KEPT

Squirting... My Everest.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 28 Jan 2013 21:51:00 +0000

I, like so many, was painfully ill educated about squirting. I thought only some women were “squirters.” Only these select few had the gift. I thought when a woman squirted, the only fluid expelled was an adorable little pump. A thimble full. I never really gave squrirting much thought.

Until I met a man who loves it.

Guess who.

It was one of the first things we discussed, project wise. I think his words were, “Let’s get you squirting.”

Step One: Kegel exercises. Check. (They’re sort of a bitch to remember, though).

Step Two: G Spot Exploration and Familiarization. (Ok, fine! I’ll finger myself silly. For you, honey.)

Step Three: Learn how to Ejaculate without an Orgasm. (Slam Dunk, Ladies.)

The night I tried this, I did everything the book suggested. I laid down a towel, played some sexy music, lit some candles, poured myself a glass of wine, and settled in to play with myself.

The problem is, I felt a little silly. There was nothing stimulating me but my fingers plugging away. Then I realized. I was trying to romance myself. For fuck’s sake! I was trying to seduce myself!

And failing.

I never cum from elaborate seduction scenes. I need good old fashioned filth. So I chucked the music and put on some kinky hentai porn. I kept the candles, because I’m still a lady.

As I watched cartoon Japanese people do imaginative things to each other, my g spot started swelling. I did everything the book suggested. Stroking the soft, puffy area slowly but firmly. Pressing. Getting two fingers in my pussy and pinching.

It swelled and it swelled and it swelled.

I was laying on my back, on a towel, a pillow under my head. Girly Japanese squealing in my ears. I planted my feet and lifted my hips. I pushed, like I was trying to pee.

Nothing.

I kept stimulating. Masturbating. G spot. Clit. G spot.

Then I took my hands away, lifted my hips, and pushed.

Nothing.

Stimulate. Push. Hold. Relax Stimulate. Push. Hold. Relax. Stimulate. Push. Hold.

Something.

The tiniest feeling of liquid. A trickle.

Push. Hold. Relax. Stimulate. Push. Hold. Relax. Stimulate. Push. Hold.

A little bit more.

Stimulate. Push. Hold.

More! A gush of fluid rushed out of me. I pushed and I held and it gushed onto my towel.

Then (just as the book suggested) I changed position. I climbed onto my knees, leaning over, I braced myself on the edge of my bed with one hand and reached between my legs with the other. Stimulate! Push! Hold!

A stream of water flooded out of me! A long hard stream jetting out of my pussy with such force I heard the impact as it hit the floor. More than I thought. Harder than I thought. Pressure and momentum and I was pushing and it was rushing out like a geyser...

But I didn’t cum.

That wasn’t the point. This step was squirting without an orgasm. This was a training exercise.

And I’d succeeded. :-)

Shocked at what I’d done, I stood up and stared at the soaked towel on my floor. I couldn’t believe that had just come out of me! I got down on my knees and smelled it. Then I went to the bathroom and urinated to compare samples. Actually, both were odorless. I’d been hydrating in preparation for this exercise all day. Still. I felt certain the liquid on my floor was ejaculate.

I had ejaculated.

Grinning huge, elation flooding through me, I felt amazing. Unstoppable. Magnificent. I couldn’t wait to tell G.

I took a picture of the wet towel and sent it to him.

Then I poured myself some more wine and basked in the glow of my achievement. What’s funny is I totally forgot to keep masturbating. I didn’t finish myself that night. It didn’t even occur to me.

I went to bed feeling like a rockstar.

That was nine months ago.

I’ve squirted several times since, the exact same way. By myself. No orgasm.

I can’t cum when I squirt.

And I can’t squirt around G.

Which is really frustrating when he’s the reason I started doing this in the first place. Once, he was out of town and I spent every day he was gone practicing. I had a routine. I squirted every day. Like a champ. Good squirts- squirts that shot several feet. Squirts that came quickly. Super squirts.

The moment he climbed between my legs, I was as dry as the Sahara.

Really.

Frustrating.

I get nervous :-( About many things. What he’s seeing, what could go wrong, and most often... what if I can’t do it?

Performance anxiety. Plain and simple. As soon as he’s looking, I can’t squirt. I even tried videotaping myself for him, so he’d know i wasn’t full of lies! But the MOMENT I pressed record, I went dry. If the camera was off, wet city.

I’m an actress! I’ve acted in front of thousands of people. I’ve sang. I’ve danced. I’ve cried. I even showed my tits to a room full of strangers.

I do not get performance anxiety.

God! Until now! Fucking fucking fucking frustrating! The more I fail, the more I want it, the harder I try, the more I fail.

I want to squirt.

I want to cum when I squirt.

I want to squirt in front of my boyfriend.

And I want it now.

My Number

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 22 Jan 2013 08:39:00 +0000

My number represents a huge insecurity of mine. Every time my number rises, I worry. I’m that much more tarnished. That much less preserved. I’m worth that much less.

When I met G, I’d slept with three men. Two of them were drunken impulses when I was sixteen and rebeling. I regretted these repeatedly during my last relationship. How nice it would have been to be able to say my boyfriend was the only man I’d ever been with.

I’m more used to regretting sexual partners than not.

The other night, G and I talked about our numbers. I brought it up. He knew I’d been with three men when he met me. He asked me what my number was now, and I panicked. I was ashamed. It was higher than I wanted it to be. I didn’t want to tell him, and I sidestepped the question.

The truth is, my number is painful for me. It’s a weight. I carry the men I’ve slept with, like they’re a secret shame. Besides G, I regret every man I let inside me this past year. Starting with-

The Burnout.

He was an artist on the Westside. Forty four years old and stoned from the moment he opened his eyes until the moment he passed out.

He had difficulty achieving and maintaining an erection. Which would be fine, except what it meant for me during sex. He used to draw all the way out and slam painfully back into me- over and over in an effort to achieve sensation. A task that would be easier if I let him take off the condom, or so he told me every fucking chance he got. Once he even tried sneaking it off during sex. Is that the filthiest thing you’ve ever heard? I got up and tried leaving, only to have him chase me into the street and tell me his life wouldn’t be the same if I drove away. Highly dramatic.

Actually he was nice, and I felt guilty every time I tried breaking it off. He “wanted to fight for me.” It was flattering and sad, and I was too awkward and nervous to end it definitively.

I’d see him once a week and get loaded every time. So when the sex rolled around, it wasn’t that bad because I was drunk and numb.

But one night I stayed sober. And when he took me, it hurt so bad... Usually when we’d have sex, I’d struggle not to move. Then inevitably, I’d fail. The pain would cause me hips to jump involuntarily, and he’d slam into my ass and crush his penis. Unable to recover, he’d roll over apologizing that the sex was done, and I’d tell him it was ok and to go to sleep. Relieved.

I remember sober night vividly. I clutched the blankets, screwing up my face and trying not to move. It was terrible! Being sober, the pain was so much worse than I remembered... I was laying there, taking it, and I thought Why am I doing this to myself? I will NEVER put myself through this again.

And I didn’t. But the next man I slept with was much, much worse...

The Bulgarian

He was the first friend I met who was open about his kinkiness. A computer tech in North Hollywood. Having extremely limited exposure to sadomasochism, I was curious about his life. He had a girlfriend, and he enjoyed watchng her with other men. If you recall from One-Sided Fidelity, I toyed with the idea of finding a cuckold myself. So I wanted to learn about his interest.

We met a few times to taste whiskeys and chat. I admit that I flirted with him, but I turned him down every time a serious advance was made. He assured me it wouldn’t be cheating because of his relationship’s unique circumstances, but something about his assurance didn’t sit right.

One night near his apartment, we met for a couple drinks. When we left, I told him I needed to eat something before I drove myself home. Due to my dietary restrictions, he offered to feed me something from his own kitchen. A bowl of cereal.

After I ate, he started touching me.

I didn’t want to sleep with him.

... but I had this series of thoughts... I met him for drinks. I flirted with him. I came up to his apartment... I realized I had given him every sign to come for me. I hadn’t meant to, but that’s what I’d done. Add to that the fact that I’d already rejected him twice...

It sounds crazy, but to reject him in that moment seemed... rude.

I felt.. paralyzed. Uncertain what to do. Unsure of what to say.

So I said nothing.

I said nothing as he put a condom on. I said nothing as he fucked me. I said nothing when he climbed off.

I remained silent and unmoving the entire time. Not believing it was about to happen.. happening.. happened.

Not lifting a finger or speaking a word to stop it.

He spoke first. Offering to let me stay a few more minutes, but letting me know I needed to leave. I looked at him and said, “Because your girlfriend will be home?”

Yes.

Oh my god. Now I was a party to cheating AND asked to leave the moment he stood up.

I picked up my shoes and walked out the front door, buckled them onto my feet in the elevator, and waited until I reached my car before bursting into tears.

I cried the entire way home, those hard sobs when you try to inhale but keep wheezing. I cried so hard my vision blurred, and I couldn’t follow my navigation. It must have rerouted me five times.

I thought about the fantasies I’ve always had. Of being used. My imaginary sex life always involved a man using me for sex, reducing me to a body and nothing more.

But the reality... it was horrible. To be used for sex. To be fucked and then asked to leave. To feel like nothing but a receptacle.

I wished that I’d been raped. Because then it wouldn’t have been my fault. I would have been a victim.

But I was no victim. I’d let it all happen to me. Let it happen, despite not wanting it to. Let a man I didn’t want- fuck me, without even saying the word “no.”

And now he was a number! Forever- forever he’d be a man I had sex with. He was a number in my life. I’d given that to him. This awful, awful man who I HATED NOW! He was a fucking number.

When I got home, I parked on the street. My dog was inside. Every time I got home, my sweet, darling little girl would jump and lick me and get so excited to see me! So happy!

I sat in my car because I couldn’t face her. My dog. I couldn’t face my dog, because she’d be so happy, and I felt crushed, and I couldn’t deal with that.

So I sat in my car for half an hour. Crying and then sitting in silence and then crying again. Like a lunatic. The truth is, I wasn’t thinking rationally. I wasn’t thinking at all. I had this impulse to call G. For some reason. I wanted to call him just to tell him what happened.

I called him. And it went to voicemail, and I hung up. I kept sitting there. Silence. Cry. Silence. Then I called him again. Again it went to voicemail, and this time after hanging up I looked at the time.

12:47.

God! It was almost one in the morning. What was I doing calling him? He was home in bed with his wife, for Christ’s sake! What was wrong with me?

I went inside and saw my dog. I ate, smoked, and drank myself to unconsciousness.

I never told anyone.

G never asked me why I’d called him. I assumed he didn’t notice the anomaly in his call log. I thought about the respect the Bulgarian didn’t show me. Yes, I assume responsibility for what happened, but the way he treated me wasn’t right.

I wanted to find a man who wouldn’t deceive me about his girlfriend. I wanted to find a man who’d treat me with respect. The next man I met was...

The Con Artist

This is one of the strangest, most diabolical stories I’ve ever heard of. Let alone lived through.

The con artist was a man I met online. He invented a woman and assumed her identity when speaking to me. He convinced me (as this imaginary woman) that he was a cuckquean who desperately wanted me to date her boyfriend.

I fell for it.

He’s an actor who lives downtown. I’d like to say he’s a shitty actor, but any 33 year old man who can effectively portray a 27 year old woman isn’t too terrible.

He was a “catfisher.” I just learned that word. Someone who assumes a false identity online, in order to seduce a stranger.

This is too long and too horrible a story to tell with any brevity. It deserves its own post, and I plan to write it.

As far as the sex...

The first night we shared, he went down on me. It wasn’t working. I told him I wouldn’t be able to cum that way, and he said, “You’ll cum. You’ll cum.”

The eating wouldn’t stop. I tried telling him it wouldn’t happen! But he insisted it would... I felt so guilty and awkward! I really wanted to cum, but I didn’t know what to do after I’d already said something... So for the first time since I was sixteen, I faked it.

Apparently, I still had the gift.

Anyway, it wasn’t the sex that disturbed me. It was the deception.

I’ll explain more later. The way he lied... but trust me when I say he deceived me more fully than anyone in my life ever has. He left a scar. And now he’s a number, too.

The Friend

G was becoming a hard act to follow. When venting to a girlfriend, I mentioned I was having the best sex of my life, but only sporadically. Dating was a headache and I wanted a break, but more good sex would be nice...

She said, “I should introduce you to Hal!” Hal was a good friend of her’s and since they’d slept together years ago, she personally vouched that he was wonderful!

Lovely!

Actually, Hal’s become a good friend of mine. And we did embark on the “friends with benefits” experiment. The thing about Hal is, he’s the least kinky person I’ve ever met in my life. I mean, ZERO kink. Nothing. Nada. I questioned him extensively, and there was nothing there. I don’t ever use the word “vanilla,” but that’s the only word for him.

I asked him what kind of porn he looked at. Just a penis and a vagina. That’s all he needs. He doesn’t waiver or vary or wonder. Just a penis and a vagina. There’s something charming about a pussy being the only thing he needs in the bedroom. It’s the same quality that endeared my ex boyfriend to me. Simplicity.

… But I need more.

So I asked him to tie me up. I’ll give him props for trying. He tied my legs together by winding one rope around them over and over, like I was the pole of a candy cane. I remember thinking, “Why is he tying my legs together?”

He reached the same conclusion a few minutes later. Whoops. It got awkward, and he had to readjust the ropes, essentially untying me again. But here’s what surprised me...

We tried the rope on another night, and he did the exact same thing!

I’ll say two things for my friend Hal. The first thing is that he made me cum once. Which considering we slept together four times, gives him a 25% success rate. And that ain’t bad, because making me cum is extremely difficult. I dated the artist for months, and he made that basket twice. The Bulgarian- no, obviously. The con artist- nope. So my friend Hal’s batting average is nothing to sneeze at.

The second thing I’ll say for him is, he always treated me with respect. Which is more than I can say for...

The Date Rapist

What is the problem men have with condoms?

With the exception of the one-time-Bulgarian, every single man on this list gave me SHIT about condoms. While we were having sex. I tell you what, fellas, nothing gets a girl wetter than hearing the following:

“I can’t feel anything with this on.”

“I can’t wait for you to let me fuck you without a condom.”

“Will you at least let me fuck you without this for a few seconds?””

ALL of this was spoken to me DURING SEX. What is wrong with everyone?? Didn’t they know that was the most insulting, least sexy thing I could possibly hear? God!

The Date Rapist lived in Brentwood. He originally told me he was 43. A few dates later, he was 45. The next week he was 51, at which point I checked his license.

I told this gent that protection was a must, and he did nothing but try negotiating with me during our first few (chaste) dates. We had dinner with a doctor friend of his, and he actually said to the doctor, “Tell her it’s ok to sleep with me without a condom. Tell her how clean I am.”

After the good doctor assured me this was true, I said, “And what’s your specialty?”

Cardiology.

Like I’m so much of an idiot, I’ll believe your buddy cardiologist’s sage medical advice to go fucking without a condom. Also, a heart and a penis are the same thing.

Men have this tendency to assume I’m stupid.

When we did finally fool around, he began heading in that direction.. sans condom. I said, “You can’t.”

I placed my hand on his chest, but I didn’t push. I just left it there weakly, like this “No Entrance” sign weathered and hanging from one nail. An indication you shouldn’t go forward, but not an intimidating one.

I said, “You can’t you can’t you can’t.” But I said it in this timid little girl voice. I didn’t speak firmly or sharply. I didn’t yell. Later I’d wonder if my protestations were taken as foreplay.

Because he fucked me.

I froze. That same shock, that paralysis I exhibited on the Bulgarian’s couch. Something was happening. Something I didn’t want, and I froze like a deer in the headlights. I literally stopped moving.

He asked me if I liked it.

I didn’t say anything.

He asked, “Do you want me to take it out?”

A window opening. I said, “Yes. Take it out.”

And he did.

For a few seconds.

Then without a word, he fucked me again. And again I didn’t yell or push or swear. I felt unsure of what to do... struck dumb.

I didn’t want him to cum in me. When I knew he was close, I told him to cum ON me. And his charming response was, “It’s too late. I’m cumming.”

And then it was over.

Here’s why that was the worst part. No one had ever cum in me. I’d been with my ex boyfriend for almost a decade, but I was never on the pill. We always pulled out or used a condom. He never came in me. So no one ever had. And... I liked that. I thought it would be something special when it happened. We grownups don’t have a lot of firsts left. That seemed like an important one. And he’d taken it from me.

I immediately went to his bathroom and cried. Then I booked it to his freezer, where I started shooting his schmancy tequila.

I told G about this experience, and he used the term “date rape.” That’s not the way I envisioned a date rape scenario. I still don’t know if this counts, technically. It seems like a grey area. But a really shitty shade of grey.

The strange thing is, I felt compelled to keep seeing him after that. I hated what happened, and I thought, if we wind up together, none of this will matter. If we end up in a long term relationship, he would have been the first one to cum in me anyway. And I wont look back at this experience with regret and shame. It would be just a misunderstanding.

So I tried. And tried and tried... Tried up until we were staying in San Diego and got into a late night shouting match. Tried up until I used the phrase “date rape” during said shouting match. At which point he screamed, “Get the fuck out!” And I obliged

Anyone reading this will probably think I’m a blubbering mess. That I revel in drama and cry frequently. I don’t.

But I was crying when I picked up my car. This thoughtful teenage valet said, “Are you ok?”

I nodded, sniffling. Then I apologized.

He said, “That’s ok. I have sisters.”

To this day, that strikes me as the sweetest, most adorable thing he could have said. Whoever marries that valet is a lucky girl.

And so that’s my story. Those are the men I’ve slept with.

Where was G during all of this?

Around.

He was the constant. There when I started seeing someone, there when I ended it. There in between.

I would text him from my dates. Check my phone from restaurant tables. If G ever called me while I was out with someone else, I would have gone to him in a second.

It was never a question where my allegiance lay, but that's not because I'm a bad person. I went out with every new guy in an effort to find a legitimate relationship. f tried. I wanted them to work out.

I kept looking for someone to help me transition out of my kept arrangement. It felt like the right thing to do. My next step. The healthy choice. That's what any psychologist would prescribe, right? Find a normal relationship...

Imagine my consternation when every man I met only highlighted the rarity of what I had with G. After every time I suffered from an unfortunate sexual encounter, G would pay me a visit. Roll me around, make me cum, hold me... I'd feel beautiful and sexy and taken care of. He'd tease me until I begged him to take me. Begged him for more. He made me happy. The difference was so great... this stark contrast between him and everyone else who touched me.

I felt safe. And appreciated. And valued.

It’s ironic that the least seedy, most honest relationship I had was with a married man. And the man I felt most respected by was the one who did the most scandalous things to me...;-)

He could come into my apartment, use my mouth, slap me on the ass, and leave. And I’d feel more valued after that encounter than after a night long rendezvous with a man I was legitimately dating. Because there was always an underlying respect. A care. I knew if I ever became uncomfortable or unhappy, he’d fix it. If I was hurt or in trouble, he’d help me.

Sex with G never pinches or stings. I never apologize. I’m never distracted or guilty or afraid. It’s fun. I think about it... I want it.

And I know it’s difficult to make me cum, but he does it all the time! Good cums, too... the really hard kind I can’t do to myself.

I made a comment to G that ALL the other sex I've had was bad... he shot me this look like, “Yeah, yeah. Shovel it somewhere else.” Which is kind of insulting, because I’m not in the habit of stroking my lovers’ egos. I certainly never did this for any of the aforementioned men.

I don’t think G can relate, because he doesn’t have bad sex. If i had to guess, I’d say 5% of the sex he has is mediocre. Just ok. The other 95% is super duper. Yay for G.

Sex never meant much to me before now. I had sex, and it was good, and I got off. But before this year, I never knew how great it could be. And I never knew how terrible it could be. I’ve learned sex is important.

Sex has effects on us that are greater than seem reasonable, for a basic physical act. There’s something about sex...

It can do anything. Bring us closer together, drive us apart, make us deliriously happy, or devastate us irreparably.

I shouldn’t regret any of my sexual partners, because I’ve “learned from them all.” But that feels like bullshit. I wish I could buy into it, but... I regret. I regret every man but two.

I hate my number.

I hate what my number represents. I hate that now, any man I might meet and fall in love with will ask. And I’ll tell him. And he’ll know..

I don’t like what my number says about me.

It feels high. I increased my number by 200% in the last year.

I tripled my number.

I hate my number.

Nine.

Confession

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 18 Jan 2013 23:52:00 +0000

This morning I had breakfast in a delightfully tacky diner. My dining companion was a lovely woman I met through work. She's got voluminous wavy hair and shining brown eyes like Judy Garland. Though we're on friendly terms, today was set aside for discussing business. However, try as we might to remain on topic, invariably our conversation strayed to more interesting topics...

Judy is charmingly childlike. Married to the boy she met at 17. their's is the only relationship they've ever known. I assumed she was contentedly nestled into a conservative lifestyle.

I was wrong.

She recently watched a comedy, in which the characters visited a swingers' club. This led her into a quizzical diatribe about what kinds of people would patronize swingers' clubs, where swingers' clubs might exist, what the inside of one might look like...

As I listened to her, I gathered that this wasn't the first time she'd wondered. Though she blanketed her interest with jokes and lightheartedness, swing clubs were a genuine curiosity of hers. In fact, she became so animated in her imaginings, she didn't even hear me when I said, "I've been to one." She kept adorably prattling on about how ridiculous they probably were in real life, how the reality probably wouldn't match the expectation...

She hadn't heard me the first time, and I didn't need to open my mouth again. I almost didn't... My private life is my own, and I (like anyone) am reluctant to divulge something controversial about my sexuality, for fear of judgment. Also, my relationship with this woman was primarily professional. I didn't want to tarnish or confuse our interactions.

But there was something about the way she spoke... telling me she and her husband had even talked about going to one.. "but it would probably be awful. I mean, we'd never ACTUALLY go..." I saw this sizzle in her, this pulsing desire, this voice needing to be heard...

How much had she wondered about this, without the sanctuary of a woman to confide in? How many unanswered questions have floated through her mind...?

I made a decision. And this time I spoke up. "I've been to one."

She froze.

She smiled.

Her enthusiasm skyrocketed.

Pelting me with questions, wanting to hear everything, she listened in rapture as I told her my less-than-fascinating anecdote. She seemed relieved. Relieved to stumble upon someone she could open up to...

She told me about her sex life with her husband. She told me how comfortable she was with her husband admiring other women (not that i know anything about that- wink). And then the kicker.

She said, "I bet there are more couples interested in bringing another woman into their bed, than couples looking for another man."

"There are."

"I mean, because women are more open to experimenting with other women. Generally. Probably."

"Right."

"Yeah,.. Because, even when you're looking at porn, we're all looking at the women, right? Just because... women are prettier. I mean, they're more visually appealing. In porn."

It was so obvious! So obvious that I knew her story before she had to tell me. She was interested in girls, she and her husband have thought about a threesome, and for one reason or another- it's never happened. I knew it. I was sitting there, listening, and I knew.

So how to get her to admit it?

Well, there's only one way...

I said, "I've had a threesome."

"You have?" Cue wide eyes and that cheek-splitting grin. I affirmed that I had, indeed, had a threesome. More than one. And that they're wonderful.

Guess what? She told me she's interested in girls, she and her husband have thought about a threesome, and it hasn't happened yet. Shocker ;-)

Apparently, a while back she had a friend of hers lined up for the big event. The night before, her friend called and bailed.

Women are SO FLAKY.

I sympathized and encouraged her to try again. These things take time to arrange, but they're worth the effort. She was so genuinely happy to have someone to talk about this to.

Can you believe she hasn't told a soul?

No one but her husband knows about these interests. None of her friends are open or adventurous enough to understand. She keeps it bottled up inside of her. I can't imagine. I'd find it terrible not having a single girlfriend to share my own thoughts and feelings with. I have ONE girlfriend who knows about this blog, and I adore sharing my exploits with her. She's interested and encouraging and insightful. Having these marvelous adventures and keeping them all to myself would be torture. When something delicious or enlightening or terrifying happens to you, you need that person to run to. Someone who can listen without shock or judgment. Someone to accept and support you.

My breakfast companion asked me if we could go to that swing club together, just as innocent observers. She's ready to explore and learn. She wants to get in touch with that side of herself. I want these things for her, too.

I thought it was important I write about this. Because I KNOW there are more women riddled with desires, and suffering from not having an outlet.

We're all so gun shy. So repressed and embarrassed. I'm the same. I almost didn't give her the window to confess, because it would require my own confession. I almost let the moment pass.

We need to be less inhibited. If we make the effort to be a little more open, we may discover the people around us are the same. We need each other. Need to relate. Need to know we're not alone in our impulses and proclivities.

I was terrified of divulging my fixation on a man's sexual thought process, but I've received encouraging responses, including two women who feel the same way. I'm so grateful to learn I'm not alone! That no one judges, or thinks I suffer from gender confusion. Though anonymous, I'm talking. And I'm relating. And it's exceptionally therapeutic.

I offered therapy to my friend this morning, just in the form of an ear and a like mind.

Pay attention to others' body language. Their voices. The subtle clues that give them away. The jokes, the shifting, the downward cast eyes... and offer them an opportunity to connect.

Xox
KC

One-Sided Fidelity

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 15 Jan 2013 19:35:00 +0000

When I first met G, I assumed “being kept” would involve sexual fidelity on my end. I knew he was married and had intimate encounters with other women, but I thought that (given the nature of our blossoming relationship), he’d expect to be the only man for me.

We were in a hotel room, enjoying a day time rendezvous. He was face down, and I was giving him a back massage. He was surprised to hear how little I went “out,” never having gone to a club, never having gone dancing, always remaining at home and preferring the company of my books to sexy Los Angelians… He told me I was young and should be enjoying my life. Enjoying people. Having sex.

I said, “Well, I’m not going to sleep around.”

He said, “I didn’t say sleep around.” But then he shrugged his shoulders, as though that was what he implied, or that it wasn’t his place to judge…

That sucked.

My feelings were hurt… and yet I KNEW that was ridiculous! The objective, rational side of myself was happy at this revelation. Oh how nice… he’s going to lift me up, and he expects no amount of fidelity in return. I’ll be able to have my cake and eat it, too. When I’m ready to date, I’ll be able to do so freely. Cool.

But it bugged me. I was impressed with how un-jealous and fair-minded he was… but it bugged me.

For a few months, I didn’t do any dating. Remember I’d recently ended a long term relationship. But the day after Valentine’s day, G asked me via text if I’d had a date the night before. I answered that I had, and he wrote,

“Good. Xo”

Good? Good? That asshole. Fine, if he was so glad I was dating, I’d do it a lot more. And I did.

Childish? Of course, I don't pretend otherwise. You'll notice a theme of mine is trying to grow up. As is pouting and stomping my feet when I fail.

Irony.

I understood it made things less complicated for him if I dated other men. I felt him constantly worrying that I’d receive the wrong impression about a future for us, since there is no future for us. And since I was so obviously crazy about him, he worried I’d let my heart run away from my head. That I’d picture sunset run-a-ways. That I’d get my heart broken. His encouragement of my dating other people was a measure to protect me. I understood that, too.

But I thought it could bother him a little.

I mean, he could at least PRETEND to be bothered in order to preserve my ego.

I remember the most jealous I ever was of Mrs G. I picked up her husband after he’d done some drinking and took him home with me for a visit. I never asked him questions about his marriage, because I thought they’d be intrusive. His private life was private, and I respected that. But… when he was buzzed and talking about it anyway, I took advantage and asked him something I’d been dying to for months.

Whether Mrs. G slept with other men.

She did not.

I asked, “Because it would bother you?”

He said,“Yeah, it would bother me.” And then he trailed off saying other things that I honestly don’t remember because I was so jealous I lost focus.

Ok, yes. I had already assumed that was their dynamic, but without confirmation I could convince myself it was an open marriage and he was incapable of possessiveness. But nope! Not anymore. He didn’t want other men touching her, but he wanted me to go whoring it up all over LA.

I know I can’t compare my relationship with G to the one he shares with his wife. They’re in an actual relationship. They’re real in a way G and I never will be. But… I couldn’t help feeling insulted. This knowledge hurt both my pride and my feelings.

I couldn’t exactly TELL him that, could I? What would I say? 1) He’d worry I expected more from “us” than was right. And 2) It seemed crazy! Why would I want such a thing?

My desire for him to keep me all to himself couldn’t be healthy, could it? I should be dating and gaining experience and transitioning out of my Kept arrangement with G into something more orthodox. Healthy choices… Dating was the healthy thing. Like taking your medicine.

Unfortunately, medicine always tastes like shit. Sometimes dating was fun, but mostly it was like sucking on a mouthful of Robitussin.

Eventually G and I reached a more honest point in our relationship. I started saying that I wanted him to be the only man touching me, the only man inside me… these confessions were uttered between the sheets, but they were true.

I liked saying them, but what I needed was to HEAR them from him. And while he seemed to like what he heard, he never reciprocated the desire. I had to remain content with the fact that he wasn’t disputing me.

One day after a brief east coast dalliance with G, I took a flight home by myself. I masturbated in the plane lavatory with a tiny vibrating bullet. I fantasized about G telling me I was his… reminding me that he could fuck his wife whenever he wanted and any other woman he felt like…but that no other man could lay his hands on me. That I was only his to fuck… I came that way, in the tiny metal bathroom.

That evening in a remarkably good mood, I agreed to go with a couple new friends to my first bondage party. I dressed in lingerie and stockings and texted G about my plans. One of the things he wrote back was, “I’m jealous.”

What he meant was, I’m jealous that you have a fun night out planned, and I’m staying home.

What my desperate, eager little brain thought he meant was, I’m jealous because you’re getting all sexed up and you’ll be around horny men all night. (As though he was exhibiting a twinge of territorialism).

I felt so happy! I immediately wrote back about how glad I was to hear that, what I thought about when I was masturbating on the plane, how I’d wanted to hear him say that for a long time…

… Until two minutes later when I realized my mistake. I was mortified. So hungry for him to be jealous, I imagined he told me what I wanted to hear. I hate embarrassment. On Clarissa Explains It All, Melissa Joan Hart used to say, “Embarrassment is my least favorite emotion.” I think about that quotation a lot. It’s my least favorite, too, Clarissa.

That’s one reason the night progressed the way it did. I was in a bad mood all evening, sipping a poorly mixed cocktail and wanting to be alone. I was alone when I sat on the edge of a dais in my lingerie, watching a man beat two women while they squealed and tried to protect each other. After “the scene” was over, the beater came and sat next to me. He was dripping in sweat. I indicated his forehead and said, “Hard work?”

He told me later I was “choice of the night” and that every Dom there noticed me the moment I walked in. How flattering. I was feeling low and therefore in a receptive mood for flattery. That’s probably one reason I didn’t stop what happened next. That, and it happened so fast! One moment we were talking, and the next he wrapped his hand around my throat and pulled me over his lap, sliding an electrical knife down my body.

This led to an extended session of our own. Things went farther than I would have consented to, had I been asked beforehand. I'm not saying he crossed any lines as it happened… it’s complicated when something like this is happening to you. I’ll expand on that another time. I’ll say this much. I was beaten, exposed, and kissed.

The odd thing is, I thought about G the whole time. I remember specifically lying on a backwards chair and getting flogged, thinking about G… because it felt like I was cheating on him. My neckline was around my waist by that point, and my breasts were mashed against the chair’s cold leather as the flogger’s strokes rained down on my bare skin. I thought about my earlier text, the way I’d embarrassed myself. I thought that just because I wanted G to care this was happening, didn’t mean he would.

So I let it continue.

The next day I told G what happened. And after a day’s contemplation, he told me (drumroll please…)

that it bothered him.

Yaayyy!

The thought of another man touching my ass or pussy made him feel “nauseated.” Not the choicest of words to rev my kinky little engine, but I still ate it up… later upon reflection, I grew to like his diction. “Nauseated” is so much more visceral than “angry” or “upset.” Nauseated…

The problem is, G’s too good of a guy. He was so aware of the imbalance in our situation… he didn’t feel decent asking for or expecting my fidelity. He thought it would be the height of hypocrisy. Which it is!.. But that’s what gets me off. The unfairness. I hadn’t properly communicated to him that I wanted the unfairness. That it was exciting to me for my own twisted reasons.

I couldn’t communicate these things to him blatantly… I was embarrassed, and I didn’t want him to think I was misinterpreting our relationship. So I kept my mouth shut. Until…

The next time I saw him. We were in bed, and I told him I thought he should be the only man I slept with. He hesitated momentarily, and I asked, “Don’t you want it?”

He said, “Of course I want it.”

Of course I want it…

Mmmmm. Tell me that’s not the yummiest thing you’ve ever heard. As though his desire to have me to himself should have been obvious.

I said, “Put your hand between my legs, so you can feel how wet that makes me.”

That’s all it took. Once I said that, it was on. Like once he understood it was a sex thing, a switch was flipped.

That's my baby.

He told me everything I’d been dying to hear. How I’d only be with him, only touched by him, felt by him, taken by him… The sex was hot… hearing these words spill out of him, words I’d been aching to hear for such a long time, all while being taken with force.. At one point he used the word “demand.” In regards to my fidelity, he said, “I demand it.”

Uhhhh… I’ve relived that moment many times. For my fidelity to be demanded… not requested or hoped for.. but demanded. I loved it. My physical needs were met that day, but more importantly, this twisted, psychological desire of mine was satisfied.

As he left, he said he was glad we’d gotten this straightened out, because he “doesn’t share well.”

I love that about him.

It’s so strange… when I first started sleeping with G, given that we were knowingly entering a temporary relationship, albeit an addictive one, we used to consider finding me a cuckold. If I fell for the right man with the right predilection, G and I could sleep together indefinitely… Just a couple-a crazy kids, married to some cucks, bangin' each others' brains out… happily ever after.

I know now I could never be happy with a cuckold. I don’t like being with more than one man. Women are a different story. I consider myself to be currently positioned in the ideal situation. I can get all the yummy, giddy fun of first meetings, flirtations, saucy encounters (with women), but I get the deeper satisfaction of remaining un-shared by my male lover.

These circumstances would be enough to make me happy, but getting to bring my women to G so he can enjoy them, and getting to arouse him with the stories of my lesbian exploits are all icings on my cake.

Instead of finding a cuck, I turned out to be one.

G could ask me for pretty much any sexual deviancy... but if he decided to share me with another man, it would break my heart.

I’ve been doing a lot of research on cuckquean forums and messageboards. What I’ve heard from a few women I’ve asked, is that their choice to be faithful stems primarily from indifference toward other men. They don’t sleep with other men, simply because they have no interest in it. It’s a secondary, if not tertiary, aspect to their cuck relationships.

For me, it might be the most important thing. I derive a significant amount of pleasure from NOT being shared. It’s crucial. I like being owned, controlled, possessed…

…Kept. ;-)

Xox

Finding the Kinky on Craigslist

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 13 Jan 2013 19:28:00 +0000

Maybe you’re looking to spice things up with your spouse. Or maybe you’re looking to explore some hidden niche of your sexuality. Maybe you’re looking to scratch a secret itch, fetish-ally speaking. Or maybe you just want to have an amazing trip out of town with a sexy stranger.

Whatever your impulses, proclivities, desires, urges… there’s really only one place to look.

The internet.

There are an infinite number of sources available to us. We need people.. to help us live our fantasies, to connect with, to validate us… Online you can post an ad. An ad that details exactly what you’re looking for, whom you’re hoping to find, and what you want to do with them. You CAN find the right person…

But it’s gonna be a BITCH until you do.

I’ve been tricked so many times! I’ve been lied to repeatedly, and repeatedly I have fallen for the traps these strangers set. An embarrassing number of times. I’ve been fooled into thinking I was talking to a woman instead of a man. I've been fooled into thinking I was talking to a couple, when in reality I was talking to- you guessed it- a man. Men will screw with you to get pictures, they’ll screw with you to stroke their egos, and they’ll screw with you for the hell of it.

Don’t let them.

There are a few things you can do to weed out spam, creeps, and manipulators. Insist whoever answers your ad put a certain word or phrase in the subject line. Only open emails that follow these instructions. If you see ANY emails asking you to join a site (even if it’s free), don’t do it. You will be getting A LOT of spam. Be prepared to ignore it.

VOICE VERIFY. Before you do anything, like getting involved in a lengthy correspondence or sending anyone pictures… talk to them on the phone. Even if it’s just for a few seconds. I understand you may be reluctant to hand a stranger your phone number, but in my experience… I’ve never regretted giving out my phone number. I HAVE regretted sending people pictures. If the person you’re speaking to is genuine and reasonable, they will agree to speak on the phone immediately. You won’t scare them away. (On a side note, I’d also recommend only taking dirty photos that don’t show your face. These photos should never be able to come back and haunt you. Of course that’s not my ass! Plausible deniability.)

Match the tone of your ad to the nature of your desired encounter. If you’re looking for a one night hook up, be as vulgar and explicit as you’d like. You’re looking for a get-to-the-point girl. BUT I’ll bet anyone reading this blog is more interested in worthwhile, long term kinky adventures. You’re probably seeking a quality, open minded woman. Make your ad concise, but thoughtful. Let any readers see you’re intelligent and respectful. And then..

Be patient. Quality girls are hard to find. You may be waiting a while. Post a new ad every few days and remain optimistic. She’s out there, and when you find your quality girl, you’ll be glad you didn’t waste time with the dirty girrrrrl asking you to "hit her up." You’ll also avoid contracting anything.

I cannot stress the importance of that first phone call. When you’re tricked, you feel not only stupid, but violated. You feel disappointed and discouraged. You feel shitty. One phone call is a small hurdle to jump through in order to avoid these feelings. Be good to yourself. Insist on hearing their voice. The worst that will happen from releasing your number is having a few unwanted dick pics sent to you via text. Unpleasant, but you’ll survive.

Remember to use a fake email address when dealing with online kink.Create a free one, and use that exclusively. If you're emailing from a smartphone, make sure your mail is being sent from the correct address each time.

A handy website to know is www.tineye.com. This website can examine the photo you receive (from a perspective partner) and tell you whether the photo appears somewhere else online. If the photo is a google image or from a dating site, you'll know. Many people steal pics from other websites and try passing them off as their own. Tineye is an effective tool for weeding out these scamps.

Allow your internet search to be an adventure, and keep your sense of humor about it. You may or may not find true love this way. But you’ll find something. Settle in for a long process, take every response with a grain of salt, and laugh.

Happy hunting.

Xox

Last Night...

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 12 Jan 2013 03:44:00 +0000

Don’t you love those mornings when you can’t stop grinning?

Last night was not at all what I expected. I made a series of blunders and errors… My timing was off. I had my nails done, curled my hair, packed our toys, stopped at the drugstore, and made it to the hotel late. I scrambled to get my enema done and arrange the room with our instruments, lining the dresser drawers with white fluffy towels and laying out everything neatly inside.

I was barely finished when G arrived. I let him inside, delighted to note the bottle of my favorite whiskey in his hand. I was wearing the little blue dress I wore the night we met. We kissed and held each other, and everything was going swimmingly until the moment he mentioned tying me up...

Because I’d forgotten the rope.

G wasn’t pleased. He rightfully pointed out that I’d had all day to prepare.. I’d made him wait, I’d forgotten the rope, I’d ALSO forgotten the candles to light the room… Why had I been so negligent?

When I screw up with G, he never gets angry. I’ve never heard him raise his voice. I’ve never seen him lose his temper… Somehow it’s worse. He notes the transgression, lets me know he’s disappointed, and files it away in his brain. Like it’s gone on my permanent record.

He thought I’d “forgotten” the items on purpose, to give him reason to punish me. That wasn’t true, but the truth wouldn’t stop me from getting on the wrong side of a beating. And unfortunately, while I’d forgotten ropes (my favorite thing), I’d remembered clamps (my least favorite thing).

He made me lie on the bed while he placed a plastic base between my breasts. Clamps were attached to my nipples, and they were slowly pulled taut as he cranked the little device. It hurt so much, but the fact that I’d ruined his plans bothered me much more than the pain.

He had planned to tie me up and leave me that way for the bellhop to see, as he delivered the room service. Forgive me, but that sounded dead sexy. The idea that he planned something that scandalous, and was unable to execute it because I screwed up- drove me mad.

Instead, he made me strip down to my panties and see-through negligee as I answered the door and signed the bill for our dinner. The bell hop was very professional. Didn’t bat an eye. I wonder how many times he’s been the pawn in visitors’ kinky games.

If embarrassment #1 was being ill equipped for our evening, Embarrassment # 2 was leaving the tag on my lingerie. G spotted it, laughed, and teased me while extracting the offensive bit of paper. I wanted to die. Apparently, attempting a sex-savvy blog doesn’t prevent me from acting like a total novice when I’m alone with a man. It’s hard not to feel like a little girl playing a woman’s game.

I’m happy to report Liz joined us after all. She stopped by for drinks after we finished our supper. She wore a silk dress, heels, stockings and a garter belt. No panties. I enjoyed the conversation we all shared, but from the way she dressed, I knew she was ready for more than whiskey.

G carried her to the bed. It was lovely to watch. Liz is a tiny thing, short and small framed- like a bird.. G typically goes for small women- I’m the misfit in his band of Eskimo sisters, because I’m tall and curved.

Once we were in bed, we shared each other in the most natural way… no toys or commands. Soft kissing, licking, stroking… sharing in a way that was both simple and effortless. I loved watching them kiss. I loved watching them do everything… I loved watching him pleasure her. But she’s so small, at one point he fucked her so hard I grew worried! I intervened enough to make sure she was alright. They both assured me she was fine and not to worry, so I tabled my mama bear instincts.

G held me in his arms while Liz kissed her way to the tops of my thighs. I was looking into G’s eyes the moment I felt her tongue. I gasped. G smiled. He nods sometimes during sex- when things are going the way he likes. He nodded then.

I melted.

One moment that will be burned in my mind forever… Liz between my legs and G sliding down to join her. He suggested they eat me out together. Can you imagine? Two tongues on my clit, two hot mouths breathing and kissing my pussy.. then each other.. then my pussy. Uhhhhh!…. That was mentally the hottest thing, but what felt even better was when G had his finger(s) inside me and rubbed- during which time Liz kissed and licked me there with her puckered mouth. I loved the strength behind G’s fingers and the softness of Liz’s kiss. The juxtaposition was intoxicating. I want that again.

Another favorite of mine- giving G a blowjob with another girl. I first saw that in a porno last year- after I met G but before we tried a threesome. It looked so sexy... The other thing that looked sexy in that porno was kissing another girl while G fucked one of us, so he’d have that to watch while feeling a pussy around him. Although this desire had more to do with my fixation on the man’s perspective (See My Sexuality for an explanation). I always imagined that moment through G’s point of view…

Anyway, the dual blow job really is as exciting as I’d hoped it would be. Sliding our tongues along the length of him, all the way up until our mouths met… intermittently feeling her soft lips as I sucked his hard girth. We did it together, and we took turns. We teamed up- her mouth on his balls and my mouth on his shaft.. it made me feel both close to her and grateful to her- for helping me please my man. All the while listening to him vocalize his approval. So nice… How could you not be grateful to a woman for making someone you love that happy? Making him feel so good he moans… She’s a gem.

I kissed her while he fucked me. I liked squeaking into her mouth and pressing her lips to mine.. harder each time he thrust…. Later we relaxed, intertwined. I was in the middle and had an arm around each of my darlings. Beyond comfortable. I thought I couldn’t feel any happier.. until the moment G reached his arms around me, one above and one beneath. He touched her. He touched her pussy. He slid his fingers inside of her and rubbed. With his bottom hand, he anchored her frame. With his top hand, he got her off. I know how good those fingers feel… I know what they can do to you. He drew her closer, making me turn on my side. Facing G, I felt his strong arms around me- making the woman behind me shake and whimper. I was trapped. I couldn’t move without knocking either of his arms and disrupting the momentum.

She came.

So many delicious moments… so many intimate, sensual touches. G had to leave before morning, but I hope it was as difficult for him to leave the naked, writhing women on the bed as he made it seem.

This morning Liz had to leave early for work. She kissed me, laid her hand on my chest, and told me I was beautiful. Not just the way I looked, but the way I held myself… with poise. Isn’t that a lovely compliment? I rose from bed grinning, and I haven’t stopped all day. I listened to a terrible Avril Lavigne song on the radio and still managed to tap my fingers. That means I was in a really good mood. Stubbing my toe and needing to call a plumber today STILL didn’t remove the smile from my face.

In fact, I’m smiling now.

Xox

Tonight...

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 10 Jan 2013 23:12:00 +0000

Tonight is going to be special.

G booked a suite in a beautiful hotel. I have a gorgeous set of La Perla lingerie I’m going to christen (a Christmas present from G). But most exciting… we’re going to have dinner. J That never happens! Usually it’s sex in my apartment or flirtations over the phone.. I can count the number of times we’ve shared a meal on two hands.

It’s funny… my relationship with G has progressed backwards. Usually you meet someone, go on some dates, have a few dinners, meet each others’ friends, have sex, maybe get a little kinky…

G and I started off with the hardest core sex I’ve ever had. More kink, more sex, more shock… then after several months, he snuck me along on an overnight business trip. When we (gasp!) had dinner together! In a restaurant. It seemed like a huge step we were taking. Were we ready?? It was a little disconcerting being around him for 48 hours straight, and spending maybe three of those on my back.

For his birthday, Mrs. G sent us on a weekend getaway. We had a bath together in the luxurious hotel she’d chosen. Mmmmm it was cozy. Another first for us, sitting in water.

Each milestone is more normal and domestic than the last. G helping me fill out a form, including me in an email forward, helping me pick out a de-clogging agent for my shower drain. I’d let him put a camera up my ass, but if he ever asked me to mail a letter I might say, “Whoa! This is moving pretty fast!”

Kidding. Mostly. Anyway, tonight was supposed to be a kinky night of debaucherous fun. At first I had not one- but TWO sexy ladies lined up to join us. G was going to take us all to dinner at the hotel, and then disarmingly invite us upstairs. Where I’d have the room set with our toys, instruments, accessories… I was more excited about the dinner than the sex, actually. I know these girls, and the idea of him conversing with all three of us at once was thrilling. One of my darlings couldn’t make it, but I still had my main lady squeeze. She's a tiny, beautiful woman. She reminds me of Elizabeth Taylor... thick, drawn eyebrows, scarlet lips, and lots of style. I'll call her Liz.

Last night, G and I teased each other over texts.. . He told me he’d booked the suite under my name. And I said, “How nice! But where will you two sleep?”

He informed me he’d just tie me to the chandelier, where I could hang all night and watch them make out beneath me like junior high kids.

Isn’t he a charmer?

I sent him dirty photos and detailed what I wanted him to see me do with Liz. Lots of licking, strap on play, cumming in her mouth.. I wanted him to see everything.

I went to bed with a pleasant anticipatory feeling, but before I could lose consciousness, Liz texted me that she’d likely be unable to make it. :-( My amazing date- the date I’d taken off work for- canceled a mere two hours after the nonrefundable hotel was booked. Lovely.

I wouldn’t feel bad, except this is the second time G booked a room after I promised him another woman… only for me to show up one pussy short.

We discussed other options, contingency plans… we’re fortunate enough to know a few beautiful and sexually adventurous women. But we decided to be the only lucky devils enjoying the suite and each others’ company tonight.

I am giving myself not one, but two enemas. I am shaving and exfoliating. I am getting a mani pedi. I am curling my hair with hot rollers. I am wearing the aforementioned lingerie with sheer hosiery and high heeled stilettos.

I am packing every dirty toy we’ve collected: rope, clamps, electrical unit… even the strap on in case Liz decides to make an appearance. And I’m arriving at the hotel early…

And so. Tonight will be special. I love meeting in hotels. It takes me back to our early days together… our clandestine hotel meetings. Spending hours preparing, rolling stockings up my legs, painting my lips, carefully arranging the bobby pins in my hair… every moment the anticipation building until I’m a nervous wreck when I teeter into the hotel lobby. Well… sometimes I teeter. Sometimes I saunter. Sometimes I lug an enormous case of sex equipment behind me…

I wish I could plan something new and hot to surprise him with. A new toy or a strip tease… something he isn’t expecting. I love surprising him. But I don’t know what toy I could possibly surprise him with… our toys are usually used on me. So that seems a little selfish: Surprise! Use this on me so I can get off! And as far as strip teases, what am I going to do? Sit him down in a chair and DANCE for him? That’s so… silly. I couldn’t pull it off.

God. It’s like if I’m not surprising him with another woman, I don’t know what to do! I’ll be thinking on this until 8pm tonight when we’re meeting. If ANYONE has an idea for a surprise or an adventure I can spring on him...

Check back tomorrow for a full account of our exploits. Mmm… like I said, tonight will be special. Can’t wait to share it.

Xox

Nymphomaniac

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 08 Jan 2013 22:18:00 +0000

I didn’t move to Los Angeles to be a sex blogger. Or a kink columnist. Or a pin-up girl.

I actually moved here to be an actress. In that regard, I’m different than millions of other girls who move to LA every year.

Oh, wait. No, I’m not.

I started writing a few years ago as a hobby, and it became an outlet. I’ve written a few articles and two unpublished novels. One thing they all have in common is that they have NOTHING to do with sex.

I used to think I had a low libido. Sure, I masturbated every night, but how else do you fall asleep? I didn’t want to have sex that often. I didn’t think about sex that often. I didn’t feel sexy that often.

Being hurtled head first into a debaucherous life of kink is a swift way to remedy that. The past year I’ve been consumed with sordid impulses. I’m in a constant state of preoccupation.

Last Summer, I went to New York with my sister. As we strolled the busy, hectic streets, our conversations trailed from one subject to another, rising and falling in their level of interest. The way they always do.

Nothing about our interaction seemed different to me at all until the moment she turned and said, “God! Can you stop talking about sex for one minute?”

I hadn’t even realized I’d been doing it.

She informed me that no matter what topic we raised, I found a way to turn it back to sex. She said I seemed obsessed. And here I was, thinking we were having a normal, pleasant conversation.

This got me thinking… is that the way my brain works now? Do I revert everything back to sex? Are my thoughts on an endless cycle of:

sex-something else-sex-another thing-sex-different subject-sex…

What does that make me? The term nymphomaniac is thrown around pretty cavalierly. People use it to describe every woman from a sex addict to someone with a normal, healthy sexual appetite. It’s become a subjective term in our collective vocabulary. But when I went to the dictionary, the definition was too vague to clear anything up.

Abnormally excessive and uncontrollable sexual desire in women.

What the hell does that mean? In what sense? To what degree? Who determines what’s abnormal?

It IS, by its own nature, a subjective word.

Excessive, ok. But uncontrollable? Does this imply a nymphomaniac is incapable of preventing herself from having sex?... Because that depends on what’s meant by “sexual desire.”

What if her sexual desire includes only watching others have sex, while never participating herself? If this sexual desire is excessive and uncontrollable, is she still a nymphomaniac? Even if she’s chaste?

I think so.

So what if a woman’s sexual desire consists of having dirty thoughts? Fantasizing, plotting, reliving…

I don't have that much sex, despite the opposite impression this site gives you. I get lucky about twice a week.

But... If I THINK about sex constantly, might I STILL be a nymphomaniac? If my sex-driven thought patterns are excessive and uncontrollable..?

Could be.

How many women have you known that fit the standard for nymphomania, in one context or another?

Leave me a comment and tell me, because I’m deadly curious.

… And I need something to think about later. ;-)

Xox

My Sexuality

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 07 Jan 2013 21:20:00 +0000

I never made a habit of looking at porn. In fact, I didn't even see a
pornographic image until after I lost my virginity. 

Every time I masturbated, I used my imagination. Eyes shut, fantasies
whirring... I thought about rape. I thought about being trapped in a confined
space with a man. I thought about being held down and restrained- tied to a
tree, cuffed to a desk... 

At fifteen, I discovered www.literotica.com.
It's an erotic story publishing site, for amateur writers. There are categories
for every fetish imaginable. This is the site I used exclusively for
masturbatory material until a year ago... What can I say? I'm a creature
of habit.

I read about a lot of weird stuff. I mean weird. Stuff so strange
and disconcerting it's going to have to wait for another post. I have another
direction to explore right now. 

Every now and then I'd come across a story so hot, I would cum to it for
days. Then I'd read any sequels or follow-ups it had. Then I'd go to the
author's page and read all their other entries, sometimes with luck- sometimes
not. The point is, there were a number of stories that struck me as
irresistibly arousing, and they all had ONE thing in common.

They were written from the perspective of the man.

The way he viewed the woman in front of him, the parts of her body he
noticed and why. What he wanted to do to her. How badly he wanted
it... 

Sometimes while touching myself, I'd imagine the thoughts streaming
through a man's brain. What especially turned me on was the thought
of a man losing control.. I once read a story about a man who escaped from
prison. He was hiding in a tree and spied a woman in a bikini sunning herself
nearby. Unable to stop himself, he attacked her. Forced himself on her- took
her brutally and came quickly..

Then again, sometimes there was nothing sexier than a man plotting... spying
a woman, planning to abduct her or seduce her... imagining what her body would
feel like and laying a trap. Or setting a camera and masturbating to her image.

I sometimes implement this mind-spying in my real life. When G's looking
between my legs or bending me over, I wonder what he's thinking. What it is
that's turning him on. Just the sight of my pussy?

How incredible is it that a man- a person- can simply look at a
basic part of human anatomy and achieve arousal? I can't do it. I can't look at
a person's ass or breasts or cock and... get wet. It's just a body. Skin and
tissue and bone. What turns me on are situations and thoughts.

Anyway, there's a reason I never told anyone about this. This- sneaking into
a man's brain. I didn't want to tell ANYONE because I feared whoever I told
would think one thing: that I was a man
trapped inside a woman's body.

And I'm not! I swear I'm not! I like being a girl. I like having a vagina. I
even like wearing high heels, which means I'm definitely on board with
estrogen. Bleeding once a month and hating myself during puberty are small
prices to pay for the myriad of perks I enjoy every day for being a lady.

I've never heard of another woman who thinks this way, and I'm scared to
discuss it so frankly now- even anonymously. There's somehow shame tied
into it.. but my thinking began to alter several months ago.

G and I had our first threesome. I met a woman who graciously accepted our
invitation to bed, and we spent an evening in a hotel together. She'd never
been dominated. I'd never seen my lover sleep with another woman. I'd never had
sex in front of someone else. It was a night of firsts.

I was nervous. Once in high school, a friend told me she knew a woman who
consented to a threesome with her husband. She thought she'd be ok with it, but
when she actually saw her husband fucking another woman- it destroyed her. She
felt damaged by it. The images haunted her. I don't think the marriage ever
truly recovered. 

What if that happened to me? I thought I'd be ok with it, but what
if I was wrong? What if I had an unforeseen emotional response that made me
feel crushed? I knew there was a chance things would go horribly awry, and that
would be the end of G and me....  Then something happened. 

It was phenomenal!

The moment he first reached for her, I felt a surge of excitement. When he
kissed her, I was awestruck. As he dominated her.. hitting her and zapping her
and holding her by the hair, I was awash with emotions. Shock. Delight. Pride.
Heat. I saw her responding the way I responded to G. I was proud
to deliver his prowess to my new friend. I was proud to deliver a new
toy to him. 

This new viewpoint.. knowing them both and watching them interact. Seeing
how they responded to each other. God, it was fascinating! A few times I found
myself wishing they didn't know I was in the room. I thought they kept glancing
at me, possibly making sure I was ok or enjoying myself. But the thought that I
was in their heads took me out of it. Just that one night, I wanted to be
a fly on the wall. The novelty and my reaction to it was so overwhelming..
at one point I was sitting on the floor by the bed, on top of which she was
riding him. I remember surreptitiously rubbing myself, sneakily masturbating
because I didn't want to steal focus. I didn't want to distract them in any
way. 

Have you ever been stunned at what turned you on? It's a good feeling. Like
a door's opening into a vast room you didn't know existed, one filled with fun
possibilities...

How could I like watching them? I'm not a voyeur. I just explained that the
visual doesn't do it for me. If I was looking at the same two people fucking -
only they were total strangers- I'd be bored.

During a phone conversation a few weeks ago, G made a comment to me. For the
first time in my life, I mentioned preferring dirty stories from the
perspectives of men. And he said he wasn't surprised, because I was
"fascinated by male sexuality." It was such a simple and harmless way
to describe me. It was true! And it was simple. And it was harmless. And it was
true.

The more I meditated on that, the more other things started to make sense... My first trip to a strip club was with G, a brief visit on our way out of town. We only stayed a few minutes, but I was far more interested in watching G watch the girls, than I was in watching the girls themselves. I wanted to see where his eyes trailed- what part of them was he looking at? Which girls did he prefer? 



When I'm alone with a woman and we're fooling around, I imagine G watching. I
wonder if it would turn him on. Sometimes when the girl is on top of me, I
picture G on top of her. Sometimes I get excited at the idea of
telling him what we did the next day.

I felt terrible about this the first few times it happened. As though I was
one of those insufferable women who only pretended to be
bisexual, so they could excite the men around them. I hate those
women. But if imagining a man's reaction simply heightens an experience I
already find erotic, I don't think I'm guilty of this. 

And there's something else...  The other day at work, there was this cute receptionist in the
break room. She bent over, extracting a cup of yogurt from the fridge. As
she straightened, I stared at her. She was very short and had this cute
rounded bottom, clearly outlined by her stretchy black pants. I noticed the way
her breasts jutted out, emphasized by her long dark hair cascading over one
side... I found myself wondering what G would notice about her. Wondering if
he'd be aroused. Wondering what he would imagine doing to her...

And yeah, it turned me on. 

This is common for me. When I see an attractive woman now, I
think of G’s reaction to her. I imagine what it would take to get her into his
bed. I used to feel so shitty about
this, because I was this traitorous, faux- bisexual trickster- pathetically
desperate to please her man, at the expense of the innocent women around her. 

But that’s not what it is! I’m realizing now.. these thoughts,
these impulses, turn ME on. Sure, G benefits. But I’m not doing them or wanting
them for only his pleasure. I want them
for my own. To keep denying that is to repress my own sexuality. 

G has become my conduit to the male sexual psyche.
Now instead of ambiguous imaginary men, I have this one real person to channel my fantasies
through. Specificity is always more satisfying then generality. And G is perfect because he's a dog. He notices women constantly. He considers them frequently. And occasionally... he fucks them. I adore his fixation. I want a man so in love with pussy he wants all of it...

I don’t know why I’m
this way. 

I didn’t think I was a cuckquean, because I assumed all
cuckqueans wanted to be demeaned and humiliated by the act of her partner being
with someone else. (I’ve learned this assumption is untrue). And I didn’t think
I was a voyeur, because I’m not a visual person. 

But if wanting your man to sleep with other women, while not
sleeping with other men yourself, makes you a cuckquean- then yup. Ok, that’s
me. And if getting off to watching certain sexual acts makes you a voyeur, then
fine- ok fine, maybe I’m that, too. (Although I’m not really sold here, because
my watching has to occur during some some pretty specific circumstances).

However I label myself, I'm curious to know if anyone relates. I don’t think anyone likes feeling alone in their
desires. 

Xox

KC

Tape Job

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 05 Jan 2013 20:46:00 +0000

Yesterday G came to see me. He had me prepare for his arrival by placing black mechanical tape around my legs and arms, putting on fresh panties, and making myself cum.

He found me on my bed, sprawled wide, panties wet, relaxed...

After removing my tiny lace thong, he continued the tape job, attaching my left limbs together.. then my right limbs together.. He taped my hands into fists and panties inside my mouth. Taped me until I was fully exposed and unable to cover or protect myself. Taped away my modesty and protestations.

Taped me into a toy.

I've never been clamped, but I've known for a while it was an inevitability. Once I was taped open for him, G placed clothespins on my pussy.

It hurt much worse than I expected... and differently. The pain wasn't immediate- the initial shock of the first pinch made me jump, but the next few minutes were worse. The pinch blossomed into an ache, which made me writhe and moan. Take them off take them off take them off...

After removing the evil clamps from my pussy, he attached them to my nipples. It was terrible! The right hurt worse than the left, and he had me on my elbows and knees, so all I could do was stare at them as they hung menacingly beneath me.

G said he'd forgotten something in his car, but I suspected it was premeditated as he left me there with shooting pain through my tits. I glanced at the clock to measure exactly how long he was gone. The clock said 4:25.

To his credit, he retuned quickly and thoughtfully warned me before removing the clamps. The blood rushed back into my nipples with a violent force, making me jerk and whimper. What he'd forgotten in his car was a single malt whiskey, which he helped himself to with a glass from my kitchen. He sipped it slowly as I regained my composure.

I have a large glass butt plug that I'm completely terrified of. He gave it to me a year ago and occasionally threatens me with its introduction.

I wasn't fasted or prepared for anal play. I hoped desperately he wouldn't put it there, and thankfully he pressed it against my vagina instead. The glass was cold. He pushed it inside, centimeter by centimeter.. I started to panic he'd push it all the way in, but he stopped and used it to look inside me.

There's something terrifying and enormously exciting when this happens. To be looked inside of... He told me later he could see all the way to my cervix.

It was quivering.

Unfinished, G extracted an electrical wand from our stash of devices. The end is glass and very delicate, and it delivers a sharp sting when plugged in. The pain isn't too bad, but it's very startling. There's something unnerving about having electricity run through you, so the mental impact is more significant than the physical. It DID hurt, however, when he touched the wetness between my legs. The electricity was conducted much more there. And its plethora of nerve endings makes my asshole extremely sensitive.

He told me when he shocked me there, my vaginal wetness swelled and began to drip.

Needless to say, when the foreplay was over he took me hard. I can tell when the fucking's about to get violent, because he plants his foot next to me- for leverage. He fucked me with my face buried in the mattress, then he turned me over to fuck me on my back. My taped gag had fallen down, so he put a pillow over my face to muffle the sound.

He came on my eye... and my cheek and the tape around my jaw.

Later, after cuddling, he fucked me again while lying on his side. He placed his hand over my pussy, leaving a small window through his fingers for me to touch my clit. I liked touching myself with that restricted access. As I rubbed, I felt the weight of his palm stimulate me flatly. The contrast between my own sharp clit-fingering and the solid flat pressure from his hand sent me over the edge. I came crying his name.

All in all, I had a very pleasant afternoon. He left me tired and covered in tape residue, playfully swatting my bottom before disappearing. He's a playful guy. ;-)

Xox
KC

Rite Aid

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 03 Jan 2013 11:29:00 +0000

For two weeks G was out of town, and therefore (due to the laws of physics) unable to have sex with me. I thought it would be fun to send him teasing texts. To flaunt what he couldn’t touch. I sent him picture close-ups and smart ass quips. I was having a lot of fun until the moment he returned.

I arrived home from work to find a large manila envelope waiting for me.

G instructed me not to open it until the following day. Once open, I was supposed to put on whatever was inside and cover it with nothing but my short trench coat.

After donning sunglasses and stilettos, I was to drive to my nearest Rite Aid and purchase everything he wrote on a shopping list. Dozens of items, from makeup to perfume to contraception.

G would be there himself, innocently shopping as he strolled around the store. I was not to acknowledge him in any way, but I'd be aware of his presence. I'd be aware of him watching.

On the day specified, I opened the envelope to discover the most vulgar undergarment I’d ever seen. A crotchless, fishnet body stocking.

I should be clear. My trench coat is very short. It barely covers my ass when my arms are by my side. What he was telling me to do was humiliating and potentially dangerous. Images of me being asked to leave or put in a squad car for indecent exposure flashed through my mind.

But I went.

I wiggled into the disturbingly sexually-overt clothing. I pulled down my coat and grabbed a big purse for cover. G had parked outside my apartment so he could watch me scamper to my car and take off.

Inside the Rite Aid, the attention I attracted was significant. I felt the stares, the once-overs. Maybe it was my paranoia, but every employee, every customer seemed to give me a second glance. Some seemed to outright watch me as I pushed my cart from aisle to aisle, plucking my designated items.. black eyeliner, feminine wipes, spermicidal foam…

Occasionally, I'd catch sight of G as he examined a product across the building, walked from one display to the next, brushed his erection against my backside as he squeezed past…

My arousal was palpable. Without panties, my wetness pooled between my legs. G texted me sporadically, about the men and women noticing me. Some with interest, some with revulsion. He told me what my appearance was doing to him. How badly he wanted me... I should have been blushing and wishing myself dead, but instead I couldn't stop grinning.

Eventually I quit spotting G, but I diligently kept shopping. There must have been fifty items on that list. Condoms, red lipstick, a pair of kitchen scissors… A man called out “You’re beautiful!” I laughed and hoped G heard it. I was having fun, feeling sexy and mischievous… until G texted me again.

“I’m at your house.”

He was gone. The fun died. He was gone! Suddenly I felt naked. Exposed. Embarrassed. My sense of security shattered. I didn’t feel sexy. I felt ridiculous. Everyone was viewing me not with desire, but with scrutiny and judgment. I ducked my head and scuttled to the counter. A young kid checked me out (no pun intended), and I meekly gathered my bags before rushing to the safety of my car.

I must have caught every red light on my way back. The drive seemed endless. What was he doing in my house? What was he looking at? Were there any dirty dishes in my sink? I used the shopping bags as camouflage as I raced to my front door. My nerves were so shot I jumped as he turned a corner into my dining room.

I can’t remember if I got a kiss before he grabbed me and bent me over my table. He pushed my coat up before prodding and grasping my flesh. He felt me everywhere, kicked my legs apart, told me to stand as he pulled off my coat and directed me to bed.

I writhed on my duvet as he rooted through the shopping bags, remarking on my adequacy. He brandished two rolls of what he explained was “bondage tape” and attached my left leg to my left arm. Tightly. He repeated the procedure on my right. Then I was blindfolded.

And for the first time since I met him, he let go.

Spanked me. Fingered me. Slapped me in the face. Called me a slut and made me choke on the hard length of his cock. He was rough… very rough. He fucked me in the pussy, ramming into my cervix so hard I sputtered and cried out. He fucked me in the ass, made me scream. Hole to hole to hole…

So wet... I was so wet, and the harder he pushed me, the harder I soaked. It was all consuming. There was so much stimulation.. every thought in my head was driven out. Every reaction of mine was physical and base. No thought. No apologies. No concerns.

Meditation practitioners are able to achieve this state while sitting next to a pond. It's called being truly present. Living in a moment. Apparently, it takes me a blow to the face and a throat full of cock to get there.

Namistad.

T grabbed the kitchen scissors and cut away at the stocking, cutting openings for my breasts, which he reached through to grasp and torture my nipples.

And then he pinned me beneath him and made me open my mouth. He told me he was going to spit and not to move. He did this deliberately, because I told him that was one thing I’d truly hate.

He spit in my fucking mouth.

I took it. I took everything. The pain, the degradation, the insults, the fucking… The spit sent me over the edge. It was terrible, and I still took it. I couldn’t do anything in that moment but be open and fuckable and totally obedient. He pulled me over a line, covered me in his cum, and left, without a thought for my pleasure. It was a punishment for my flaunting. A reminder of who we were.

I don't know if I've ever felt so good, as after he left me that day. I felt euphoric. Giddy. Fulfilled... I didn't even masturbate. I wanted to pick up the phone and call everyone I knew to brag... But I didn't.

Because I'm a secret.

Xoxox

The Pain

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 03 Jan 2013 11:22:00 +0000

I have this theory that all couples engage in sadomasochism on some level, whether or not they know it, whether or not it’s sexual. The instinct to inflict or receive pain, to wield or relinquish power, is so primitive and instinctual, it’s within us all.

I once read this novel about wolves. The protagonist was a young female wolf, new to the pack. She was so driven by instinct… she second guessed nothing, was taught nothing. She succumbed every moment to what her body and id urged her to. At a display of power from the pack leader, she’d roll onto her back or display her neck, making herself vulnerable and accessible. I’m beneath you! You can have me! Please protect me!

Power establishment is an animal thing. We tap into it during our most animal moments, sex. And pain is a tool to assert this power.

Ever since I was in training pants, I was having fantasies about bondage. Before I knew what sex was, I fantasized about being tied to a rock and having things – strange things- done to me.

When I learned about sex, my fantasies took a more clear direction. I thought about being raped. Or molested. Always restrained.

For the record, I had a happy childhood and was never sexually abused. These dark sexual impulses aren’t always an attempt to relive early sexual trauma.

My fixation on bdsm continued into my adulthood, but it went largely unexplored in my real life. Occasionally I’d feel pain during sex or during foreplay, and I found it unpleasant and distracting. I came to believe that I enjoyed the illusion of pain, but not the reality of pain.

I was wrong.

The first time G hurt me was when he fucked my ass. I soaked myself as it happened, but I thought it was from the eroticism of the encounter and had nothing to do with the physical pain. The next time he hurt me was during vaginal sex. I was spread on top of him, riding. He reached his hand up and slapped me in the face.

He slapped me in the face!

G knows what he’s doing. He hit me softly enough I wasn’t actually hurt. He did it to gauge my reaction. He did it to test my limits.

God it was hot. It shocked me. He hit me in the face! Did he have no boundaries? Hitting a woman in the face??

I thought about that moment and masturbated so many times.. I hoped I made it clear to him that I liked it, because I was desperate for it to happen again.

Some people have the wrong idea about masochists. It’s not that pain feels good to us. We don’t perceive pain differently. It fucking hurts. I don’t like walking in uncomfortable shoes, hang nails drive me crazy, and last week I almost punched my eyebrow threader in the jaw.

I don’t know why my body responds differently when G hurts me. I don’t know if it’s the contrast of pain and arousal. I don’t know if pain simply elevates the power hierarchy.

All I know is if G’s fucking me and pulls my nipple so hard I gasp, he tells me I get wetter. When he slaps me, I get wetter. When he pulls my hair, I get wetter.

There’s a shift when pain is introduced to the situation. The stakes are raised. When pain arrives, fear arrives. And fear is a whole other aphrodisiac.

How hot is it that he enjoys it, too? How amazing is it that there are people in this world who get off on hurting others during sex? (Obviously this only works if both parties understand the other is enjoying it on an underlying level). But he likes it! I swear to god- he genuinely likes hurting me!

Isn’t that hot?

I have been hurt by other men in bed, but I’ve only enjoyed it with G. It takes a special type of person to hurt you and make you love it.

I’ve been hurt by a different man out of clumsiness. Fucking ouch- not sexy. I’ve been hurt by another man who generously tried hurting me in an effort to give me what I wanted. Sweet, but sad. Not sexy. L

When G hurts me, it’s intentional. And it’s for his own enjoyment. Sure, he knows I’m an up and coming pain slut. He knows it gets me off. But he also does it because it turns HIM on. He likes exerting control. He likes pinching and pulling and slapping and choking. He likes making me beg him for more and beg him to stop. He likes it when I squeal.

G once told me there are some women who enjoy pain. There are some women who enjoy the illusion of pain. There are some women who enjoy the anticipation of pain.

He can recognize them all.

Wouldn’t a man like that make you want to do something? What would you do for a man who can recognize what you need before you do, and inflict whatever it is until you cum screaming? What would you do for him?

… Show him your belly? ;-)

Xoxox

The Money

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 03 Jan 2013 11:11:00 +0000

Accepting money from G is my least favorite part about being Kept.

That probably sounds a little backwards. You might think that accepting money from him is what being “kept” is in its entirety. Maybe that’s true for some women.

I love the time I get to spend with him, frequently or infrequently. Intensely sexual or lazily relaxing. The idea of being a woman he visits at his convenience turns me on.

The word “convenient” makes a continual appearance in my thoughts. The idea of being a convenient part of his life is massively appealing. Living in an apartment he can frequent between meetings and appointments. Being ready and waiting when he says so. Supplying every sexual need he has, cleaning him up afterward, saying goodbye in a timely manner- so as not to disrupt his day. Not to disrupt any part of his life.

Convenient.

Maybe it’s part of being submissive. The idea of being “useful” might be a form of objectification. I’m aroused by being… if not an object, something useful.

But not an employee. I hate accepting his money. And the thought of what he gives me being considered payment- deeply offends me. And yet… I need his money. And I’m grateful for it. And there’s nothing sweeter in the world than hearing him talk about taking care of me.

I know how he views the money he gives me. It’s a gesture of affection, so touchingly intended. He knows I need it, and he wants me to be ok. There are more reasons he likes it, but the basest reason is that it allows him an opportunity to provide for a person he cares about. And I recognized him as a caretaker from the moment we met.

After the first time, I became fixated on not taking his money again… I liked him so much, I thought by remaining fiscally independent, I’d be proving I was with him because I wanted to be– not because of the money. And I’d earn his respect by never holding out my palm.

I think my sentiments were both admirable and childish. After all, I needed his help. I still do. I learned to check my pride and accept his generosity in the graciousness with which it’s offered.

It’s still a conflict within me. I carry guilt when I ponder the amount I’ve taken. I’d love nothing more than to pay back every cent. And I don’t believe either of us can ever truly see me as his equal under these conditions.

I do want to be his equal. And it’s that rational, respectable part of me that drives ninety percent of my thoughts and actions. But then there’s that niggling, frustrating, sexist ten percent that drives the rest of me.

It’s one thing to want to be considered unequal when having sex. I believe there’s a power established between most couples in bed. Someone always wants to be more or wants to be less than the other. But when my desire to be less than him blends into my psychology during the day, my imaginary panel of feminists starts shaking their heads.

And why shouldn’t they? No one believes more strongly in women’s rights than I do. Gloria Steinem and Naomi Wolf are personal heroes. So it’s especially grating to me that I’m aroused by the idea of male supremacy.

And yet there are some feminist scholars who argue that profitable acts of female sexuality are empowering. Take for example stripping, primarily considered a profession demeaning and oppressive to women. Who’s exploiting whom? Aren’t all forms of sexual expression liberating? There can be no oppression where liberation blooms. The same arguments extend to the sex trade in all its forms. And while I BY NO MEANS consider myself in the sex trade, I do routinely engage in multiple forms of sexual expression. It would be nice to feel empowered and liberated by my current lifestyle. Instead of just feeling like a greedy girlfriend.

Although that’s the problem. These feminists would rail against what I do MORE than strippers and prostitutes, because at least they’re earning their money. I’m just taking it from my boyfriend. So… there goes my empowered feminist argument.

Too bad. How lovely it would be if I could wrap up my current arrangement in a cozy, feminist blankey.

The truth is, it isn’t political. It’s a relationship. Yes, sometimes I dislike that I need his support. And I loathe the feeling that I’m taking advantage of him. But the truth is (and get ready to hate me) I like feeling like the little woman. I like being taken care of by a big strong man who wraps his arms around me and makes me feel tiny and safe. One who has my back. One I can run to when I need help. Having G in my life instills a sense of security I carry every day.

I just feel more ok.

This sense of security isn’t limited to the theme of today, money. The security extends to my emotions and general happiness. I like having a boyfriend. It’s pleasant for me in my heart. I like having a keeper. Someone to make me feel owned. It’s pleasant for me between my legs.

I may not be making any strides as a feminist role model by these admissions, but at least I’m being honest. Does this make me a traitor to my sex? Are there other women out there who secretly, shamefully embrace the gender stereotypes we outwardly admonish?

I don’t intend to accept monetary gifts forever. But as I intimated before, there is more to being kept than receiving money. And if I thought I’d have to sacrifice all the delicious elements of feeling owned, I would be a very sad girl.

Xoxox

Whoever said "Diamonds are a girl's best friend" never met her G-Spot

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 03 Jan 2013 11:03:00 +0000

In elementary school seminars, I was taught what to expect when I got my period. The secrets of maxi pads and midol were divulged.

In middle school, I went on a field trip to a local hospital, where I again learned about my period. This time tampons were expanded on. And toxic shock syndrome.

In high school, I took health class. Where the focus was on ovaries, gestation, abstinence, condoms, newborns covered in genital herpes, and AIDS.

I am a huge advocate of sex education. I am grateful for all the vague explanatory passages in textbooks and the disgustingly alarming venereal disease photographs I was exposed to. After high school, I considered my sexucation complete, even thorough. After a lifetime of exploring my own body with my fingertips, I considered myself the reigning expert on MY VAGINA.

How galling it was to meet someone who showed me more about MY VAGINA in twenty seconds than I'd discovered in twenty years.

And yet how revelatory to be introduced to an entire realm of pleasures and sensations I'd never believed existed.

That's right, Ladies. There is a whole other world inside of you. It's time to stop playing in the wardrobe, because Narnia is waiting just inside...

And Narnia is HOT.

What would you say if I told you that your clit was just the tip of the iceberg? Sorry to keep dropping metaphors, but the clit literally is the TIP of an entire (huge) sexual organ inside you. That tiny bundle of nerves is connected to an intricate network of glands, ducts, nervous passageways, soft tissue, and hard tissue. That every time you're aroused, you literally get an erection- just like a man- but your hard tissue erection is buried inside you and invisible to the naked man's eye. Wink.

What would you say if I told you the g spot can be found in one of four standard locations? And that with some basic knowledge and clever fingers, they can all. be. found.

What would you say if I told you EVERY woman is capable of squirting? Female ejaculation isn't only accessible to the select few- it is available to ALL of us! And the fluid we're able to emit isn't only a few drops expelled in an adorable little "pump." It can be cup-fulls. It can soak your floor.

What would you say to there being THREE different kinds of orgasms? Three ENTIRELY DIFFERENT KINDS OF ORGASMS. That's more than men have! We can get hard like men, ejaculate like men, and have more creative and versatile orgasms than men. And yet WE are the sexually repressed gender. Don't know how that happened, but I'm chalking up my disturbing lack of vaginal anatomical knowledge to a patriarchal society. And by patriarchal, I mean selfish.

I was PISSED to discover how ignorant I was of my own body! My own sensations! My own everything! I have been masturbating to orgasm since the first grade, and it wasn't until my twenty fourth year of life someone made me realize there was more.

It was the same night in the same hotel on the same bed. G had me on my back, licking me, making me squirm and tug at the bedsheets... He put his finger inside me. Being fingered was never a huge draw to me, but I wasn't in a position to complain. And then he started doing something... yummy. A soft something. Something different.

"That feels nice," I said.

"You like having your g spot rubbed?" He answered conversationally. Still in the gauging-what-I-like phase.
But... whoa. I stopped. That simple sentence changed my perspective on everything. My g spot?? I didn't have a g spot. I didn't think any woman had a g spot.

I know I sound moronic, and I'm sure most women are aware of at least that much. But I wasn't! I had tried finding it with my ex. We found something that made me feel like I had to pee, and I wasn't impressed. I thought maybe that point was present in all women, but the idea that it was sexual? False. The idea that a woman could come vaginally? False. These concepts were nothing more than the wishful musings of a lot of impatient men, tired of fingering clits.

But what G was doing to me.. was just this nice, round, delicious feeling. He lowered his lips to my clit again, and rubbed my g spot as he suckled the sensitive skin there.

"I... didn't think the g spot existed," I whispered. Slightly embarrassed, slightly pleased.

"What?" he asked, halting the caresses momentarily. In the dim light of the night stand’s lamp, incredulity cloaked his features.

I detected a note of skepticism. But when he believed I wasn't bullshitting, he grinned in this wickedly amused way. Like I was this adorable, hilarious toy he'd stumbled upon. One more fun to play with than anticipated.

He kept eating me. And he rubbed my g spot. And a few minutes in, he slid a finger into my asshole, already slightly relaxed from the pounding it received earlier.

I came that way. My clit, g spot, and asshole stimulated all at once. I came very, very hard. Raising myself onto my elbows and crying out. I remember feeling exhausted the moment I finished.

This marked the beginning of my orgasm roller coaster. I had achieved what I would later learn was a "G Spot" or "Blended" orgasm. Different than the "Clitoral" orgasms I'd been having all my life. Blended orgasms are stronger. Harder. With more of an emotional impact. That might sound silly, but consider how emotions are determined by hormones, and hormones are wrought by a variety of inciting actions. Including physical stimulation. Yes, blended orgasms are emotional. But not, I understand, as emotional as uterine orgasms. Which I have yet to experience.

There was a downside to discovering my g spot, which I'll expand on later. But never for a moment have I regretted meeting this precious part of myself. Or the charming way our introduction was made.

If you're wondering in which of the four locations your own g spot is located, examine the following diagrams and then do some exploring.

Don't be freaked out by these pictures. They look scary as hell, but they're actually NON-SCARY x-rays of women's prostates. They illustrate where our G Spots are. These diagrams were taken from Female Ejaculation and the G Spot, by Deborah Sundahi. It should be on every woman’s bookshelf, and I’ll be explaining why in a future post.

The first image displays the most common G Spot location. Called the Meatus type. 70% of women’s g spots look like this. Picture the vaginal opening on the right side of the photograph. The thickest, most intricate portion of tissue is there- on the right- adjacent to the vaginal opening. This thickness is made of glands, ducts, and prostatic tissue. Behold… the G Spot. Begin looking for your G Spot here.

The second image displays the second most common G Spot location. Called the Posterior Type. 15% of women call this G Spot their own. It comes with its own set of challenges, one being that it’s difficult to reach with your own fingers. You can try, but if you’re unsuccessful, I recommend getting a toy or sanitized object and attempting to reach it that way. Note how far away from the vaginal opening (on the right) the prostatic tissue is. Especially compared to the Meatus type we examined before. Remember- the thickest part of these images is where you’ll experience the most sensation.

The third image is the Middle Type. You’ll notice the thickest tissue is located midway between the preceding two examples. Only 7% of women have the Middle Type. It is the most rare.

The fourth type is called the Rudimentary Type. There is no image for this type, because there’s nothing really to display- there is no thickest part. In the Rudimentary Type, there is a scarcity of glands and ducts. I’m not saying the 8% of women who have the Rudimentary Type are incapable of G Spot stimulation, but it will be more difficult to determine exactly where most of your sensation occurs. Inside each of you glorious 8 percent-ers, you’ll probably experience something different. Personally, I’m curious about the Rudimentary Type. If you think this could be you, I’d love for you to write to me and share your thoughts and experiences.

When exploring your G Spot, remember to curve your fingers up, toward your belly button. I recommend exploring during a state of arousal- the G Spot will be FAR easier to find this way. You’re looking for subtle ridges. Try firm, gentle strokes and see if you can detect a difference in sensation. It should feel pleasurable, OR like you have to pee. If you find the ridges or think you’ve found your G Spot because of other factors, try stroking, pushing, and pinching the area. If you’re right, this area will start to get puffy and engorged- filled with ejaculate fluid. Like a tiny, fleshy balloon.

And if you’re really ambitious, try continuing to stroke this area while you masturbate your clit. One hand, two hands, with a toy, whatever works! Don’t worry if you think you have to pee- it is IMPOSSIBLE to pee while you’re aroused. Yay! Just go with it. Push through that. You might coax your way into your first blended orgasm J

And if you already knew this about your anatomy, I applaud you. You’re a better woman than I was. And I hope some of this information still proved helpful. Happy G Spotting, Ladies!

Xoxox
KC

The Night He Took Me

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 03 Jan 2013 10:45:00 +0000

Being naive is frustrating. Because it inherently means that you are something that you don't understand.

If you are a naive person, people will tell you that you are a naive person. And you will only understand them in theory, because if you truly grasped the reason they were calling you naive, they wouldn't be saying it.

I've heard that phrase a lot in my life. And while it's not uncommon to be naive about which neighborhoods are sketchy, or how easily spyware is caught, it is aggravating to be naive about your own body.

How well do you understand vaginas? Your own, your girlfriend's... Whatever vagina you have the most access to presently, you probably think you know pretty well.

I did.

And as far as my asshole is concerned, I never thought there was much to know.

In the last year, I have made love with men. I have made love with women. I've been tied up, choked, slapped in the face. Photographed. I've watched others have sex in front of me. I've had sex in front of other. I've attended a bondage party. I've attended a swing club. I've been a spectacle. I’ve been a conspirator. I've had my pussy eaten while receiving electrical shock. I've been looked at inside with speculums and a flashlight. I've been surprised, tricked, inspired, used, encouraged, loved…

And taught.

The first night I had sex with G, I walked into a hotel room he'd prepared in advance. I was alone. On the desk, laying on a clean white towel, were three items. One was a bottle of lubricant. One was a box of personal cleansing wipes. And the other was a glass toy. It was long and tinted blue, with rounded curve after rounded curve.. oddly beautiful. It reminded me of the contorted and colorful glass pipes you see in head shops.

I sat at the desk and touched each of the items in turn, ending with the toy. I let my fingers trail lightly over the glass. Cold. I picked it up and felt its weight. I knew what he wanted me to do with it...

Put it in my ass.

I hadn't had anal sex in seven years, and the prospect worried me. My list of concerns went in this order:

1) Hygiene.

I remedied this by fasting before our date. Zero food entered my body for 24 hours, and before leaving my house I administered an enema. I recommend Fleet saline enemas.

2) Technique

Luckily for me, the pressures of angles and movement rest largely with the man. At least they do when you're beneath him. I recommend finding a man who's comfortable taking the driver's seat.

3) Pain

It WILL hurt, especially your first time. And especially if your partner’s well endowed. I recommend taking an Advil beforehand. Then biting down on something.

G thoughtfully left me a stretching mechanism to prepare for his arrival. But before I could put it to use, I noticed a wooden drawer in the room, marked by a bright yellow post it note. The note read,

Look Don't Touch.

I knelt on the carpet and pulled the drawer out slowly... rope after rope after rope.. twisted and knotted in elaborate designs. A blindfold. Two metal bars attached to leather. Two tiny yellow rubber cups. I had no idea what some of these things did. I desperately wanted to pick them up and examine them, turn them over in my fingers, determine their use. But the post it note kept my inquisitive hands away. All I could do was stare...

Minutes passed as G's arrival drew closer. I tried negotiating the glass toy into my bottom, but I only briefly managed a few centimeters before the pain made me stop. He texted me to announce his proximity, and I again sank to my knees.. this time on a pillow in front of the door, left by G for this purpose.

Imagine kneeling on the floor of a strange hotel, staring at the door, waiting every moment to hear the sound of an engine cut off, footsteps approaching, the turn of a key...

That's how he found me. Kneeling, fasted, eager, waiting. My first surprise came as he entered. He walked in grinning. And instead of immediately unzipping his fly, he pulled me to my feet and said, "You're so pretty. I keep forgetting how pretty you are." Then he kissed me. Sweetly. And ran his fingers through my hair, holding me softly against him.

THEN he put his cock in my mouth.

Hugs and compliments before the jarring sexual contact. Sort of the bdsm equivalent of buying a girl dinner first.

When he was ready for the main event, he told me to cross the room. Slowly. To put my hands flat on the countertop. And to wait. My right leg shook as I made my way to the counter, giving me a trembling, unbalanced gait. There was a mirror above the counter, so G could watch my face as he took me.

The moment he thrust, pain shot through me. It hurt much worse than I expected. The only times I'd ever tried this as a teenager, it had been slow and extremely careful. G may have been careful not to injure me, but he was anything but gentle. He wasn’t hesitant. He wasn’t slow. He rammed me over and over, pounding me as I tried desperately to keep my hands flat.

I was screaming.

And screaming. And screaming. The pain shocked me. Overwhelmed me. G watched my face contort in the mirror as I took it. Never asking him to stop, despite the piercing sensations coursing through me. My body betrayed me before my will. My right leg began to shake so much I couldn't stand. G laid me down on the bed and continued.

"Squeeze me," he'd whisper. And I'd try, but the squeezing became harder and harder. And slowly.. the sensations changed. The jolts of pain subsided. In their place, I felt a softer, easier friction. I'd grow to find this feeling pleasant.

I was relieved when he finished, but I also felt pride. I had taken it. All that force and fervor and passion and pain. I had taken it all.

And it had made me wet.

ANAL KNOWLEDGE GAINED FROM G

The sphincter is a muscle; and like any muscle, it can be exhausted. The period during anal sex which is most often enjoyed by the woman, is the period after which the sphincter is forced to relax entirely. G calls it "giving up."

The best way to force an asshole into submission is to insert... whatever you're inserting, and squeeze it with your sphincter muscle as long and hard as you can. G mixes this up by intermittently thrusting in and out. After several minutes of diligent squeezing, your muscle won't be able to squeeze anymore. It has been defeated.

This is when it should feel most pleasurable.

I'll address this again point again: Hygiene. The reason I hadn't had anal sex for seven years before G was because the last time I'd done that, the endeavor had resulted in a small amount of excrement. I felt mortified.

True, there will always be this risk. And if you're not ok taking this risk, do not have anal sex. And if the guy who's going to fuck you might be rude at this possible outcome, he doesn't deserve to feel an asshole. Fuck that guy.

BUT if you're both ok acknowledging this possibility and both want to continue, there are some things you can do to cut down its likelihood. The single most important thing...

ENEMA. Do this thirty minutes to an hour before, depending on the size of the enema. The bigger the enema, the more time you should allot yourself to dispel it. G feels strongly that one should only give themselves warm water enemas, in an effort not to disrupt the delicate bacterial balance inside ourselves. But since saline is simply a solution of salt and water that more closely matches our own biology, I think saline is a perfectly acceptable alternative. You can buy a four pack of Fleet brand saline enemas for a few dollars. A small price to pay for fecal peace of mind.

To be extremely careful, or if the timing can’t be met according to the aforementioned timetable, I recommend using an enema a few hours before the meeting. And then another as closely to the time of anal sex as possible. I have used two enemas before with very positive results. I do not recommend doing this much on a regular basis, but once in a while won’t hurt- and did I mention how effective it is?

The second thing you can do is fast. Food takes a long time to pass through your digestive tract, so to completely eliminate any trace of food, you'd need to fast for at least 48 hours before the deed. I'm extreme, but I'm not a crazy person. I'll fast 24 hours, and no more. Also, I don’t recommend this method if you have a history of eating disorders or unhealthy body image-based eating habits. We don’t want to unintentionally trigger any previous behaviors. Stick to the enema.

Nine times out of ten, if this formula is followed correctly, there will be NO mess WHATSOEVER. Yaaayyyy!

Alternatively, you can go for it whenever you'd like, and keep a towel nearby. Also effective and much easier. Especially if you're comfortable with your sexual partner. Which, although I love him, I am still not with G. So I'll keep fasting. You choose your poison, and we'll all have happy anal-ing!

Xoxox

I am a KEPT Woman

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 03 Jan 2013 10:37:00 +0000

I'm not sure what images this term conjures for most people. Probably Holly Golightly in her little black dress, wistfully peering into an expensive storefront... Someone glamorous, but a little shameful.

Or maybe some conniving gold digger. A lovely girl fingering through her lover's checkbook... the kind of girl waist deep in feminine wiles, but pitifully low on ethics.

A year ago, I would have envisioned an older, polished, Madison Avenue-type. One with an endless supply of sophistication and Fendi scarves. A woman who throws lavish dinner parties, running dry of rare wine vintages long before witty anecdotes.

I am none of these.

Unless you consider it glamorous to destroy sheet set after sheet set because the sinister controls of my washing machine continue to baffle me. Or consider it sophisticated to insist on shitty $7 eye pencils, rather than upgrading to a more adult brand of makeup- despite my near-constant raccoon impression. I'm no well-preserved, Upper East Sider. I'm a twenty-something Los Angelian. And if my two car accidents, overdrawn bank account, and DUI arrest in the last month ALONE are any indication, I'm a mess.

Apparently the criteria for being "kept" aren't difficult to meet.

The club isn't as exclusive or as small as you'd assume. Since moving to Los Angeles, the mothership of all things vapid, superficial, and admittedly fucked up, I've already met a handful of women who have at one time made a habit of accepting money from lovers. I'm talking about regular women. Waitresses and project coordinators and website designers. Women with self respect.

Also one dude.

We're everywhere. All of our stories are different. My story is a blend of self exploration, unimaginably erotic sexual encounters, and love.

I met the man who keeps me one year ago. Until that point, I was the picture of innocence and propriety. Monogamous with my high school sweetheart for eight years. Sheltered. Naive. And painfully ignorant about my body.

In the months preceding my break up, a kernel of restlessness started deep in the pit of my stomach and grew. This urge to do something reckless and dangerous. Something sexual. Something scandalous.

I developed a habit of paging through online sex ads. I looked at them at work, on the elliptical at my gym, at home in bed before masturbating myself to sleep. I especially liked the ads for submissive women. Sadomasochism had represented an unscratched itch of mine for a long time.

There are so many ads... SO many ads posted by affluent men seeking young women to fuck and spoil. Most of them are hideous.

The one I answered wasn't. It was down to earth and respectful. There was nothing seedy mentioned, and it was spelled correctly, which I consider a priority. One day after gathering my courage, I wrote a first draft email to him at the Starbucks by my house. The next day I wrote a final draft, chose some flattering photographs of myself, and hit send. I still remember his reply...

He said I'd made his day, and he called me gorgeous. What an intrigue! We made a phone date for the next week, and I downed two glasses of cheap chardonnay before waiting in my car for my cell to ring.

I'll call him G.

G was charming, friendly, and relaxed. He told me he was married, but his wife knew and enjoyed his sleeping with other women. He said she "liked to hear the stories." Kinky.

He seemed impressed by my ability to string a coherent sentence together, remarking how surprised he was I knew what the word "tawdry" meant. (He apologized for that condescension six months later.) We made a date to share a drink and hung up.

My heart was pounding. But not nearly as much as the night I met him.

Call me cynical, but I assumed any man offering money for sex would be... the kind of guy who'd need to. Physically. You know what I'm saying; don't make me be indelicate...

Ok, a troll.

Or indecently old for hunting 20 year old ass. Either way, not the kind of guy I'd uncross my legs coyly for.

The man who walked in was young and fit. He wore a hoodie, t-shirt, and high top sneakers. It didn't even occur to me that he might not appear in a suit.

I remember thinking, there's no way this guy has any money. And then suddenly... that it didn't matter.

Without detailing his actual physical description, I'll say this. Imagine you have a very specific physical type. Say you're only into 35 year old, blonde hair, blue eyed men with big thumbs and bushy eyebrows. Now imagine this stranger you stumble upon online walks in to meet you, and he embodies every distinct physical trait that turns you on. (Ok… I’ll say he’s tall, dark, and handsome. With ice blue eyes.) And more than that, let's say over drinks the two of you discover you harbor the same religious, political, and dietary opinions... And he compliments you, and he runs his fingertips over your legs, and he glances at your cleavage when you take a shuddering breath.

Imagine for a moment- the thrill of sitting across a table from a complete stranger. The knowledge in the back of both your minds- while discussing current events and counting siblings- that he's going to be inside of you. That all this small talk is a mere precursor. That sex is already established.

Have you ever been so nervous your body shook? When my adrenaline starts racing, I'm a shaker. I remember withdrawing my hands from the stem of my glass so he wouldn't notice.

After drinks, he walked me to my car, tilted my face upwards, and kissed me. Which was lovely- he kissed with his lips- softly and coaxingly. Occasionally letting his tongue touch mine, but only as a tease. Our lips pressed and fell away, over and over... His fingers slid up my neck, into my hair...

and pulled.

In one instant, everything changed. A dynamic was struck. Roles cast. He took something from me in that moment.. something I was desperate to give away. Something I needed him to take...

I felt no pain as he cocked my head back; rather, I was immobile. Helpless. He held my head in place and took my mouth as softly or as savagely as he liked. He held me still for his own enjoyment, choosing how much or how little to give me.

I slid my leg up the side of his body. His hand trailed downward between my thighs, slid into my panties, and toyed with my wetness.

He could have had anything he wanted then. He could have had me against my car- there in the parking lot.

He could have bent me over. He could have pushed me to my knees. There was nothing I would have denied him.

But it ended with that kiss.

That was the night something was awakened in me. A sexual hunger. I went from total ignorance to obsession. Sex and G have dominated my thoughts for the last year. Every day is now spent fantasizing, fucking him or myself, plotting, learning, cumming.

My thoughts have become an endless tirade on how to please him. My primary job- my ultimate desire- is being the woman he wants.

Wearing the lingerie he wants, sending him the dirty photos he wants, taking whatever he wants to give me in the bedroom- no matter how much it hurts.

His to fuck, his to caress, his to whisper sweet-nothings to...

His to keep.

                                               Xoxox

                                               KC