the business trip, part 4

Part 4 of 4. You stand behind me, thinly veiled impatience shimmering between us, your hands on my hips as I open the door. The door closes behind us. You push me up against it. Your eyes glitter in the dark. You bury your right hand in my hair and slant your lips towards mine. I’m rigid, seeking your mouth, wanting this kiss more than I could have ever imagined.

You stand behind me, thinly veiled impatience shimmering between us, your hands on my hips as I open the door.

The door closes behind us. You push me up against it.

Your eyes glitter in the dark.

You bury your right hand in my hair and slant your lips towards mine. I’m rigid, seeking your mouth, wanting this kiss more than I could have ever imagined. Continue reading “the business trip, part 4”

hard to see, the dark side is

Halloween 1988 was an evening I will never forget. I was sitting beside my very first boyfriend (we had been going out all of two weeks) in my basement, watching the movie Halloween on video. It was completely dark in the room except for the flicker of the screen. My lips were still swollen from our marathon makeout session before the movie, and I had daringly placed my hand on his thigh while we watched.

After the Big Scary Bad Guy had made me jump in my seat for what seemed like the millionth time, my charming and adorable boyfriend leaned over and whispered in my ear, “You know, if I was going to be a serial killer, I’d want to be Michael Myers.”

I removed my hand from his thigh, more than a little scared by this new revelation.

I’m reminded of this episode because this week I finished reading an erotic novel written by one of my exes. He was a wonderfully gentle man, wicked and warm and imaginative. I never feared for my personal safety with him, even though he had a penchant for tying me to his cross before bringing out the flogger, hot wax, and sundry other items with which to tease and ravish my body. These were things we both enjoyed. 🙂

But the book. He’d started it, actually, when we were still together, and I’d encouraged him to keep working on it every time I saw him. I thought—and still do—that he was a great writer, and could produce much better BDSM erotica than the usual fare.

The book had some lovely erotic scenes in it. To my surprise and slight unease, however, it also had rape, gang rape, and other non-consensual activities. I mean, it was actually brutal in parts, with real punishment, real pain, real bruises and welts, real torture. And yes, I know it’s fiction. And no, he never tried any of those things in reality. But still.

Like that Halloween night so many years ago, it made me think about the fact that all people have dark sides to them. Sometimes you live your whole life and never see a person’s dark side. Sometimes they show it to you by accident, sometimes on purpose.

I have lived a very lucky life. I haven’t always been careful, or as safety-conscious as I should or could have been around the men in my life. I’ve taken chances and risks. I’ve ended up with a relatively lovely sexual history. But I could just as easily have been raped, or beaten, or worse. Far more careful women than I have had to live through those kinds of experiences.

Not very often, but once in a while (like this week) I find myself wondering what was lurking behind the eyes of the men I’ve had in my life. Hard to see, the dark side is.

the business trip, part 3

Part 3 of 4. You stop in front of a black car. You turn to lean against it and pull my hand, using my forward motion to carry me right into you. Your mouth slams on mine as though eternity would not be long enough to get a taste. I whimper in the back of my throat and bring my hands up to your chest, your arms.

The relative quiet of the night hits me like another attack on my senses as I walk beside you, lengthening my stride to keep up with yours. You’re still clutching my hand.

You walk through the parking lot like a man with a purpose. I smile secretly. If I’m on fire, it seems only fair that you should have to suffer, as well.

You stop in front of a black car. You turn to lean against it and pull my hand, using my forward motion to carry me right into you.

Your mouth slams on mine as though eternity would not be long enough to get a taste. I whimper in the back of my throat and bring my hands up to your chest, your arms.

God, you taste good. Continue reading “the business trip, part 3”

the business trip, part 2

Part 2 of 4. I watch your eyes flare, your breathing change subtly as my finger moves over you. As my words work on you. The look in your eyes tells me that you want nothing more than to drag me out of this bar to someplace with a door to close on the world and a bed on which to lay me down.

I watch your eyes flare, your breathing change subtly as my finger moves over you. As my words work on you. The look in your eyes tells me that you want nothing more than to drag me out of this bar to someplace with a door to close on the world and a bed on which to lay me down.

I want that too. So much my nipples are pebbles against the soft knit of my t-shirt. I want your mouth there. Lips and tongue and teeth.

But waiting can be so much better.

We’ve waited this long, after all.

What’s a little while longer? Continue reading “the business trip, part 2”

the business trip, part 1

Part 1 of 4. I’m in town on business. You weren’t sure if we should meet. In truth, neither was I, because I have pretty firm beliefs about married men, but after months of verbally stimulating each other to the point of madness, my body wants you. It wants your touch.

I’m in town on business. You weren’t sure if we should meet. In truth, neither was I, because I have pretty firm beliefs about married men, but after months of verbally stimulating each other to the point of madness, my body wants you. It wants your touch.

We agree to meet at a downtown bar. It’s a Friday night, fairly late, and the place is pretty busy. I worry that we won’t find each other. I show up early, too aroused and excited to do otherwise. I’m wearing a short black miniskirt, soft black t-shirt, and black knee-length boots. I sit at the bar, sipping a drink, trying to calm the frantic beating of my heart.

I look up and see you. You look a little different from your picture, but I’d recognize those eyes anywhere. You smile a little, and I can see in that smile a mirror of everything I’m feeling — desire, nervousness, excitement. Continue reading “the business trip, part 1”

marital discord

The short version is that I left my husband because we didn’t have sex any more.

The long version is, as you’d expect, a lot more complicated than that, but it hits the highlights well enough. Because it’s never just about not having sex. It’s about all the reasons (the ones you know, and the ones you don’t) why you’re not having sex, it’s about how not having sex makes you feel about yourself and your partner, it’s about needing to feel loved and needed and wanted by the one person in your life who is supposed to want you more than anyone else in the world.

For me, it was also about not wanting to cheat on him. Yes, I could have. In fact, I had his permission to. During the last crumbling months of our marriage, he suggested I just go out and get the sex if I wanted it so damn much. With his blessing. I even tried. But I couldn’t do it. Felt wrong.

And that’s when I realized that sex in and of itself wasn’t the problem.

There’s a reason I’m boring you all with my sob story. It’s because over the last three years I’ve been astounded to find out how many couples were like us. Sometimes she doesn’t want it, sometimes he doesn’t want it, but on every street in your city, there’s at least one couple going through this right now.

Got me thinking about the inequality. In fact, I don’t know a single married couple right now (well, at least out of the couples I know who are open in discussing their sex lives) who have anything approaching equality in their sex wants and needs.

Do we do it to ourselves? Deliberately set ourselves up to be with people who for any number of reasons turn out to be sexually incompatible?

What do you do when you realize your needs aren’t being met?

losing my virginity, part 1

I promised a while back that I would tell the story of how I lost my virginity. People just love telling these stories anyway, but I’ve always found my initiation into intercourse to be particularly amusing. To me, at least, and hopefully for some of you as well.

I promised a while back that I would tell the story of how I lost my virginity. People just love telling these stories anyway, but I’ve always found my initiation into intercourse to be particularly amusing.

To me, at least, and hopefully for some of you as well.

Somehow or another I got to be twenty-one and was still a virgin. How did it happen? Well, I didn’t want it to be part of the sticky 15-year-old fumblings in highschool, wanted it to be special and maybe even romantic but of course the older I got, the more special the guy had to be, because I’d waited so long. Basically, the task grew more arduous with every passing year, and before I knew it, it wasn’t something special, it was an albatross hanging around my neck.

About the virginity. I should explain. I think I may have made it clear above, but in case I didn’t we’re talking technical, coital virginity here. I’d been fooling around with boys for years, knew what a cock looked like and felt like and tasted like. Just hadn’t had one inside me before.

And then there was Marty. He and I had been good friends for years, hung out, had fun together. He was absolutely adorable to me. He was also bisexual.

Somehow I got it into my teeny little 21-year-old brain that a bisexual buddy would be the best man in the world to give my virginity to — he was comfortable with sexuality, he was comfortable around me, and he wouldn’t fall in love with me or want to go steady or anything. He’d also be careful with me because we were good friends. He even carried condoms with him. This was my logic.

So one night we’re hanging out at my place, talking, listening to music, drinking a little, and I ask him if he’ll do it. After some discussion, he says, “sure”.

We pull out the bed hidden inside my big L-shaped sectional, and lay down on it. Some kissing. Some dry humping. And we decide it’s time for the big moment.

We get undressed. We kiss a little more. He tells me it would be easier for me the first time to be on top, that way I could go as fast or slow as I needed, to control the pain.

So I get on top. And I’m just kind of straddling him, waiting, because I don’t really know what to do.

He tries to push it up inside me.

It hurts. It feels waaay bigger than I expected.

Turns out it feels that way because Marty has gone soft, and he’s trying to push it up there anyway.

Unsuccessfully.

It becomes obvious to both of us that this isn’t working. But we’re dogged kids in our early twenties.

Must be some way to make this work.

I lick and suck him, trying to make him hard. He’s just floppy in my hands. So much for my oral skills. 🙂

He starts stroking himself, but as soon as he removes his hand, he loses his erection. He digs in the pocket of his jeans and produces a cock ring (my thirty-one year old mind is saying cock ring? what twenty-three year old boy carries a cock ring in his pockets every day?). He straps it around himself, and starts jerking it again, trying to get hard. Somehow, the cock ring breaks.

Desperate, he asks me for a hair elastic.

Confused, still hoping to lose my virginity, I go get him a scrunchie, which he proceeds to wrap around his cock and balls, and tries again.

Nada. Zip. Zilch.

He decides that I should just get on top anyway, and hump him a little – should perk him up. So I do.

And once he’s reached semi-hardness, he grabs it with his fist and tries to shove it up there again.

Ow.

At which point—you guessed it—Marty loses his erection again.

By this point I’m pretty upset. And feeling more than a little foolish. I tell him to forget it, that it’s just not going to happen. We sit side by side on the bed for a few moments, not saying much. Which is when it hits him. Like a lightning bolt from the sky.

He’s not bisexual. He’s actually gay.

He never knew this about himself. It’s a revelation. Sure, sure, sorry about the whole losing the virginity thing, but Vikki, wow! He’s gay! What does this mean?

We wrap ourselves in blankets. I pour us each a strong drink, silently. And we head out to sit on my balcony.

We sit there all night. I don’t say much. He talks and talks about this wondrous discovery and re-examines every sexual and non-sexual relationship he’s ever had, looking at it through these new eyes. Till 5 am. My self-esteem slides down and ends up in a puddle at my feet.

In trying to lose my virginity, I helped a man discover his homosexuality. 🙂

It sounds sad, but honestly, in retrospect, it’s one of the funniest moments of my life. I run through the story in my head, and by the time he asks for the scrunchie, I’m in tears from laughing so hard.

And so ends the tale of part one of losing my virginity. Part two soon.

manic masturbation

Vikki has been an incredibly busy girl of late, and exhausted as well. You’d think that would make me less horny and less likely to dally around with myself, but the opposite has been true. I’ve been obsessed lately. The slightest thing—the delicious curve of an ass seen on the subway, a sexy email from one of my readers (and there have been several lately, thank you! I promise to respond soon), a love scene on TV, a particularly unh-inducing song on the my streaming radio channel&#8212and off I go, wet and throbbing as though I hadn’t already had three or four orgasms already that day.

I’m calling this my manic phase, for want of a better word.

Maybe it’s just hormones. Ah, the lovely reality of being a woman.

Do men masturbate like we do? I wonder sometimes. Some times I’m just needy, greedy, grabbing my vibe and cranking it up and pushing myself higher and higher over each pre-orgasmic hump until I shudder a moment or two later, and that’s it. Other times I need to take my time, rubbing my nipples, dipping my fingers into my wetness, rolling slow almost-not-there circles around my clit for ten or twenty minutes, savouring each progressive level of arousal like a fine truffle, before begging and moaning aloud and finally bucking against my fingers. Last time I did that I actually pulsed and throbbed for a full three minutes after orgasm (yeah, I counted). It was phenomenal.

Anyways, I always wondered if men did that too, different masturbation for different moods, sometimes perfunctory and quick, other times drawn out and intense. Or is it always about getting to the finish line?