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Monthly Archives: January 2012

Writing these entries has inspired me to think more critically about sexuality in general, and the stereotypes associated with it.  I’ve been reading a lot of blogs and articles lately on the subject, from professionals and laymen alike, but mostly personal accounts from people struggling with issues related to my own.  (In particular, I find the blogs of MsTitty, Fuck & Schmuck, and Lynn very insightful when it comes to sexuality, yet representing very different sides of a multifaceted issue.)  Everyone takes a different approach and has wildly differing opinions on the subject.  So, I thought I would weigh in on the matter.

EDIT:  I would be remiss to not also mention Sexual Life of a Wife and TerriblyTorn13.  I love their stories.

I find it troubling that so many people are bothered by being hypersexual.  Modern western society is all about empowering the individual to be the individual.  Everyone is different, everyone has his or her own needs and wants and desires.  You are a beautiful and unique snowflake, Tyler Durden, and you are entitled to pursue your dreams, whatever the cost, come Hell or high water.  You want to go climb Everest?  Don’t forget your supplemental oxygen.  You want to stand on the corner playing music?  Here’s your tip hat, hope you like fedoras.  You want to write?  Here’s a new blogging website just for you.  Ours is a culture of entitlement and personal success, and you are encouraged to pursue whatever wishes and dreams give you the strength to get up in the morning.

Why, then, do people feel guilty about wanting to pursue the pleasure of sex?

This isn’t a rhetorical question.  I really don’t get it.  Sure, sex is dirty.  It’s wet, slippery, sweaty, exhausting, smelly.  Pick your adjective.  But it’s also incredibly beautiful.  It’s personal.  Intimate.  It’s you giving everything you are to someone else.  And it is fucking glorious.  It’s the one thing that the majority of people can agree that they love to do.  So why do we so often feel ashamed of engaging in what is arguably America’s real favorite pastime?

If I had to pick a response–the usual gun to the head give me an answer scenario–I would say it’s because, as forward-thinking as we like to be, our culture’s approach to sex is still so fucking draconian.  One man and one woman, period.  Promiscuity is to be avoided at all costs, and open relationships are in direct defiance of the societal norms.  And God forbid you even think of trying anything homosexual, because if it’s not gonna produce babies, then it must be wrong.

Quick factoid.  All those religious arguments against homosexuality based on Biblical scripture are based on one of the first Jewish laws, that a good Hebrew was to procreate and populate the earth.  Homosexuality in and of itself, as an act of lovemaking to your same sex, wasn’t taboo.  It was wasting a baby-making opportunity that was frowned upon.  If you doubt this, I recommend researching Hebrew religious law, particular the history of Leviticus.  It will blow your mind.

Back on topic now.  I don’t think that our society’s view on sex is a product of religious morals.  Not anymore, anyway.  Originally, yes, certainly.  But with the rise of the scientific method and a general turning away from religion, there must be something else driving it.  Again, if I were to posit an answer, I would cite two reasons: 1) Entitlement, and 2) Infringement.

First, entitlement.  We, as unique snowflakes in pursuit of our dreams, believe we are entitled to happiness.  Hell, it’s even in the U.S. Declaration of Independence–“…that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are LifeLiberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”  This is the basis of our culture.  And sex makes us happy.  Therefore, we are entitled to it.

Second, infringement.  You, as a snowflake competing for your happiness atop my snowy mound, are not entitled to your happiness when it infringes upon mine.  Therefore, denying sex to me when it would otherwise make me happy makes you an obstacle to be surmounted.  And if you leave me, or give my God-given right to sex to someone else, then you are a traitor to the American way of life.

Couple entitlement and infringement, and you end up with the monogamous relationships so common today.  One man and one woman, committed to each other at face value, but often pursuing the elusive Side-Tail.  Jealousy runs rampant.  Divorce skyrockets when couples realize that their capital-aych-Happiness is not theirs alone, but being shared with Someone Else.  It’s a recipe for disaster, a cauldron bubbling over with overpossessive assholes, codependent pricks, and dishonest jerks generated by a system at odds with our desire to just be fucking happy.  Hell, I’m one of ’em.  (Well, dishonest, anyway.  Never been much for jealousy, and I’m too independent to be needy.)

I don’t think this is ever going to change.  At least, not within my lifetime.  It will be a very long time, if ever, before people realize that the happiness of their genitals need not depend on being in or around the same other set of genitals forever.  But this doesn’t mean that we, and by we I mean sexually obsessed or otherwise hypersexual people, should be ashamed of our wants and needs.  Hell, I think we should embrace them.  It’s not always that easy, since finding other people who share your particular viewpoints and proclivities can be incredibly difficult, but isn’t that sort of the point of all this, being happy and comfortable with who and what you are?

Society wants us to be unique, except when it strays from what they define as “unique” and borders on “deviant”.  Then we’re something to be shunned, or mocked, or objectified, or even pitied.  I say fuck that.   If the world wants us to be ourselves, I say, do it.  Don’t give a shit what they think or say, live your life how you want to live it.  Never let yourself be shoehorned into a stereotype, into feeling as though you must, by default, feel and behave a certain way.  Own your life, and own your dreams.  Do what feels right to you.  If your behavior produces ghosts and demons, as mine does, then so be it.

At least they will be your ghosts and demons.

Hmm.  I’m not exactly sure where I’ve gone with this.  I seem to have ended up someplace totally different from where I had intended to arrive.  Ahh, the joys of writing from the heart.


Here’s something totally off the wall.

I love signing in and see that someone has “Liked” a recent post, but even more exciting is when I get that notice that “MYSTERYBLOGGERX247 has followed your blog!”  It’s thrilling, and I have earned many more followers and regular readers in two weeks than I expected to garner in a year!  Bless you all!

But I noticed something tonight.  Something unsettling, disturbing… perhaps even frightening.  My followers… are changing.

I first noticed it two days ago.  I had a new follower, and my heart leapt.  But the bottom of the popup bubble said, “…plus XX more, for a total of YY followers!”  And I thought to myself, “Huh… I had YY before, didn’t I?”  I brushed it off, attributing it to some strange programming flaw in the html script.

But then the morrow came, and I had another new follower.  But still, only YY total.  Odd.

And now, another follower.  Yet only YY total.

Now I am worried.

There are two possible explanations for this.  One is that, as my fellow bloggers discover and begin to read my work, they think, “Oh, this fellow is clever and insightful!  I shall follow his antics!”  And they Follow.  But then they read the rest of my work, and they think, “Oh my, this fellow is a cad!”  And they Unfollow, as a new reader Follows, keeping the balance even.

That’s the more plausible explanation.

But I worry that, maybe, something is happening to my followers.  I wonder if, in the process of reading my work, they have somehow changed.  Their usernames mutate, their avatars morph, and they adopt new personalities, new identities, as a product of reading my blog.  In that case, then my work must be classified as a new disease, a virus spreading electronically through my words.  I am a digital Typhoid Mary.  The first of my kind. I am corrupting the blogosphere, abducting innocent bystanders and curious explorers and turning them into something else.  I may be the beginning of the Internet Zombie Apocalypse.  The computational avatar of Nyarlathotep, my inky chaos seeping into their profiles and changing who they are at the most fundamental of levels.  If this is the case, then I must be stopped, before each you begin hearing the horrible scratching behind your drywall and shrieking obscenities in languages lost since before recorded history.

………………………………………okay, sorry.  I had to get that out of my system.

By the way, if you got the references at the end of that rant, you are my new favorite person.

Have you ever heard of sexsomnia?  If not, don’t feel bad.  I hadn’t either, until I started doing it.

I’ll never forget the first time I found out I did this.  I’d been sleeping rather poorly for weeks, uninterrupted but not restfully.  I never felt like I had slept enough, whether it was 4 or 10 hours in the sack, and I took a lot of afternoon naps on my off days.  It had been going on for months, and I was beginning to reach a constant state of exhaustion wherein everything was hazy and nothing felt quite real.

One morning, I left the bedroom to find Ashley in the kitchen, making breakfast, in her skimpy black silk Victoria’s Secret robe.  She was listening to Michael Buble on her iPod dock and singing to herself.  She’s not usually much of a morning person, so to see her in such a good mood before noon was a real rarity.  Also, given her wardrobe selection, I assumed she was feeling a little amorous.  I wasn’t going to waste such an opportunity.  I snuck up behind her, wrapped my arms around her waist, and kissed her shoulder.  “Good morning, sexy.”

“Hey you,” she answered, rubbing her cheek against mine.  “Did you sleep well?”

“Of course not,” I said, “but maybe I can take a nap here in a while.”  I kissed her shoulder again.

“Not until after breakfast!”  She continued cooking, but I could hear the playfulness in her voice.  A good sign.  I tested the waters by sliding my hands down to her bare thighs and moving up just barely below the hem of her robe while nipping her nape lightly.  She giggled and squirmed in my arms, elbowing me in the ribs and casting a good-natured glare over her shoulder.  “Stooooop, haven’t you had enough already?  I’m sore enough as it is!”

I blinked.  “Wait………… what?”

“I think we might have thrown my hip out of whack,” Ashley continued as though I hadn’t said anything.  “I need to recouperate!”

Confused doesn’t quite capture what I was feeling.  Befuddled maybe.  Use whatever term you like.  “Umm, what are you talking about?”

Another elbow in the ribs.  “Shut up and eat your breakfast.”

“No, seriously, what are you talking about?”  I let her go and took a step back.  She turned to face me, confusion and amusement vying for control of her face, until she saw my expression.

“Wait, are you serious?  You don’t remember last night?”

“Obviously not.”

She sat the plate down and crossed her arms.  “You don’t remember rolling me over onto my stomach and making love to me?”

“Pretty sure I would remember something like that,” I answered crossly.  “You had to be dreaming or something.”

“Ahh, no, I didn’t.”  Ashley pulled the shoulder of her robe to the side, revealing an angry purple bruise.  I’d call it a hickey, but this was way too intense for that term.  “You bit the shit out of my shoulder, pinned my upper body to the bed, and took me from behind.”  She covered up the mark and folded her arms again.  “It was pretty fucking hot.”

Holy shit.

We chalked it up as a one-time thing, owing to my general state of stress and exhaustion.  But a few days later it happened again, when she was unwilling to cooperate, and I woke to her pushing me away violently and telling me to go back to sleep.  I remember sitting up in bed, dazed, uncertain of what had happened, but ultimately going back to sleep.  And the cycle continued for months.  Most of the time, I would never remember anything happening at all.  The few times I did remember, it was like a dream, or it was a dream wherein I was making love to Ashley, or someone else.  She would tell me the next morning, “You did it again,” and look at me with a worried expression.

I finally looked into it, because it was beginning to worry us both.  Turns out, it’s a recognized sleep disorder, a form of parasomnia, in the same class as sleep-walking.  Somnambulistic sexual activity, caused by a deficiency in the sleep-period dopamine production that causes most people to be effectively paralysed while sleeping.  Mine was a mild case because Ashley could wake me up, but more severe cases had been documented wherein sufferers had raped unwilling victims in their sleep.

Again, holy shit.

I saw my doctor about it, and as it happens, I was his second case of odd parasomnia.  He said it could be induced by stress at home and at work (which, admittedly, had increased over the past several months), and he told me that as long as I was waking up, it shouldn’t be anything to be concerned about.  He suggested I try taking melatonin before bed and try some breathing relaxation exercises before bed.  Superstitious hoakum, but I gave it a shot.

Over time, my episodes occurred less frequently, and to date I haven’t tried to molest Ashley in my sleep in almost three months.  Surprisingly, she’s slightly disappointed by this, as the notion that I wanted her so badly that my body pursued her even when my mind had checked out was somewhat arousing to her.  (Not as surprising as I originally thought, given our recent discussion about her pain during sex, but still.)  I’ve never quite figured out what causes these seemingly random episodes.  I figure it may be an extension of my general sexual obsession, my physical body acting out my subconscious desires, but that seems somehow too Freudian for my liking.  Whatever the reason, it’s certainly one of the more interesting things someone can experience.  And it gives me a damn good reason to exclude my future children from the bedroom when daddy is sleeping.

Not my usual entry, I know, but Ashley brought it up during our Skype session this evening, so I felt compelled to share.  I’d be interested to hear if any of you have experienced something similar, as the fucker or the… umm… fuck-ee?  Is that right?  I don’t know.

The following post was inspired by TerriblyTorn13.  If you aren’t familiar with her blog, I highly recommend it.

For many years, Ashley and I have talked, on occasion, about what works well and what doesn’t in our relationship.  We tend to come to the same conclusion each time.  In most every respect, we have what most couples dream about and never achieve.  We’re best friends, and coming home to each other is the best part of our day.  We share equal financial responsibility for our household, and an equal share of the housework.  We talk about our work and lives outside of our marriage, and we take an active interest in what has happened to each other when we’re apart.  Sure, there are a couple of things here and there that we could do differently, but this usually amounts to little more than whether the dishes are done every night or every other night, or who will scoop the litter box.  Our marriage really is a partnership in most every respect.

That is, until you get to the sex issue.

I’ve mentioned it before, but it bears further discussion.  For the past three-plus years, Ashley has been decidedly asexual.  This wasn’t always the case, but her once dynamic, sexually curious side seems to have disappeared.  We usually make love only once a month, if that.  This may not seem that bad when some couples have sex once a year, but for a young couple married less than five years, this is a very bad sign, an indicator that you may end up in that once a year category.  This is the last thing I want, because I wouldn’t remain in a relationship wherein I can’t be physically intimate with my wife.  It would be like being married to my sister, someone I love but with whom I could never, ever be intimate.  I know it would spell the end of my marriage.

And today, I told her so.

It’s hard on both of us, me leaving for weeks at a time to go on research trips, and we make it a point to talk via Skype as frequently as we can.  During our conversation today, I cracked a joke about her showing me a little webcam skin.  Her response, coupled to an exasperated sigh and a roll of her eyes, was, “God, don’t be so gross.”

When she said that, I suddenly thought about all of the things I’ve been putting here.  Pouring my thoughts and memories and exploits into an anonymous, honest venue.  Hearing the feedback from my readers.  Reading the hatemail.  Forcing myself to dwell on what I do, why I do it, and why I can’t be more honest with her.  I realized, on some emotional level, that I hold so much resentment and frustration because of her refusal to help with my sexual urges.  In that instant, her words just made me so fucking angry.  And I never get angry at anyone, much less her.  Why the hell is that gross?  What the fuck is wrong with wanting to find sexual pleasure in the woman I love?  I wanted to scream at her, tell her everything I’ve done, and what I planned on doing at that moment just to spite her.  But instead, I just closed my laptop without a word and walked away.

An hour passed before I finally came back to my computer.  She immediately called me, and I could tell she had been crying, a lot.  She’s an emotional girl and tears up frequently, but when she cries out of grief or fear, her face takes on a drawn quality.  Not sickly, but drained, emptied.  It broke my heart to see it, because I had caused that, by losing my temper and letting myself get caught up in my emotions.

She asked me if I was mad at her.  I told her, yes, I am, and I have been for a very long time.  She asked why I was mad.  I told her because I have tried to be a good husband.  I have tried so hard to change who and what I am to make myself worthy of someone like her.  I told her I fail a lot, and that I have let her down, whether she knows it or not, but I struggle every day to overcome my own issues.  But I need her to be more than a partner.  I need someone who will do more than put her head in my lap to watch a movie.  I need a lover.  I need her to be the one and only thing I think of when my body is screaming for release.  But she can’t be that thing for me if she always refuses to be involved with me sexually.  And if that doesn’t change, as much as I love her, as badly as the very thought makes me ache down to my bones… I will eventually leave her.  And when it happens, I won’t feel guilty about it, because I will have become so bitter and angry that loneliness will be a better alternative than suffering through a failed marriage.

That’s not verbatim, but it’s damn close to what poured out of my mouth.  When I was done, Ashley stared me, mouth agape.  I suddenly felt very self-conscious, and I waited for her to start crying.  But she never did.  Instead, she wiped her eyes and asked me how long I’d felt like this.  I told her years, and didn’t she remember all the times we talked about how upset I was because we no longer had sex?  She did, but thought it was an immediate thing, like “I’m not getting sexed up right now, so I’m mad!”  I was just as shocked as she was.  We’d had dozens of conversations about it, and she had never understood what I was saying.  It had never registered to her that our marriage could be in real danger if we didn’t find a solution to this.  Today, it did, and it scared the hell out of her.  So she asked me, “What can I do to fix this for us?”

We talked for a couple of hours about it.  During our discussion, I learned that sex has never stopped hurting her.  She experiences physical pain before and after, and it makes her not want to be intimate even when her body is really feeling it.  I asked her why she never told me.  She said, “Because I love having sex with you, and I didn’t want you to think you had to change something.  You’re just too big for me.”

Makes me feel like a bit of an asshole, but there it is.

Anyway.  We don’t know what the best solution is, but we have agreed, when I get home from this trip, we’re going to sit down and talk about this, try to figure out what she is willing to give, and what I am willing to concede.  Ashley doesn’t want our marriage to fail, and neither do I.  We’re going to see if we can make it work better for both of us.

I think writing this blog has been therapeutic in some respects.  I don’t know if your stories and feedback gave me the push I needed to really confront Ashley about our problems, or if forcing myself to be honest here made me want to be honest with her, too.  Hell, maybe I just snapped.  But I feel that I have begun to look at myself a bit differently over the couple of weeks I’ve been working on this.  And I now have real hope for what may change in my marriage.

Thanks for keeping up with me, folks.  Psychiatrists are quacks, but you people are not.

And no, I’m not leaving.  I have a hell of a lot more to say and share.  I just like the way that last sentence sounds.

If you have no idea what the following post is about, I suggest referencing my recent post about connecting with a woman at the mechanic’s shop.

Turns out, she meant literally.

After weeks of bushwacking through waist-deep snow and thick cedar swamp, I decided I had earned tomorrow off in order to indulge my baser instincts at the one bar near my basecamp.  “Near” is a relative term when you’re this far north.  Here, it means an hour of driving through moose-infested boreal forest.  (I haven’t hit one yet, but there’s still a week of collecting left.)  I figured I wouldn’t drink too much, maybe one or two beers over the course of three or four hours, and just socialize with the northerners.  It’s always a good idea to make nice with the locals when you’re tromping about in their backyards.  Neighborly and all that.  Plus it gave me an excuse to hang out with Clutch-Girl.

She was deep in conversation with one of the three other people in the building and didn’t see me when I came in, so I took a seat at the end of the bar farthest from her and pretended to watch the sports replays.  I don’t really care much about sports, but it gave me an excuse to not be looking her way, and it was a fair test of her interest in me.  About two minutes into the recaps, I suddenly headr “Electric Worry” playing on the house speakers, and I looked toward Clutch-Girl, who was grinning at me as she casually remarked, “Thought you’d like this.”

Sneaky little wench noticed me as soon as I walked through the door.  I must be slipping.

“So, how about that shot you promised me?”

Like I said, she meant literally.  Rye whiskey may taste like shit, but it’s somehow sweeter when balanced precariously in a girl’s cleavage.

And so the night progressed as such, with Clutch-Girl and me flirting shamelessly and finding new and interesting ways to take shots off of each other.  (Did you know, if you lay down right, a thin shot glass can sit perfectly still in the half-open zipper of your jeans?  There’s a life lesson for you.)  As closing time approached, she and I decided to retire to her place for more booze and poor judgement.  She offered to let me stay on her couch since the drive back to my basecamp is so long, and her internet connection would permit me to get a bit of work done in the morning, so I accepted.  It was at this point that one of the regulars, who had been entertained by our antics all night, wished me the best of luck, because Clutch-Girl is, apparently, “one hell of a fuck.”

See, that would have set off warning bells for any normal person.  A normal person would say, “Thank you, kind sir, for these words of wisdom, but, and please excuse my brashness, but how might you have acquired this inside information?  Perchance is the lady a bit on the promiscuous side?”  Then said normal person, having heard the response, would adjust their evening’s plan accordingly.  But I’m not exactly normal when it comes to these things.  My response: “I’m counting on it.”

A hearty laugh, a clap on the back, “You’re alright kid!” and away he went.

Clutch-Girl had me wait outside while she performed the final closing duties (milling about is less enjoyable when it’s -30 outside), then we went to her place.  It was still very early in the night, so she put on The Company Band and served us scotch, neat.  The conversation eventually turned to tattoos, and how many we each have.  She wanted to see mine, so I dutifully exposed my back and arms.  Of course, tattoo sharing is very much a “show me yours and I’ll show you mine” activity, so naturally, she exposed herself as well.  Unlike me, however, her tattoos cover her arms, back, legs, chest, and groin.  And she had no problem stripping to give me the best view possible.

For the record, a totally naked tattooed woman dancing to The Company Band with a glass of scotch in her hand may be the sexiest thing to which I have ever been privy.

The details from that point forward are unnecessary.  Suffice to say, the bar regular was right–Clutch-Girl is one hell of a fuck, and is completely unafraid to pursue exactly what she wants sexually.  And it doesn’t look like we’ll be going to sleep any time soon.  She’s having a cigarette in the bed beside me while I write this post (“checking my e-mail for updates from work”), taking a breather and likely preparing for round three.

I find myself wondering what Ashley is doing right now back home.

Again, there is no fancy prose tonight, dear readers.  Just another recounting of how I get myself into these situations.

The lovely MsTitty recently invited guest posts from her regular readers relating to breasts (the focus of her blog).  I was more than happy to write something up from the male perspective, but I also figured, since our readers may not be the same people, I would post this on my blog as well.

I think men don’t fully appreciate the effect we can have on the fairer sex.  We objectify them as something to be fought for and won, the Homo erectus in us driving us to dryhump anything that looks remotely feminine (or not, as the case may be).  It’s hard to argue with biology, millions of years of evolution working against our recently developed sense of logic and reason, always whispering in the back of our minds, “Man, those are some nice titties.  You should put your erectus between them.”  It’s not always right, but damn if that whisper doesn’t sound awfully convincing at times.

This in turn causes some women to develop a bit of a complex about their bodies.  Those particularly gifted between the pelvis and clavicle often bemoan their situation–back pain, difficulty finding clothes that fit, and of course, the street catcall.  (The most creative I ever heard: “Quisiera fueras sartén para estrellarte los juevos.”  Translated, “I wish you were a pan so I could bust my eggs on you.”)  I can’t imagine what it’s like being the subject of constant sexual attention, but I suspect it’s a terrible burden at times.

On the other hand, many women I know (not all of them, but many) who are not particularly equipped above the navel are jealous of their larger-chested compatriots.  They don’t see the downside to it.  They don’t live with the back trouble, or the nasty names and unwanted advances.  They just want their share of the attention.  Hence the proliferation of the boob job.

This lengthy intro leads me to my point: natural breasts, of any shape and size, are better than medically augmented funbags.  And I do differentiate between the two.  Breasts are real.  They are what women develop on their own, small or large, perky or saggy, narrow or wide cleavage.  Funbags are fake breasts, skin filled with a big bag of silicon or whatever new substances they use in them.  They may look fun, my friends, but let me assure you, they will never, ever compare to breasts.

Case in point.  A woman I knew was rather poorly endowed in the chest, and she always talked about having her girls augmented.  It was the method by which she would finally attract The Man of Her Dreams, stealing Him away from all of the naturally large breasted competition that populates our home town.  After being away for a few years, I came back to find she had finally gotten the surgery she always wanted, jumping from an A to a hefty D.  I had never before known a girl pre- and post-augmentation, and admittedly, the difference was astounding.  Where she had once worn more concealing clothing, presumably out of some strange notion that her small breasts made her unattractive, her wardrobe now includes nothing but camisoles, low cut shirts, and revealing summer dresses.   Her soft-spoken, almost paranoid demeanor has given way to an assertive, confident, outgoing socialite.  It’s almost as though her newly purchased chest came with a free shot of charisma.  (I wonder where such an injection would be administered.)  She became much more appealing when she wasn’t tucked in a corner, hiding from the rest of the crowd.  Not because of her new breasts, but because of her newly discovered confidence in herself and her body.

So, that night, we fucked for the first time.  I had never actually touched a pair of augmented chesticles, but I was excited to find out what it was all about.  They were pretty enough when her clothes were removed, if a bit too round, the usual surgically enhanced look with which pornography had acquainted me so long ago.  I assumed they would be soft, more squishy or bouncy maybe, because of the silicon.  Oh no.  No, no, no.  They were like freaking rocks, two large, uncomfortable lumps of unrelenting firmness that actually hurt my chest to lay on for too long.  I couldn’t imagine how she could be satisfied with them, but I didn’t say anything.  (After all, sex was involved, and much like coffee, it doesn’t really matter what the flavor or texture is, all that matters is, you have some.)  I just adjusted my approach and style to accommodate staying as far away from those pointy, unpleasant things as I possibly could.

Afterwards, we spent a great deal of time lounging around her house in the nude, drinking wine on her fenced in back porch, enjoying the cool night air on our bare skin.  After a bit of chitchatting, she asked me what I thought of her new purchase.  I didn’t have the heart to tell her how unpleasant to touch I found them, so I focused on the positives–their appearance in clothing, and how they seemed to have bolstered her confidence.  She never caught on to my distaste for them, and we ended the night on a positive note (after two more rounds of rather intense fucking–I’m nothing if not tenacious).  But that experience left me with a newfound appreciation for the natural breast.  The softness and fullness of the thing.  The give under your touch.  The sway as a woman moves.  The bounce as you… well, yeah.  Suffice to say, a surgically altered pair of breasts is never going to be as enjoyable as those served au naturel.

Personally, I blame my own gender for this.  Breasts, regardless of size, are beautiful (reference the work of one Ad@m if you doubt me), and it’s a shame that so many women feel they have to change their own beautiful, natural bodies to mimic some oddly idealized Platonic Form of Woman.  Speaking on behalf of sensible men everywhere, I would encourage women to find pleasure in their bodies apart from measurements and sizes.  Small breasts do not make you ugly.  Large breasts do not make you a bimbo.  You are all beautiful, even if you don’t see it.

I wish I could come up with a clever closing to this entry, but unfortunately, I seem to be all creatived out.  Instead, I will leave with the final stanza of a poem from the reliably witty Ryan Sohmer:

Whether you think I am crass or perhaps rather witty,
Allow me to be clear here–I likem dem titties.

I realized today that I have written fourteen posts in this blog. Some of them have touched on my sexual compulsions, or justification for my behavior. Others have chronicled my sexual exploits. But none of them have really focused on Ashley as more than a mostly asexual being, or my feelings for her. This strikes me as incredibly unfair.

When I first met her, Ashley was sitting at a table in a local bar with a couple of other girls, listening while they chattered away with random passers by. With her toned athletic figure, naturally golden blonde curls, piercing blue eyes, and flawless skin, she could easily have been a model for any skimpy lingerie poster. Or an athletic shoe commercial. Or one of those perfume ads that just show beautiful women sitting in awkward poses. She seemed to steal the light out of the rest of the room, the way she naturally drew the attention of every prowling male and scowling female. She didn’t make any effort to cause this. It was in the way she smiled, honest and vibrant. The way she leaned toward whomever she was talking to, engaging them completely. The way she sincerely thanked the half dozen men who bought her drinks, but just as sincerely apologized to them because she wasn’t “that kind of girl”. She was entirely unaware that she was the center of all activity in that building.

Once we started seeing each other, I discovered that she wasn’t just trying to be polite to the guys in the bar. She was a virgin, and she intended to save herself until she met the man she was going to marry. Not until marriage–that’s a different issue–but until she fell so deeply in love that she could barely breathe. It was a conviction she stuck by despite my best efforts to the contrary. So, being the horrible human being that I am, I made it my goal to make her fall in love with me. I had no interest in her beyond fucking her. I didn’t care about her ideals. I just wanted to be inside her.

Five months later, I succeeded. Ashley gave herself to me in every way possible. I won. But imagine my surprise when I realized that I had somehow fallen just as hard for her. The revelation hit me hard in the middle of the night, when I woke up beside her and saw her sleeping, curled up beside me. In that moment, at four in the morning, I knew that this woman was something more than just a good lay. She had somehow become my reason for… well, everything. Everything I did was for her, not because she asked it of me, but because I had never known anyone like her, someone who gives all of herself to take care of the people in her life, whose mere presence can monopolize the attention of a crowd and make you believe everything is going to be okay. She was pure. And I was deeply, deliriously, in love with her, more intensely than I had ever loved anyone or anything before her. When she woke, she smiled and looked at me through sleepy eyes.

“Ashley, will you marry me?”

“…Of course I will.”

It was like she’d been waiting for me to ask her for years, as though our marriage was an inevitability that I somehow hadn’t yet acknowledged.

This is the way I remember her. The years have gone by, and her appearance has changed in minor ways associated with maturity and professionality. But these images have stayed with me, burned into my memory, as clear now as they were at that moment in time. Ashley is, without a doubt, the single most beautiful person I have ever known, inside and out. I sometimes think her whole purpose in life is to make other people happy, and to make them feel beautiful. It is a purpose to which she is particularly well-suited.

Wow, what an exhausting day this has been.  And yet I am still overly verbose.  Regardless, I promised Part 2, and thus I deliver Part 2.  It may not have actually been quite as sexy as I’m making it out to be, but damn if this wasn’t good.  Sorry for the length, but I DID shorten it by cutting out the rest of the story at the end.  I’ll try really hard to keep it down in the future.

Now, if you will excuse me… I need a fucking cigarette after writing this one down.


Author’s Other Note: I’ve been waiting to drop that alliteration in the second paragraph since I started writing this.


I know I must look horribly confused, because Rosalyn is laughing at me as she stands up.  “Hope your hike wasn’t too difficult!”

“Umm, not really,” I say as I approach the tent.  The tone of my voice is making me begin to laugh at myself as well.  “What the hell are you doing out here, with a tent, in a non-designated camping area, Ranger Rosalyn?”

“Oh it’s okay, this used to be a camp site for hikers doing multiple days,” she responds as though it were common knowledge.  “I come here sometimes on my off days, if the weather’s nice enough.  I can only stand park housing for so long.”  She tosses her book into the tent and draws out a thermos, which I gratefully accept.  “Figured I’d come out today and see if you wanted company on the hike.”

I fall into the grass beside the tent and sniff the contents.  “Oh… real coffee.  I could kiss you.”

“Say that now, just wait ’til you try it,” she teases, producing a mug from the tent and sitting beside me.

I fill the cup for her and drink mine from the thermos lid, and we savor our coffee in silence as I brood on the situation.  I don’t know exactly how long Rosalyn has been out here, but given that I could have arrived early and found nothing at the “IF YOU ARE TIRED” waypoint, it’s been long enough to make sure she didn’t miss me.  She’s wearing lightweight hiking wool and trail shoes, so she seems serious about hitting the trail with me. But that seems like an awfully convoluted way to join someone on a romp through the forest.  I glance her way, weighing my odds.

“You know, this is an awfully convoluted way to join someone on a romp through the forest,” I repeat out loud.

She shrugs.  “Maybe I wanted to surprise you.”

Fuck it.  I roll the dice.

I turn my head to face Rosalyn.  She notices me looking and turns to meet my gaze.  We hold that stare for a moment.  Two moments.  Long enough to make most people feel uncomfortable.  It’s a trick I learned a long time ago to determine if a girl is interested in you.  Not much of a sex trick, really, as you can use it on just about anyone to gauge their feelings for you.  Hold their gaze without saying anything.  Normal, well-adjusted people don’t hold a gaze unless they’re very comfortable with the person they’re looking at.  It’s particularly true with potential sex partners.  If the person isn’t interested at all, she’ll maybe look at you for a second or two, then avert her eyes.  If they hold your gaze for more than a few seconds, they’re interested.

Ten seconds in, and Rosalyn doesn’t look away at all.

I gently take the cup out of her hands.  She doesn’t resist.  I set them aside and face her on my knees, taking her hands and pulling her up into the same kneeling position.  I pull her body against mine, still holding her gaze, breaking it only long enough to pull her shirt over her head.  A trim, well-kept outdoor body, the faintest hint of abdominal muscles under tight skin, small but perky breasts under a simple sports bra.  I would remove it, but she’s one step ahead of me and pulls it off in one smooth motion.  I quickly follow suit, and she presses against me again.  Christ she feels good, her nipples hardening in the chill air, her body heat warming my now exposed chest.  I trace my thumb along her jawline, our faces an inch apart, eyes still locked.

Then I ask, bluntly, “So, you got a sleeping bag or what, it’s fucking freezing out here.”

Rosalyn laughs so loud I swear every animal in a five mile radius probably jumps out of its skin.  My question shattered the romantic tension of the moment, but that’s precisely what I wanted.  Rosalyn is an intense woman at times, and that laugh was all she needed to let herself go.  She grabs my shoulders and bodily flings me toward the open tent (damn she’s strong!), and I fall onto a very thin, simple bedroll.  She practically pounces on me, not going for my mouth, but my neck and collar, kissing and nibbling and goddamn biting me hard enough to make me yelp.  We frantically tug at each other’s pants, but our arms are tangled.  She growls and moves off of me, almost glaring at me as she tugs her pants down to her knees.  I notice that she doesn’t shave–this is somehow fitting–but I get distracted as she tries pulling the pants off over her shoes and falls over onto me.  I’ve already removed mine (shoes also–I’m a professional here), and she tumbles over onto my groin, her shoulder jamming into my crotch.

I grunt and gasp at the pain, but that is quickly replaced as she grabs my length in one hand and immediately takes so much of me into her mouth that I ram the back of her throat.  She’s not terribly skilled, and her teeth graze me more than once, but I’m so absorbed in the moment that I don’t notice she’s finally maneuvered out of her shoes and pants.  But I do notice when her mouth pivots around my cock and she lays on top of me, straddling my face.  Her hair itches my face and nose, which might otherwise bother me, but not today.  I wrap my arms around her hips to grab her ass, steadying her, and press my tongue firmly against her clit, drawing it slowly but heavily up (down?) the length of her lips.  I feel more than hear her groan around me, and I repeat the motion, steadily lapping at her, every stroke eliciting another vibration as she moans, another downward grind of her hips against my face.  When she begins to rock her hips harder, I focus my attention on her clit, teasing her lips with my fingertip, then sliding it into her to massage the rough but oh-so-sensitive spot inside her.  I thought this would take a while, but I was wrong.  She immediately bucks, chokes, shivers, then releases me from her mouth as she cries out softly, muffling the sound by fucking biting my inner thigh (GODDAMMIT OW).

We hold that position for a moment before she suddenly jerks away from me with a laugh and a cough.  I watch as she slides down my stomach as far as the tent will permit, straddling my stomach now, unable to reach my groin.  I sit up and hoist her off of me, holding her hips in the air as I rise to my knees again, sitting on my heels, knees spread far apart to keep my head low.  I drop her hips down toward me, and she has to practically lay on her stomach to get low enough to align her pelvis with mine.  But the moment she’s found the right position, I press myself against her with my left hand and pull her hips back with my right, driving as deep into her as I can.  I hear her cry out again, the sound muffled now by the bedroll instead of my (likely bleeding) leg, and we fuck, literally and figuratively, like animals.  I pull her head back by her hair, making her gasp and groan.  She slams her body back to almost painfully meet every forward thrust.  She reaches back and tries to grab my arm, scratching and clawing at me, drawing blood (OW NOT FUCKING AGAIN).

We fuck with an intensity I’ve rarely matched before or since, until my body begins to tense and my breath catches.  She must sense this, because she gasps out, “Not in me!”  I barely have time for this to process before I pull back and away from her.  I can’t believe how quickly she turns around, still on her knees and elbows, taking me back into her mouth and not sucking, just rolling her tongue around me as she digs her nails into my chest.  The combination of intense pleasure and incredible pain is too much, and I grab her ponytail, holding her face against me, trying to not choke her but making sure to keep her steady as I explode.  I hear her stop breathing, and her tongue only barely massages the underside of the head as she carries me through my orgasm.  Now I have to pull away, the sensation too much to bear.  I expect her to spit, but instead she starts laughing again, deliriously so, her mouth empty.

“You fucking swallow too,” I say, shocked.

“Of course!  What’s the point if you don’t swallow?”  Rosalyn laughs, and we fall flat onto the bedroll, her head on my chest, beside the scratch marks.  The sharp hiss of sucking air fills the tent.  “Oh man, sorry about that.”  She leans in and begins kissing the scratch marks, surprisingly gentle given her behavior a moment before.

“It’s okay,” I lie.  In reality, I’m suddenly hoping they heal before I go back home to Ashley in a week and a half.  But I only have a moment to consider the implications of returning home with deep scratches down my chest before Rosalyn looks up at me, her eyes practically gleaming as she kisses down the scratch, down my stomach, using my own locked gaze trick against me.

Fuck.  It’s going to be a long fucking night.

It seems that I become incredibly verbose when I commit these stories to digital paper.  The writing software shows I’m already over 1000 words, so to help with time management for everyone reading this, I will, once again, break it into two parts.  Nothing erotic in this entry, unfortunately.  In the past, I’ve tried to be as tasteful as possible when recording the sexy bits, but depending on feedback, I may try to be more descriptive in my next entry rather than gloss over the deed itself.  (This was a particularly good one, in my opinion.)  I’ll also try to be less wordy in the future.

Finally, kudos to afuckandaschmuck for reminding me of the word “frottage”.

Cheers all.


I stand on the front porch of my cabin, watching my breath swirl in the cold.  The coffee in my hands keeps my fingers warm, despite the air being just above freezing.  The sun has only just begun to consider rising, and the sky is still an inky indigo speckled by constellations I don’t quite recognize from this angle.  I can still just barely make out the shape of the redwood trees towering above me, which limit my view and lend an almost claustrophobic feel to my basecamp.  I peer upward while taking another sip of the rapidly cooling, incredibly bitter “field research” coffee blend.  The stuff tastes like battery acid most days, but it’s hot and caffeinated, so I can’t complain.

Beside me, Rosalyn inhales from the rim of her cup and sighs.  “Not a bad way to start the morning, eh?”

“Not too shabby,” I reply, and I smile at her.  Rosalyn is about my height, taller than average for her sex, with dark brown hair perpetually drawn into an efficient ponytail.  She has the dark natural tan of someone who spends a lot of time outdoors, and apart from her hiker’s figure, she’s really quite unremarkable in appearance.  Not pretty, and certainly not ugly.  Just quite average.  But she’s the only park ranger I’ve met that I can get along with, and she’s good company in the mornings before and evenings after data collection.  We’ve also been shamelessly flirting since I arrived, including one evening of slightly drunken making out and unfulfilling frottage.  I’m certain that, with minimal effort, I could get her in bed with me, but I’m usually too exhausted after long days of field work, so I haven’t made much of an effort, though I intend to pursue our interactions to their natural conclusion before I leave for home.

We share a moment of silence, savoring the battery acid, before Rosalyn asks me, “So when are you setting out today?”

“Oh, probably within the half hour,” I say.  “I want to get to the trail head by dawn, so I’ve got to hit it soon.”  I take another sip of my coffee and scowl at the bitterness, made more potent by how cold it’s become.  I pour the remainder into the grass.  “By the way, thanks for doing those waypoints for me.”

“No problem,” she says, adding her coffee to mine.  “Just watch out on some of those trails near the coast, there might be a lot of windfall.”  She passes me her cup, adjusts her coat, then gives me a quick hug.  “Be safe up there, and have fun.”

“Will do.”  I return her hug, then turn and go back inside.  After giving the cups a quick rinse, I double check my daypack, taking inventory of my hiking gear.  A change of wool socks.  Two sandwiches, three granola bars, a bag of carrots, and a water bottle.  Water-purifying iodine.  A small emergency first aid kit.  A map and compass.  A headlamp.  Extra batteries, both double- and triple-A.  Baby powder for chafing.  Imodium.  Baby wipes and toilet paper in a Ziploc (personal experience has long taught me that Mother Nature is more than happy to call you in the field, at the oddest of times and with varying intensity).  It’s overkill, but better safe than sorry.  I strap my hunting knife to my belt, step outside, and switch on my GPS.

After the boot screen clears, I’m pleased to see the first waypoint is already loaded and ready to go.  When I told her I was taking two days off to go explore the forest, Rosalyn had offered to fill my Garmin unit with various waypoints around the forest.  Nothing more than a few hours hiking time following the advanced trails, but a full day’s effort going from spot to spot.  She’d even taken the time to organize them by final destination and had included paths, stopping points, particularly nice views, and not-for-tourists sites familiar only to locals and park employees.  Rosalyn knows the forest better than just about anyone, so I trust her when she tells me that I’m going to love the hike.  I briefly wonder if she does this for everyone, or only for those whose tongues she had nearly bitten off, but I shake the thought off and start down the road toward the trail head.

Thirty minutes later and I’m well into the forest, following the trail marked on the Garmin.  This is my third week in the redwood forest, and I am still humbled by the environs.  Silence is palpable in the redwood forest, so deep you almost feel guilty as twigs snap underfoot.  All around me, the coastal redwoods stretch over one hundred feet into the air, standing proud and majestic by anyone’s definition, the dense canopy working with a thick fog to keep it so dark that I still use my headlamp to light the trail.  Wherever I turn my head, the light shines on understory every bit as dense as the canopy, thick with fallen trees and sword fern as tall as my chest.  Between the canopy and understory is a vast empty space, filled now only with fog and the occasional flash of movement as a bird or squirrel noiselessly navigates the branches, then vanishes again.  The ecosystem itself is practically a living organism in its own right, and I frequently pause to admire, and appreciate, being surrounded by something that is truly awesome.

I hike for a good eight hours, not an unimpressive time but certainly less than I had expected, when my GPS indicates that I’m on my way to the final objective.  Previous waypoints had been titled with the name of the location.  This waypoint description reads “IF YOU ARE TIRED”.  I’m not, but my curiosity is piqued, so I follow the trail until it curves sharply to the left.  The unit shows I should continue forward, into the understory, which surprises me but makes me even more curious.  I find the azimuth indicated by my Garmin overlords and push forward into the sea of sword ferns.

After walking a fair distance, I step out of the bush and into a small open-canopied meadow.  It being the beginning of the growing season, the grass is short and thick, and the ground slopes gently away from me, where a small one-man tent is pitched.  Rosalyn is sitting in the grass, her back against the base of a young conifer, with a book in her lap.  She grins as I step through the last of the fern and calls out, “Glad to see you survived the redwoods!”

Sorry I took a little time off there.  I needed to think about a few things.

I received an e-mail from someone who read The Mile High Club Has a Secret Knock.  I won’t copy and paste the whole thing, but rest assured, it was a nasty piece of work.  To summarize, she is a 24-year-old woman who just found out that her new husband of two years has been cheating on her.  Thus, speaking from experience, she told me that I am a horrible human being (as I have long suspected) for doing the things that I do, then “bragging” about them on a blog, because I will never know what it’s like to be betrayed so deeply by the person you love.  Yours truly, Angry Woman.

Well.  Allow me to retort.

Point the first.  To suggest that I don’t know betrayal is a ridiculous assumption.  I haven’t written about it yet (though I’m sure I will), but I’ve long believed that the source of my pseudo-addiction is having been betrayed by every girl I thought I loved (except Ashley, who redefines what it means to be a good person).  That sort of thing can really fuck a kid up.  I have been betrayed, Angry Woman, and I have betrayed, as I’m sure you have at some point.  Maybe not by cheating, but by lying, by gossiping, by ridiculing.  I don’t know anyone who hasn’t betrayed someone at some point, and I’ve known people who were one miracle away from sainthood.  So please, although I recognize that I may be a horrible example of a human being, don’t assume it’s because I know nothing about betrayal, and don’t assuage your anger at your husband by accusing me of being a stereotypical scumbag.  I may be a scumbag, but I am anything but stereotypical.  (Does that make sense?  I think it does.)

Point the second.  If you think this blog is about “bragging”, then you haven’t been reading.  You’ve been selectively scanning the entries looking for something to be angry about.  This blog has never, and will never, be a chronicle of my conquests, because they will never be conquests.  Well, maybe the events that happened within a relationship or that were otherwise not cheating.  But every one of my affairs–past, present, and future–is a mistake.  I won’t deny that they were (usually) exciting and intensely pleasurable, but I don’t look upon them with a sense of accomplishment.  I (usually) remember them, as I described in one comment, bittersweetly.  Something that should not have happened, but that now defines my history and makes me who I am today.  I like who I am, but not what I have done, and I would never brag about hurting people the way I have.  That’s the mark of a sociopath.

No, this blog is about me telling the goddamn truth for once in my life.  It’s almost a confessional, except that it’s not intended to absolve me in any  way.  It’s just a place for me to put my stories.  Why do I write so many of them as prose?  So that I can read them later and see the experience from another vantage.  Why do I post them?  Well, that I don’t know.  I get a little thrill every time I see a new comment, whether it’s the usual contributors or new readers, compliments on my writing or someone calling me out on the liberties I took in the story, a casual remark or a deeper analysis.  I do love that people read this, and I find the compliments, and occasional insults, give me a new kind of high.  The honesty I put into this blog has attracted more followers than I had ever thought (again, thank you all), and it makes me want to write more, to tell every story I have, the good and the bad, to completely recount the sexual rollercoaster that is my life.

(Oh yeah, that reminds me of getting a handjob on the Superman coaster at Six Flags.  Wow, I totally forgot that one.  See what I mean about “usually” remembering?  Okay, moving on.)

Angry Woman, I am truly sorry for your experience.  I am sorry that you gave so much of yourself to your husband, only to have him betray you.  I know what that pain feels like, and I would never wish it on anyone.  I hope you and your husband can find a way to resolve this, to repair the damage and come through stronger than ever.  If not, I hope your anger doesn’t consume you.  But, when you focus your anger on me as a surrogate for “men everywhere”, you really leave me no choice but to tell you to take your shit elsewhere.  Constructive criticism, and even harsh rebukes, I can take.  Accusations, not so much.

I’m working on another My Life As Fiction entry (a really good one, I think) and hope to have it up by tomorrow.  Spoiler alert: It’s about sex.  Best wishes to you all, readers.