed" my head with her involuntary hip thrusts. My neck was gonna be a little sore the next morning. I'll take it, thanks.

I came up and kissed her. She was feeling too tired to go down on me, so she suggested we fuck. "But be warned, my sexual energy isn't very high right now."

"Maybe we shouldn't?" I asked. If she's not gonna be into it...

"No, it's okay," she insisted. "Just ... I need to move down. I'm tired of my head hitting the top of the bed."

I did her one better: I stood up next to the bed, grabbed her legs, and yanked her all the way across, until her hips were on the mattress edge. Her legs up in the air, my cock pushed into her.

"Easy, easy," she coaxed. I was a little excited ... carrying enough sexual energy for the both of us, I suppose. The position was great, because two feet behind me was a wall. I could brace my feet against that, giving me fantastic leverage as I fucked her.

And then I found ... The Angle. That one slight tweak to my position that sent my cock up and against her g-spot. I had flipped a switch: She was ON now, fucking me back. Even throwing in a few "Oh-yes-yes" breaths along the way. This ride had suddenly gotten good and bumpy and a helluva lot of fun.

Shortly, my legs locked, my butt stiffened, and it was my turn to shudder, a rock thrown in the middle of me, rippling outward until even my toes and fingertips were tingling.

Short, but very intense.

"That was ..." she started.

"Nice," I said.

"Yeah, that works...."

+++
The next night: Amy is lying on top of me, on the couch. We're watching an episode of The Black Donnellys and waiting for our caffeine fix out in the kitchen to finish steeping.

"The only problem with the IUD," she says, apropos of nothing, "is that with you not wearing a condom ... You're all free and everything, and coming everywhere. And for the rest of that night, and all the next day, I'm ..."

Oh God, I thought. She's not going to discuss this out loud, is she? We can usually talk about anything, but this kind of thing ... Well, it kind of kills the romance. Ya know? An ex-girlfriend — the one that introduced me to Amy, as a matter of fact — would talk quite openly about bodily functions and fluids, even sometimes in the midst of sex. This is the definition of buzzkill — look it up in the dictionary. I guess I should be grateful that at least Amy had the wherewithal to wait 24 hours or so before bringing up "the juice."

Still, I had to head her off. While she lingered to find just the right word to finish her thought, I offered up something innocuous:

"You're ... dabbing?" I suggested.

"Yeah!" she agreed.

Okay. We avoided that one. Now, moving on....

Well, no. She kept going.

"I'm walking around, and I'm just ... all soupy."

This conversation isn't happening. This conversation isn't happening. I'm not here.

"I wish there was a way to get all this out ..."

Think happy thoughts. Ummmmm ... Baseball season is almost here! ... Ummmmm ...

"What I need," she continues, "is some ... post-coital ... soup ..."

Aw, hell. I can't resist: "... Removal?"

"Yes!" she exclaims. "Someone should invent a way to remove it."

Really, where is this going?

"We could start a business!" She's on a roll now. "Post-coital soup removal!"

"No way."

"We'd make millions!"

I don't want to encourage this. Really. And she senses my ambivalence.

"Well," she says, sensing my ambivalence (transmitted through my uninterrupted focus on the television screen — though for the life of me, I have no idea what I was looking at, I was just trying to make this conversation go away), "at least it'd be a great band name."

"Now, that is a great idea!" I concede. And what we do is just call ourselves 'PCSR' —and let everyone try to figure out what it stands for."

So, there you go. Maybe we can get Hole to open for us.

Sugasm #70

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TMI Tuesday #8: Good Cause

If you're into playing the meme game, you can check out TMI Tuesday and maybe play yourself sometime. Or perhaps just play with yourself. Some would suggest that is a better use of your time. Provided, of course, you blog about it afterwards.


1. What is your favorite charity? Do you you give your time or just money to that charity?

I've always been a huge fan of the work of the Organization for the Research of Genital Arousal for Sensual Mastery. This not-for-profit has two major goals: to alleviate the root causes of dissatisfaction in the supine, open and obedient, helping their purses swell with the bounty of flowing goodness; and to share lessons learned around the world from those who have also knelt at the altar and spoken in tongues. The group brings the benefits of modern technology to those most in need of climactic occurrences in their otherwise seemingly barren lives.

I have very little money to give to them, but I believe in their cause so much that I have devoted literally hundreds of hours of community service to their goals.


2. Describe your bed. What side do you sleep on?

It's an iron bed. Thin rods, rust-colored. Each of the four posts is capped by a pineapple — the symbol for welcoming. The bed has a sense of fragility and strength, all at the same time.

I never told Amy this, but it was important for me, when we were shopping for this bed, that the bed's design lend itself to the possibility of one or the other of us being tied to it.

For years, it was a big issue for me that we not have one side that we always sleep on. An attempt, I suppose, to avoid yet another rut in a relationship. Many nights, when Amy would come to bed, she would find me sleeping on a side of the bed she had normally been sleeping on. She would wordlessly move to the other side. She probably found my need to do this amusing. But since having children, Amy has always slept on the side closest to the kid's rooms. It's a holdover from when she regularly got up to nurse a child.

Often, when Amy comes to bed, she'll find me on her side; as soon as she's ready to get in, I move over. This warms up the sheets for her. Recently, I noticed that she's started doing the same for me on nights when she gets into bed first. That's just too goddamned precious for words, isn't it? And yet I still made you read it. I can be an asshole that way sometimes.


3. How important is a partners kissing ability?

Dreadfully important. Tragically important. The kissing ability of a partner to effectively use — I'm sorry, to communicate with — the lips, tongue, and teeth is directly related to ... well ... everything that leads after. Especially oral sex. And I think I've made my views on the importance of that pretty clear in the past. In the very recent past, as a matter of fact. Like, two questions ago.

I can think of two occasions where I kissed women whose return kiss was ... thin, hesitant, passive, underwhelming. It spoke to their confidence. Now, nothing says they couldn't be brought along to higher level of confidence. But in at least one case, I wasn't really interested enough to be a ... what? Mentor? I guess that's the word, though it sounds too insanely egomaniacal to write it. Hopefully you know what I mean. In the case of the second woman, she was willing to do anything — anything — but I had to be the total lead on everything we did. And that was getting old fast. The whole dom-sub thing is arousing and a nice place to visit, but I ain't living there.


4. Have you ever purposely tried to seduce someone over a long period of time?

*Sigh*

Clearly, if you have to ask, it's not working. So fuck it.


5. Top or bottom?

Oh, no question: Remove your top first. I really must see them. Right now.

I probably naturally incline myself toward being a top (to the extent that any domination stuff is going on), but that's more because I'm the one with all the fantasies and ideas for what I want to do. Amy is an enthusiastic partner, but only occasionally pushes me into more of a bottom position. I wish she'd do it more, but it's not such a big deal that I need to have a "serious talk" with her about it. It's come up before, it's been mentioned. It'll happen if it happens.


Bonus (as in optional): Have you ever shaved your pubic hair?

The twig and the stones are bare. The area around is kept neat. Having my balls laved is one of my all-time favorite experiences, so anything I can do to encourage such activity is done. Amy seems to appreciate it.