We’d had this day in the backs of
our minds all week. The kid was heading to the renaissance faire with his
friends. Historically, they geek out, dress up, spend all day there, and come home sunburned. I’m jealous here, not
judging – now that he’s old enough to do it with his friends, there’s nobody
left to do it with me! The upside though, is the empty Saturday. I love
afternoon sex. Three o’clock in the afternoon is my favorite time of day to get
laid. The light is right, and it comes from the sun, so there’s no turning it
off. The heat of the day is in the room with you, contained in just the
slightest sheen of damp on your skin. If you open the window, there’s the
breeze against it too, and the sounds of innocent, afternoon life outside your
world. Most of all, 3pm is a time when you should almost certainly be doing
something else. It’s decadent. I was tight in the grip of anticipation.
The kid left later than planned,
but whatever, the day would still be long enough for the slow, heady rise to
late afternoon, and finally he was out of the house. We got comfortable, we
sampled new porn, we talked sex, we groped and fondled, tested, tasted and
played… We spent fourish hours on casual foreplay. No penetr – no wait, that’s
not true – no intercourse, I guess is
accurate. Then as the heavy tension built toward a true, inhibition-free
bacchanal, we got a text saying the boy was already on his way home. Pardon? By
which I mean WHAT?!
Okay so we had two options: Start
the serious action for real and make it quick (not likely – cheap-out after
four hours of build up? I don’t think so.) We could wait, and wait, and wait
some more, and hope the mood sustained until after dinner (which meant we’d
suddenly have to plan and execute an actual dinner). Our two possible plans
were equally unappealing. And then my genius husband came up with Plan the
Third: “Here’s $20 for a pizza; we’re going out, and we’re going to be late.”
Because sometimes you just have to
go to a hotel that’s two miles away from your house, and pay for a night you
know you’ll only stay for half of. Sometimes you have to pack a hotel bag
arsenal of kinky lingerie, sex toys, embellishments and accoutrement that you
know you’ll maybe use a quarter of. Sometimes you have to demand a hotel room
with a balcony, so that you can do things on it that leave a wet spot and will
get you kicked out, if your neighbors on either side happen to look out their
windows. Sometimes you have to go to a hotel and test the height of the wet bar
against the height of your husband’s pelvis. Sometimes you have to go to a
hotel and have marathon blow job sessions on your knees, in front of a couch
you don’t want to see under a black light. (Sometimes you need to hear someone
you want to spend your whole life fucking say something as awesome to you as “That
is Jedi-level cock sucking.”) Sometimes you have to overindulge. Sometimes you
have to shed your everyday life and dip your naked core in saturnalia. Sometimes
you have to go to a hotel and realize three hours in that you haven’t fucked on
the bed yet… And then correct that oversight with impressive, eyebrow-raising
flourish.
Sometimes you have to be the reason
that germaphobes have anxiety attacks in hotel rooms.
(Not sure this one goes with the spirit of the post musically, but I just couldn't pull the trigger on Hotel California...)
Okay, so it’s a blog. Crazy. (But points for unprecedented follow-through!) I’ve been having
fun reading other people’s, but I’m not sure they really informed my decision
about what to do with mine the way I thought they would. Dick n Jane are a ton of fun. It’s like peeking through an
intentionally unmonitored keyhole or eavesdropping on a really dirty
conversation with a wineglass held to the outside of a bedroom door. They are a
lot more complex and organized than I will ever be, though. Dangerous Lillyis hilarious,
informative, sexy, creative, smart and all kinds of fucked up. (Jesus, is she
the perfect chick?) She makes me want to date her – take her out for decadent
desserts and drinking and beg her to take me home with her and show me things…
but her blog is more purposeful than I aspire to be. What use really, is
somebody else’s journal? Anal Amy is
more like a personal story teller – an x-rated Scheherazade lying naked next to
you in the dark, whispering her exploits into your ear until you can’t wait to
hear the next. Still, her tales are pretty single-minded erotica. I guess there
are a lot of blogs out there full of random ramblings, and I guess that’s what
I’m doing here, I just can’t exactly pinpoint whatever this is that I’m up to. This
thing started as a way to sort into epochs these various stages of unemployment
I had been living, but right from the very first paragraph I was writing in the
second person. “You ask yourself this question, don’t you?” Who was “You,”
before I put this thing online? I don’t know. It’s probably really bad
practice, blog-wise, but for the moment I’ve decided not to care. I’ve decided
to just go ahead with exploring what it’s like to release all these thoughts
onto the electric wind of the internet, and let that be enough, for now. It’s
out there. Nobody has seen it, but it’s there. Like some chick coming to orgasm
in that little mini cooper you parked next to, but didn’t think to look inside.
Whoever You are, I have not yet alerted you to my presence (I suppose it’s
possible I never will), but if you get that feeling like you’re not alone, it
might be me, telling you mildly interesting things there’s no practical reason
you should know.
That being said…
It’s not usually just ass fucking. Before it got so
happily out of control, when ass fucking wasn’t even all that frequent, there
was an unspoken rule that it couldn’t be first. You had to put something in my
pussy before you could put anything in my ass. Actually, it might even have
been a spoken rule, eventually. Talking about sex is part of the foreplay in
this marriage, so communication is never an issue – even when it is an issue, because one of us has
something to say that’s hard to say out loud. (Is it obvious that that would be
a moment I always adore? To make myself say a thing to him that I can barely
put into words in the privacy of my own mind? Fuck, I love that shit.) But when
the ass fucking started to really go off the rails (in the good way), that rule
was one of the first ones to go out the window. Soon enough it was sometimes
the very first thing of all. Often even without lube. Is it silly that I’m kind
of proud of being able to do that? Part of wearing the collar is about being
prepared for anything, at all times. I like living up to that. But still, it’s
very rare that ass fucking is the only fucking. The first time it was, happened
when the anal sex snowball had only just begun to roll. We had been in a state
of mental and verbal foreplay all day long, building to a night without the kid
in the house and therefore no need for caution or concern. Then the moon and
tides came early, and intervened.
Now, I am in no way grossed out by
my period. That kind of blood doesn’t freak me out (the other sort kind of
does). However, as horny as it makes me, it does not turn me on. Does that make
any sense? The hormones and what have you get me all spun up, but the period
itself is not at all sexy. It might be weird to call it spiritual, but I can’t
be the only one who thinks of it that way. It’s the physical evidence of a
femininity that possesses me – I do not control it, I am it, it is me. That’s
not about sex. It’s filed in a different folder of my brain. So period sex has
historically been about external, vulvular fun stuff, blow jobs, and a tampon.
Only that wasn’t going to be enough, on this particular night. So I cleaned up
particularly well (by which I mean I prepared my ass to take a cock with no
chance of unpleasant repercussions), completed the deep tampon ritual (I cannot understand how some women can own
a vagina and not be able to reach around inside it – who can “lose” things like
condoms in there as though it’s a fucking underground cave system, who don’t
know what their cervix feels like, or can’t use a tampon without an applicator
or a dangling string – seriously, it’s not the fucking mystery your pancreas
might be, if you saw it for yourself! Are you afraid to look in the back of
your throat, too? “Uvula?! Ewww!”), and I told my husband the night was still
on.
Oh, that night went incomparably
well. I don’t know if it was in spite of it being ass-only fucking or because
of it. Knowing myself, I expect it was the latter. It was one of those sexual
engulfings where the inside of your mind splits open like an egg with a whole
other universe inside it. Another life that you recognize as your own, but
without the cold, darkness and confinement of the everyday. Where you exist in
light and wind and know yourself to be the topmost point on the surface of your
very own planet. There was no pain, no concern, no anxiety, only wave after
wave of that True Love-True Fuck (still looking for a better word than
Valentine), where orgasm seeps from every pore of your being and carries you
out to sea.
Hard to top that.
So the other night when the moon and
tides were hanging around longer than usual, as opposed to arriving early, I
was conflicted. Dear gods did I want to try for that pinnacle again, but of
course if you want to be disappointed, just go ahead and try to recreate
something that fabulous. I couldn’t stop thinking about that other time, and I
was definitely feeling the pressure of trying to live up to it. It was a
creeping fear of knowing it was going to be nothing but my ass… Well okay and
my mouth, because you know I can’t pass up the opportunity for an extended blow
job. And that’s when, unbelievably, this ridiculous blog actually reached out
and leisurely plucked me out of the tangled whirrings of the front of my brain,
and pulled me to the very back, where I belonged. I’d been sucking that
magnificent cock for over an hour, plying all my wiles, and in doing so, while
lost in that solitary place my brain becomes, I began to consider it as I had
written it here. And from considering all the angles and nuances of the sucking
of cock as I had explained them and was, at that moment experiencing them, my
mind began to travel to the other explanations I had written. And I found
myself mentally rereading all the things I’ve more recently written about fear,
and recognizing their immediate applicability. The near ninety minute blow job
hadn’t eased my creeping fear, and because of the examination intrinsic to the
writing of it, because of the journal-turned-blog, I knew how grateful I was
that it hadn’t. I lifted my ass
onto his cock acutely conscious of the fear breaking in my chest, watching it,
clinging to it, I slid him into me, pushed back until there was no further to
go, and I drove. It was a joyride. Orgasm on top of orgasm took over the motion
for me, claimed the fucking. I don’t know how long they went on, I only know
that I was verbally pleading for this to never, never stop, until they became
one, long drenching thing and with the most beautiful timing, my husband came
like a dam breaking in my ass.
The after-glow has lasted for two
days now. I don’t know who You are, shadowy, maybe imaginary blog-follower, but
thank you.
It’s not too often that the ropes
come out. When they do, the evening’s adventures tend to revolve entirely around
them, and there’s so much else we like to do! So for the most part, ropes are a
special occasion. There are a lot of other methods of bondage in our arsenal
that are less all-consuming while still providing the restraint that I often crave.
I am good with this, because the ropes are so special to me that I like
ceremony of it. The infrequency that’s almost denial but not quite, keeps my
longing for them alive, so that when he brings them out, like he did last
night, the experience is more like sex worship than anything else.
The very first time he ever pulled
them tight, equalizing, duplicating the pressure and confinement of my right
side with my left, something shifted at the core of me. Something that had been
there always, something that I’d been holding but never looking at, never
examining, suddenly demanded my attention… Forced me to notice it, in that
moment of complete symmetry, to see what it really was and always had been. The
involuntary gasp that escaped me at that moment, I will never forget. It
reached from the beginning of me to my very end.
Historically, I had always loved
restraint. We had any number of leather straps and buckles and bindings, and my
husband had learned early on that I had to be truly bound, it had to be real,
because if I could get out, I would. Still it wasn’t anything near fetishistic,
and he periodically worried that all the true kinks in our sex life belonged to
him. He worried that while I was always more than happy to try out any of his
whims, and enjoyed them along with him, he was the only freak between us. So
when I first got a load of kinbaku, my reaction was as exciting to him, as it
was to me. He was compiling a slide show of erotic stills, that we could watch
when we wanted something more artistic than overt pornography. He knew I’d like
it given my proclivities, but whatever response I gave to that first image made
him immediately go back and get many, many more. After that it was straight to
the selection of beautiful ropes of varying colors and widths and materials,
learning our preferences with research and trial and error and intricate
shibari knots. Eventually our catalogue of erotic stills came to include photos
of me, bound and writhing under labyrinthine patterns, in complex arrangements.
It was years and years ago, but still I’m not sure there is any sight sexier to
me than my husband, with his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, in total
concentration on the complicated binding of my body, almost to the disregard of
myself.
That’s what did it, I think. That’s
what brought to light what should have been obvious. My fascination with
restraint wasn’t about the restraint itself, it was about submission. It was,
and is still, about the giving over of my will. It’s about surrendering, becoming
an entity created at the whims of this man, to whom I am devoted utterly, from the
presentation and actions of my body, to the inner responses and pathways of my
psyche. Bondage is only one of the ways that I reach it now – pain, fear, task
setting, exhibitionism and any number of other exercises are all further means
to the same end – but those ropes were the first, and they will always be my
favorite.
Last night he chose the dark red
ones. He knows me so completely that I can hide nothing from him, even that
which I’m not consciously aware of myself, so of course his choice fit my mood
precisely. (There are two different shades of pink, for the inclusion of
certain elements of shame and debasement I’ve touched briefly on before, in
reference to the awful/fabulous Barbie effect. There is a light blue for nights
when the beauty of our delirious, complicated sex life manifests in appreciation
of that beauty itself. The red is for the darker, lurking facets of fucking and
being fucked. There are also black ropes and white ropes for the stark, naked
mind-frames, when everything is stripped away but the fundamental truths of
sex.) I think I went silent as soon as he reached for the soft bag that holds
them all.
First he lay me on my back and
spread my knees. He tied my ankles to the highest point of my thighs in thick,
multiple wraps that cinched tight, between. Often he binds my breasts and ties
my arms and hands behind me, so that I cannot touch myself. Last night he took
my wrists to the same cinch at my thighs, instead. Tied my hands flat against
the ropes, so that I couldn’t reach my pussy that was maybe two inches from any
of my outstretched fingers. I could feel the ropes though, and after he played
with my pussy, mercilessly pinching my clit but offering no release, he left me
there, watching me squirm and grope at them, from a distance, smiling at me. It
was ecstasy, and I lost myself in it for I don’t know how long, just reveling
in the sensation and the feeling of the fibers biting into my flesh, leaving
their marks on my skin. Finally he knelt over my face and put his cock in my
mouth, amusing himself, alternating between forcing me to reach and try to
catch the tip in my lips, stretching as best I could, helplessly, to suck more
of him into myself, and thrusting it deep, pushing that head against the back
of my throat, cutting off my breath.
Next, he untied me from the first
position and rebound my thighs – in fewer wraps, so that I could feel the
individual lengths of rope – passing the ropes up around my ass and then down
between my legs. A harness. He ended with a fat knot right in my pussy, forcing
it out to either side and preventing any actual access. He got the switch out
then, and went to work hard on
everything that was bound, flipping me ass up, face down and back again. He
swung harder than he usually dares at those sensitive areas, because they were
largely protected by the ropes, but it only made those strikes more biting,
more concentrated on the in between places left bare, my exposed outer labia
and that lovely indentation at the very top of the innermost thigh, that so
loves to be punished. He had me writhing and riding the edge of orgasm for so
long that when he finally knelt between my legs and lifted my hips onto his
lap, pulled the ropes to the sides and pushed his cock into my ass, I was
unable to muffle my cries; on the brink of soul shaking orgasm, I called him by
name. I called my husband’s name from the throes of passion for so many years,
that sometimes it just happens out of deep, ingrained habit. Sometimes, since
fully embracing my submissive nature, I fail to call him Sir on purpose,
because I am relentlessly and instantaneously punished for it, every single
time. Sometimes he takes my by the throat when he’s doing so, and forces me to
admit that. (The first time he did that, when he showed me how he knew it
wasn’t an accident, ah, that’s another mentally core-rending, earth-shattering
moment that will live with me, forever.)
I don’t know if I did it on purpose
or not, last night. Honestly. I didn’t know at the time and I still don’t. I
was so completely swept up in physical and emotional sensation that there was
no rational, linear thought with which to examine it. It was all one, breaking
wave of love and desire and fulfillment that I only know the tears, the sobbing
release that came of it all. It’s the feeling I get to relive the next day,
when I carefully straighten and loop
the freshly washed ropes into neat, knotted cords, and reverently tuck them
away again, until next time.
(This is the one where you find out how far behind reality you are... You're catching up really fast though, I promise!)
So here we are: Put up or shut up
time. It’s a landmark chapter here, you see; I’ve actually caught up to the
present. I’ve been writing this for – actually I don’t know how many months, a
few to several – and I’ve been unemployed for over a year, and the writing has
caught up to the life. When I started Laundry and Blow Jobs I did it because I
was still having trouble embracing this life sans career, and it has actually
worked. It fixed me. I feel good now. I guess this is no big surprise, since
writing has always been how I sort things out. Get them out of my head and onto
the paper where I can look at them and make some sense of things. It’s not even
like it took the place of my former job; I’ve been writing for months and this
is what, the tenth epoch on the page? But even going about it so lazily, it got
me here. Contentment. So I guess I owe it at least the decency to do what, when I started, I
said I would do if I ever caught up to the present (even though
I think I said it believing that it would never happen). I said I would turn it
into a blog.
I know nothing about blogs. Seriously,
nothing at all. The only one I ever became totally addicted to was that one
written by the chick who worked in the adult video store, remember that one? It
was a long time ago. So I guess I’d better start reading some blogs to try to
figure out what this one is going to be like, and meanwhile focus on the date and the fact
that I have not had a job for about fourteen months now. Maybe it’s
justification for not quite going through with the blog part yet – I’m really
pretty good at procrastination – but I think it’s fairly significant in itself,
so I’m going to go with it anyway (see?).
February dawns. The month almost
nobody pronounces correctly. Of course it won’t be February when this chapter
goes online. (Look how I actually have
started to think about the blog part!) I know enough about what I want to know
that I’m not going to dump all of this on there at once. I’ll put up an epoch
at a time, until I get used to the idea. Maybe it will be less terrifying that
way. But here in the present, all the public spaces of the world have begun to
appear done up in red satin and pink hearts. Mylar balloons abound and people
seem to think teddy bears are better messengers of human emotion than the humans
themselves. People get so caught up in it all, like there’s something actually
important about the fourteenth. I have trouble with holidays; I’m conflicted. I
always get jealous of those people who have their special holiday – you know
how so many people have a favorite? The Christmas people light up their houses
and put bells on the door, the Thanksgiving people get out their leaf-themed
sweater-vests and begin baking like three weeks in advance, the Halloween
people spend a month planning the most brilliant, detail-specific costume to
try to top whatever genius they put together the year before… It’s like all the
joy they experience during the rest of the year is minor league foreplay for
the season that culminates in the apex of their happiness. I can’t get myself to
feel like that, over a holiday. I’ve tried to get on board with some of the
less popular ones, just to try it out, but the closest I came was throwing a
gathering – cupcakes and cocktails, drinking and dessert – to celebrate Dr.
Seuss’ birthday. It was fun, but it didn’t stick. I just can’t get that excited
about a line of text on a calendar.
Valentine’s Day is, objectively, an
interesting one. Most people who have an opinion seem to choose to actively hate it, but insist on acknowledging it
anyway. It’s insidious, really. Supposedly designed to celebrate love, and in
doing so, effectively ostracizing anybody who isn’t in it. It seems to make
those people feel horrible about themselves (causing the hatred), but it does
it by being the thing they suddenly feel like they should want, even if they
were content to be single, before. How do you want to participate so badly in
something that you hate? Maybe I’m wrong about the way they feel. Maybe I’m
basing these thoughts on TV versions of life, because I don’t understand the
need to feel one way or another about it. It’s a Hallmark holiday. Like
Mother’s Day, it’s a universally accepted command to display an appreciation
for someone when, if you have an appreciation for them, you don’t need a
command to display it. If you need a specific day on which to buy me flowers, I
don’t want them. Really. Bring me flowers on the second of June, when it means
you were thinking about me because I’m always
on your mind.
Still, Valentine’s Day has one
thing going for it: It’s the only day when everybody puts love and sex in the
same basket, like I do all year long. Most of the rest of the time people
insist on separating the two. “A good relationship is about love; sex is not
the important thing.” Or even “Sex is so much better when you are in love.”
Even that one demands that the two are distinct from each other. “Unless of
course, like me, your idea of romance begins on your knees with your face in a
pillow.” That’s Toni Bentley, gods bless her; I am not alone. (And that's not the only awesome line in Surrender, if you're looking for an interesting read about ass fucking.) Some of us do not
distinguish between the overwhelming emotion of wanting to absorb the very soul
of another human being into our own, and the dizzying rapture of fucking that
human until the two bodies are one thing, bound, locked, twisted into every
orifice and pore of each other. Though there have been many, one of the most
palpable moments of love and devotion that I have experienced, happened just
last week. I had been full-body bound, the strap marks still evident on my
flesh, my arms still tied behind my back, welts from the riding crop hot and
itchy on the underside of my ass, the high inners of my thighs… I was between
body-wracking orgasms first from the monster cock in my ass and then in my
pussy, and my husband put his hand against my face, in among the tears I’d long
since lost control of, held me there looking unblinking into each other’s eyes,
and proceeded to bring me to relentless, merciless, pouring, bone-dissolving
orgasm, all over his naked stomach and thighs. It was ecstasy. Was it true
love? Yes. Hell yes, like in a fucking fairy tale. Was it great sex? Don’t be
stupid. Was the one somehow increased by the other? You could argue that each was better because of the other,
but I would not. I would argue that sometimes they are simply the same thing.
You can have a love that isn’t sexual, and you can have sex without being in
love, but you can also have a thing that is so composed of both, as to have
become something else.
Maybe that’s how I’m going to start
thinking about February 14th, when everything goes on sale at both the
chocolate shop and the adult store – conversation hearts to crotchless panties,
though I’m pretty sure the CVS doesn’t have a teddy bear ready to express it.
It’s a day when love and sex are not only desegregated, not merely interchangeable
or interwoven, but fused. We need a new word for it, I think. There are too
many meanings to the word love. Maybe it’s Valentine.
(Communication is the key and everything, but I don’t
actually have any interest in the candy.)
