I was having a conversation with someone earlier yesterday about the concept of sexual shame—whether it’s appropriate, when it’s a hindrance, and how it develops in our psyches from the very earliest age.
I was fortunate enough to have incredibly sexually-progressive parents who felt that what adults did in the bedroom was pretty much their own business. Nudity was pretty common in our household. I was educated not only in the proper words for the genitals and what came out of them, but in the concepts of foreplay and birth control, long before any of the other kids had gotten beyond the stork and cabbage patch concept. Even in my teen years, my mother’s advice about marriage tended to be, “For the love of god! Don’t get married until you’ve lived with someone for at least two years! Only after you’ve got the fucking out of your system will you know whether you’re good for each other!”
True dat. When you get right down to it, it’s about the most practical relationship advice you can give a young someone.
The conversation yesterday did bring to mind an incident from my youth, though, involving my grandmother—my mother’s mother. Now, my mother came from a deeply religious Southern family. Her grandfather and her father were Southern Baptist ministers. Her multiple brothers also went into the ministry, though they all broke away from it in one way or another later on in their lives. My mom was the first member of her Georgia clan who finished high school and got herself a college and then a graduate-level education; combined with her political activism, she had a reputation among both her own family and her in-laws as a firebrand radical.
My grandmother, however, couldn’t have been more opposite. Both women were equally stubborn, but where my mother was inquisitive and loved to laugh, my grandmother was sour and stern, and looked no farther for news than what she could hear over the bingo tables at the local Eastern Star lodge. My mother couldn’t stand cooking, and pressed me into kitchen labor when I hit the double-digits in years; my grandmother’s main talents had been birthing babies and baked goods. They fought like cats when they were in close proximity. More than once did my mom cut visits south short by tossing me and the suitcases in the back of the car and driving off (“For good!”, she’d yell, every time) in a huff with a squeal of brakes and a flurry of dust from the dirt road on which my grandparents lived.
I had to have been in first or second grade when the one incident of shame I remember from my very early years took place, because in my memory we’d just moved into the house where my dad is still living. I was in the basement with a boy from the neighborhood—I don’t remember anything about him except that he lived nearby and that I was trying to make friends with him, because I was new enough to the area that I didn’t have any. And my grandmother was visiting, which is the kind of thing she’d do immediately after a move, to maximize the chaos and discomfort.
My parents had bought (maybe for moving, maybe just for their offices) a Dymo label maker. Label makers in those days were heavy devices that look like the radar guns cops use on the sides of the highways, mated with the Starship Enterprise. One fed a narrow strip of plastic into these things, turned the wheel containing the alphabet and numerals and a few rudimentary punctuation marks until it reached the letter of one’s choice, squeezed the handle really, really hard, and distended the plastic tape with a die so that it embossed a character into it. When one had finally finished laboriously spelling out a word, one would advance the plastic tape, cut it, peel off the backing, and then stick the label on whatever it was that needed to be identified.
Back in the days before videos games and even electronic calculators, this device passed as nifty and high tech. Naturally, kids loved them. I’d taken my parents’ label maker and this other kid and I were down in the basement playroom messing around with it. One of us had come up with the brilliant idea of making a label that said KICK ME! on it, and we were taking turns sticking it on each other. I’d stick it on his forehead, and he’d giggle. He’d stick it on my shoulder, and we’d both laugh hysterically.
I know! You’re envying the sheer hilarity of it! And I don’t blame you! I stuck the label on his chest. Then he stuck it on my butt! Can you imagine? Walking around with KICK ME on my butt all day? What a laugh riot! We were laughing up a storm when I stuck it on his groin. Hilarious!
Then I looked up, and saw my grandmother standing on the basement stairs. She wore on her face the expression I always associate with my grandmother, pinched eyes, prim lips pressed into a grim line—the same expression she had almost twenty years ago when I drove overnight, all night, from Michigan to Virginia the day my mother died, and I stumbled out of the car and her first words of comfort to me were, “You sure have gotten fat.”
But that day, when I was no more than six or seven, I suddenly knew that I’d done something of which she hadn’t approved. I’d played around with another boy’s crotch. I knew that in her eyes, without so much as a word from her lips, that it was w-r-o-n-g wrong.
If it had been my mother, or my father, or any of their friends, such tomfoolery wouldn’t have gotten even a raised eyebrow. But my grandmother stopped there on the stairs, face pressed into that disapproving and disappointed expression, laundry in her hands, and stared. I stopped laughing, and backed away from the kid. Only when I was a good distance away, and she was certain she’d squelched any proto-homosexual orgies that might’ve arisen from the labeler incident, did she finally leave.
For the first time—maybe the only time—in my young years, I remember feeling flushed and shamed by the incident. She hadn’t said a word, but somehow she’d convinced me I was doing something wrong, something dirty. On a certain level I knew that my parents wouldn’t have cared about a kick-me label to the groin. They would’ve found it juvenile, but not worthy of condemnation. And in a lot of ways, it was the first time I was aware that my household was a little bit different in that respect than other households.
I sure as shootin’ never stuck another label on a man’s dick after that. I’ll tell you that.
For today’s Friday open forum, I’m curious about other people’s childhood experience in shame. I know mine is rather tame compared to some I’ve heard. But when was the first time you experienced sexual shame as a kid—and did it come from your parents? Your peers? From within? How did it change your behavior, after? Or did it? Do you feel shame is necessary, when it comes to sex? Or can it be a turn-on?
Let’s hear from you guys in the comments.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Monday, March 26, 2012
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Sunday Morning Questions: Shorn Edition
It's been a big week here at the blog. We climbed to over 800 public followers, and then kept going. We hit a million unique visitors. And then, to cap off the excitement, I went and had my head shaved.
No, really.
I'd been threatening to do it for some time. My hair was long. I'd worn it long-ish for about a decade, but this year and last, it got long. Friends and family would comment on how long my mane was and when I'd retort that I was considering cutting it all off, they'd laugh politely as if they knew I'd never do such a thing.
One problem with long hair, though, is that it starts to get in the way. It hangs down in your face, when you're banging someone. It'll look great one moment, and then a brisk breeze from the wrong direction will mess up everything. It tangles when you brush it. Your bathroom walls become plastered with long curlicues of hair that drifted there on the billows of shower steam. You have to plan your days around letting the stuff dry.
So Friday I woke up and realized I was going to cut it all off. I dressed, pulled the stuff back into a ponytail, hopped in the car, and drove to the barber, where I sat down in the chair and told him to grab his electric shears and crop it all off.
"It's going to be really short if I do that," he said, staring at me in the mirror.
"Ye-es," I replied, since that was the idea.
"I mean, really short," he said.
This was one of the Latin barber shops in the area, and it was fairly crowded for a Friday morning. I couldn't tell, though, whether I hadn't made myself clear enough, or whether he was trying to make certain I knew what I was doing. "Yeah," I said. "Go for it."
"All right," he said, shaking his head at the crazy white guy.
So the first time around he used the shears on the side of my head, and trimmed off maybe an inch. Then he paused expectantly. I shook my head. "You see my beard?" I said, which I'd just trimmed down before I'd come. "That short."
"That short?" he asked.
"That short," I told him. So he cut it that short—perhaps a quarter of an inch. Then he did the other side.I still had a long lank of hair down the middle, like I was lead singer of A Flock of Seagulls or something, but finally I convinced him to cut that down, too.
When he was done, I beamed in the mirror. It looked awesome, and I told him so. It wasn't until I got home and was examining it in the mirror that I realized I should've asked him to take it even shorter on top.
I know some of you out there are mourning the loss of my Byronic locks, but hair grows, and switching things up keeps one on one's toes. And nothing's more welcome in the spring than a little change, right?
Let's get to a few questions from formspring.me. (And in honor of the milestones we crossed this week, how about you head over to the site and ask me an anonymous question I haven't been asked before? It'll be fun!)
What is your age and what is the oldest person in which you've had sex ?
I am forty-eight. The oldest person with whom I've had sex was in his mid-seventies when I was in my early thirties. He was a professor emeritus at a well-respected university, and he was a damned fine lover, too. Highly energetic and very attentive.
Have you ever lifted someone up upside down and stood up to perform a standing 69?
No. It sounds like way too much work.
I have lifted someone up and shoved them against a wall while they wrapped their legs around me, in order to fuck them, but they were considerably smaller and lighter.
What is that meal that you loved as kid, but do not care for as an Adult?
Spaghettios with franks. Why I loved this gummy, tin-canny mess with the weird-tasting hot dogs is beyond me. It tastes like upchuck.
I used to love mayonnaise sandwiches for lunch, when I was a kid. The thought now makes me shudder.
And some of the things I used to get away with as a kid, like eating an entire pint of ice cream instead of having a good dinner, just make me shake my head and wonder what I was thinking.
Other than your home town or city, where is your favorite geographical location to meet others for "no strings hookups" or sex?
Chicago, Toronto, and Atlanta. The men are plentiful and piggier.
Have you ever made a sexual phone call to someone you had a crush on and hidden your number or disguised your voice?
That kind of behavior seems to cross the line from crush-y to stalker-y, to me.
I'm more likely to have a crush on someone and never speak of it or give any indication, only to find out five or six years later that he had a crush on me at the same time. That seems pretty typical.
I'm fascinated that your brother "pimps" you. Have you ever shared guys at the same time? Have the two of you ever played with each other?
I think most of your questions would be answered if you clicked on the 'mikey' tag either in my sidebar list of tags, or at the bottom of that particular post. You'll see a variety of posts I've made about him.
Did you participate in sports teams when you were in school? What sport(s)? What memory or experience surrounding your participation is still important (or most vivid) to you?
I played lacrosse and tennis in school, and disliked both. For the former, I lack the team mentality that's so popular in both sports and corporate America. I'm sure my former employers could attest to it, too.
I was fairly good at tennis, but because I only did it because my father had played on his high school and college teams, and pushed me into taking up the racket. Because I was a snotty teen who didn't want to please him, I never enjoyed playing it, and resented getting up at five in the mornings, summers, for him to coach me at it.
The one sport that meant the most to me in school and after was swimming. Not with a team—but I enjoyed teaching swimming to boys at the YMCA, and lifeguarding. The experience taught me a great deal about interacting with others, helping people face their worst fears, and about responsibility.
No, really.
I'd been threatening to do it for some time. My hair was long. I'd worn it long-ish for about a decade, but this year and last, it got long. Friends and family would comment on how long my mane was and when I'd retort that I was considering cutting it all off, they'd laugh politely as if they knew I'd never do such a thing.
One problem with long hair, though, is that it starts to get in the way. It hangs down in your face, when you're banging someone. It'll look great one moment, and then a brisk breeze from the wrong direction will mess up everything. It tangles when you brush it. Your bathroom walls become plastered with long curlicues of hair that drifted there on the billows of shower steam. You have to plan your days around letting the stuff dry.
So Friday I woke up and realized I was going to cut it all off. I dressed, pulled the stuff back into a ponytail, hopped in the car, and drove to the barber, where I sat down in the chair and told him to grab his electric shears and crop it all off.
"It's going to be really short if I do that," he said, staring at me in the mirror.
"Ye-es," I replied, since that was the idea.
"I mean, really short," he said.
This was one of the Latin barber shops in the area, and it was fairly crowded for a Friday morning. I couldn't tell, though, whether I hadn't made myself clear enough, or whether he was trying to make certain I knew what I was doing. "Yeah," I said. "Go for it."
"All right," he said, shaking his head at the crazy white guy.
So the first time around he used the shears on the side of my head, and trimmed off maybe an inch. Then he paused expectantly. I shook my head. "You see my beard?" I said, which I'd just trimmed down before I'd come. "That short."
"That short?" he asked.
"That short," I told him. So he cut it that short—perhaps a quarter of an inch. Then he did the other side.I still had a long lank of hair down the middle, like I was lead singer of A Flock of Seagulls or something, but finally I convinced him to cut that down, too.
When he was done, I beamed in the mirror. It looked awesome, and I told him so. It wasn't until I got home and was examining it in the mirror that I realized I should've asked him to take it even shorter on top.
I know some of you out there are mourning the loss of my Byronic locks, but hair grows, and switching things up keeps one on one's toes. And nothing's more welcome in the spring than a little change, right?
Let's get to a few questions from formspring.me. (And in honor of the milestones we crossed this week, how about you head over to the site and ask me an anonymous question I haven't been asked before? It'll be fun!)
What is your age and what is the oldest person in which you've had sex ?
I am forty-eight. The oldest person with whom I've had sex was in his mid-seventies when I was in my early thirties. He was a professor emeritus at a well-respected university, and he was a damned fine lover, too. Highly energetic and very attentive.
Have you ever lifted someone up upside down and stood up to perform a standing 69?
No. It sounds like way too much work.
I have lifted someone up and shoved them against a wall while they wrapped their legs around me, in order to fuck them, but they were considerably smaller and lighter.
What is that meal that you loved as kid, but do not care for as an Adult?
Spaghettios with franks. Why I loved this gummy, tin-canny mess with the weird-tasting hot dogs is beyond me. It tastes like upchuck.
I used to love mayonnaise sandwiches for lunch, when I was a kid. The thought now makes me shudder.
And some of the things I used to get away with as a kid, like eating an entire pint of ice cream instead of having a good dinner, just make me shake my head and wonder what I was thinking.
Other than your home town or city, where is your favorite geographical location to meet others for "no strings hookups" or sex?
Chicago, Toronto, and Atlanta. The men are plentiful and piggier.
Have you ever made a sexual phone call to someone you had a crush on and hidden your number or disguised your voice?
That kind of behavior seems to cross the line from crush-y to stalker-y, to me.
I'm more likely to have a crush on someone and never speak of it or give any indication, only to find out five or six years later that he had a crush on me at the same time. That seems pretty typical.
I'm fascinated that your brother "pimps" you. Have you ever shared guys at the same time? Have the two of you ever played with each other?
I think most of your questions would be answered if you clicked on the 'mikey' tag either in my sidebar list of tags, or at the bottom of that particular post. You'll see a variety of posts I've made about him.
Did you participate in sports teams when you were in school? What sport(s)? What memory or experience surrounding your participation is still important (or most vivid) to you?
I played lacrosse and tennis in school, and disliked both. For the former, I lack the team mentality that's so popular in both sports and corporate America. I'm sure my former employers could attest to it, too.
I was fairly good at tennis, but because I only did it because my father had played on his high school and college teams, and pushed me into taking up the racket. Because I was a snotty teen who didn't want to please him, I never enjoyed playing it, and resented getting up at five in the mornings, summers, for him to coach me at it.
The one sport that meant the most to me in school and after was swimming. Not with a team—but I enjoyed teaching swimming to boys at the YMCA, and lifeguarding. The experience taught me a great deal about interacting with others, helping people face their worst fears, and about responsibility.
Friday, March 23, 2012
The Million-Visitor Milestone
Early in the day yesterday, my blog passed the million-visitor mark, with eight hundred people publicly following me through Blogger. That's not page hits—that's unique visitors. It's taken a little less than two years to get there, but hey. That's a lot of people who've made their way through my little back alley on the internet.
Although if you think about it, I've only slept with about eight of my readers during that entire time period. Eight out of one million equals . . . me not getting laid from this blog all that much.
So to remedy that, I'm hosting a special smut celebration. My Latin buddy, The Mover, gave me a copy of the 51 Photos he took of me last month—and I'm sharing some of the highlights here. I hope you guys enjoy.
Happy million!
Although if you think about it, I've only slept with about eight of my readers during that entire time period. Eight out of one million equals . . . me not getting laid from this blog all that much.
So to remedy that, I'm hosting a special smut celebration. My Latin buddy, The Mover, gave me a copy of the 51 Photos he took of me last month—and I'm sharing some of the highlights here. I hope you guys enjoy.
Happy million!
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
The Mid-Fuck Hair Styling
I’m a little surprised I forgot to write about this one.
Last year, sometime in the fall, I started talking to a local guy from Manhunt. He was in his late twenties, lived less than a mile away, and was astonishingly handsome. He knew it, too, because he had a large number and variety of photos displaying him at his best angles.
And by best angles, I mean bent over, showing off a perfectly-round jock butt that complimented his classic Latin looks. In these photos his body was muscular, tattooed, and perfectly complected all over. He had big, almond-shaped dreamy eyes of an impossible shade of green—whether from genetics or colored contact lenses, I couldn’t say.
He came on strong, too. His initial emails to me were full of compliments, telling me how handsome he found me, and how big my dick was, and how much he needed me to fuck him. He loved married men, he said. He was looking for a compatible, attractive man to meet for no-strings, regular meetings. That was fine by me.
We had a couple of late-night talks in which he told me that he couldn’t host, because he was living with a family member, and he couldn’t drive, because he didn’t have a car. However, he was more than willing to get a room at the local Marriott for the both of us, since it was within walking distance of his home. No, it would be his honor to get the room, he told me when I protested at the expense. It was the least he could do if I provided him with my beautiful dick, and besides, he made a good living as a hairdresser. He insisted.
We swapped phone numbers and exchanged texts for a number of weeks. Yet I noticed whenever I pressed the issue of meeting and getting this regular no-strings thing started, he’d drag his feet. He wasn’t available, one week. The next, he wanted to know if I had any poppers, and that he couldn’t get fucked without poppers. (I don’t use ‘em and I don’t even know where to buy ‘em around here, so guys, you’re on your own in that one.) I’d make tentative dates that he’d break. Then he started saying, yeah, it would be nice for us to meet sometime. Why didn’t I pay for a room for the two of us?
After that initial conversation, there were a too few many balks on his part and way too many hints that I should be pulling out my wallet in order to meet him. I automatically classified him as a hustler, and stopped saying hello to him when I saw him online. The text messages dried up.
I hadn’t heard from him since about November when suddenly I caught him online, at the beginning of this month. It was right around the time of my two poopy encounters (which were so grim that I’m not surprised they pushed this one out of my mind). My Latin friend made the mistake of coming at me in the kind of passive-aggressive way that really gets my back up—a kind of “I guess you don’t want to sleep with me any more since you haven’t talked to me in months,” kind of deal that made me get just plain old aggressive in return. I laid it all out on the table for him. I pointed out that I’d tried making dates and that he’d never kept them, that he’d dragged his feet too many times, and that I didn’t like the way it had traveled from The Marriott! My treat! to Get out your credit card and try to impress me with the room you pay for, without any mutual way-station in between.
To his credit, he apologized for his behavior. Then he asked if I could host right then. As it happened, I could. I thought it would be a good option to call his bluff, so I invited him over. I was a little surprised when he agreed, and then showed up at my place driving an expensive SUV just a shade smaller than a Hummer.
I met him at the street. When he stepped out of the car, he was even more handsome than his photos, and although he’d apparently bathed in strong cologne, I instantly found him attractive. So attractive, in fact, that my jaw dropped down to the ground and, like Wile. E. Coyote from a Looney Tunes oldie, I was conscious that I might have been licking my chops with an oversized tongue. “Wow, it’s nice finally to meet you,” I said, by way of greeting.
“Is my ride going to be safe here?” he asked, looking around at the neighborhood like I lived among crack houses.
Now, the little community in which I live is one that’s so wealthy, homogenous, and small-town New England-y that the residents don’t lock their doors. No, I’m serious. They don’t. I get laughs and comments of Oh you might have had to do that in Detroit but you really don’t have to do that here! when I pause at my back door to turn the deadbolt. I know of one little old lady here who’s paranoid about crime, and even all she does to protect her house from marauders is to keep the screen doors (plywood, flimsy) on a hook-and-eye.
(If there’s a sudden crime wave in my neighborhood after this, I’m going to know it’s one of you guys, you know.)
People in this community have a term for folk who have to lock up their homes. They call them New Yorkers. Locking doors is something they do where people aren’t nice. People are nice, here. There are people here who actually, honestly drive horses and buggies. No lie. I live in Mayberry Fucking R.F.D. “You’re kidding, right?” I asked him.
He snapped at me. “I just got these wheels and I don’t want them stolen.”
I was slightly taken about by the vehemence in his tone. “It’ll be fine,” I told him. “Come inside.”
He followed me in, peering around the immaculately-manicured shrubberies of my neighbors as if carjackers lurked within every rhododendron. When we got inside, I took his coat and invited him into the bedroom. He undressed all the way without a word, then lay back on the bed. I followed suit, hoping that things might warm up once we got the naked party started.
I erred on the side of optimism, apparently. Although he’d claimed in his profile he loved to kiss and was a great kisser, he didn’t like to kiss and was pretty lousy at it. He employed that weird approach of so many men who think they’re good kissers, who purse their lips, stick a rigid tip of their tongue through it, and jab at me like they’re trying to use an ice pick on my face. He didn’t suck well, though I made noises and groans and pretended he did, in the hope that it might inspire a little more enthusiasm in him.
Somehow, despite the lack of chemistry I was feeling on my part, we got to the point where I was fucking him. He was lying on his back. His legs were draped on my chest and shoulders. I fucked away, trying to concentrate on how hot he was and to keep my mind off how I was finding this a disappointing fuck to begin with.
He, on the other hand, was playing with my hair. Not in a sexy, oo-baby kind of way. First he reached up with two hands to pull it back, as it hung down around my face. I should probably confess here that my hair is at a length that it’s causing me some concern—though I’m fundamentally too lazy to worry about it overmuch. I can pull it into a four-inch ponytail when it’s in the way. I like to pretend I’m Bob Sinclar, but honestly, I probably look like a homeless person, or at least that I should be handing out Scooby Snacks and sayings Zoinks! a lot while I chase after cheesy-looking ghosts in haunted mansions.
So I thought, okay, he’s just getting that mess out of my face.
Then he used his fingertips to part the top of my head, and experimentally comb a sweep of it to the left side.
Then he used his fingernails and parted it to the right.
Then he reached behind my head, pulled my hair back, and looked to see what it was like when it was smoothed down against my head.
After that, he fluffed it over my ears.
Finally, he pulled the long side lanks down and tucked them behind my ears, seeing how that looked.
While I was fucking away, people. While I was fucking away.
Every time he changed my hairstyle, as I banged away at his hole, he’d tilt his head and look at me with the eye of a professional, while he judged which coif looked best. Finally, frustrated, I simply stopped. “I'm sorry, is my sex distracting you?” I asked, pointedly.
He had the decency to look slightly sheepish. Slightly, mind you. “Ooo,” he said robotically, and without any real enthusiasm. “Yeah baby. I like it.”
I just stared at him with disbelief.
After that, I really wasn’t into it. I mean, what’s the point, right? “Is that your car alarm?” I asked—which was a deliberately mean thing to do, since the neighborhood was shrouded in dead silence. But it caused him enough upset that my dick dropped out of his hole as he pulled himself into an alert posture. After that, it was easy enough to tell him that I could tell it really wasn’t working for either of us. Why he came over, simply to show me how boring he found me, I still can’t figure out.
Bad sex is one thing. Sometimes it happens—one has to be philosophical about it. Completing sex merely for the sake of being polite, though, is its own excruciating plane of hell. I’d rather cut it short while I’m slightly ahead of the game, any time.
But you know, at least there wasn't any poop involved.
Last year, sometime in the fall, I started talking to a local guy from Manhunt. He was in his late twenties, lived less than a mile away, and was astonishingly handsome. He knew it, too, because he had a large number and variety of photos displaying him at his best angles.
And by best angles, I mean bent over, showing off a perfectly-round jock butt that complimented his classic Latin looks. In these photos his body was muscular, tattooed, and perfectly complected all over. He had big, almond-shaped dreamy eyes of an impossible shade of green—whether from genetics or colored contact lenses, I couldn’t say.
He came on strong, too. His initial emails to me were full of compliments, telling me how handsome he found me, and how big my dick was, and how much he needed me to fuck him. He loved married men, he said. He was looking for a compatible, attractive man to meet for no-strings, regular meetings. That was fine by me.
We had a couple of late-night talks in which he told me that he couldn’t host, because he was living with a family member, and he couldn’t drive, because he didn’t have a car. However, he was more than willing to get a room at the local Marriott for the both of us, since it was within walking distance of his home. No, it would be his honor to get the room, he told me when I protested at the expense. It was the least he could do if I provided him with my beautiful dick, and besides, he made a good living as a hairdresser. He insisted.
We swapped phone numbers and exchanged texts for a number of weeks. Yet I noticed whenever I pressed the issue of meeting and getting this regular no-strings thing started, he’d drag his feet. He wasn’t available, one week. The next, he wanted to know if I had any poppers, and that he couldn’t get fucked without poppers. (I don’t use ‘em and I don’t even know where to buy ‘em around here, so guys, you’re on your own in that one.) I’d make tentative dates that he’d break. Then he started saying, yeah, it would be nice for us to meet sometime. Why didn’t I pay for a room for the two of us?
After that initial conversation, there were a too few many balks on his part and way too many hints that I should be pulling out my wallet in order to meet him. I automatically classified him as a hustler, and stopped saying hello to him when I saw him online. The text messages dried up.
I hadn’t heard from him since about November when suddenly I caught him online, at the beginning of this month. It was right around the time of my two poopy encounters (which were so grim that I’m not surprised they pushed this one out of my mind). My Latin friend made the mistake of coming at me in the kind of passive-aggressive way that really gets my back up—a kind of “I guess you don’t want to sleep with me any more since you haven’t talked to me in months,” kind of deal that made me get just plain old aggressive in return. I laid it all out on the table for him. I pointed out that I’d tried making dates and that he’d never kept them, that he’d dragged his feet too many times, and that I didn’t like the way it had traveled from The Marriott! My treat! to Get out your credit card and try to impress me with the room you pay for, without any mutual way-station in between.
To his credit, he apologized for his behavior. Then he asked if I could host right then. As it happened, I could. I thought it would be a good option to call his bluff, so I invited him over. I was a little surprised when he agreed, and then showed up at my place driving an expensive SUV just a shade smaller than a Hummer.
I met him at the street. When he stepped out of the car, he was even more handsome than his photos, and although he’d apparently bathed in strong cologne, I instantly found him attractive. So attractive, in fact, that my jaw dropped down to the ground and, like Wile. E. Coyote from a Looney Tunes oldie, I was conscious that I might have been licking my chops with an oversized tongue. “Wow, it’s nice finally to meet you,” I said, by way of greeting.
“Is my ride going to be safe here?” he asked, looking around at the neighborhood like I lived among crack houses.
Now, the little community in which I live is one that’s so wealthy, homogenous, and small-town New England-y that the residents don’t lock their doors. No, I’m serious. They don’t. I get laughs and comments of Oh you might have had to do that in Detroit but you really don’t have to do that here! when I pause at my back door to turn the deadbolt. I know of one little old lady here who’s paranoid about crime, and even all she does to protect her house from marauders is to keep the screen doors (plywood, flimsy) on a hook-and-eye.
(If there’s a sudden crime wave in my neighborhood after this, I’m going to know it’s one of you guys, you know.)
People in this community have a term for folk who have to lock up their homes. They call them New Yorkers. Locking doors is something they do where people aren’t nice. People are nice, here. There are people here who actually, honestly drive horses and buggies. No lie. I live in Mayberry Fucking R.F.D. “You’re kidding, right?” I asked him.
He snapped at me. “I just got these wheels and I don’t want them stolen.”
I was slightly taken about by the vehemence in his tone. “It’ll be fine,” I told him. “Come inside.”
He followed me in, peering around the immaculately-manicured shrubberies of my neighbors as if carjackers lurked within every rhododendron. When we got inside, I took his coat and invited him into the bedroom. He undressed all the way without a word, then lay back on the bed. I followed suit, hoping that things might warm up once we got the naked party started.
I erred on the side of optimism, apparently. Although he’d claimed in his profile he loved to kiss and was a great kisser, he didn’t like to kiss and was pretty lousy at it. He employed that weird approach of so many men who think they’re good kissers, who purse their lips, stick a rigid tip of their tongue through it, and jab at me like they’re trying to use an ice pick on my face. He didn’t suck well, though I made noises and groans and pretended he did, in the hope that it might inspire a little more enthusiasm in him.
Somehow, despite the lack of chemistry I was feeling on my part, we got to the point where I was fucking him. He was lying on his back. His legs were draped on my chest and shoulders. I fucked away, trying to concentrate on how hot he was and to keep my mind off how I was finding this a disappointing fuck to begin with.
He, on the other hand, was playing with my hair. Not in a sexy, oo-baby kind of way. First he reached up with two hands to pull it back, as it hung down around my face. I should probably confess here that my hair is at a length that it’s causing me some concern—though I’m fundamentally too lazy to worry about it overmuch. I can pull it into a four-inch ponytail when it’s in the way. I like to pretend I’m Bob Sinclar, but honestly, I probably look like a homeless person, or at least that I should be handing out Scooby Snacks and sayings Zoinks! a lot while I chase after cheesy-looking ghosts in haunted mansions.
So I thought, okay, he’s just getting that mess out of my face.
Then he used his fingertips to part the top of my head, and experimentally comb a sweep of it to the left side.
Then he used his fingernails and parted it to the right.
Then he reached behind my head, pulled my hair back, and looked to see what it was like when it was smoothed down against my head.
After that, he fluffed it over my ears.
Finally, he pulled the long side lanks down and tucked them behind my ears, seeing how that looked.
While I was fucking away, people. While I was fucking away.
Every time he changed my hairstyle, as I banged away at his hole, he’d tilt his head and look at me with the eye of a professional, while he judged which coif looked best. Finally, frustrated, I simply stopped. “I'm sorry, is my sex distracting you?” I asked, pointedly.
He had the decency to look slightly sheepish. Slightly, mind you. “Ooo,” he said robotically, and without any real enthusiasm. “Yeah baby. I like it.”
I just stared at him with disbelief.
After that, I really wasn’t into it. I mean, what’s the point, right? “Is that your car alarm?” I asked—which was a deliberately mean thing to do, since the neighborhood was shrouded in dead silence. But it caused him enough upset that my dick dropped out of his hole as he pulled himself into an alert posture. After that, it was easy enough to tell him that I could tell it really wasn’t working for either of us. Why he came over, simply to show me how boring he found me, I still can’t figure out.
Bad sex is one thing. Sometimes it happens—one has to be philosophical about it. Completing sex merely for the sake of being polite, though, is its own excruciating plane of hell. I’d rather cut it short while I’m slightly ahead of the game, any time.
But you know, at least there wasn't any poop involved.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
A Quick Note to My Commenters
I had a long day in the city yesterday, and I didn't get back home until after midnight to check my email and attempt, vaguely, to play catch-up. What I found were a number of comments waiting for approval on a few of my recent posts that, as good-intentioned as they might have been, were simply unacceptable.
I thought perhaps I was reading them through a filter of crankiness and weariness, but upon going through them again this morning, I still find them offensive.
So I'd like to make a blanket statement, for now and the future. I like my readers to comment upon my posts. When I receive comments, it lets me know that people are reading and digesting what I write. It encourages me to write more. Thank you for the comments you make, very much.
However, you are guests here—not only in my blog, but in my bed, and in my sexual history. I don't find it acceptable to visit and to be accusatory and rude, or with the express purpose of lecturing me.
When I'm writing about events that occurred over 35 years ago, I'm simply writing about things that happened to me, as I remember them happening to me. It's impossible for me to go back in a time machine and change my responses or choices, distressing as you may find them.
It's not acceptable to develop psychosexual histories of my partners in your imaginations and then react to them hysterically, as if they were god-given fact.
It's not acceptable to claim that my patterns of sexual behavior are 'criminal.' There are no laws against having many sexual partners, nor against fucking raw.
In the future I simply will not be publishing comments that are impolite, whether to me or to the people I write about in here. Even when it comes to disagreement, there are ways to state your opinions in a respectful manner that does not bludgeon me—or the vast majority of my peaceable commenters—over the head with your moral superiority. I encourage you to explore those avenues instead.
I thought perhaps I was reading them through a filter of crankiness and weariness, but upon going through them again this morning, I still find them offensive.
So I'd like to make a blanket statement, for now and the future. I like my readers to comment upon my posts. When I receive comments, it lets me know that people are reading and digesting what I write. It encourages me to write more. Thank you for the comments you make, very much.
However, you are guests here—not only in my blog, but in my bed, and in my sexual history. I don't find it acceptable to visit and to be accusatory and rude, or with the express purpose of lecturing me.
When I'm writing about events that occurred over 35 years ago, I'm simply writing about things that happened to me, as I remember them happening to me. It's impossible for me to go back in a time machine and change my responses or choices, distressing as you may find them.
It's not acceptable to develop psychosexual histories of my partners in your imaginations and then react to them hysterically, as if they were god-given fact.
It's not acceptable to claim that my patterns of sexual behavior are 'criminal.' There are no laws against having many sexual partners, nor against fucking raw.
In the future I simply will not be publishing comments that are impolite, whether to me or to the people I write about in here. Even when it comes to disagreement, there are ways to state your opinions in a respectful manner that does not bludgeon me—or the vast majority of my peaceable commenters—over the head with your moral superiority. I encourage you to explore those avenues instead.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Open Forum Friday: Favorite Positions
One of the most common questions I get—so common that I really should revisit that idea of creating a FAQ that would cover topics like “How big is your dick?” and the ever-popular “How do you find the time to have so much sex and still do anything else?”—is “What’s your favorite way to fuck?”
My smart-ass answer is, inserted.
No, but really. When it comes to positions, as long as nothing’s causing actual pain or distress (to me, anyway), it’s all good. If I’m enjoying myself, the position in which the pleasure is taking place is pretty secondary to me. I’m not going to stop the proceedings, sniff, and insist that we shift to the downward-facing reverse cowgirl in order for me to have a good time.
If we come right down to brass tacks, however, if I’m control the situation and get to choose how my partners are giving me their holes, I’m going to rely on a few personal favorites of mine. Roughly in order of preference, they would be:
1. The bottom with his butt up, lying down.
I like the intimacy of this position. The angle of my dick and of most asses are at their best alignment here; I don’t have to grope and search for the hole, only to find it about forty degrees away from where I thought it might be. I just spread the cheeks, push, and there it is.
I also like pulling the guy’s legs together and straddling him with mine, giving me maximum penetration. All the warmth of a guy’s skin, from his shoulders to his thighs and calves, is beneath me. If he’s a smaller man than I, and just about everyone is smaller than I when it comes to height at least, there’s a sensation of dominance and power that gets me off.
There’s flexibility too, in this position. If I want to put my weight on the man and grind away, I can. If I want to prop myself up on my hands for some extra maneuvering legroom, it’s simple. Nothing’s there to impede my hip action, and if I want roughly to shove the guy’s legs apart and fuck him that way, it only takes a couple of shoves with my knees.
Most guys can last in this position more or less indefinitely, which is also a plus. And of course, with me on top, the bottom ain’t going anywhere.
2. The bottom with his butt up, on the knees.
For long-dicking—that is, pulling all the way with my cock and then sliding back in again, so that with every thrust the guy feels my entire length invading his hole, rather than just a good three or four inches—this position can’t be beat. The depth of penetration, as well as the total amount of shaft with which it’s possible to penetrate a guy, is superior.
Plus there’s just something about the sight of a man on his knees, face in the mattress or pillow, ass in the air, isn’t there? It’s the ultimate submission. A guy lying on his stomach with his face down might be sleeping. He might simply find it the most comfortable position in which to relax. A guy lying on his back with his legs spread and his knees bent and pointed to the ceiling might be doing naked crunches. When a man assumes the position on his hands and knees, though, there’s absolutely no mistaking what he’s doing, what he expects, and what he truly craves.
The downside of this particular posture is that its success depends quite a lot on the guy’s endurance. If he has a trick knee, or the mattress is particularly hard, he’s eventually going to give out. And that’s no fun.
3. The top on his back, the bottom sitting on his dick.
True confession time: during my teen bottom years, I hated this position. I found it horribly uncomfortable. I’d have to grope around to get the guy’s dick in me for what felt like hours, and half the time the guy couldn’t even keep it up by the time I got him in. It required a certain strength of the thigh and calf muscles to maintain a position that was a little lower than a squat, but not as low as actually sitting down.
As a top, though, I really love it when bottoms can sit on me and ride for a very long time. The depth of penetration is unparalleled. If the bottom grinds just right, going back and forth instead of merely up and down, my orgasms are extremely intense (and, generally, arrive faster than any other position). I don’t have full control over my thrusting, which can be a problem unless the bottom is extraordinarily skilled. And lying on my back is comfortable enough for me that I can enjoy it for as long as the bottom can dish it out.
Plus, I confess it’s kind of hot just to lay back and watch a guy enjoy himself, at his own pace.
Those are my top three. There certainly are others that I enjoy—both of us lying on our sides, standing up with the bottom bent over. There are exotic positions—bottom pinned against the wall with his legs wrapped around the top’s waist while the top fucks him face-to-face standing up, or an upside-down bottom being fucked by a top who is standing normally while his dick is being bent down to point to the floor—that look hotter in porn that they work out in real life, unless the bottom is extraordinarily small.
And there’s one position that I find less enjoyable—though still a hell of a lot of fun—with most men, which is missionary, with the bottom on his back and his legs in the air. A lot of men like it because of the intimacy of being able to kiss during the act, and look into each other’s faces. I get that. It’s also easy to pin down a bottom, missionary-style. I enjoy it at the edge of a bed, if the bed is at a height at which I can stand without being on tippy-toe the entire time. I enjoy it when the bottom is unusually flexible. It was my favorite position to fuck Spencer, for example, because his dancer’s legs would fold back as if they were hinged, and he’d hook his prehensile toes onto the headboard. The Runt is good at it, too. If the guy and I end up wrestling against each other to see who’s going to be more off-balance during the missionary position, though, I’d rather just skip it.
I’m not every man, though, or even every top, and everyone has his preferences when it comes to position. On this Open Forum Friday, I’m asking you guys to let everyone know which positions are your favorites. What are the old standbys to which you turn when you’ve got your clothes off and your mojo on? Which ones do you avoid, and for what reasons? And are there any exotic Kama Sutra-like tantric postures I should know about?
Share it all in the comments!
My smart-ass answer is, inserted.
No, but really. When it comes to positions, as long as nothing’s causing actual pain or distress (to me, anyway), it’s all good. If I’m enjoying myself, the position in which the pleasure is taking place is pretty secondary to me. I’m not going to stop the proceedings, sniff, and insist that we shift to the downward-facing reverse cowgirl in order for me to have a good time.
If we come right down to brass tacks, however, if I’m control the situation and get to choose how my partners are giving me their holes, I’m going to rely on a few personal favorites of mine. Roughly in order of preference, they would be:
1. The bottom with his butt up, lying down.
I like the intimacy of this position. The angle of my dick and of most asses are at their best alignment here; I don’t have to grope and search for the hole, only to find it about forty degrees away from where I thought it might be. I just spread the cheeks, push, and there it is.
I also like pulling the guy’s legs together and straddling him with mine, giving me maximum penetration. All the warmth of a guy’s skin, from his shoulders to his thighs and calves, is beneath me. If he’s a smaller man than I, and just about everyone is smaller than I when it comes to height at least, there’s a sensation of dominance and power that gets me off.
There’s flexibility too, in this position. If I want to put my weight on the man and grind away, I can. If I want to prop myself up on my hands for some extra maneuvering legroom, it’s simple. Nothing’s there to impede my hip action, and if I want roughly to shove the guy’s legs apart and fuck him that way, it only takes a couple of shoves with my knees.
Most guys can last in this position more or less indefinitely, which is also a plus. And of course, with me on top, the bottom ain’t going anywhere.
2. The bottom with his butt up, on the knees.
For long-dicking—that is, pulling all the way with my cock and then sliding back in again, so that with every thrust the guy feels my entire length invading his hole, rather than just a good three or four inches—this position can’t be beat. The depth of penetration, as well as the total amount of shaft with which it’s possible to penetrate a guy, is superior.
Plus there’s just something about the sight of a man on his knees, face in the mattress or pillow, ass in the air, isn’t there? It’s the ultimate submission. A guy lying on his stomach with his face down might be sleeping. He might simply find it the most comfortable position in which to relax. A guy lying on his back with his legs spread and his knees bent and pointed to the ceiling might be doing naked crunches. When a man assumes the position on his hands and knees, though, there’s absolutely no mistaking what he’s doing, what he expects, and what he truly craves.
The downside of this particular posture is that its success depends quite a lot on the guy’s endurance. If he has a trick knee, or the mattress is particularly hard, he’s eventually going to give out. And that’s no fun.
3. The top on his back, the bottom sitting on his dick.
True confession time: during my teen bottom years, I hated this position. I found it horribly uncomfortable. I’d have to grope around to get the guy’s dick in me for what felt like hours, and half the time the guy couldn’t even keep it up by the time I got him in. It required a certain strength of the thigh and calf muscles to maintain a position that was a little lower than a squat, but not as low as actually sitting down.
As a top, though, I really love it when bottoms can sit on me and ride for a very long time. The depth of penetration is unparalleled. If the bottom grinds just right, going back and forth instead of merely up and down, my orgasms are extremely intense (and, generally, arrive faster than any other position). I don’t have full control over my thrusting, which can be a problem unless the bottom is extraordinarily skilled. And lying on my back is comfortable enough for me that I can enjoy it for as long as the bottom can dish it out.
Plus, I confess it’s kind of hot just to lay back and watch a guy enjoy himself, at his own pace.
Those are my top three. There certainly are others that I enjoy—both of us lying on our sides, standing up with the bottom bent over. There are exotic positions—bottom pinned against the wall with his legs wrapped around the top’s waist while the top fucks him face-to-face standing up, or an upside-down bottom being fucked by a top who is standing normally while his dick is being bent down to point to the floor—that look hotter in porn that they work out in real life, unless the bottom is extraordinarily small.
And there’s one position that I find less enjoyable—though still a hell of a lot of fun—with most men, which is missionary, with the bottom on his back and his legs in the air. A lot of men like it because of the intimacy of being able to kiss during the act, and look into each other’s faces. I get that. It’s also easy to pin down a bottom, missionary-style. I enjoy it at the edge of a bed, if the bed is at a height at which I can stand without being on tippy-toe the entire time. I enjoy it when the bottom is unusually flexible. It was my favorite position to fuck Spencer, for example, because his dancer’s legs would fold back as if they were hinged, and he’d hook his prehensile toes onto the headboard. The Runt is good at it, too. If the guy and I end up wrestling against each other to see who’s going to be more off-balance during the missionary position, though, I’d rather just skip it.
I’m not every man, though, or even every top, and everyone has his preferences when it comes to position. On this Open Forum Friday, I’m asking you guys to let everyone know which positions are your favorites. What are the old standbys to which you turn when you’ve got your clothes off and your mojo on? Which ones do you avoid, and for what reasons? And are there any exotic Kama Sutra-like tantric postures I should know about?
Share it all in the comments!
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