The go-to image.

June 28, 2011 at 6:08 pm (Sex) (, , , )

You know… those moments from past sexual encounters that stand out in your memory, the ones you can return to in fantasy over and over and never tire of, the ones you can pull out of your pocket when an orgasm needs some extra encouragement to deliver. Those go-to images that are tucked away, always ready.

They might not have been with anyone special; or they could have been with someone you passionately loved. The entire experience may not have been memorable, but there was this one thing, this one moment, that has always remained. A single image of something unbelievably sexy.

These are what I like to write about, but some are just too brief to stand on their own. But they’re gorgeous to me, and I want to share them somehow.

Like the man I was curled up beside, during an interlude, and I noticed a small bead of pre-come on the tip of his cock; I wiped it up with the edge of my thumb, then brought it to my lips and licked it off… how he made an approving sound and told me it was the sexiest thing I had ever done.

Or when I was bent over the side of my bed, pressed face-down into the mattress, being fucked roughly from behind by a man who was willing to do, without questioning, whatever I asked him to do.

Or the conversation that slowly turned to play, when I pressed him between my breasts and he came so quickly, and was so surprised that I wanted nothing in return, that I was happy to have pleased him.

Or when I lay with my head over the side of the bed, better to nuzzle his balls and lick him from base to tip, while he fondled my breasts and twisted my nipples just enough to make me whimper against his thighs.

Or when he finished, and slipped out of me, and slid his tongue gently between my lips and over my clit, as if in thanks.

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Letting go of fear.

June 26, 2011 at 11:03 am (Polyamory, Relationship) (, , , , , , )

Recently I’ve been struggling with the dear husband’s budding relationship with his Latvian hairdresser. (Literally, she cuts his hair and waxes his eyebrows.) It has been a slow-evolving one, and he has said that he would be content if it remained platonic. She doesn’t have a lot of American friends, though she’s lived here for about ten years I think, and in some ways he’s helping her become more accustomed to American culture and the English language. He enjoys learning about her culture and experiences, and she seems to be an adventurous and insightful person. But she is also married, with one pre-teen child and another adult child who is living with her. The DH says she’s described her husband as possessive and controlling. So when I recently went out of town for business and found out upon my return that their relationship had become a sexual one, I experienced a big ol’ jumble of negative emotions.

To start with, I’ve been under an unusual amount of work-related stress lately (though my job is always stressful, I’m working longer hours and worrying a lot more than usual), so my emotional state is a bit on the tender side. I wasn’t aware that anything would happen between them while I was out of town, and so I wasn’t prepared for that conversation when I came home. Plus we had already discussed the potential pitfalls of developing a relationship with someone who is married and cheating, so I was surprised that he had decided to take it to the next level. All this quickly wound itself up into a little ball of anxiety and I found myself acting out in stupid, passive-aggressive ways: cutting him off when he mentioned her, for example, and telling him I didn’t want to hear about her. When she showed up at our usual Friday night hangout, I made some gestures that were possessive and territorial and then sulked for a while.

The DH has not called me out on this behavior, but I’m calling myself out. It’s petty. I know that his relationship with her is not a threat to our relationship; none of his relationships are a threat to ours, because we have a bond that is different from any that either of us has ever experienced, and we’re committed to our partnership. But I do feel like this relationship could be a threat to our peace and tranquility and the drama-free zone we live in. And my inability to control that potential threat has me very anxious and thus, acting out in inappropriate ways.

But the point here is — I can’t control what MIGHT happen. Yes, her husband might find out that she’s cheating, but I can’t prevent that. Yes, that could result in someone or multiple someones having painful emotions, but I can’t prevent that. Yes, it could cause some upheaval; it could – heaven forbid – involve a confrontation which could be violent in nature; but I can’t control any of this. And NOTHING could happen. They might never sleep together again. She might decide she’s devoted to her husband. She might be really good at keeping secrets. She might decide to leave her husband. I can’t know what she’ll do. I don’t know what might or might not happen. I can’t control it.

I have big, big control issues. So I have to make myself stop, sit down, and think through this series of events, and admit to each one, I can’t control you. I can neither prevent nor encourage any particular outcome. The future is not in my hands. And I sigh, and I open my hands, and I say to myself, that’s okay. You can’t control it, so let it go.

It feels good to let go. It’s scary, and it’s not comfortable, and it doesn’t feel natural for me, because I cling to my ability to control what goes on around me. But it does feel good, like peeling a scab feels good sometimes.

Fear holds you back. Trying to control things is a fearful reaction. Letting go of fear is the only way you can grow.


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A shot of my cleavage.

June 13, 2011 at 3:30 pm (Photos) (, )

Image posted by
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Rules, or the lack thereof.

June 12, 2011 at 2:56 pm (Polyamory, Relationship) (, , , , )

When we first opened our marriage four years ago, we established some rules we would operate under, as many couples do:

  1. One partner is permitted to veto the playmates of the other partner.
  2. If a playdate must be hosted in our home, do not inconvenience the non-participating partner in order to do so.
  3. The marital bed is not to be used for playing with other people.

Veto power was only exerted once, and by me – a friend of a friend wanted to play with the DH, and we had a difference of opinion about her. He saw her as a free spirit; I saw a woman desperate for any kind of attention. No more than a month later, we found out she had gotten pregnant by another man and was attempting to entrap him (and by extension, his wealthy family) into a relationship with her. Some very icky drama resulted, and we were both pretty grateful that we weren’t involved in it.

Rule #2 proved problematic. In the early days particularly, the DH played around a lot more than I did, and for various reasons his playmates could rarely host. In spite of this rule there were times when I felt I had no choice but to get out of the way, because I was nowhere near comfortable with the thought of sitting around the house doing my own thing while listening to my husband fuck another woman upstairs. This lead to some resentment on my part until we talked about it further and made a more concerted effort to coordinate schedules so I didn’t feel forced out of the house in order for him to have a friend over.

Over time, though, all three rules went away. Not through any conscious decision or deliberate discussion – I slowly stopped enforcing them. They were, after all, my invention, rules I had requested to establish boundaries and comfort zones. And truthfully, they were pretty arbitrary, serving only to exert control over him and over the potential threats to our relationship. They were like a bulletproof vest, placed over my areas of potential emotional wounds. The rules weren’t helping me overcome my fears of abandonment, of not being “good enough” for the relationship to endure. So as I grew, as I became more confident in the security of our relationship, and as I learned to trust both him and myself to make wise decisions, I let the rules dissolve.

We now operate on trust and respect. We have some basic principles for how our relationship works, but I wouldn’t call them rules, because they really are fundamental principles of good communication. We no longer ask each other for “permission” to be with someone else; we trust each other to make good choices in who we spend time with or become intimate with. We don’t view one another as property to be “shared” with (or withheld from) someone else. We keep each other informed of our plans with others, just as we agree to what & when we do things together, and make sure plans don’t overlap.  And that’s about it. And it’s working very well.

As I meet other people who are polyamorous and who have their own rules, I’m starting to question why they have them. I know everyone is different and what works for me may not work for others, but I do wonder if they have thought about the real reason why they have certain rules in place. Is it to exert control over their partner; is it a form of possessiveness? Is it to cover up and cushion a fear instead of exposing and resolving it? People don’t like me asking these kinds of questions. So far, it’s even resulted in a couple of potential friendships not getting off the ground.

Additionally, I wonder if others would be willing to re-negotiate their rules once another partner with potential for a real relationship enters the picture. Shouldn’t a new partner have a say in the guidelines that affect their relationship? Would you enter a legal contract into which you had no input? Why should a relationship be any different? But this leads to a dissection of the hierarchical nature that many poly people assign to their relationships, which troubles me very much, and will be covered in another ramble at another time.

The husband and I are fortunate to have both evolved our thinking about our relationship at a similar pace and along the same path. It’s one of the reasons why we are so compatible – on many issues, we come to the same conclusion independent of one another. For others, their mileage may vary; their fears may be deeper-rooted and harder to resolve, or their need for control may not be easily sated. Ultimately, though, I know this will become a factor in other relationships the husband or I establish with others, and asking others to justify their rules may lead to fewer relationships than we’d like. But as with many areas of life, we can only live in the moment, and we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.


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Where I fit in.

June 8, 2011 at 9:32 pm (Polyamory, Sex) (, , , )

There are a lot of reasons why I’ve never sought out a local sexual community, either poly, kinky or otherwise. One of the biggest issues I have with the whole concept of community is the necessity to “join” and “become a part of” the community – thus being categorized as “one of them”. I’m not a joiner; it’s been a very long time since I felt that need to be part of something larger than myself. All my life I’ve never “fit in”, and I gave up trying. I know that many people find comfort, if not happiness and peace, in being part of a community of like-minded individuals, and if it works for them, that’s great. For me, the thought of “community” is stifling – it’s other people invading my space, dictating my beliefs, and restricting who I am.

I still have a strong sense of not fitting in anywhere, and of how my choices in life separate me from others. In the realm of basic life choices:

  • I made the conscious decision not to have children, for a number of reasons, personal, environmental and social. As a woman, this immediately makes me a little odd, and from some perspectives, it calls my very femininity into question.
  • I have worked my way up the corporate ladder by being extremely organized, productive and proactive, without the benefit or cushion of a college degree. In my particular corporate world, at least, this is a rarity.
  • I bought a small, old, urban house in a city where only the less fortunate live in small, old, urban homes. The suburbs reign supreme around here, along with all that is shiny and new. I like things that are grimy and old.

Then there’s the sexual front. At the most fundamental level, expressing my sexuality when I don’t meet Western society’s definition of what is sexy in a female is difficult enough. I have to specifically seek out sexualized images of women who look like me; they’re not part of mainstream sexual media. In fact, it took me a few years of looking for these types of images before I came to appreciate them – after seeing only slender women with large, round (enhanced) breasts in sexual media, I found images of sagging breasts and fat bellies and thighs distasteful. Over time, and through conscious effort, I’ve learned to see that they’re sexy, too, and through this to become more confident that my body is sexy just the way it is, as well.

In the polyamorous world I also feel set apart. I’m not pagan; I’m not into role-playing, costumes, fantasy, sci-fi or other facets of geekdom that seem to go hand-in-hand with the belief in our innate ability to love many others.  Invite me to a drum circle and I’ll laugh all the way home. I don’t understand why (judgmental language approaching) flakiness and belief in goofy, made-up religions are so strongly associated with the poly concept.

The kink world certainly has broad degrees, and I definitely fall at the milder, tamer end of the spectrum. But there seem to be very rigid compartments along that spectrum – a female who expresses the desire to be dominant should probably have her thigh-high boots and leather corset ready; and if she’s submissive, she’d better be quick to drop to her knees for any man who wants to be called Sir.

I know these are exaggerations to a degree, but they’re also what I’ve truly observed. I’ve not found people in the poly community who work 50-60 hour workweeks in the corporate world and enjoy gardening and lawn maintenance in their free time. In the kink community, I don’t see a place for plus-sized women who seek a balance between dominant and submissive play and who are attracted to intelligent, self-aware men, not those who simply want to be humiliated by a female bully. I don’t feel like I belong in any of these communities unless I buy into what they’re selling, and I don’t want it.

Nevertheless… the older I get, the more I long to just simply relate to other human beings. I have to try harder to find the common ground instead of focusing on the differences. I’m tired of feeling separated. I don’t want to be in the center of the spotlight, but I want to feel some of the warmth from it. I want to find my place — over there, on that chair, with a nice beer — from where I can observe the world, and watch a few creatures drift close to me in their orbit and share a smile with them, because I know the part of the path they’re on, and welcome them.


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June 4, 2011 at 2:45 pm (Photos)

Well, I was actually contemplating taking off the stockings, because there was a run in the right one. There were pics of stocking removal, but none were elegant or sexy enough to be included in the final set.

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The first, or what I remember of him.

June 1, 2011 at 9:43 pm (Sex) (, , , , )

He had put an ad in the university paper: “I need a date. Send me an interesting postcard.” So I did; I had a fondness for postcards then. I don’t remember what I sent, or what I wrote, but it charmed him, and we met in the commons and he  bought me a cup of tea.

I knew who he was; I’d had a bashful crush on him for a while. So it was easy enough to agree to go home with him. His home was a bachelor’s studio apartment with not an inch of visible floor space. A hoarder, or maybe just a slob, I’m not sure. He had a porn movie with a funny premise that he wanted to show me. I’ve forgotten that, too, but I remember sitting side by side on matching kitchen chairs, watching this VHS movie on a tiny television.

I don’t remember who kissed whom. I don’t remember who suggested carrying things further on the bed. I do remember being undressed and being licked by a man for the first time, his beard tickling, his fingers gently then firmly probing. I doubt he made me come, and I vaguely suspect I may have faked it to get him to stop… not that I disliked what he was doing, not at all: it was just the beard burn. I do know he managed to tear my hymen, though it wasn’t fully broken for a few more years.

Returning the favor was incomprehensible to me at the time, so I stroked him instead, fascinated by the mechanics of a handjob. You don’t use lotion? Doesn’t it hurt to move the skin? I asked a lot of questions, and was an attentive student, and was rewarded appropriately.

We stayed on the bed together for a while, and I remember him saying, “Well, at least I know one thing about you – you like to cuddle.” A mystery to the men in my life from the start, it seems.

He walked me to my bus stop – no, actually, he walked me all the way to the stop where I would have transferred buses to get home. I don’t remember why. But along the way, he told me, “I can still smell you in my beard” and we seemed to agree that was a good thing.

Years later, I ran across him again, in a most unexpected place – the Fortean Times. He’d written a paper, an anthropological study on the practice of throwing a pair of shoes tied by the laces over telephone wires. It’s exactly the kind of thing he would have found fascinating. That’s why I liked him.

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