I haven’t really written up sex in a while. With all the drama with F, I sometimes felt weird writing up sex stuff, because while the sex was so good and amazing, there were so many other under lying issues and drama, and it just made it seem awkward. Not like me and my normal awkwardness, but another type.
And I wasn’t writing up sex with other people, because well, I wasn’t having it. I played with my Domme friend in the airport in November, and I wrestled/played with Miss D at a Beat and Greet, and then with Miss P at the next month’s Beat and Greet (I never wrote this one up, but I got suspended, and then later, tied up and she hit me a lot, and used the Hitachi. It was pretty fun!). My lack of sexage was not from lack of trying (seriously), but it was what it was. So it’s a good thing this is more of a sexuality blog than a sex blog, or many of you would have been disappointed.
While in San Francisco, I was lucky enough to shoot for the Crash Pad Series. While I haven’t shot porn before, I’ve done a fuck ton of photoshoots, and this was one of the least discombobulated, most put together shoot I have ever done. It was a little hard for me, because I was supposed to shoot with F, and she backed out at the last minute, but Rex gallantly stepped up. However, we hadn’t had sex before, so it was very much an exploration of new territories, and while the sex was quite good, it wasn’t exactly what I needed/wanted at that point in time.
This may surprise you, but I am kinky. A lot. And when I am bottoming, I like someone to REALLY top me. I like hard spankings and hair pulling and begging and coming over and over and over until I can’t take it anymore, and waking up sore the next day with bruises I don’t remember how I got them. The Crash Pad shoot, although very fun, was not that kind of sex.
My friend who I was staying with and I went out with another SF to the Lexington Club the night before I left, and of course, like any queer scene, more people knew the people I was with, and I wound up meeting some awesome new people. I also learned how to pick up dollar bills off of people’s foreheads with my breasts. At one point…damn it, I’m having letter issues. We’ll go with S. For San Francisco. Ok, so at one point S and my friend posed for a few pictures for me, and then my friend offered to take one of me and S.
He decided that my cheeks were apparently quite biteable (and I just thought they were chipmunk cheeks) and proceeded to do so. Of course, with my little OCDness, I then asked if he’d be willing to bite the other side, you know, to make them even. Graciously, he agreed. And then, the tickling commenced.
Tickling is an odd thing for me. I used to love having my dad tickle me when I was little…and then after he died, I got over it. Fast. I don’t know why. But my partners in college would sometimes try to tickle me, and it never worked. I told them that it was something I could turn on and off. Sometimes, I’d work for a little bit, laughing, and then my body just shut off. Ergo, I have been not anti-tickling, but not tickling positive per se.
However, I am unbroken. S started to tickle me, and I was back to my ticklage level (how many words have invented here so far?) that I had when I was little. I was ridiculously, and incredibly ticklish. Now, granted, I was running on about two or three drinks at this point, so perhaps that helped, I don’t know. I don’t really want to over analyze my tickle levels. But it was there. And I was laughing so hard. He’d tickle, then nip (my hands, my cheeks, etc), and then tickle some more. My friend, of course, was taking pictures, and I think my face was as bright red as my hair.
As time drew on, we decided that a stop for food was needed, and therefore, nachos, quesadillas and veggie burritos were to be had. I couldn’t finish either food or drink, leading to the observation that my eyes were bigger than my stomach, bladder, and cunt. (Last part not so much, but occasionally)
We walked down the street, looking for a cab for myself and my friend. But a few cabs passed us, and we didn’t flag them down. Finally, at one point S said something about getting a cab to send my friend home. I only heard part of it, and was really confused. Why would we get her a cab, and then make me, the cripple, walk and take the bus? Then S reiterated. I was welcome to crash at his place tonight. I thought that was a very nice offer, and assumed it was his way of being helpful; my friend’s place was a 45 minute bus ride plus a BART ride to where I needed to go…S’s place was just the BART ride. Did I mention that I’m really dense sometimes?
We walked back to his place, leisurely, chatting. Once there, I admired the polaroids (such a lost art), and then we headed to his room, where we played with his pythons (is it weird that I HATE spiders, but really like snakes? I think I read somewhere once that it is incredibly rare to be scared of both…perhaps that’s it). We chatted sexuality stuff, and marketing stuff, and I think I was in the middle of talking about twitter as a marketing thing, when he leaned forward and kissed me.
God, it was a good kiss. I am a kissing slut…I kiss a lot of people…and I’ve had a lot of kisses that were not (in my opinion) good. Dead fish tongue. Tongue battering ram 3000. Slimey. Pecking rather than kissing. Vaccum kissers. Fish like kissers.
This was none of the above. It was a damn good kiss. He then pulled back and told me I was welcome to continue talking about marketing. I declined, saying I was suitably distracted (yes, I honestly use words like that before, during, and sometimes after sex). Glasses came off, as we were both wearing them, and the kissing ensued. Can I mention at this point that I think I may have a glasses fetish?
I had a Femme moment. I was at the end of my trip, and so was wearing what I thought was my least sexy outfit…and I was down to thongs, instead of the boyshorts I prefer. I was a little self-conscious about that (probably the same way my friend is when she says she gets nervous if she hasn’t shaved….), but I was also so fucking incredibly turned on, and that completely overrode it. I had not bloody clue what was about to go down (haha, no pun intended), but my cunt was controlling my brain at this point.
He had my pants off already, and asked me if he could frog tie me. My little bratty side came out for a second and I responded “sure, you can TRY.” Since he was newer to the rope tying, I decided I’d be helpful, and stayed as still as possible. The best thing about the whole tying situation was the laughter.
I need to write a sex mission statement or manifesto. I think sex should be fun and funny. If you cannot laugh with the person you’re fucking with, then you’re fucking with the wrong person (in my opinion). Sex is never perfect, no matter if it’s spur of the moment, or incredibly planned out. Things happen, toys break, noises are made, weird things may be said (my anus is bleeding!), etc. If you cannot laugh, then how can you get through that?
He said something about he hoped I didn’t have expectations, because he wasn’t sure what he was doing, he was just trying different things. I laughed (also, laughter is healthy, and adds endorphins, so why not laugh?) and explained that I tried to not have expectations….that I was having fun, and that was all that mattered.
Once the black glove was put on though, while I didn’t have any expectations, all I wanted in the world was for S’s hand to be inside me. Some of it, all of it, it didn’t matter. But my cunt started aching and I wanted to be fuck, good and properly.
After a little debate as to which lube (S: I have three kinds, which would you like? Me: Anything *thinking please fuck me please fuck me please fuck me*), he started off a little slow, sliding his hand into me.
“I have a nuva ring. I mean, it can be left in or taken out, but it kind of creeps some people out, so I’m just letting you know.” I get really nervous about my ring with queer people…most queer people I’ve been with have no idea what it is, as it’s for hormonal birth control…and I sometimes feel judged. But you know what, I menstruate once a year. So any judge-y people? Take that feather and stick it in your cap.
But instead of being squeamish, S seemed to be intrigued, asking me questions, playing around with it. And that felt good. Him being inside me felt amazingly good. I mean, we’re talking little to no “traditional foreplay” and hardly any clitoral stimulation, and here he was fucking me, and I was coming. And coming.
Did I mention that I’m loud? Like really fucking loud. I never was when I faked orgasms…no no. The first time I made noise really was during my hook up at Dinah Shore 2007…when I figured out what sex really was. And since then, I’ve been loud. Thank god for pillows as mufflers, that’s all I have to say.
S asked if I was a squirter (read: whether I was able to ejaculate). I never have been able to, despite use of the Pure Wand, other toys, hands, etc, so I replied in the negative. He looked at me ponderingly. “Really?” I shook my head. He went back, thank the goddess, to fucking me.
I’ve had this fear. It’s a irrational fear some might say, but a fear that I would never have amazing sex again, now that F and I were over. It’s one of the reasons I stupidly hung on to something so unhealthy (for me) for as long as I did. But seriously…imagine that you’ve had lots of good sex, and some pretty great sex…and then all off a sudden, you find someone with whom you have amazing sex. The right amount of kink, of pain, of kissing, of cuddling. Someone you *want* to cuddle with, having not really been a cuddler in the past. And then that’s gone. See why that is a valid fear?
Well, fear has abated. Having very little prior conversation about likes/dislikes, etc (although I suppose he may read my blog, and I think at one point earlier in the evening I mentioned wanted to punch people that slapped me across the face), I was having amazing sex. I don’t believe in the concept “best sex of my life” because you have different sex in different ways with different people. F and I, however, had amazing sex. This sex? Pretty amazing in my book too.
I make snarky comments during sex. I laugh during sex. I tease. I am silly. I burst into giggles when getting spanked. You name it, I do it. And while I innately am awkward, I didn’t feel awkward during this.
And then, I gushed. Or squirted…I’m not sure the difference. I ejaculated. Enough to create quite a large wet spot (ooops. Where was my liberator throe when I needed it?). While I’m not big on self-sexual goals, I’ve always wanted to ejaculate at some point, and it was kind of fun. And now that I know I can do it, I can experiment more with it.
At some point, he asked if he could fist me. I told him sure (I don’t think that happened, but honestly, my brain was not really conscious of exactly what was going on south of the border). He asked if he could punch fuck me (or something like that…it involved deliciously aggressive fucking). I said of course. To be honest, aside from my hard limits (children, animals, brown showers and faceslapping), I would have let him do anything to me. Anything. It felt that fucking good.
This isn’t a very sexily written story. I’m realizing that. Sorry if you expected hot erotica. While I certainly write that at times, this is a very self-reflection full post. If you’re bored, you can stop now.
So I’m still tied up, I got my shirt and bra off at some point (which is really difficult if someone is fucking you while you’re trying to remove articles of clothing). I got one leg untied, and eventually, S untied the other. I’m not sure which ordered it happened in, because I was pretty blissed out by this point, but I got a really cool spanking like thing, and I got to use the Hitachi.
The ass-beating/spanking/whatever you want to call it was one of the nicest, most relaxing and enjoyable ones I’ve ever had. It was rhythmic…I felt my my ass cheeks had become part of a drum circle, or something to that effect. It was lovely really…a few hurt more than the rest, but over all, I was smiling and laughing and breathing deeply, and it was so nice and calming. A few bruises the next day, but nothing to write home about.
Side note: I have bruises on my left thigh. I have no fucking clue what they’re from. I think I may have been bitten at some point, but again, too blissed out to notice. I was riding the orgasm train.
He let me use his Hitachi. Jesus bloody moosing christ. Have you ever tried to put a condom on a Hitachi. When you’re horny, full o’ endorphins, and have someone’s hand in your cunt? Maybe add in a little tickling? It was incredibly frustrating and infuriating, but finally, success was mine.
S’s hand. My cunt. Hitachi Magic Wand.
You know when you have all these orgasms, and they just build and build and build on each other, as if you’re falling off these tiny cliffs, but it’s as though they are building up into this one giant orgasm when you’re cliff diving into the sea, and you hit the water with so much force that you explode into a million little pieces flying amoungst the universe?
Yeah. That. I had that. Is there any better way to end a fulfilling, fun, interesting, and revelation filled trip other than coming so hard that you feel like you are not only flying around the stars, but that you are actually part of them? I say nay.
He lay on his stomach. I gently rubbed and scratched his back, butt, legs. I am part house cat. I love scratching things and toussling/petting hair (and curling up and being petted, etc. Methinks I need to get into kitten play). It was late…I asked him if there was anything I could do for him (at that point, I was ready for anything), and he asked me to just keep doing that. So I did.
Then it was cuddle time. The moment of truth. “So, um. Are you a big spoon or a little spoon?” As we all know, while I *can* be a spooning switch, I MUCH MUCH prefer little spoon. Turns out, he was also a little spoon. “For you, I will big spoon, but I hope you appreciate my sacrifice.” I said this jokingly, waiting for him to turn his back to me. But no, he lay there on his side, looking at me slightly expectantly. ”Um. What are you doing?” He explained that this was how he spooned. Really, it’s genius, because while there is an upper spoon and a lower spoon, both people get held and have their skin hunger fulfilled. In fact, I’d say it’s less like spooning and more like sporking, because there is more entwinement than you get with run of the mill spooning. I’ve already employed this sporking method with my cuddle buddy back in CO.
I don’t sleep well with other people in the same bed. I did ok with J, and I got pretty used to F. But with S, just like with most other people, I woke up a lot. First I was going through menopause (read: heat flashes). Then, I kept having to pee. Then, I was thinking about my trip, and having revelations about how I needed to stay in the field of sexuality and sex toys and porn, and how I fit in so much better in SF than I have pretty much anywhere that I’ve ever lived. He apologized at one point for his snakes making so much noise with their newspaper, but I was already awake.
I have a lot of sex right before I leave. In May, I played with/was fucked by K, took the train home from NYC and hopped on a plane to Florida. I had a threesome of sorts the night before I left Florida. I had sex with C the two nights before I left Philly for good. When I hooked up at Dinah Shore, it was the three nights before I flew back to Philly. I have a lot of sex before I leave.
However, with most of these people, I feel not regret, but wonderment. Would anything more have happened with me and K, or me and C, had I stayed in Philly? What about my Dinah Shore affair, had I lived in California? I’ve wondered if maybe I’m broken, that I tend to have sex with people I know I could never been with.
But for once, I didn’t seduce someone. I wouldn’t say they seduced me, but my Femme wiles were not on the prowl. I was just enjoying my time in SF. That night, I wasn’t all gussied up — I was wearing the dregs of my suitcase, and my hair was looking dangerously like a Jew-fro. I wasn’t trying.
And the next day, as I sat on the plane, I wasn’t thinking any what ifs. All I was doing was looking back on the situation, and enjoying the memories. It didn’t matter any of the what ifs. I had been fulfilled – sexually, intellectually, and even my skin hunger was satiated. And really, is there anything more I could ask for?
Fuck, this is a really long post. I’m back in Colorado now. I’ve come home with a vengeance. In just a few days back, I’ve had a snuggle date with a cuddle buddy, I’ve cut the last of my heart string ties to F (heart is a little bruised, but I’m feeling pretty much 100% over her), I’ve starting working on marketing for Hysteria, and I’ve adopted another kitty to keep Kinsey company. And I’ve slept…a lot. This trip was so good for me on so many levels…and amazing sex to cap it off was, well, a feather in my cap.
So thanks S. For fun sex. For fulfilling sex. For self-reflective sex (in hindsight). For helping me ejaculate for the first time. For sending me into the universe. And for being such a cool person.
And oh! Want to see some sexy bruises? I’m not sure if they’re from tickling, or biting, or…but they’re fun. I love bruises, because they are physical memories of the fun that you’ve had. I have a few on my ass, some on my thigh, a couple on my right arm…and these:
And that’s all for now folks. If you’ve read all the way down here, through all my gibberish and self-reflection, give yourself a pat on the back.
-Essin’ Em20 comments