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Posted:May 30, 2020 6:40 pm
Last Updated:Jun 11, 2020 7:32 pm

I’m in love with a man who doesn’t exist. Sometimes, I think I left my previous lover for him. It’s not implausible.

It started simply enough. I thought about his face, his body. How I would meet him and what he would say. I needed a frame, though. To put flesh on the narrative. Using the stories of other people, books, I admired, I began to set the stage. Tell a story about this man I wanted so badly.

Why not? It’s my brain. I get to play with it.

But I'm afraid. I couldn’t think of myself in that story, so I gave him a lover. A woman, although he is omnisexual. That developed later in our relationship. I gave her brains, beauty, a vivid identity, snappy repartee. She is me, yet she is not me. Naturally, he fell in love with her. So did I.

The first time they met was while I was in the middle seat on a long transatlantic flight to Europe. If you’re like me and you can’t sleep on the airplane, I highly recommend engaging in an elaborate fantasy. The only problem is you’ll be a little breathless when the flight attendant asks if you want something. Oh, yes. Yes I do. In my minds eye, the lovers met, circled one another, kissed. She seduced him, he acquiesced and surprised her with his expertise in bed. His ability to be tender one minute, overcome with passion the next. It was a great flight.

On a lark, I started writing it down, giving them a complex back story, histories, friends. Danger. Conflict. I wondered, how would they deal with trauma? I wondered, how would they deal with illness?

All the things I didn’t have, I poured into their relationship. All the issues in myself I didn’t fully understand, I had them face. They dealt with everything I threw at them. They had honest conversations about their relationship, they talked about their past. What they did and did not know. They made each other laugh. They were vulnerable. They had sex, they fucked, they made love, they learned favorite touches, moods.

He pins her to the wall, overcome with passion for her, holding her thighs lovingly in his palms as she wraps her legs around his waist. He murmurs in her ear how much he desired her, how good she feels.

She takes him dancing and wears a sheer, silk dress; white garters peeking through the thigh high slit. He can't take his eyes off her, holds her close until the anticipation is too much. She guides him to the room she reserved and pushes him into a chair, gliding smoothly onto his lap. Her legs straddled his as she reaches down to slowly unbutton his trousers, slipping her hand inside. When he pulls off the dress, he discovers she is wearing anything except the garters and stockings. They have sex in the shower, on the beach, the woods.

As time went on, they moved in together, discussed getting married. That’s where it deviated from me. I have no desire to live with anyone or marry.

As I wrote, I fell in love. Not just with him, but her. He’s tall, lean, great legs, gentle in spirit. She’s short, muscular, confident, prone to starting bar fights and winning. When she ran her hands over his naked chest, I wanted to do it with her. When he caressed her full breasts, I wanted to roll my own tongue over her nipples. I wanted to cup her generous ass in my hands, caress her hip bones with my thumbs before dropping to my knees and slipping my tongue over her sex, tasting her clitoris, feeling her labia open in welcome.

As I wrote, I tried to capture all the different flavors of kisses. The first kiss, full of promise. Lips brushing, tasting at first. Press closer and slip your lips between mine. Then, a flicker of tongue, a question, an invitation. Do I answer with my tongue? Slide it between your lips, listen to you sigh as I angle my face to better taste you. Get to know what you feel like when I move my lips, my tongue, just so.

The second kiss, third, full of passion. How do I show you my desire? Not just my lips, not just my tongue slipping alongside yours, but with my body. I press against you, lightly at first, feeling your warmth. My hands are in your hair, stroking behind your ears as I slide a hand over your jaw to your throat. You make a sound, maybe pull me closer. Am I making your heart beat faster? What if I run my hands down your chest, around your waist, sliding over your hips as I move mine against yours? What if I slowly unbutton your shirt?

And then what happens?
Don’t Name your genitals – and especially don’t name mine
Posted:May 26, 2020 3:13 pm
Last Updated:Jun 5, 2020 3:57 pm

The first man to see and touch my breasts fell in love with them. He treated them as precious, cupping them in his hands as he murmured how beautiful they were. It would have been awesome if I hadn’t been 13.

The second man to see my breasts was my high school boyfriend. We were drunk as fuck, making out in a friend’s attic listening to punk rock at deafening levels. I staggered to my feet and clumsily pulled of my shirt. His jaw dropped and he said “Wow! You have Playboy tits!” I was so embarrassed I put my shirt back on. It wasn’t the looking, it was the demotion of my breasts to being tits. Later, I lost my virginity to that boy, but that’s a story for another time.

As crude as I am capable of being, as virtuosic as I am in cussing (I can and have made marines blush), I hate hate HATE baby talk and stupid names for body parts. If you named your genitals for your own amusement, and find talk of pussies, cunts, dicks, and other names sexy, go for it. But don’t use that lame shit on me.

I don’t have boobs, tits, fun bags, or boobies. Boobs are those assholes who block your view of a great painting in the museum so they can get the perfect shot for Instagram. Tits are birds, as are boobies. Also, bubie means grandmother. Fun bag makes me think of something you get at a ’s birthday party. What’s fun about a bag with a severed breast in it?

I have breasts – just say it. My breasts have large nipples, brown aureoles. Now less perky, a few faint stretch marks due to age. Now more scarred from life. One interesting mole. But they are still beautiful. They will fill your palm as you caress them, worship them.

I don’t have a pussy. Nor do I have a clit. A pussy is a small feline, or a nasty, juvenile pejorative used to insult people based on their presumed ownership of a vagina. It’s stupid, sexist, inaccurate and tired. My lack of a penis doesn’t make me any less of a bad ass. If you need to insult someone, be more creative. It’s a lot more fun that way.

Pussy is reductive. Clit is dismissive. I don't have a cunt or twat, but I might BE a cunt or twat if you are a Millwall fan.

Give my body it’s full due. I have a vagina, labia, a clitoris. Drag your tongue over each word, roll them in your mouth. Feel the silkiness of my flesh as you run your fingertips along the outside of each fold, the soft wetness of my vagina. Don’t reduce my body to crude syllables – it tells me that you fear it. That you have no idea what to do with me, you don’t care, and have no imagination.

I’m not your baby or sweetie. I might tolerate honey or sugar. Talk to me like an adult, because I am one. Speak softly. Mean what you say. Don’t perform your passion based on what they do in pornography. Or that you think is what we are supposed to say during sex. Crooning “oh baby, fuck me” only works in 1970s porn; you know, the sleazy stuff with bad music, wood paneling in the background, and everyone was on cocaine.

That being said, if that’s what comes out when you are aroused and it’s genuine, say it. There is nothing sexier than being wanted. There is nothing sexier than being told how badly someone wants us, how good they make us feel. Do it with passion, not a set script. You owe it to yourself. And it makes the sex better.

Seduction begins in the mouth. The first word. The first kiss. Taste. Moan. Sigh. Each sensorial experience is part of our vocabulary of touch. There are many vernaculars, and each of us speak our own. Pleasure is a conversation. Making love, sex, fucking are all different moods and languages. Flavors of sensation. I’ll fuck, have sex, make love, depending on my mood and yours. Negotiated space and touch. It might not work. We might not be compatible. No matter, but don’t disrespect my body and yours.

If you respect each syllable of my body, I will respect yours. Whatever your body is, respect it. Love it. It is your home, and deserves to hear each, delectable syllable.
How to talk to women (or at least to me)
Posted:May 24, 2020 8:20 pm
Last Updated:Jun 5, 2020 3:58 pm

A friend thought it would be a good idea for try a dating site. I’ve been lonely and, frankly, horny, for a year, and haven't had a date since the turn of the century. Fuck, that's sad. I researched sites, and read blogs, reviews, and tips about them. I decided try one of the "standard" dating sites first. Then the pandemic . It was a blessing in disguise because I got bored fast. Here's my experience and why I'm here.

I started by creating a belligerent profile with no picture and lurked for a week. A few people wrote . Pleasant nothings. No follow through; just trading nonsense then…nothing. I debated about a picture – I like being anonymous. I tried taking selfies. I suck. Tried again. Managed a few that didn’t look too bad and look like . I uploaded them. Suddenly, I had lots of attention.

Some men wrote and never wrote again. Some propositioned me. One insisted on meeting, asked for my number and never got in touch. Whatever. Met many among the walking wounded. I’ve been doing a lot of free therapy. I'm tired of it, and don’t want to wade through people’s bullshit to have some fucking intimacy.

I’ve come to learn a few things already during this experience. First. high school has shifted online. The same games, same insincere sincere blandishments about what people are looking the same desperation and confusion. I'm not immune, either, but it's complicated because I like women. But I also like sleeping with men. You see my problem.

Men, if you want sleep with women, at least women of my generation, be honest. Don't rely on porn for everything. Read erotica, romance novels, ask questions. It's not my fault if the move that worked on your last lover doesn't turn me on. Ask me what I want and I'll tell you.

If you want have sex with , just say so. When you write , be clear. I’ll write you back if you say something other than "hey." I’m a grown ass woman. Just ask me. Ask me for a coffee date or ask me for sex. Or and see where it goes. If I don’t want , I’ll say no. If I want meet you, I might. Even just see if you are interesting enough sleep with. Don’t send photos of your dick. I may not know what your dick looks like, but I’ve seen dicks before. It’s not going to impress . Unless maybe if you had two.

When I'm looking at men, of course I'm checking you out. And not for the “gosh, I wonder if he’s good husband material.” At least, I’m not. I’m looking at your photos, reading through your stuff thinking “yeah, I could throw you against the wall and fuck you,” and then you write me something lame. Now I’m bored. And sad. And too polite not to write you back unless you insist on sending me pictures.

The reality is that we are all looking for intimacy. Humans seek touch, sex, warmth, companionship. Whatever that means to each of us, we want it. All the other stuff we do in between – eating, sleeping, working – is all filler until we can have sex. Maybe we create art, write some books, establish civilizations along the way. But connection, intimacy, is how we continue forward.

As for me? I love to write erotica. Some days, I do a good job. I need more material; that's why I'm here. And I promise to share.

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Most Recent Comments by Others

Post Poster Post Date
Fantasy (14)merlot5555
Jun 23, 2020 2:34 pm
Don’t Name your genitals – and especially don’t name mine (16)voyeurs53
May 28, 2020 7:08 pm
How to talk to women (or at least to me) (20)voyeurs53
May 28, 2020 7:01 pm