16. There are virgins in my head

            I’ve mentioned the deflowering of virgins. It’s one of the things I look for in porn. I think though, that I may have said it and just played through as though that was it. In reality I have to admit that I’m a little preoccupied with the idea. Infatuated, maybe. I don’t have sex fantasies like I imagine other people do. If I’m having a fantasy, imagining something happening to me or living a life that I don’t, it’s not about sex at all, it’s about needing to escape from the world for awhile. It’s about what it would be like to live on a pre-Christian earth, or it’s a new chapter and custom developed character in one of my favorite books. I think we all imagine things for ourselves, don’t we? If you’ve been the one everyone leans on at work for weeks on end, you might put yourself to sleep with the idea of somebody rescuing you for a change. Or if you’ve been used and unable to do anything about it, you picture the revenge, right? Justice served, redemption, we fix these things for ourselves, when the universe isn’t doing it for us. I think that’s normal. (If it isn’t, don’t tell me – just let me go on believing I’m not weird for it. I’m weird in enough other ways.) I also think it’s normal for people to have sex fantasies, it’s just that I don’t do those the same way. Don’t think I don’t make up stories about sex. I have many original erotic scenarios that play out in my head, but I’m not in any of them. They do not involve me. I watch them like movies. I don’t know why I don’t participate in my own brain porn. Maybe it’s the nature of the scenarios: They are all about virgins being deflowered. I’m pretty sure that’s not even an exaggeration. If there are any alternate plots or images, I can’t think of them off the top of my head. My head is full of virgins. If I’m about to orgasm and I’m not focused on the immediate present, watching and feeling and actively experiencing, trying to memorize every moment of what’s happening to my body and mind in that exact, delicious point in time, if my brain has unhooked itself and been swept away in the sensation of being righteously fucked, I’m thinking about virgins. Guaranteed.

            I don’t know why this is. I don’t think it stems from my history. My own first time was neither exciting nor catastrophic. It’s ridiculous to say “nobody ever” in a world so full of people; anything you can think of has likely been done at one point or another, but the number of women who reach vaginal orgasm during their first time has to be so small that “nobody ever” can’t be all that far off the mark. It hurts. There’s no getting around that, is there? Even if you don’t have a hymen, the penis would have to be pretty damn small not to stretch you beyond where you’ve been stretched before. So I think most of us have a deflowering story that’s either traumatic or embarrassing or sort of uneventful, beyond the life event of no longer being a virgin. I know there are lots of people with stories that are sweet and loving or whatever, but as far as the physical sensations go? I don’t think those really make great fantasy material either. I had a boyfriend who was five years older than I was, and in college. He’d been a counselor at my summer camp – the cute one, even – so he was a major score and of course I was totally caught up. I knew what I was doing. I lost my virginity on purpose. But as far as those physical sensations go, hell yes it hurt, and no way was I even close to orgasm, at any time. I pulled his head down next to my ear (missionary), so he couldn’t see the pain on my face, and I waited for him to finish. I guess it was good for him because he came twice (I didn’t even know enough to know that was unusual), but all my pleasure came from the knowledge that I’d gone through with it. That was it. So what’s the appeal?

            Unlike how I did it, the vast majority of the virgins in my head don’t know what they are in for. The one I think of as the first virgin (though honestly I don’t know if she really was there before the others), doesn’t intend to lose it at all. She has said, previous to the act, that she doesn’t want to. It’s not a rape fantasy though. My head doesn’t go there. It’s a manipulation. He talks her into letting him put the head of his cock against her pussy and asks her if it feels good. Of course it does. When she admits that, he takes it as a reversal of her decision and is so quick to shower her with “I knew you’d like it” and flattering dirty talk over how good and hot and tight she is that she lets it happen in order to live up to his praise and expectations of her. She makes no attempt to stop him. She lets herself believe he didn’t exploit her naïveté, that he didn’t engineer the whole thing. Okay so it’s borderline date rape. Maybe not even borderline, but she’s not unhappy afterwards. At least she wouldn’t be if I ever let her get to afterwards, but I never do. Either I’m back in the moment by then or I’ve brought up a new virgin. I have a lot of them to choose from. There’s one in corset and petticoats – you know how I love the false historical porn – who loses it in public in the balcony of an opera house. Half the people in the other balcony boxes are watching her instead of the opera (you’ve seen Dangerous Liaisons, right?), so she can’t protest for fear that they will laugh at her, not to mention her desire to please the man who skillfully arranged for it to happen. Actually I can get her twice: Sometimes the opera happens the night after she’s been deflowered, so she’s still incredibly sore. Her lover exploits that while he has her bent over the rail by pulling out to save her the pain and taking her in the ass, instead, whispering to her that no one can tell where his cock is, so as long as she doesn’t show her surprise, they can’t tell how much she likes it there. Yeah, most of the men are total assholes in disguise. There’s one who is especially bad. The girl in question is a willing participant, but he makes her look him in the eyes at the moment of breach, so he can see the pain of it on her face, makes her tell him as it happens, say it out loud… The scenes aren’t all about fear and discomfort, though. I’ve actually played with that idea of how it could be possible to have a vaginal orgasm the first time having sex. That’s another willing girl – more than willing – she’s dying to lose it, but her lover has dragged it out. He has spent weeks doing everything else to her, teaching her, bringing her to orgasm with fingers and toys, so that she is accustomed to coming before she ever feels a cock inside her. Imagine how great an orgasm that would be, if it was the first time you’d ever felt your pussy full of real, flesh and blood cock. (I wonder now if that happens to women who saved themselves until they weren’t young and stupid. Maybe it’s not as uncommon as I’ve always assumed. I’ve mostly only known women who lost their virginities as I did, at a very young age – which I guess is why all the virgins in my head are girls. There is one woman I know. I’ll have to ask.)

            I guess when I start lining them all up like this, it’s pretty clear what must be the appeal for me, after all. The thing they all have in common is a lack of control. You don’t have to read back very far here to see that’s got me written all over it. Some aspect of knowingly being used. (In fact, sometimes even that man in the delayed, orgasm intended deflowering brings in somebody else at the last minute to do the actual deed, much to the virgin’s ineffective dismay.) Maybe that's also why I'm not in any of my own sex scenarios - like I said, my virgins never know what they are in for. The hottest part of the scene is knowing exactly what's going on. This has been happening to me a lot, lately: I have some really early memory or take a close look at something that’s been true of me forever, and see obvious evidence of the submissive it took me so long to recognize in myself. For a smart person, I can be pretty fucking obliviously stupid. So, virgins. Young ones. There aren’t many people more easily manipulated sexually, than young virgins who want to please a man. I guess it’s no wonder my head is full of them.

(Fourteen, fifteen, close enough.)

15. The night that followed

           I decided to go full pink, for the evening. I’ve mentioned before that I sometimes like pink because of how much I hate it, right? I can’t stand any of that girly shit. Do you get what I mean if I say it’s like blondes wearing light blue eye shadow, or am I the only one who wants to punch those people? It’s cute, by which I mean gross. The only acceptable response to cute, as far as I’m concerned, is to defile the ever loving shit out of it. But the defilement of it, the desecration of it, well that’s a different story… Because that’s so hot that it makes the pink worth having in the first place. So I got out the little pink and white panties (they even have white-on-white butterflies, if you look closely – they’re so sickeningly sweet that I own two pairs in case one of them ever gets irretrievably adulterated), and the clingy little see-through top. I have exactly two pink hair ties that I got from my niece, and I used them to make those little knobbly pig tails. (My hair is too long and straight for regular pigtails; even I can’t debase myself that far.) I can’t let go of my youth enough to ever forego too much thick, black eyeliner, but I made up for that with pink lipstick and eye shadow and toenail polish like bubblegum ice cream. I made the preparations necessary for railing Barbie in the ass.

            If I can get to the cock before it’s erect, there’s a move that’s among my very favorite things to do with a penis. You flip it up, and rest the side of your head on his stomach. Take the head of his cock in your lips and gently suck it all the way into your mouth, then use your tongue to gently push it almost all the way out again. Repeat. What you get is a blow job with your standard in and out motion, but the cock is the thing making it, while your head is completely still. It can only continue very briefly because it stops working once he’s hard, but you get to feel every increment of that hardening in your mouth, as it happens. Maybe other people aren’t as fascinated by the workings of the cock as I am, but I love to bear witness to that shit – especially as the instrument of the transformation. After the mood of the day, it was only seconds before my little trick was no longer viable, but the result was gloriously huge, and hard as calculus. That’s when he threw me onto my back and loomed over me.

            The first thing he did – because sometimes he’s a fucking mind reader – was the Nina Hartley. Unbelievable. I didn’t tell him that that had been my first method of the day, because his not knowing he’s a damn psychic was part of what was getting me off. (Well, that and the fact that he’s really good at the NH!) He didn’t let me come though. He brought me right up to the edge, and then he took me by the collar and pulled me back onto his cock. I went down on him for awhile, alternating between the deep throat and a wet tongue – or thumb, or both at the same time – to the frenulum… That’s stupid to say ‘alternating,’ because what it is really is everything in between and on either side as well. I love that head space in which there is nothing but the sucking of the cock, but infinite ways in which to do it. You can be doing one thing and just slightly change the position of your hand or your lips or your tongue or your grip or your mouth or your spit and that one thing becomes something else. Change two things and it’s something else again. Switch to a different first something and all the changes change again. It’s beguiling. Sometimes it makes me a little delirious. Apparently this time I got fairly caught up, because eventually he had to stop me physically so he wouldn’t come – I tend to miss or ignore the signals when I get like that, so he pushed me away from him onto my face and put a few beautifully distinct hand prints across my ass. Sometimes when the marks are really good he’ll stop and let me admire them in the mirror, but this night he was too absorbed with the prospect of going down on me.

I am unmistakably fortunate that my husband likes my pussy in his mouth as much as I like his cock in mine. Also, the man is skilled; sometimes when he’s going down on me my mind just untethers and floats away to a whole other place (where undoubtedly there are virgins – remind me to tell you about all the virgins in my head, sometime). I even have a game around trying to stay present in the throes of his attention – to watch and feel every fraction of his wet flesh on my wet flesh without letting myself get carried up into the spinning delirium of it. That’s a really good orgasm, when I win that battle. This night though, we skipped right over the clitoral orgasm. I’ve told you how adept he is at bringing me to Orgasm #3. We have a really soft blanket with a waterproof interior layer, to save the mattress, because of it. That’s where he went next, right to the g-spot. I don’t think it took three seconds before I was raining into the palm of his hand with a puddle under me. He looked at me with that cocky little eyebrow thing and said “Really? It’s not even a challenge anymore.” I started to laugh but before it even made it past my lips he was making me come again, and again, and again. Sometimes there’s just no end to Orgasm #3.

Do you ever have those moments when your vagina is hypersensitive? I don’t mean in the bad way, where you can be oversensitive, like a clit in the hands of someone who needs more practice at it. I mean in the way where you are aware of every bit of it. There’s the kind of fucking where your pussy is completely and utterly full, where there’s no more give to it at all, and you feel yourself impaled as though your whole body is nothing but a tight wrapper for the thrust of his cock. Then there’s this other kind of sensation, when it’s not just varying stages of filling and withdrawal, but when you are aware of every single smidgen of his cock moving against every last scintilla of you, from your labia to your cervix. When the nerves in your pussy behave more like the nerves at the back of your knee or the inner of your elbow, places where you don’t just feel yourself being touched or not touched, you feel the exact quality of the touch – the extent of the pressure changing and the very particles of its motion. That’s how he fucked me next. He put me on my side and took me from behind and in the pleasure of that sensory overload I ended up taking over most of the movement, the slow (and then not so slow) writhe of pressing back onto him, all but still, and feeling everything like my pussy could taste him. Is it any surprise that he would make the leap of only an inch, from there? He fucked me in the ass from that sideways and behind position, and then he pulled me onto my back and put my knees beside my ears and fucked me in the ass like that. Then he flipped me and put my face in the pillow, pulled my hips up onto him and fucked me in the ass like that. I don’t even remember which of those positions were the ones that made me come.

You know how you’re never supposed to go ass to mouth? Yeah, I do that all the time. Sorry if I offend your tender sensibilities but it doesn’t bother me even a little bit, and if it has thrown off my internal flora it has never done it in a way that I have noticed. A blow job after ass fucking is not the same thing as a blow job after vaginal fucking. That I think I once described as a taste that brings out a territorial streak in me, like a cat rubs itself against anything it wants to mark as its own – That’s right, that’s MY pussy all over your cock… With ass fucking I think it’s more about the taboo of it. You’re really not supposed to do it, which is probably why I like to so much. Which is why it then always leads me to put it back in my pussy again, because you’re not supposed to put it there after ass fucking, either. I really am a simple creature. It’s no wonder my husband always knows what’s going on in my brain. And that’s how I got to the vaginal orgasm of the evening. My dear friend Orgasm #2. Not the most violent or uncontrollable of the four (that would be #4), but always that beautiful internal body melt, always something like coming home. That’s how my husband came too, in my pussy. Sometimes I feel him come with the wet sensation of the come itself. Sometimes, like this time, it’s the rigid spasm of the cock I feel, like it is a separate entity that even he can’t always keep in control. It’s hard to let him go after that. It makes me want to grip him in a kegel and just hold him there.

            I’m not sure how I want to end the story of that evening. I’m tempted to go back and tell you about the part that I skipped, but I think I’m going to save that bit for a later time, when the topic is more about the intricacies of the Dominant/submissive aspects of the relationship. There are other bits of the night that I’ve forgotten, too. I know because there were moments in the evening when I was saying over and over to myself Oh gods, remember this! Remember this for later! knowing that doing so would bring me to orgasm some day while my husband was at work or away on business. However, when I told him that and asked him “What did we do right before ___?” he’d been too caught up to recall it either. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe it’s pleasing to think that there are those things we’ve done that though lost to memory, cannot be undone. I think I like the idea that our sex life goes deeper than even the two of us know.

14. I’ll bet Nina Hartley doesn’t “Use as directed”

            So I had a morning of masturbation to complete. “Cum twice before noon, and then not again.” (Cum or come? Like grey and gray, I always have trouble choosing a spelling. I definitely prefer come to cum, which is somehow gross and uncivilized, but if you use come, occasionally you have to worry about forcing the reader to go back and reread, as they may have misunderstood your meaning the first time. I’m just going to continue going back and forth, using the better option when there is little question of it being a problem and the ugly spelling when the need arises. Any English teachers present can shut up or fuck off.) There are a couple of different settings in my maturbatory practices. I usually either go old school minimalist, or all out overboard. That’s not to say I don’t play around in the middle occasionally – one simple dildo or leave the panties on just for the hell of it scenarios, if I’m mostly getting off because I’m bored. (Sometimes I have an assignment that makes specific requirements like that too, but not often.) But otherwise, I’m generally just going fingers to pussy because I have a serious need to get off, or I’m setting out an impressive array of toys and lubes and settling into the long game, because I’m unemployed and can get away with shit like that. This day however, I had the luxury of being able to break it up into two events, so I decided to do both.

            Heading into the long game first would have been deliciously difficult, as I had already been spun up so efficiently that morning, and it would have been in keeping with the atmosphere of tantalization my husband had been cultivating. Of course, I don’t have that kind of self-control. So straight back to bed I went, to tumble myself in the sheets that still smelled like the man who’d just left me in this condition. I wasn’t going for your standard fingertip circle, though. I wasn’t even going for the combination fingering of clit and pussy and ass, though I like that the same way I like having a playlist on shuffle, where you know what the options are, and they’re all good, but you don’t know which is coming next until you get there. Today I was headed straight for The Nina Hartley. Do you already know and love Nina Hartley? She’s such a wonderful badass, provided you don’t get freaked out by the whole Mary Jo Buttafucco thing. What I like to call The Nina Hartley, is one of the methods that she demonstrates for getting a woman off. It involves a full handed grab of the vulva, a rhythmic pulling of labia and/or clit, that essentially results in jerking off a woman the same way you might jerk off a man. The first time I saw her do the basic technique, I thought to myself, “Well of course. We all do that!” But then I realized I was wrong. Yes, I certainly incorporated the idea when I played with my pussy, but as I watched the video it dawned on me that I had never seen it all the way through (the technique, not the video). All this time I’d been using the method to open a door, standing on the threshold, and then backing away and climbing out through a window. Spectacularly short-sighted. Oh, and what fun to discover a new way to pleasure this same body that I’ve been pleasuring my whole life! It’s been among my favorite solo activities, ever since. (The Nina Hartley, for your viewing pleasure.) So Orgasm the First came to pass through the grip of my fingers on the folds of my pussy, with the sound of how wet I was as better evidence of it than the wetness itself, which even still was enough to leak out onto my hand, despite the fact that I was virtually holding myself closed. Bliss.

            I’m honestly not sure what I did with the in-between time. I took and sent my obligatory picture, then I likely started a load of laundry, maybe even swept, but sooner or later I always end up at my computer, which means I was either staring at drafts of poems and doing nothing with them (I’m mostly down to the unfixable ones), or I was translating the journal form of Laundry and Blow Jobs to this, its postable incarnation. Either way, I almost certainly ended up on reddit, because the next thing I remember is looking up to discover that it was already eleven o’clock. Whoops. I got out my favorite pink toy, about which you have already read, and then my green Lelo vibrator and my purple We-Vibe and a bottle of the good lube (I like the white, lotion kind that looks like come). (It’s possible that cum should be the noun and come the verb, but I’m going to pass on the over-analytic grammar geek-out, for the time being.) I almost tapped the Sasi vibe, because it’s essentially the previously discussed customized playlist on shuffle, but frankly it’s not that great a toy and it has no penetrative properties. After spending my first orgasm without that, there was no way I was going to deprive myself of it again. I started with the Lelo just externally, you know, just to get the pussy warm. Just to get the pussy warm... Hmm, there’s a poem somewhere in that, I think. Anyway, having kept everything so contained earlier in the day, I was still fairly wet internally. The thing is though, unnecessary though it may have been, I had lube at the ready. Understand that when it comes to lube and masturbation, I don’t believe in moderation. The lotion/come kind that I like is brutally expensive (I buy Pink, not Liquid Silk because Liquid Silk tastes like battery acid), and I couldn’t possibly care less. If I’m playing with lube, I’m overdoing it. I like to feel it fall all over my pussy and then hold still and let it run down to my ass. This was especially conducive to the day in question because I own both the vibrators I had selected for the occasion (the Lelo and the We-Vibe), specifically for use not-as-recommended. They are both designed to stimulate your clit and your quim at once (not to mention a male partner’s cock, in the case of the We-Vibe), but I can only do that for a very short period before it makes me come. I can toss in a thrust or two like that while I’m on shuffle, but if I keep it up the orgasm is there and over far too quickly for my taste. No, I own those two vibrators because you’d be surprised at how hard it is to find one that’s designed for double penetration. I don’t know why that’s true – maybe I’m just looking in the wrong places – but you’d think that kind of thing would be standard in 2013, and it’s not.

So I played my lube raining game, followed by the slow, exploratory spreading-of-the-slippery with full fingers and open palm, and then returned to my little green friend. There’s one setting that I particularly like, with three subsequent levels of rising speed, followed by a pulse that drops you off the edge of a cliff every time it ends and starts over again. I found that, even with lube all over both my hands, and used-as-directed for as long as I could without touching the brink of orgasm, and then I flipped it over. That’s the luxury of the thing: You can flip it over. Most vibrators that have a clit stimulation feature have such an unnecessarily complex clit stimulation feature, that you’d never want to put it in your ass. Not so with this one. So now I had one side in my pussy and the other in my ass, and they were both on that setting that climbs and climbs and climbs and throbs until you’re almost there, and then drops you with a gasp and starts again. Even without anything touching my clit at all, that wasn’t going to take long, if I kept up the motion of penetration and withdrawal, pushing in and pulling out, introduction and separation… I was definitely walking up to the edge, and I was only going to get to jump off once before I’d have to wait for the evening to come. Before I got to the point of no return, I traded green for purple. It was obvious by now that I was never going to get to the pink toy, but at least with sex toys, it’s always better to have and not need than to need and not have. Just for kicks, I started with the factory intended placement, but the time available for such activities had grown narrow indeed, so as with the other toy, I flipped it around. With both heads inserted, one in the pussy and the other in the ass, the device no longer receives the signal to change settings (design flaw!), but in a way this was part of my plan. Time was short – both for my ability to hold off climax and for the expiration of my tasked assignment – so a steady setting that was both stimulating and also a holding pattern wasn’t a bad idea. I left myself there, hands free (oh, that’s another fun way to make myself come sometimes, when I can pull it off!), with a doubly penetrating buzz going, while I tried to catch my breath and let the incipient orgasm back a couple of steps away. It did, but even though I kept my hands thrown over my head, it wasn’t long before I was starting the slow motion writhe and twist that was going to get me there anyway. My id was not going to obey. So, as I’ve been doing with so many things of late, I embraced instead of fighting. The eventual climax that would come from doing nothing wasn’t going to compare with the extended fireworks I could get from taking immediate action, so like any sane person I opted for the grand finale. I shifted my position so that the motion of my involuntary squirming would have direct consequences on the toy still humming inside me twice at the same time, and I brought back the other vibrator, as well. I slipped the whole thing – big head and small, between my labia, but keeping it external so that I could slide it over every available trace of my flesh –every lick of snatch, if you will. I rubbed and slid it over the full breadth of my pussy, from the edge of my ass to the prow of my clit, and when I came, since no one was home because it was the middle of the day which I could manage because I have NO JOB, I didn’t have to stifle my cries or bite the side of my hand or bury my face in a pillow.

All I had to do (once the trembling had subsided), was send another picture – which I did, and begin the measured patience of Waiting – which now you must, too.

(You didn't really think I was going to put The Divinals here, did you?)

13. Fruit, Wine, and Tantalization

     Yeah, so that thing about maybe never bothering to alert you to my presence? Scratch that. (Hi reddit.) Right when I thought I was getting used to the idea of all this being out there in the world… Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s fine. It actually happened before the Best Compliment Ever, but it brought on a new bout of anxiety and I didn’t want to write about it. But probably it doesn’t matter. Why wouldn’t it be totally fine? I keep thinking about the difference between all those fancy sex blogs and this. It was easier not to care when it was just me and few people I knew, reading over my shoulder. Now I actually do have You to worry about. Does this random rambling bother you? Should I have to wonder? Is it rude not to give a fuck, now that I know you’re there? What about the format? My husband thought I should probably post the back story as static pages instead of individual posts, to encourage people not to read it backwards, but I didn’t want the subsequent posts – the rambling parts -  to start feeling like Facebook comments instead of parts of each episode. Because even when they are unrelated, they are describing a period of time, be it a three month phase or a night at a hotel. Pobble Thoughts is completely random and still manages to be awesome. Pobble is actually an old friend of mine. She’s the High Priestess of truth, inspiration, righteous indignation, and, well, anything shiny that happens to catch her eye. But she’s also a published author with a standing writing gig, an established fan base, and a blog network that’s close to a decade in the making. I can’t even think about comparing my shit to that without getting queasy. Though maybe I can borrow some of her iron clad orneriness: This is how I’m doing it because this is how I want it. You are welcome to come in and poke around. If you don’t like the way it’s done, I trust you can find your own way out. If you like it, pull up a cushy chair and make yourself comfortable. If there’s none left in the fridge, here’s my recipe for ghetto sangria – stir some up and I’ll try to have something written about sex for you to read, by the time you get back. (And pour me a glass, would you?)

L&BJ’s Ghetto Sangria

This is the big recipe. It’s easy enough to halve it, but the longer it sits around, the more the fruit and liquor soak together, the better it is, so it’s beneficial to make more than you can drink in one sitting, anyway.
And you won’t be left with half an orange.

1.  Take off your shirt; you’re going to get sticky.

2.  Music. You need music. (There are some good suggestions on here, if you scroll.)

3.  Pour half a cup of sugar into the bottom of a large pitcher.

4. Add two shots of Cointreau – don’t measure too hard, let them overflow, you’re going to get sticky anyway, remember?

5. Add one of those pre-cut, grocery store pint containers of fruit. I always use the one that’s a combination of pineapple, blueberries, strawberries and blackberries. (You may have to cut the strawberries smaller – they usually leave those fairly whole for the people who like to take them into the bedroom. I don’t like food with my sex, personally, but I’m not about to judge those of you who do.)

6. Slice an unpeeled orange as thinly as you can (do it on a plate, so you can save the juice), and tumble it all into the mix. Go ahead, try to do that without getting any on your skin. 

7. Dump in one large (like the 1.5 liter size) or two regular sized bottles of shitty, sweet wine. I recommend a late harvest riesling (Hogue is good & cheap) or moscato (Barefoot is good and cheap).

8. Stir and stab violently with a wooden spoon, to crush the fruit a bit.

9. Pour in a few glugs of something bubbly. I use lime flavored sparkling water, but 7-Up or any light to clear carbonated beverage will do.

10. Stir more reasonably.

11. Have someone lick the sticky off your boobs and fingers.

12. Garnish with sex or internet erotica.

Glass full? Feet up? Comfy? Okay, let me tell you a story from last week.

He’d been away on business for days. I am pathetic, when he’s away. I am a kite with no string. All things normal and routine become unfamiliar and strange. I become a bundle of hesitation and vague, featureless fear. So when I woke to find him there where he was supposed to be, warm and delicious and sprawled across the pillows like someone had thrown him there, ah, all was right with the world again. I curled up against him with my head in that little dip between his shoulder and his chest, and he put his arms around me and pulled me against him. I can’t usually get away with this. Usually his brain is already at work. Usually this kind of lying together requires post coitus level relaxation that doesn’t exist in the morning, but he let me. This is my favorite way to sleep – no nagging or ugly thoughts can get past him, to my mind. It’s the half sleep in which the lines blur between reality and dream, whale sleep. Whales sleep with only one lobe of their brains at a time; part has to stay awake so they’ll remember to breathe. I can sleep like that forever. But this was morning, so it couldn’t last. Eventually we got up and began to slowly move toward the obligations of the day. I was working on letting go of all the goodness that made me want to pull him back into the bed (surely it was still warm), and then he came up and groped me from behind while I was brushing my teeth. I looked up in the mirror, expecting to meet his eyes and share a wicked little moment, but I found instead that he was looking at my ass. I have these soft, tiny little pajama shorts that he is helpless to resist. In a second, his hands were inside them, grabbing me, fingers in my pussy, manhandling and starting that slow shudder traveling from his hands, up through my flesh to my breasts and my neck, and me, holding onto the counter to steady myself, eyes closed… And then he just walked away. Jesusmarymotherofgod I love it when he fucks with my head.

I was on my way back from the kitchen a little while later, having been discussing the kid’s plans for the evening – halle-fucking-lujah, he’s staying out late, at a friend’s house (apparently we’re doing Christian based cursing on L&BJ today). I was still feeling the soft and smooshy and warm of a comfortable waking, and the relief of finding him back in our bed and his hands back on my body. My hair was disheveled, my eyes half-lidded, and then there he was, just standing there, bag on his shoulder, ready to go, and not moving. Looking at me. I went to him, summoned without communication of any sort, and he pulled me to him, kissed me like he meant it, his face in my hair, his hand in the crack of my ass, fingers pressing into my quim, and he whispered in my ear “Cum twice before noon, and then not again.” As he walked to the door he added without looking back, “Until tonight.”

This is how awesome my life is, now.

I told you I was inviting you to live vicariously through my unemployment, didn’t I? This time I’m going to let you share the anticipation of that moment, because of course there’s more to the story. There’s the afternoon I spent alone, and the night that followed it. But I’m also trying to break the self-imposed routine of the Monday morning blog post. Every time I try to force myself into a writing regimen, the very next thing I do is fuck it up. So now that I’m not just posting epochs that have been previously written (you’re still not quite caught up to reality, because I’m writing this from what’s a couple of pages back in my journal), I’m going to stop pretending I have any sort of real routine, at all. I’ve already started, if you haven’t noticed, but only because I’ve been fucking up the Monday post by not getting to it until Tuesday. Now I’m going to embrace the randomness that I’ve been worrying about. I’ll come back tomorrow or the next day and tell you about the afternoon of self-pleasuring, and then maybe I’ll make you wait another day for the graphics of nightfall, as I had to wait for them, when it happened. Maybe you’ll stick around to find out how it went. Maybe you’ll get bored and go away. I’m trying not to worry about you. I hope that you’ll at least get housed on fruit and wine and think dirty thoughts, wherever you end up.

( It's a good kind of sticky.)