Kizz & Tell is a combination of item #17 on my Life List (Develop an erotic fiction web site) and a continuation of the G-spot column I used to write at The Women's Colony. From fantasies to frank discussion I'm just trying to re-create a really great conversation with your friends. I hope you'll join in!

Monday, August 30, 2010

Revisiting Fucking My Own Destiny

As many of you know, the inspiration for our Monday conversations comes from a column I wrote at The Women's Colony. I plan to reprint all those posts over time. Here's one I've been thinking about recently.

Given that a common euphemism is "Master of Your Own Destiny" it seems I was a week early with my masturbation post.  Virginity was the first thing I thought of, though, when Jenn brought up the theme for the week, "Making Your Own Destiny." I'm actually a little surprised that we haven't talked here about the end of virginity's reign in each of our lives. Seems like such a basic girl-talk topic and yet we're on a different plane for the most part.

Historically I have been more successful at putting myself in the path of opportunities rather than identifying a dream and actively deleting all obstacles in my path until I get there. I'm a slow, plodder, sure, but I favor the circuitous path. Accidentally.

I chose to lose my virginity. I could easily have said no. I could have waited Apolo Anton Ohno-like for the perfect opening, if you will. One could say that I, quite deliberately, chose the first opportunity rather than the right one.

The guy was a friend at the time. It would be a long while before I could look back and see that he was actually kind of creepy. I'm no psychologist but I think he liked knowing that I wanted sex and that he had something to teach me, after a fashion, so it felt like he had a certain amount of power. Being a bit of an outsider and a geek power was perhaps in short supply for him. In any case he made it quite clear that it was my choice whether or not we "rounded home" if you will. I wanted to have sex. I had tried a lot of different kinds of touching with a few different guys and I'd been masturbating frequently and happily for years so I thought it was a pretty good bet that I was ready physically for sex. Interestingly I was also probably clear that I was not completely emotionally ready for it and that this was not the right guy. I'm a Capricorn, though, when I see the option to cross something off a list I really like clearing that hurdle. So, not for the first time in my life, I ignored the emotional issues and decided I would absolutely have sex to get it over with.

Oh yeah I did.

The experience itself was...fine. I mean, obviously it's something you can only do once so I've got nothing to compare it to but it sure seems like it could have been worse. Or better. There was a fair amount of both pain and blood. I'm not a fan of either. He, smartly, urged me to agree to a second round. That at least gave me enough data to see where the pleasure might be gained. Someday.

I could leave the story here and wait for comments to stream in agreeing with me that it was a terrible decision and exactly what we hope our daughters choose not to do. Viewed on its own I'd have a tough time refuting them, too. You have to take the wide angle lens to this sort of thing, though. If you see my one, admittedly rash, decision as a component of the bigger picture of my sexual life and the even bigger one of my whole life, though, I don't regret it.

I never slept with that first guy again. It's safe to say that once we'd done the deed we were done with each other. Thank goodness it was mutual. Shortly after that, though, I embarked on one of the great sexual and emotional partnerships of my lifetime. It wasn't a perfect relationship by a long shot but it was based largely on our being on a similar sexual plane. We had nearly identical levels of desire and experience. One of his ways to flatter me was to bitterly lament the many years we spent each masturbating furiously a few scant miles from each other when we could have been having sex. Had we only known... He was the first person I did...well a lot of things but my fond early memories are of receiving oral sex. What a glorious revelation. If I had been a virgin when this second guy and I realized our affinity for each other I don't think our relationship would have blossomed in the same way. I know myself well enough to know that I would have been more inhibited and likely wouldn't have slept with him at all and thus would have missed out on some of the most marvelous sexual experiences of my pretty limited life.

The experience of losing my virginity wasn't roses and candlelight and memories I enjoy trotting out on girls' night so I can see how it might seem as though this was a Making My Own Destiny FAIL of sort of epic proportions. Some part of me, some extremely subconscious part of me, must have known, though, that this is what my destiny needed and you will not talk me out of being grateful for that.

Sexually do you tend to make your own destiny?

Friday, August 27, 2010

Red Sox Nation

      Red Sox Nation


I have no idea what made me do it. We were watching baseball, typical Friday night on her couch. A couple of beers, some chips and dip, fall asleep on the couch by the seventh inning stretch and then up and home to bed after we see the final score. But tonight, for once, the Sox were ahead early.

She watches so intently. Until she falls asleep. So I could turn my head and watch her. Something about her profile was bugging me and I couldn’t stop watching. And the more I looked the more detailed it became. First it was the whole profile and then it was the way the waves of her thick red hair blend into the skin of her cheek and then it was the texture of the skin just in front of her ear. And then I leaned over to get a chip from the bowl in her lap and there was a smell. Like some kind of flower but sweet, a flower you’d want to eat. When I looked back at the skin on her neck, right where it meets her shoulder, I wanted to know how it tasted.

Now, I’ve thought this before. It’s like when you’re standing on the edge of a beautiful cliff and you wonder what it would be like to fly. You don’t actually fling yourself off the cliff though. And I probably wouldn’t have but then she opened her eyes and leaned away to grab her beer, which exposed the full length of her neck, hair spilling away to the other side and when she sat back up my mouth was just there.

I licked her. Just the tip of my tongue at first and then the wide flat front of it sliding up from her collarbone to her ear. While I thought about how new and tangy she tasted I closed my teeth on her ear lobe. Just once lightly. She didn’t move until I was sitting back again. Then she breathed out. Her eyes flicked my way but they didn’t stick.

I thought she was going to pretend nothing had happened. Until she tilted her head to the side and reached up to sweep her hair off her neck. I set my beer on the floor and leaned in again. This time I kissed her temple, her cheekbone, the side of her chin, and found my mouth soft and wet with just a little tongue around her earlobe. I tasted her neck again slowly, rolled around to her clavicle, making her head loll back. 

Then, of course, my ever-helpful brain kicked in.  I bolted back to my side of the couch and took a gulp of beer. Through the blazing heat of my blush I could feel two things; her eyes on me and my pussy dripping just a bit.  I looked up for a quick check and she was looking straight at me, well, not my eyes.  Looking down seemed safer. Next thing I looked at was her hand as it landed on my hand. Then she slid it carefully, almost tentatively up my arm to my shoulder and finally around to the back of my neck, holding it firmly and pulling me to her mouth.

I consider it incredibly important to be a good kisser. She is a good kisser. First she just laid her lips firmly but gently against mine. And when she felt something in me give and relax she opened her lips. There was tongue, curious tongue, it found my tongue and asked it to come out for a play date. I couldn’t help myself; I bit her lip, just a little. My hands dove into her tank top, grabbing the straps and holding on for dear life. Her hand on my neck didn’t let up, but the other hand it was stroking my ribs and one thumb was venturing nearer and nearer to my nipple. I finally gasped in enough air to realize that I could take some more action.

When my hands unclenched from her shirt I laid them flat on her chest, over her heart then ran them down until my hands were full of breasts. Not mine. So different. And yet so not, just like mine. When her nipples hardened I felt like I’d been zapped. A surge of power all through me. Well, mostly in my cunt. I was so surprised that I backed off; sat back just a fraction and she looked me in the eye. So sure that I was giving up, coming to my senses, realizing what I’d done and sorry about it.

She’s rarely this wrong.

But I needed her to teach me. I grabbed her by her shirtsleeves, planted my lips on hers, then nipped a lip between mine and rolled her so she was on top of me. I moved my hands up and buried them in her curly hair and kept kissing her until she pulled away from me. She looked at me, the look was sorry, sad, it had ending in it and I felt like I was just beginning.  She pressed up on her amazing biceps and a word tore out of me, “Please.”

Apparently that was all she needed. She pressed my head back onto the couch and ran a hand along the side of my face. Her lips followed her hand and then latched them onto the pulse in my neck while her fingers worked nimbly to crawl up and under my short Red Sox t-shirt. She sighed when she reached my naked breasts. I squealed. She sat up to get a proper look as she pinched my continuously hardening nipples. She used just the right amount of pressure and I bucked up under her, not enough to unseat her but enough to spread her legs further, a gesture that smacked of begging more than I was used to. My arms were flailing and they finally found a hold on her belt loops. Then my hands rolled around to grasp the tops of her thighs. When her tongue lapped the tight peak of my left nipple I began blindly reaching for her pussy through her jeans.  I knew that I was groping for the light switch in the dark but I didn’t know where to go or what to do I just knew I wanted to. 

Finally she stopped me, slid down beside me, wedging herself between the back of the couch and my writhing body. Her breath was hot on my ear when she said, “Like this.” Her strong right hand smoothed down my belly, over the top of my jeans and cupped my crotch in her hot palm. Then unbelievably intelligent fingers searched the denim, took the lay of the land so to speak and found a match of seam to clit. Then gentle but firm and truly relentless she rubbed the two together until I rolled my hips and moaned with my mouth clamped tightly closed, she stuck with me and finally almost before I knew it was happening I came, an embarrassing guttural moan ripping out of me.

My face was hot and I was panting like a dog.  It took me a minute or two to get my breath back and another to assemble the bravery to look at her. That sad look was back on her face; she closed her eyes and laid her head on my shoulder. 

Brain racing, hormones still rushing, mouth a foreign thing, “I, I…uh..oh..”

“It’s ok”, she murmured into my skin.

I began to recover. “No, I mean, I’m not done.”

Her eyes popped open and I kissed her savagely, messily yanked her t-shirt over her head and sloppily ran my tongue down her chest to her nipple. Latching onto it I sucked hard and pulled her to sitting. I switched to the other nipple and bit down gently until she jumped. I was a little proud of myself for that. I started to fumble for her pussy again and just couldn’t face doing this badly. I was always told that if you needed help you should be brave enough to ask for it.

So I did.

“Show me.”

With a slightly trembling hand she guided me down and showed me just where to place two fingers, just how hard to press and finally just how fast to rub. Once I felt that I had a good rhythm I dared to look at her face, her half lidded eyes, her slightly open mouth and I licked that lower lip as her thighs began to shiver and she came silently, hands going limp at her sides.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Uniquely Delightful

My recommendation for this week is Tony & Peggy Comstock. Whatever they do, wherever they go I suggest you follow. It may be a strange and confusing journey at first but you'll get into the swing of it in no time and they will not steer you wrong.

I initially recommended their company, Comstock Films, over at The Women's Colony which led me to a chance to hear Tony speak and now I follow his films, his tweets and his blogs every chance I get. The films the Comstocks create are of real life couples being interviewed and having sex. It's not something, I'm pretty sure, you can find anywhere else.

The Comstocks are, of course, embroiled in the battles against censorship and for healthy sexual imagery as well. Tony is well-versed in how our current film ratings systems was developed (those letters so don't mean what you think they mean) and his family's livelihood has been repeatedly threatened as those skewed "values" trickle into the way the internet is organized. His blog, Tony Comstock's Koan of Silence, is a fully safe-for-work site intended not only to broadcast Tony's experiences as a proponent of real, unscripted sexual imagery but as a test subject against his other not-always-safe-for-work sites to see where the new restrictions in search engines are leading.

It's complicated. But it's important to keep ourselves informed because, as tame as this site may often be, it's already, I'm sure, banned from a number of homes and offices. So get yourself informed a bit but before you get overwhelmed scoop yourself up a copy of one of the Comstocks' films, lie back and relax. You won't be disappointed.

Monday, August 23, 2010

My, What Big [blank] You Have, Grandma

My brain has been both here and away. I've been thinking about sex, sure (I'm always thinking about sex) but I haven't been able to put thoughts together and here's why:

I have a new dog.

Pre-owned, new to me, but plenty new enough, frankly. He appeared by chance last Wednesday and all my time since then has been spent figuring him out. He's pretty high strung and highly directed, I fear he has a stronger work ethic than I do, but he's also highly trainable. I'm crating him for the moment since he's un-neutered and has a tendency to mark when things get uncertain. He learned pretty quickly, though, that being in the crate was a good thing. He calms down immediately when I put him in the crate and then lie down on the bed. Today, while taking a nap, I realized I should make my problem my solution.

No, I'm not going to talk about bestiality.

Honestly, that's one thing I'm not sure I could investigate too closely. I love my animals too much. Then again, if someone said, "I've got two tickets to the Donkey Show, I think you should come." how could I say no?

I'm here to ask how your pets react to the having of the sex in your house. My cats are afraid of everyone so they've never come out and bothered me. My previous dog was pretty chill. If she was told to go sleep on the floor she'd go, no questions asked. I've had cats who liked to sleep on my back and I know plenty of dogs who take any sign of movement as an invitation to interact. I have a friend who tells a truly terribly story of taking an after-sex shower in a woman's apartment and when he stepped out her cat was waiting for him. They stood, looking at each other for a moment, until the cat decided to take a swing at the cat toys he was sporting. He's hated cats ever since.

Really the worst story I've got to tell on myself is having to rewash a rabbit vibe because the cat was licking the lube off it. I felt dirty about it but the cat didn't care.

What about you? Ever had a cold nose to the buttock when you least required it?

Friday, August 20, 2010

Embarrassment of Need

Embarrassment of Need
Rated: R


      It’s not late yet. I’m reading a book but it’s not riveting by any stretch. He’s gently tracing patterns on the smooth strip of skin next to my panties. I shaved this morning so, despite a little 5-o-clock shadow it feels pretty good.
      He’s not trying to start anything, it’s just something he does when we’re reading at night, the way some people twirl a strand of their hair around a finger.
Mostly it’s a comforting feeling. Soothing.
Tonight it’s utterly distracting. Intricate whorls of Celtic knots getting friction burned into the joint between body and limb. The skin is so sensitive there. He stays outside the boundaries, though, sliding down the rim of practical elastic on my granny panties, his hand partly covered by my over-sized t-shirt.
He needs to make a move.
I haven’t turned a page in five minutes and he’s still chastely doodling on my thigh.
Perhaps if I time it just right I can turn and use the momentum to get his finger underneath.
I concentrate on the rapid circling of his fingers and just at the right second I flip onto my back.
He, of course, lifts his hand out of my way.
“You comfy?”
“Good.” His open palm smoothes over my upper thigh and re-adjusts himself to continue stroking me.
This is foolish. I need to just go to sleep.
But. If I bend my knee maybe the material will gap a little and he’ll get on the right path.
Making a show of stretching I slowly raise my right knee.
The elastic gaps just a bit.
He smoothes is down against me and continues tracing the lyrics to my insanity.
Oh for cripes sake!
I toss my book onto the floor, roll over abruptly away from his maddening hand, turn off the light and close my eyes.
“’Night sweetie.”
“Don’t forget to set the alarm.” It comes out a lot more like my petulant 14-year-old self than the assured and controlled thirty-something woman I meant it to be.
“Will do,” and he chuckles.
For agonizing minutes he turns pages in oblivion.
Eventually he turns off his light. I feel him roll toward me and I resolve to feign sleep.
I am mortified. This is an embarrassment of need. I’ve known this man more than a decade and we’re not supposed to be driven mad by each other anymore. We’re adults, desire can wait, be given its own time.
Many days, most of them, it is. I can happily look forward to an evening planned at home or to meeting him on a business trip and explore our passion then. We’ve got plenty of it saved up. I shouldn’t be a slave to it on an ordinary frumpy Tuesday night.
I want more so badly I am almost in tears. And he doesn’t even notice.
He snuggles an arm underneath my head, his other wormed over my waist, thumb chastely strumming my ribs. He uses that hand to scoot me back toward him so we are spooned firmly against each other.
He does notice.
That hand abandons my ribs and finally insinuates itself below the first date underwear. One long middle finger starts at my clit and descends to find the well. Picking up some juice it slides back up to my clit. Those same intricate swirls from my thigh played out on my pussy. I am holding my breath in anticipation of the penetration.
Ever higher.
Ever quicker.
Whirling finger.
Down, up, around, down.
Never in.
“You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”
“You’re leaving?”
Never breaking stride.
“This torture…will…kill me…and…you’ll mi…miss me…when…I’m gone.”
Ah! On gone he finally sheathes a finger.
It’s out as quickly as it went in. Grazes my clit then…Ah! Joined by another, and a third. It’s awkward, I’m half turned back again but he manages to get the heel of his hand positioned right and applies firm, rocking pressure until the tears squeeze out of my eyes, I can hardly breathe and finally…
I come.
Minutes pass. Could be hours before the light returns to my eyes.
“Dead yet?”
“I have no idea.”
“Died happy?"
“Oh yes.”

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Brand Spanking New Feature!

The middle of the week seems like a long, barren wasteland. I need to put up another post midweek. I can't wait all the way from Monday to Friday anymore. So I thunk and I thunk (like the Grinch) and I came up with something simple and fun. I'm going to feature a resource every Wednesday. Might be a book or web site or toy or anything else. There are so many things I find while poking around the internet that I want to share and this seems like the way to do it.

I considered a number of resources to kick off the feature. They were all intriguing and delightful but I wanted it to go off with a, if you will, so I chose The Over-Educated Nympho. She's a young, fun gal living in Texas who wants to help others have fun. I suggest you check out her blow job tutorial or her threesome chronicles.

She's been on hiatus for a while but, if you follow her on Twitter (she calls it Twatter), you know that she's had a really exciting weekend and she's writing the new blog posts even as I post this. She keeps her identity pretty well secret so there aren't many inappropriate images but the language might get nabbed by your employer's spyware or your tween children.


If you've found anything out there on the vast internet that you think deserves a recommendation here please shoot me an email at isabeau6 at hotmail dot com.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

We Have A Question!

Every time we take an extra little step here I get excited all over again that (with a lot of help) I got this site going. Today's big leap for sex talk is.....a reader question! It's time sensitive y'all, so please chime in as soon as you're able.

A Devoted Reader commented yesterday, "I need help asap! I am going away with someone in a couple of days and he asked me to "surprise" him. I mean, I know all the tricks of the "typical trade" but what could I do that would be surprising? Any tips?"

This is a toughie because we don't know what this couple has done together yet. My first instinct is to say that, if there is something you've done before, something you've loved doing that you haven't done with this particular partner then now is the time to bring that tool out of the box.

So to speak.

I think that when someone asks to be surprised it's a good bet they're asking for a chance not to be the one who initiates. As last Friday's fiction might imply I think a nice, low key way to bring variety to the table (or the rug or the bathroom sink or anywhere else) is with a blindfold. You can use anything for that, even just turning out the lights. It gives the blindfolded person permission to enjoy receiving attention and even things they've felt before can feel different and heightened because s/he doesn't know what's coming next. If you're going away for more than one night each partner could have their own night to receive which can be pretty luxurious.

I thought of a few other possibilities but I like the blindfold one best. Let's see what other commenters have to offer up and if none of those are really shining your shoes then ring in and I'll throw out a couple more.

Monday, August 16, 2010


I had my annual mammogram on Tuesday. I know the guidelines have been changed for less frequent visits and I learned today at brunch how that's a good thing. I have mine annually, though, because my mother is a survivor. So far so good. Got the results in the mail yesterday and all is well in the land of the Ta Tas.

This year I was prepared for the technician to carefully center the cake decorations on my nipples. I was also, after a few weeks of doing the rounds of other kinds of check ups and being treated to the absolute scourge of paper gowns, so intensely grateful for the gift of a backless cloth gown that I nearly stole mine as a souvenir. The cloth didn't make the procedure any less awkward, though. Radiologists are methodical for the sake accuracy and mammographers are trained, I'm sure, to be very careful of women's feelings. They don't want anyone to feel as too exposed, I guess. (Little radiological humor, there.) So first you do the horizontal view on the right so you take off the whole right side of the gown. Next horizontal left so on with the right and off with the left. Back to the right for the vertical and then the grand finale of the vertical on the left.

I have pretty small breasts. They're not completely pancake flat but I can go without a bra easily and without pain. I didn't wear one regularly until I was in my 30s and gravity was messing with the way my clothes looked. Now I have a couple I like but I'm still not militant about it. I think the smallness of my cupcakes contributed to the fact that I was a bit of a flasher in my youth. I was never shy about flashing my boobs at people or changing my shirt in front of them. I figured what I had wasn't that exciting anyway and the only way to make it more so was to deploy it strategically, I guess. Whatever my attention-grabbing reasons I honestly never thought it was that big a deal. Still don't.

So I'm standing in that exam room waiting for a perfectly nice woman I've never met before to gently lift my tit tissue onto a plastic slab, to arrange it just so like a plate full of crudite and then squash it like an ill-mannered bug all in the name of health. I am obediently wrangling myself into one side of my blessedly cloth gown and out of the other over and over and I'm wishing I could just take the whole thing off. Would that be so bad?

I guess it would because I didn't do it. Obviously it wouldn't have bothered me but I felt suddenly as though it would be a violation of the technician. Let's lay that out there:

I felt that removing a largely superfluous garment would somehow violate a woman whose chosen profession is to touch, image and protect breasts across the greater Brooklyn area.

I don't get it either. I found myself standing there debating whether I'd be the more talked about patient if I took the thing off or if I continued to slow the process down by missing the armhole while trying to put it back on. Just a few days before I'd had the pleasure of seeing one of my favorite bloggers, NakedJen, buck naked in a hotel ballroom, with another of my favorite bloggers, Chookooloonks, painting on her body while an art auction and party raged about them. Jen is an advocate of nakedness, she's an advocate of happy body image, she advocates organic food, veganism, pet rescue, and responsible environmental choices among other things. Either she has an enormous business card or it just says, "Advocate of Life." 'Cause she is. Thinking of her posts on healthy body image I wondered what Jen would have done. (Jen's reading here now. Jen, what would you have done?) I came to the conclusion that Jen might not have bothered with the damn backless faux robe in the first place! So I vowed, quite strongly, right there in my mind, to think about not wearing it either. Next time.

Today's conversation isn't so much sexual I guess as bodily. How carefully do you guard your body against viewing? Have you ever flashed or mooned anyone? Cindy went skinny dipping for the first time recently and I found myself deeply envious because skinny dipping feels so fantastic and I haven't been in ages! When was the last time you did that? My only concern with a nude beach would be the time of the month and my propensity for sunburn. I'd go topless in a hot second, though.

And, part two of the question, I suppose, is, if you keep your body covered, is it your own feelings you want to protect or someone else's?

Friday, August 13, 2010


Rated: R for sex and mild domination and bondage


One afternoon they were in his apartment, mostly naked, groping. He asked, “Do you trust me?”

She nodded.

Really trust me?”


And she did.

He passed his hand gently over her eyes to close them. She obediently lay back and waited. Soon there was a cold, heavy shock on her stomach, just above her panties, covered by his warm, strong hand. He moved her hand to the object and her eyes flew open. She couldn’t hold back the grin. Handcuffs. 
Heavy, steel, police issue handcuffs.

“I thought you said you didn’t…”

“I went, I got. Trust me still?”

She paused but just a moment. “Mmmmmm hmmmm.”

He pressed her head gently back onto the pillow and picked up the cuffs. He trailed the metal lightly up her torso, along her arm to her wrist. He snapped one cuff open and took his time fitting it to her wrist, checking to be sure she couldn’t slip free. Then he guided her arm above her head and slid the free cuff through the bars of the headboard. Next he brought her other wrist to meet its mate. By now he was straddling her panty-clad body and her back repeatedly arched for contact with him. She felt mute, as though the act of putting on the cuffs had locked up her voice as well. He smiled down at her, caressed her face then rolled over and got off the bed.

She was crestfallen, panicked, kept repeating in her mind, “I trust him. I really trust him. I do.”

He returned with a soft scarf and sat next to her on the bed. He doubled the material and held the feather light ends above her then proceeded to stroke her whole body with them. Shins, calves, thighs, belly button, ribs, breasts, arms, throat, face. He took her face in his hands and kissed her long and sweet and wet. She closed her eyes and didn’t try to open them until she felt the silk on her lids at which point she had to struggle with herself a little to keep them closed. He secured the blindfold carefully so her hair wasn't pulled. In her panic she couldn’t help smiling. She had no idea what he’d do next. It seemed like forever before she felt fingers at the elastic of her panties. He traced the outlines, set brief kisses in the creases where her legs met her body. Then, excruciatingly slowly, began to slide them down her wriggling legs.

The phone rang. 

He reached up to her face and pulled the blindfold down. He tightened it so it fully covered her mouth. She was confused and desperate, trying to pull her hand through the heavy metal rings. He held them still with one hand as he picked up the handset with the other.

It was Theresa. They both knew it had to be. She was worried about a presentation she had to give, not being much of a public speaker. She talked him through her drawings. He soothed, supported, he encouraged, he advised in detail.

Mags wanted nothing more than to get out of the room. She was nauseated, she wanted to cry, she so didn’t want to cry in front of him. All she could do was beg with her eyes and he wasn’t even looking. She couldn’t hold it in. The tears poured down her temples, slid soggily into her ears. But she remained silent. She could have cried out, even with the homemade gag but she didn't. She never made a sound.

Finally he hung up. “I love you. Bye.”

When he turned to look at her she crawled away the only way she could, by closing her eyes. He was very still and quiet. She couldn’t stop crying so she didn’t open her eyes. She just felt. He removed the scarf. He finished sliding the cotton panties off her legs. He keyed open the metal and drew her arms down. Then, before she could curl away, he lay his full, naked length against her, sliding one leg between hers, enveloping her in strong arms. He propped himself on his elbows over her then and stroked her face.

He stroked the tears old and new, he touched her eyes.

“Open.” He whispered.

She did, letting loose a new flood of salt water.

He looked into her wet, blue eyes. Never wavering he parted her legs and slid gently, surely inside her. 

One small sob escaped as she felt him fit in. She wriggled her hands up to hold his face, hold him to her. At his first full thrust she kissed him, never closing her eyes, never leaving his lips until they came.

Apology accepted.

Monday, August 9, 2010

Revisiting Cherry Pie With Vanilla Ice Cream

As many of you know, the inspiration for our Monday conversations comes from a column I wrote at The Women's Colony. I plan to reprint all those posts over time. For the past couple of weeks I've been talking about Kizz & Tell a lot and in the telling I've mentioned the following column almost every time. I thought it would be a good idea to post it here in case we've got more to say on the subject. 

I had a very bloody day last week. I get these nosebleeds sometimes. Usually they're bad but not horrible. On this day, though, while I was sitting at my desk finishing up my lunch my nose just started to bleed and would not stop. I had to delegate some of my responsibilities, repair to the lounge area of the ladies' room (decorated all in white, by the by) and ask the receptionist to bring me a bag of ice. At one point I began to think about how long I'd been in there valiantly trying not to bleed on the bleached white decor and I realized that I had no idea which emergency room was closest to the office and where exactly any ERs were located because I seriously thought I might need to go. Fortunately the ice did its thing before I had to work that out. But not before I bled nose blood onto the crotch of my jeans. At least the type of blood was a novelty.

After a very careful afternoon and evening I got ready for bed. Surprise! Got my period, too. Apparently just too full of blood, had to jettison as much as possible in 12 hours.

Funnily enough between blood lettings I'd been watching Californication. It's that Showtime series where self-described sex addict, David Duchovny, plays a fiction writer who may be a sex addict. In one of the episodes Justine Bateman puts the make on him - he's a borderline sex addict, she has to work exactly as hard as cocking an eyebrow - and they wind up in bed together. She's a bit of a confessor. She confesses to not having had sex in a while. A few kisses later she admits that she hasn't landscaped her landing strip in quite some time. Finally she gets around to the fact that she has her period. Duchovny's character, Hank Moody, is undeterred by any of it. Without protesting too much he remarks on something to love about both a fully grown bush and a little extra color. If he objects to anything it seems to be her constant chatter.

I couldn't do it. I don't get naked when I'm bleeding. Maybe at the very tail end of the situation when you could pass it off as surprise spotting but not when it's in full swing. Now perhaps I'm just a copious bleeder. Given how my day went last week I'm thinking that's a safe bet. I seem to be in the minority of commenters on last week's virginity post who bled when I first had intercourse. For the record, though, I bleed like a slaughtered animal every month. As I've grown older it's shifted a bit. I used to bleed heavily for up to 4 days of the 7 day process. Now I bleed heavily for between 2 and 3 days of the 7 but on one of those days it's often hard for me to get through my commute without an accident the flow is such close kin to a rushing river. And I probably shouldn't mention it but if I won't who will? The chunks! There are bits...and pieces...of....lining I suppose, or clots, it's hard to tell and it's probably a bit of both. Plus pain. About 70% of the time the pain is enough to impair my daily function, though not to put me completely out of commission. I'm sure that orgasm would help the pain immensely but I cannot imagine a way in which I could negotiate a sexual encounter, much less a casual one, with all that going on.

In Californication they later make a quick joke out of Hank's stained prick. If it were me how would he explain his stained groin, thighs, buttocks and knees? Just call me Buckets - o - Blood.

I'm a sanitary napkin girl. Along with being anti-douche (not just the people, also the practice) I've never been a tampon girl. I know many a devoted advocate of the diva cup but please refer to the gory mess I describe above for my, perhaps unfounded, objections. For me, all of this is just for me, I'm all for other people doing what works for them. I can see how the diva cup could be a good option for sex, unless it were to be...dislodged in some way. Just guessing that having one's diva cup runneth over could be dicey.

Not being willing to give in to the nature of the beast, as it were, makes me feel quite vanilla. I feel a bit prudish and ridiculous, especially because it's not something I'm squeamish about on a partner's behalf but on my own. The idea of all that muck oozing around is somehow completely different to me than the idea of non-menstrual, juicy, excited muck oozing around. Because the flip side is, I get really wet when I'm excited. If I plan to go commando for illicit sexual purposes I have to pack a pair of panties for after because if I don't someone is going to notice my ankles glistening. It's something I try to be aware of.

Anyway, how are you feeling after setting the bar just a bit higher into TMI territory? Can we talk? How do you feel about the mid-menstrual mambo? What am I missing?

Friday, August 6, 2010

The Party's Over (Part II)

The Party's Over
Part I is here


“Mmmm.” Words were too much effort.  

After he had stepped gingerly around and over me I began to feel a little silly. Unwilling to make the effort to be less silly I rolled sloppily over and crawled to the top of the stairs. By the time I had achieved standing I was at the open bathroom door. Shirtless, towel slung over his shoulder he stood at the sink, slightly bent, head hanging down, water running full on. It made me sad and also scared. 

For a moment I thought he might be angry with me. But when his head rolled to the side he was smiling over his bicep at me. Smiling was good, it was sheepish and forlorn and maybe a little scared, but it was a start. I tilted until my shoulder hit the doorjamb and I smiled back. He ran his hands under the water, soaped them, leaned down to splash water on his face and these simple movements, things I never watched him do when he lived here drew me to him. I could feel tears in my throat and I wanted to somehow pin him down in this place even though I knew that was impossible. 

I settled for kissing his shoulder with my open mouth and leaning into him. He leaned back a little without setting me off balance while he dried his face. Then he looked at me again. 

“Come here” manipulating me gently he pulled the bottom drawer of the vanity open with his toe.  He’d taken his boots off; they were jumbled together next to the toilet. Then he adjusted the water, reached back to the shower curtain rod and took the washcloth down. Gently tapping my thigh he got me to put my foot up on the edge of the drawer. He knelt while the cloth soaked in the sink. Ringing it out he draped it over his hand and swabbed the insides of my thighs, moving upward and cleaning me. 

He’d never done this before. We were never people to shower together, I never had the urge to shave him, he never painted my toenails in bed. When we were naked we were single minded. It felt strange and not altogether bad and it was definitely not helping me to swallow those tears. Also, predictably it’s a fairly arousing thing, sort of defeating the purpose.  

I took the cloth from him, dropped it into the sink and led him through the door and into the bedroom. I had my back to him but I thought I could feel him looking around the room suspiciously. 

When we got to the huge California King bed I turned and sat. I was eye to eye with a belt I grabbed off a rack in a December 24th present buying panic two years ago. It was worn but still sturdy and the snap of the leather was music to my ears as I flipped it open. I was getting that view again of him twitching and leaping under the denim. I smoothed both hands over it on my way to the buttons. I wanted to wipe the sad off his face and this was the only way I knew how. I flipped the buttons open and slid his jeans down his legs. He still goes commando. I love that. While he negotiated his feet I pulled off my shirt and stood to shimmy out of my wrinkled skirt. This put me inches from his chest. He’s lickable, so I did. 

For some reason the man who had been so take charge up to now seemed undone. His hands were waving slightly at his sides. So I pulled him down with me as I fell to the bed, forcing him to put his hands out to keep from crushing me. And that seemed to do it. Our lips mashed against each other, our hands were everywhere, it was like meeting a friend for the first time in months. There are so many things to say and you don’t know where to start and so you just keep starting a subject and remembering another and veering off to another and then thinking of a third thing. We rolled, we bucked until I grabbed his hair, hard and pulled his head back so I could look him in the eye. Two bodies, one mind. 

He lunged for his pants at the bottom of the bed while I stretched to the bedside table. We met back in the middle, each holding a condom, and the moment was awkward. I’ve never been rocketed back into reality so fast. We didn’t use condoms together. We use them now. We keep them handy. That moment exposed all the little lies of omission we’d been conveniently letting slide in the quest for our new, healthy post-love friendship. Questions and demands crowded my brain and I was suddenly intensely angry. 

I grabbed the package out of his hand and gave him a not completely pleasant shove onto his back. Straddling him I ripped the foil open with my teeth and in a flash I’d rolled the condom onto him. I was showing off my expertise. I pumped him twice, firmly and watched his eyes squint shut. The memory of him doing that the first time we were in this bed was so strong and so painful that it fueled my anger. I raised myself high on my knees, rubbed the head of his cock up and down my lips and plunged slowly down onto him. He drew in air through clenched teeth and his hands reflexively moved to my hips. I moved up and down slowly then quickly a few times and his head was banging back and forth on the quilt before he could focus his eyes on me. I pinched my nipples and roughly rubbed my hands down my body to my clit. He was quick on the draw, moving to replace my fingers with his. I pushed his hand away and he tried again. I slapped it back fiercely and glared at him. I put three fingers on his lips, “Wet” I demanded. And he obliged, quickly coating them with saliva. I used them back on my clit. Savagely pulling and rubbing it. He couldn’t seem to decide whether to watch my hands or my face, he wasn’t completely comfortable. But he was excited. I could feel his prick pulsing inside me. I leaned back, one hand on his calf to support me, and inside me he pressed forward and it felt so good. Two more seconds and I crashed into orgasm.  

It was good, it made the emotion rush out of me and the tears were at the back of my throat again. So I leaned forward and kissed him while I grabbed his shoulders and rolled him. I held him with my arms, my legs and began to whisper in his ear. If I whispered I could keep control of my voice, because the tears were all the way up in my eyes. I told him how big he was in me, that I wanted him, that he could go harder. I squeezed his cock with my velvet vice. Finally I swore over and over and rubbed his ass, one finger sliding down the crack and he pounded me quickly before he came.

That was familiar. He was collapsed on top of me, his breath warm on my neck. After a few moments the breath was replaced by gentle pecking kisses as he extracted himself from me, politely holding the condom and disappearing to dispose of it. 

I took the opportunity to get under the covers and roll over onto my side, keeping my back to the bathroom door because the tears had spilled out of my eyes and I couldn’t stop them. I wasn’t sobbing. I didn’t feel the need but the crying part, it was a thing of its own, all the pain and the memory had to come out of me somewhere. I’m glad that we hadn’t turned on the bedroom lights. Just the streetlight seeping in through the half closed curtains. He padded quietly back in and I stayed very still. He slid in next to me, molded his warm, smooth body to mine and I had to swallow back a sob. It was the arm he snaked under my neck that did it. He felt the dampness on the pillow and used a thumb to check my cheek. I tried to move away but he held me close and simply murmured my name. What could I do? I turned and looked him in the eye. Tears still running down my face. Leaning in he licked my cheek clean. It was too much, my breath turned ragged then and I couldn’t keep silent anymore. Bless him, he didn’t look away, but I saw the tears coming to him too. Finally I couldn’t watch any more, I wrapped myself in his arms, curled up into the fetal position with him spooned around me and just concentrated on breathing. The last thing I felt before I drifted off was his kiss on the nape of my neck. 

A few hours later I woke up to sunlight and a breeze from the open window. It was early but not very. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep again, tried to enjoy the feel of waking up next to someone again. It was no use. I was stuffy from the crying and I had to pee and I couldn’t stop wondering what my hair looked like. So I extricated myself from a tangle of blankets and limbs and pillows. I’d forgotten what a messy sleeper he was. 

Once I got myself vaguely put together - tank top, underwear, hair clip – I found myself downstairs. I hadn’t finished washing the wine glasses the night before. Figuring I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything more difficult I give them a go. 

I have a photograph above the splashguard behind the sink. It’s an ocean view and we took it from the balcony of our hotel room on our trip to California. I put the photo there after he left. I needed to remind myself that there were good times. That I hadn’t wasted the years with him. First it made me angry, then I just started to ignore it. Today it reminds me of the trip. Novel that. 

We had frequent flier miles. We were sick of winter and our friends and our jobs and I saw a sale in the paper. 24 hours later we were ensconced in the cheapest hotel room on the beach. At sunset we took that picture. It was the only time we ever did anything that spontaneous. And it was one of only three vacations that we took that didn’t involve a national holiday and/or a family visit. Other than that it was thoroughly unremarkable.  
Still, I remembered it fondly for that first night. As the sun set we curled up in the lounge chair on the balcony drinking beer and talking. Not about all the things we’d left that we hated but about dreams and thoughts and memories. When we went inside the pattern of the plastic was deeply imprinted on my ass and he teased me mercilessly while kissing and massaging it away.  

While I was remembering that he snuck up behind me and hugged me, kissing the side of my neck. I leaned into it automatically. I felt him start to peel away and then he was back. I twisted back a bit and saw that he was staring at the picture. I was about to make some excuse when he palmed my chin and kissed me firmly as though he were trying to write something on my lips. With a moment to press our foreheads together he headed off to the kitchen table to put on his boots. 

My hands never made it out of the dishwater. I forgot to wash glasses while I cast about for something to say. There was so much to say and none of it was coming to the forefront. 

Then he was back, one hand on my neck he kissed the part in my hair and whispered in my ear, “Morning.” 

The door latched shut behind him and my breath gasped out of my body. I couldn’t seem to breath in again. 

Ticking clock, refrigerator humming, the dog next door. 

The door didn’t open again. 

     And my fingers were turning to prunes.

Monday, August 2, 2010

I See You Standing There

I read this fantastically interesting book last week, Bonk: The Curious Coupling of Science & Sex by Mary Roach. Her previous hit was Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers. I keep wondering if she  was sorry she squandered that title on corpses once she figured out she'd be writing Bonk.

I feel as though a War & Peace-length book report wouldn't be out of place here but I think it's better to simply call it the inspiration for a number of posts. I'm ever so slightly regretting having gotten it out of the library and therefore having to return it but I have taken copious notes so I'll do my best and any time anyone wants to correct me from their own copy I'll take it gladly.

One of the challenges Roach faced in researching Bonk was from the FDA. The organization has very strict rules about how studies utilizing human subjects are conducted. It's understandable but it means that our author went to some interesting lengths to get proper data for her writing. The most sensational of these choices had to do with ultrasound imaging.

As technology progresses so does our ability to investigate certain human processes. A couple of enterprising doctors are, slowly and carefully, working to do ultrasound imagery on human beings engaging in sexual intercourse. As I understand it the couple engages in some spoon-shaped nookie while a technician used an thingee on the woman's abdomen, taking 3-D snapshots of the goings on within. Roach mentions, just fleetingly, that it was unexpectedly intimate because the doctor stood behind them (one assumes to avoid any uncomfortable eye contact) so had to lean slightly over and he steadied himself gently with a hand on her husband's hip.

Sounds a little questionable, right? Was the doctor getting off on it? Were the Roaches? Well, as described, Mr. Roach used a little blue pill to alleviate performance anxiety, and he and the doctor were chatting amiably about their families' ages and interests. Right up until the doctor said, "You may ejaculate now." Aw, quit it with the sexy talk, doc, you'll skew the results.

There are points in the procedure, apparently, where the couple has to remain still for up to 12 seconds, another reason there's no shame in leaning on the ED medication. I don't know that I could have done it, I'd have been giggling too hard.

I had an on-again, off-again thing with a guy I met in college that took place over the the course of nearly a decade. Way back in the beginning we once got a little jiggy on the rooftop of his apartment building. It's a big city and he lived in a short building. If anyone had wanted to watch us, partially covered though we were, they certainly could have. No on applauded. Perhaps I should be offended.

By the time of our last ill-fated encounter it became clear that the relatively innocent rooftop incident had been the beginning of his experimentation with exhibitionism. He has since become a lot more comfortable with showing off his body in public situations.

Or so I hear.

We had a completely non-sexual falling out so I can't tell you what flours his bread these days. But if I know him at all, and I think I do, this is an important part of his sensual and creative life. (Side note: Also my first uncircumcised penis.) For me, I don't know that it's integral as much as intriguing. I find fantasies about being watched quite exciting. I haven't had much experience with it outside of the fantasy realm, though. I think probably an accidental viewing, something on the order of not being able to wait to get home so hiding in a doorway or nook and passersby getting an eye full as they walk, would be more of a thrill than any sort of performance I might be asked to give, however informal.

I could be wrong, though, I might surprise myself. I am a trained actor, after all.

What about you? Where do you stand (or sit or lie or lean alluringly against a doorjamb) on being watched in action?