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Another blogger commented recent on my post about feeling sexually deprived while still being surrounded by sexuality.  Because it was left as a public comment, I feel no compulsion to maintain the anonymity of chely5150, but it was lengthy enough that I decided to go ahead and respond publicly, as I have before.

I classify this correspondence as more misplaced rage, and I invite chely5150 to read that post, as it applies here. In summary, chely5150 suggests that Ashley’s lack of interest in sex is likely my fault. She cites her own experiences with an unfaithful husband and a lack of love and respect in their marriage as a reason for her own disinterest, and says that such could contribute to our situation. (It is worth noting that my and Ashley’s sex life has improved substantially from what it was in the roughly two years since writing the post eliciting her comment.)  Snippets and responses are as follows, and you can read the full comment on the original post.

I was, AM the wife who wants to explore and discover all things sexually together with my husband and we did, until the emotional covert emotional abuse began. After years of abuse, so perfectly concealed behind the facade of our perfect little family… I became Ashley. I no longer found that much pleasure [in the man] who adored and loved my body but NEVER could find the need to adore and love ALL OF ME!

I can certainly see how emotional abuse could make you lose sexual interest in your partner.  But let me be perfectly clear–that has never happened in our relationship.  For whatever problems Ashley and I may have had, we have never been abusive toward one another, and she has always insisted that I am the most loving, compassionate person she has ever known, and that I am an excellent care giver and provider for her.  One could arguably define my infidelities as “covert abuse”, to use your phrasing, but frankly, I wouldn’t. Sure, it’s scummy, but I would not go so far as to call cheating “abusive behavior”. (But I invite psychologists/counselors to provide evidence to the contrary.)

So, right out the gate, your experiences do not apply to us.  But let’s continue.

And I began to loathe the man who could treat everyone (pretty much) with such love and care and respect that I HATED evry thing about him.

If I understand you correctly, you’re suggesting that you hated him for loving and respecting everyone around him, but not yourself? I can also see how that might be painful. But it also strikes me as slightly selfish and demanding of you. I obviously can’t speak to your personal situation, and I have no desire to belittle or demean you, so I will simply let that comment stand as is.

And yet I loved him, I tried to leave him a couple of times but could never fully escape. After many years of depression I decided if we were going to stay together dammit I was going to make it better for us. And we did (yeah ah huh) and others thought too until the day I discovered his affair. And then weeks later when I discovered so much so- it has been excruiciating to say the least.

Ahh, and now we come to the point of this message.  Your husband cheated on you, and you see much of him in me and what I write.  Fair enough, I suppose.  Lord knows I’m a cheater.  But if I may ask, have you determined *why* your husband cheated on you?  Have you given any thought as to whether you may have done something, or a series of somethings, that might make him want to fuck someone else?  Or is it genuinely that he is simply a cheater?  Note that both are plausible, but given the resentment you display toward him, the evidence would suggest that unhappiness on his part might have caused his behavior.  Again, I don’t have the complete picture, so I can’t say definitively.  But have you considered that the fault may not lie solely with him?

They say I have PTSD, but I just go forward…..

May I encourage you to seek counseling for that?  PTSD following such an event is, to my understanding, a common reaction, and you may very well be suffering from depression.  Please, dear reader, see someone.  I suspect my close friend Hyacinth might be able to offer guidance here.

So while I fucking hate you with all my being…

I bet you’d love me if we met.

…I respect the fact that you are being honest…

Oh. Well, thanks.

…as much as one could expect honesty from a LIAR…

My, that’s awfully manic of you.

…being on the other side of those sheets and knowing but not knowing is probably the hardest thing to live with.

This is something that, again, doesn’t really apply to me.  If Ashley were to find out about my infidelities, I would own them.  Once caught, you’re done for.  Best to fess up to it and hope to salvage something from the wreckage than to pretend the boat didn’t crash.  But, in your case, you have my condolences.  Knowing but never receiving a confession is a good way to breed resentment and often prevents any sort of closure.

Maybe just maybe You had something to do with your wifes sex needs diminishing. If it went away there is a reason.

By Ashley’s own admission, her lack of sexual interest stemmed from three things: 1) experiencing physical pain from having sex with me due to my girth (which, thankfully, has resolved since we have begun fucking more regularly); 2) insecurity due to gaining weight post-marriage; and 3) a lack of sexual experience sufficient to keep up with my own interests.  She has since come out of her shell, remarkably so, and our sex life and marriage have never been better.

Who the fuck died and made you GOD? What makes you think you deserve to have your every desire fulfilled?

I never claimed to be God, or that I deserved to have my every desire fulfilled.  To suggest otherwise would imply you haven’t read all of my work.  (Not that I expect you to.  Hence, my response.)  I have long struggled with controlling my sexual urges, balancing them against my desire for a fulfilling and loving marriage.  But when you go months at a time without having sex, the ability to resist–hell, the *desire* to resist–disappears.

No man “deserves” to get laid, regardless of marital status.  A woman’s body is her own, and she gets to decide what she does with it, and when.  Period.  But, relationships are partnerships, and if one partner is not sexually fulfilled, well, don’t be surprised if he/she seeks that fulfillment elsewhere.

Maybe if YOU put as much effort into your marriage-not just sexually either, you wouldn’t have put yourself and Ashley (although unbeknown to her) into such a lose/lose marriage.

No one who knows me can accuse me of not putting effort into my marriage.  I haven’t written about it much, but Ashley and I have been to several counselors, alone and together, in pursuit of a “fixed” marriage.  We have spoken at length about it over coffee, breakfast, drinks.  We have cried together because we thought we were failing.  And we have celebrated our not-so-recent upswing.  And, from a domestic standpoint, she and I are true partners, sharing evenly the housework and financial burdens.  Not to brag, but she calls me “the perfect husband”.  (I am far from it, mind, but it makes me smile when she says it.)

Do yourself a favor decide which you want. Can’t have both little boy, don’t work like that! You should show Ashley the respect she deserves and let her choose for herself- No one gave you that privilege. It’s not right -if you love her as much as you say you do GIVE HER THAT RESPECT.

I don’t love and respect anyone enough to give them that, because I am selfish.

Please don’t let my differing opinion affect the fact that I enjoyed your writing, I find it brutally honest and appreciate knowing the thoughts of a sex addict as I am discovering that I have been married to one for a long time.

Well, I do appreciate that, though I would not classify myself as a sex addict.  I once wrote about that possibility, but I don’t think I am so deep into my compulsions to be considered a nymphomaniac.

I am in the deciding process in my marriage, is this what I want for the rest of my life? The jury is still out on that one.

I wish you the best of luck in that.  Choosing whether to continue or end a marriage is not a pleasant endeavor, and I truly hope it works out well for you, chely5150.

Pro tip: You have to take the venom out of your words and be less accusatory if you want me to refrain from responding with so much snark and sarcasm.  Though, admittedly, I use much less of both herein, maybe because I truly sympathize with what you’re experiencing.  Before I was the hopeless cheater I am today, I was cuckolded by the woman I loved, and it left a lasting impression, and I can tell you are hurting.  I don’t want to contribute to that.

Or maybe I’m just going soft in my old age.

Well, hello there.

Forgive my absence. Very recently, I found myself suddenly faced with a series of unexpected deadlines for work, and I had to throw my focus into that. Then, I had to revise a manuscript that was accepted for publication. (Hallelujah.) Since finishing those professional tasks, I have been terribly busy these past weeks being terribly not busy–that is, I went on a vacation. Not a work vacation, wherein I have a little fun in between meetings or presentations or field work, but a true-blue, honest-to-God vacation, hiking and swimming and boating and site-seeing hundreds of miles away from what anyone would call civilization. It was refreshing, to say the least.

Then Ashley went on vacation without me for a week.

And Tina came to visit.

It is a fascinating experience, having my lover in my home when my wife is gone. For four days, Tina and I interacted as though we were a long-term couple. We cooked together, we spent time at the beach, we went out for drinks, all the while holding hands and stealing kisses and sharing quiet jokes and whispered innuendo. We slept in the same bed, woke up together, showered together. The spats and misunderstandings of the past months simply disappeared. We were best friends again, lovers in the truest sense of the word. I can’t tell you how badly I missed that.

And the sex. Holy fuck, the sex was mind-blowing. Passionate and intense, occasionally frantic, never shorter than an hour, and always at least twice a day. Tina is truly insatiable in bed.

Sadly, all good things must end. I recently said goodbye to her, and she has begun the long return trip to her home across the country. It was decidedly painful to watch her go. Neither of us managed it without a few tears.

I am now sitting alone in my home, at my computer for the first time in two weeks. Her scent still lingers in my house, and I occasionally close my eyes as I inhale, savoring the aroma and remembering the feel of her hand in mine, her lips against mine, her hair on my shoulder. I am still uncertain how I came to be in this position, being in love with two women, my wife and my lover.  It is a difficult thing to manage, but weeks like this are more than worth the effort.

So again, forgive my absence. I assure you, I have not forgotten my regular readers, and I am working on a couple of different entries that I intend to post here soon. But, I am also closing in on the end of my contract with my current institution, thus much of my attention must shift to work, both in terms of completing required manuscripts and datasets, and of finding a new position. As such, I may not be as regular a blogger as I have been recently, but I will continue to work here as time permits.

I hope all is well with you, my friends and readers.

There is something that has been wiggling around in the back of my mind for a while now. It’s relevant to the spirit of this blog, if not the usual content, so I’m putting it here. Please indulge me as I wax philosophical.

You may have picked up from reading my work that I am a taaaaad bit narcissistic, but not in the traditional sense. I do not think I am beautiful to behold. Hell, I don’t think I’m even remotely close to attractive. I find myself to be decidedly bland, probably because I likely have a very skewed definition of what it means to be a handsome man. No matter how many people tell me I am handsome or athletic or insert compliment here, all I see are flaws. Ask anyone who’s seen me–I’m nowhere close to what Men’s Health would have you believe a man is supposed to look like, no matter how much I wish I were. Maybe that’s why I sympathize so deeply with the body positivity movement.

But those flaws drive me to constantly strive to better myself. They are the reason I spend hours powerlifting, wailing on the heavy bag, flipping those tires. I am never satisfied, so I work harder. I don’t care what trainers and doctors tell me–I am not where I need to be. There is a handsome man in there somewhere. I just have to chisel away the body fat to find him.

Man. That’s a hard thing to admit.

I describe myself differently here than in my prose, because I acknowledge that my perception is deeply flawed. It’s not a healthy outlook, but there it is. I know I am strong, and fit, and active. But I hold myself to an unrealistic ideal that I don’t hold for any other human being, anywhere in the world. I want more from myself. I want that beach body, damn it.

That said, I really, really hate body shaming.

Look, I know that no normal person is going to say, “Body shaming? Why, that’s just keen!” I would like to believe that the majority of us are going to hear that phrase and respond with appropriate levels of disgust and sympathy. No one should ever be made to feel uncomfortable in their own skin by another person. Ever. That shit isn’t cool. And hopefully, on some level, most of us believe that.

None of the women in my life–that is to say, Tina and Ashley–are slender. But they are *fit*. Tina is a runner and outdoor enthusiast. Ashley is an all-around athlete and yogini. They have curvature, and softness to them, but they are hard where their hobbies require them to be. They do not go out of their way in pursuit of the elusive beach body, but still they are beautiful women. I’m not sure they would be considered “plus-size”, but even if they would, that would not be a bad thing, because they are both fucking *hot*, just in very different ways.

Point is, it doesn’t much matter to me what a person weighs. It shouldn’t really matter to anyone except ourselves. I feel bad for people who see themselves the way I do, because it’s a pretty unhappy way to live sometimes. I wish more people would find comfort in themselves rather than the ridiculous expectations set by Western media and marketing. But at the same time, I suspect that even those who are active in the body positivity movement still have moments of discomfort, when they look in the mirror and think, “If I could just shed another five pounds…” We are driven to outperform other people. It’s what all animals do. We compete, we mate, we produce offspring that will compete with our competitors’ offspring. Civilization may permit us to overcome some of that nature, but I doubt it will ever be fully removed from the human condition.

Hmm. I didn’t so much share my thoughts as I did ejaculate words into a formless puddle on my keyboard. But this was never intended to go anywhere. It’s just something I’ve been chewing on lately. So many women I’ve talked to have told me how unhappy they are with their appearance, how self-conscious they are about their image, when, damn it, there is *no reason* for them to feel that way. Tina and Ashley included. Then they tell me, “I wish I looked like you,” and I am dumbstruck, because I legitimately don’t see it.

Anyhow, enough of this meandering little monologue. To all the ladies and gentlemen that read this blog–you are beautiful/handsome exactly as you are. Should we ever meet in person, I’ll be happy to prove it.

Working on another memory now. It’s one I’ve been holding onto for a while, so I’m not sure if or when I’ll be putting it up. Maybe soon. Until then, friends.

I find it entertaining to read the search terms that people use to find me on any given day. There seem to be certain trends that stand out, and my inner academic constantly screams at me to dig more deeply into those trends. So this morning, out of curiosity, I hit the search terms “all time” summary button. The list is much too long to post here, and some of the things people search for that bring them here are genuinely disturbing (i.e., illegal). But the vast majority are amusing or simply interesting, so I feel compelled to share a few of the stand-outs here.

sexsomnia

I have an uncommon form of parasomnia often referred to casually as sexsomnia. It’s basically like sleep walking, or sleep talking, but instead of walking or talking, I fuck. This is seriously a thing. I’ve since learned that, as long as I’m fucking on a regular basis, it doesn’t happen very often, and when it does it’s usually limited these days to a little heavy petting and frottage. If it’s been a while, though…

Ashley sometimes likes to deny me sex for a few days just so I’ll fuck her with abandon in my sleep. It’s kind of sadistic, and slightly masochistic, I think, since I rarely remember anything of the event in question unless I wake up mid-coitus and am, supposedly, much more demanding when I’m asleep. (I can be woken up with a gentle push and a few words, so don’t think I’m all aggressive or anything. It’s just that my subconscious mind is a bit of a go-getter.)

“snake woman” wraps her coils around him

I get a considerable number of hits from this because of a folk story I once told to a couple of adorable little girls. I wonder, what the hell were they looking for?

beautiful sweater puppies

I am terribly fond of natural breasts. Implants just feel… strange. And they often look even stranger when the clothing is removed. I wrote a post on that subject for one MsTitty, before she went MIA. Which is a shame, because I liked her writing (and, frankly, she had an amazing chest). But I can’t blame her. After all, I pulled a similar disappearing act.

deflowering a virgin

There are so many combinations of this one–“deflower a virgin”, “deflower”,”qatar deflower”, “deflower stories”, “true deflower sex stories”, “teach me how to deflower a virgin”, and so on and so forth. It contributes the largest number of hits I get, by a long shot, because I shared a memory of having sex in a pristine forest. I hope that this search term is so common because people are trying to inform themselves as to how to help a woman have sex for the first time in as painless and enjoyable a fashion as possible… but somehow, I doubt it. My inner feminist weeps at that. (Also, I’m sure those few people who find me with “geocaching” also do so because of that post.)

cunnilingus

Ahh. My favorite bedroom activity, by far. I have written so much about this, but probably my favorite post on the subject revolved around Pretty Grad Student. (I just realized, she has no entry in my Players page. I need to fix that.)

young shaved head punks can really fuck

I really love the punk/alt-girl/suicide girl style. Aside from just looking fucking hot, I really admire anyone who can raise a mighty middle finger to modern definitions of style and beauty. That said, I once fucked a woman with a shaved head in my buddy’s bathroom. And yeah, she could really fuck.

bondage shackles story

My ex-girlfriend Kelly once surprised me with a wide assortment of bondage accoutrements before I was mentally prepared for such activities. It really didn’t go well, so I feel sorry for those people who clicked that link only to find a disappointing story.

handle him casual sex bad feelings help 2014

Someone found me yesterday using this phrase. If you’re still reading, feel free to shoot me an e-mail. Let’s chat about that.

I’d be interested to see what my regular readers have in their search terms, so I invite anyone who reads this to do this. If you do so, let me know so I can read them. I’m no sociologist, but I think this is some fascinating stuff!

So, let’s examine the other side of the coin from my last post.

It’s no secret to Tina that my sex life with Ashley has historically been less than satisfying.  In fact, the details of our sexual relationship were one of the first things Tina and I discussed after finally admitting our shared interest in each other: the rarity with which I fuck my wife, her general lack of interest in sexual exploration, and so on.  Tina couldn’t fathom how Ashley could feel that way around me, because she had wanted me for years.  (I can be quite oblivious at times.)  So, she offered to help me relieve some of that tension.  Fast forward to a cold winter’s day reunion, when Tina and I fucked like there was nothing else in the world that mattered.  Our affair was born out of mutual respect, physical attraction, and an acknowledgement that neither of us were even close to living the sexual lifestyle we truly wanted.

When Tina started fucking her new lover, they established that they would tell each other any time they had sex with another person.  This affects him more than her, as he frequently fucks new and random people, and she wants to make informed decisions about her sexual health.  This is an entirely pragmatic arrangement in my mind, and she and I agreed we would be similarly open with one another.  It’s not been much of an issue because I haven’t had any new sexual partners in a while–just her, and Ashley–and she has only slept with him while she’s been away from me.  I understand that she sleeps with him on a regular basis, and I don’t expect her to tell me every time they fuck, but I do expect her to tell me if he sleeps with someone else because I, too, want to be informed about the risks to my sexual health as much as possible.

That’s our arrangement, in a nutshell.  We tell each other if we fuck someone else, share anything that could change our exposure to risk of STIs, and understand that we could be fucking our significant others at any time.

At least, I thought that’s what it was.

It came as a real surprise to me when Ashley suddenly became more sexually active.  For the longest time, literally years, she wasn’t at all interested in sex, and we would go weeks, if not months, at a time without being intimate.  Hence the topic of this blog.  Neither she nor I know what flipped the switch for her, but we now fuck much more regularly than we once did, and she has begun exploring new fantasies and activities with me, including BDSM, pornography, mutual masturbation, female dominance, and other fun and exciting things.  (This is likely the reason I haven’t had any new sexual partners in a long while.  I just haven’t needed them!)  I didn’t share this with Tina because I don’t ask her for similar details of her sexual escapades, and my understanding, as stated above, was that we know the other could be fucking their local partner at any time.

Boy, was that a mistake on my part.

Tina recently asked me who all I had fucked this year.  My answer: just her, and Ashley.  The anger and resentment that followed was truly astounding.

How could you possibly think I wouldn’t want to know if you had sex with Ashley.

What if my lover didn’t tell me he slept with someone else, you would be livid.

I can’t believe you would be so dishonest with me.

I reminded her that I don’t expect her to tell me when she fucks her other lover, and I assumed she felt similarly.  She argued that it was different because she shares a house with him, and she fucks him so regularly it just makes sense that she probably fucked him on any given day.  I countered with, I live in the same house with my wife, and married people fuck sometimes, which I took as a given.  She responded with a bitter comment about the “sanctity of marriage”.

Point is, it was a very, very unpleasant exchange.  She and I are still recovering from the events of that day.  It was a bit of a turning point for us, frankly, and our relationship hasn’t been the same since.  There is an underlying hostility and resentment in her words at times, roiling just under the surface, that she acknowledges because she “is slow to forgive, and never forgets”.  (Her words.)

I wonder, who is at fault here?  Was it unfair of me to assume that we had a mutual understanding?  Or was her response an overreaction to the obvious realities of being in a clandestine relationship?  Admittedly, I could have told her that my sex life with Ashley had been improving, but it seems perfectly reasonable to me that two people in a relationship will occasionally have sex.  I would have told her if I fucked a new person, or if Ashley had fucked someone else and thus exposed me to a new risk (not that that would ever happen, Ashley is depressingly monogamous)… but fucking Ashley is nothing new to me, and doesn’t change my risk exposure.  So I never shared it, because I often didn’t think to, and when I did, I simply didn’t want to chance hurting Tina.

Or, is assigning fault a useless exercise?  Emotions rarely adhere to strict reasonable guidelines.  Tina freely admits that she loves how receptive I am to her being promiscuous, and simultaneously admits that, though she wants me to have that freedom as well, she would probably be terribly hurt by me sleeping with someone else, because she wants me to be hers and hers alone.  So it is entirely plausible that her reaction was born from that jealousy, and thus assigning blame is simply a juvenile response to a natural human inclination.

Really, what it makes me wonder is whether Tina and I are truly compatible.  She is a phenomenal lover, and sex with her is arguably the best I have ever experienced.  She is a gifted professional and a remarkable woman, and I care much more deeply for her than I should.  I wonder whether that depth of feeling and our inability to act on it, and the exposure and vulnerability it brings to our emotional lives, makes us hypersensitive to things that would normally not bother us were we to be together regularly and in a committed fashion.  I’ve no way of knowing, obviously, and there are so many questions and unknowns that I can’t shake this sense of unease I’ve felt for so many weeks.

Perhaps I should just let it go, let the relationship end, but the thought of not having her in my life is extraordinarily painful.  So ever onward do I trudge through discontent and melodrama.

Perhaps I just need a vacation.

It’s hard for me to talk to my lover about her lover.

There was a time in my life when I was a decidedly jealous person.  In retrospect, I often feel like that is less a personality flaw of mine, than a product of the specific relationships I was in during my youth.  My first real girlfriend fucked her ex mere hours after having sex with me for the first time, so losing my virginity didn’t quite have that je ne sais quois advertised by word of mouth and media.  I was too great a pushover to end it though, and actually stayed with her (as much as can be said for any high school relationship) for three years after that, during which time she fucked two coworkers, a boss, and the same ex multiple times.  I was insanely jealous because I was too scared to end it, and I knew that she could be fucking someone else if I weren’t on my game.

Then Kelly.  I was still pretty fucked up from the first girl (I should really give her a pseudonym at some point), and I had difficulties trusting anyone.  I don’t know if it was my insecurity that eventually drove her to cheat on me, or if it was the kind of atmosphere fostered by her performance arts department (all those kids fucked like rabbits all the goddamned time), but it happened, and I was insane with jealousy and insecurity any time she was out with that crowd, doing a show, or whatever.  I couldn’t bear the idea of losing her, and simultaneously, hated that I was in another relationship where I cared so much for someone who cared so little for me.

I’ve often said that Kelly was a major milestone in my sexual education.  Aside from giving me the opportunity to explore certain facets of my sexual tastes, she also “drove me” to cheating.  I hate that phrasing, because it implies it was her fault, which is terribly unfair.  It was always in me to be a lecherous bastard.  I just needed an excuse, an opportunity.  Kelly gave me that excuse.  Because of her, I learned how to cheat and get away with it.  It’s a skill that I carry with me to this day.  Not one I’m super proud of, but there it is.

Kelly also taught me to stop caring so much.  After her, I let go.  I stopped trying to control the situation.  I accepted that people are weak and unreliable, and driven by carnal urges that no amount of love and respect can overcome.

Everyone–and I do mean everyone–has it in them to cheat.  And you have to be cool with that, or shit will drive you crazy.

So, in the decade since my relationship with Kelly ended, I have been incredibly mellow and laid back about sex and relationships.  It has caused several women to hate me, not because I cheated on them (I did, but they didn’t know that), but because I was never jealous.  They thought it meant I didn’t care.  They would push me, try to make me jealous, and I just never gave a shit.  I’m not sure why it surprised them.  Perhaps because most guys are inherently jealous and territorial.  But not me, man.  I am cool as a cucumber.  Chill as fuck.  That’s me.  It’s part of why Ashley loves me so much, so it’s served me well.

But, for some reason, talking to Tina about her lover just… gets my hackles up.  I don’t have a high opinion of the guy anyway, for reasons that I can’t go into because those things would be awfully specific.  Suffice to say, he strikes me as an inherently untrustworthy fella.  (Not that I’m the most honest guy around, mind you.  I acknowledge the hypocrisy here.)  But she has real feelings for him, and she likes fucking him, despite his flaws.  So I let it go.

Most of the time, I’m okay with it.  But when she talks about how excited she is to see him after a trip… or how badly she needs him to fuck her… or how she wants to tell him to try this new thing… or how she has developed genuine feelings for him… or how disappointed she is that he doesn’t last as long, and can’t fuck as frequently, as me (take that, asshole)… something in me stirs.  I guarantee you know the tightness, the wrenching in your heart that makes you have to take a deep breath, because it feels like your chest is suddenly too small for your ribcage.  My jaw clenches, my muscles tense, and all I want to do is tell her, “NO.  That is NOT okay.”

Naturally, I don’t say that.  It would be ridiculous.  I fuck Ashley, she fucks The-Guy-Who-Can’t-Fuck-Multiple-Times-A-Day.  I’m married.  She’s not.  I can not possibly impose restrictions on her.  And I want her to feel like she can talk to me about anything, including her sex life, because I care that deeply about her.  But I can’t seem to fight off the tightness.

And yet I never get that way with Ashley.  It’s strange at times, trusting someone as much as I trust her.  But I can’t help but wonder, is the fact that I feel no jealousy toward her, but I do feel it toward Tina, an indication of trust, or apathy?  Do I genuinely trust Ashley, or do I just not care what happens?  I love her, certainly.  But I don’t feel the same sense of excitement, of longing, of absolutely need, that I feel toward Tina.

Do I truly love Ashley?  Or do I just love what we used to be and have?

Do I love Tina, too?  Or am I just experiencing residual anxiety from previous relationships similar to that which I have with her?

This is what I’ve been kicking around the past few days.  I wish I could say I had some kind of answer to it, but typically, I just mull the questions over, then go to the gym or have a glass of scotch and try to forget about it.  I’m really much too passive about the whole thing.  But I don’t know how to be active about it.

I’m not sure I *want* to be active about it.

I said I would eventually finish this memory. It’s a hard one to tell, because I was so absorbed in the moment that there are many gaps in my memories of it. And the things I felt at that time were so strong, and so unfamiliar to me, that they’re difficult to express.

I think this is the moment I truly fell for Tina.

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I strip my shirt in one fluid motion as I stand, and toss the now soaked garment aside. I lean against Tina and kiss her deeply. She sighs softly against my lips, the sound calm and relaxed, but she grasps at my belt eagerly, almost desperately. I would help her, but I am too fixated on pulling her dress up. She manages to unclasp the belt and jeans just as I slide the hem of her dress up to her arms. She releases me long enough for me to pull the garment over her head and off of her, then her fingers slip into my unzipped front. Cold fingers grasp my cock, and she pulls me toward her, guiding the head, rubbing it along her wetness, eliciting a whimper from her and a gasp from me. I push my jeans past my hips, let them fall to the floor, as I lean harder against her. I glide into her as smoothly as I have ever felt, with no resistance whatsoever, and am immediately amazed by her readiness despite the incredible tightness of her. The height of my desk is seemingly designed explicitly to allow her to sit at the edge while I stand, and I touch my forehead and nose to hers as I rock my hips gently, mindful of her comfort.

I am suddenly aware that she’s holding her breath, and her eyes are closed tight. I pause and stroke her cheek with my thumb. “Hey… are you okay?”

She blinks and looks at me. She releases her breath. “Yeah… it’s just been so long since I had a guy in me.”

“Am I hurting you?”

She shakes her head. “Oh fuck no. Nooooo no no.” She smiles shakily. “The desk is a little uncomfortable on my ass but I don’t care.” She wraps her arms and legs around me, pulling my torso to hers and driving me more deeply into her. We gasp simultaneously, and she kisses my jaw. “Please fuck me harder.”

That’s all I need to hear.

I grasp her hips and hold her steady, and drive myself against her with an audible slap. She jumps and cries out, loudly enough that the conscientious part of me is happy the department is deserted for the holiday, but mostly my libido screams in approval. I fuck her hard, with no further regard to comfort or positioning, and every thrust produces another moan or gasp or shout from my lover. She clutches at me, grabbing my shoulders, squeezing my upper arms, pulling my hips, digging her fingers into my back, in a manner that I have never experienced. It is arousing, certainly, and passionate, but there is more to it. It feels so… engaged. As though this isn’t just about fucking me, but about connecting with me, about being with me and around me and near me. As though there is absolutely nothing in the world she wants or needs more than me. And in that moment, there is nothing I want and need more than her. I lose track of everything–our location, the time, the entire world–and am completely absorbed in making love to her, experiencing her. I don’t know how many times she cums. I don’t know how many times I kiss her, or how many times we laugh drunkenly despite ourselves. But when my orgasm hits me, filling her and releasing me, it is quite literally the most incredible sensation I have ever felt.

Our foreheads are pressed together again, and we are breathing heavily. Sweat drips down our bodies, pooling on my desk. I am still hard, buried completely in her. I kiss her again, and we hold each other desperately. I don’t want to let her go. Ever.

Then I notice my clock and burst out laughing. “Holy shit. We just fucked for three straight hours on my desk.”

She turns her head to the clock, then giggles. She presses her cheek to my chest. “Well… I don’t know about you, but I’ve wanted to do exactly this for over a year now, so it makes sense.” She looks up at me and kisses me again. I see tears in her eyes.

“Are you okay, my darling?” I kiss her eyes, taste the saltiness.

She nods and wipes her eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine…” Her voice is shaky, and she wipes again. “I just… can’t believe this is real. That you’re real.”

I nod and kiss her cheek, and her jaw. “I’m real. I’m yours.”

“As much as you can be,” she says, finishing what I had left unspoken. She holds me tighter. “I’m okay with that. As long as I have you in some capacity, I’m okay with it.”

I hold her just as tightly. I can’t describe what I feel in that moment. But I am certain that I never want to let her go.

I recently chatted with an acquaintance I met through this site. Maybe not acquaintance–friend now? I’m not sure yet, and I hate assigning labels to developing relationships, but if you read this post, friend-quaintance, I think you’re just the best.

Man, I get side-tracked easily. Gotta work on that.

Anyhow. Said friend-quaintance commented that they admire my self-awareness and honesty. Though flattered, those are two qualities that I would never expect anyone to apply to me. I certainly make every effort at introspection, the better to understand myself and my interactions with the people around me, but I wouldn’t say I’ve been particularly good at it. And those times that I successfully nailed down whatever thing was stewing about in the back of my mind, I probably didn’t actually do anything about it because I am primarily driven by three desires. They are, in no particular order: 1) to learn and understand everything, 2) to avoid conflict at most any cost, and 3) to fuck as often and passionately as possible.

That last one is a real doozy, and doesn’t really mesh with the second one. Most people I have ever known don’t have my libido. My current lover, Tina, certainly does, and on our business trip we fucked every afternoon and evening, at least once, usually twice or three times, and would have gone for a fourth round if we hadn’t had to be up early for work.

What can I say, I have a really short refractory period. Multiple orgasms isn’t possible (*sigh*), but four times a day isn’t too difficult for me.

But that’s why she’s my lover. Most people don’t seem to be like that. So, when Desire Number Three kicks in, if my wife can not or will not satisfy the urge, and my lover is not available, then I have to find it someplace else.

…well, “have to” is strong phrasing. It’s not as though it’s a necessity. But I’m sure we can all agree that the need to fuck is a powerful motivator. Sadly, the other people in my life would certainly not take well to my promiscuous endeavors, and so I am driven to craft elaborate and entirely believable lies and scenarios that permit me to engage in my infidelities without upsetting Desire Number Two.

But, I sometimes wonder what it would be like, not to be dishonest. Not that I think I would be any good at true openness and transparency, mind you. Deception is too much a part of who I am at this point. But if I were to do that… what would it even look like? What would it take? I am only ever truly honest on this site, because this is about as safe and accepting a place as exists for me to share the things I think about and struggle with. I can’t really imagine what an honest relationship would be, because I’ve never seen or experienced one. I’m not sure they exist. Like a really communicative sasquatch.

I can say, however, that if I were to really try at that kind of honesty, it would only be for a woman who was every bit as sexual as I am. She would have to be able to read this blog and not be terrified. She would be accepting of how much I struggle with these things, and rather than judge me for them, she would experience them with me. She would share my sexually debauched lifestyle in every way. Swing by my office for a quickie over lunch. Bring home a random man or woman she met at a bar, and let me watch them fuck her. Wake me in the morning by straddling my face. Plan a weekend involving a premium hotel suite, pizza (because room service is for chumps), four bottles of wine, and an arsenal of new dildos, vibrators, masturbators, restraints, and lingerie.

Hmm. That last one sounds a bit pedestrian when you say it that way. But you lock me in a hotel room with my dream woman for 60 hours and there is no telling what will happen. They’d probably have to burn that bed.

It’s likely such a woman exists, somewhere, but sadly I’ve never met her. If I did, I imagine I would be willing to communicate anything and everything she wanted for another chance to ride that particular unicorn.

Or sasquatch, if I want to continue that metaphor. But “riding the sasquatch” sounds incredibly dirty.

Tina comes close. Probably closer than any woman I have ever been with. But she has her reservations as well, and is not nearly the go-getter I am when it comes to sex. She’s also not a morning person, so straddling my face first thing when she wakes up probably will never happen.

Which is a goddamned shame, because fuck waking up to the smell of coffee, I want to wake up to the smell and taste of a woman. Hence my previous post.

Though coffee is a close second.

I am more honest with my lover than I am with my wife.

That’s a strange thing to realize, but it’s not altogether surprising. I have long said that I am not honest with the people who are closest to me. There are lots of reasons for it, but mostly, I suspect it’s a product of growing up in a family with a… let’s say, temperamental patriarch. In my family, it was generally understood but rarely spoken that you did everything you could to avoid making him mad. To my mother, that usually meant keeping things back, hidden, and only sharing unpleasant things if it were necessary. She passed that along to me. But somewhere along the line, I figured out that lying about something, and getting away with it, would keep him from flying off the deep end, and if you were caught, well, it was no worse than it would have been otherwise. So really, there was no downside to lying. It kept peace in the house.

Over the years I got very good at lying. Not just about things I don’t want you to know, but about anything. Pretending to think and feel things that I don’t so as to minimize conflict, or maximize social interactions. (There’s some awkward wording for you.) I felt bad about it, from time to time.

Then I learned that, in intellectual circles, pretending to agree with something you don’t isn’t considered lying.  It’s considered debate.

It helps that I am by nature an academic, and am genuinely interested in learning as much as I can about most things. It lends an aire of authenticity to things when I launch into a discussion in support of a topic or position that I may not truly agree with. I think of it as being similar to the Socratic method, always questioning, always pushing, because I learn who I am and what I think by engaging in informed discussion with other informed people. But it’s probably better represented as a ‘devil’s advocate’ kind of thing. I do it with everyone–my students, colleagues, friends. Ashley, and Tina. I use it as a defense mechanism. A suit of armor, piece mail comprised of plates of intellectuality held together with bands of bold-faced but well-practiced lies. It helps me seem sharper, harder. Stops others from realizing just how weak I really am, while simultaneously preventing unpleasant interactions and hurt feelings.

Thanks for sticking with me through that, dear reader. On to the point.

I recently spent an extended period of time with my lover, Tina, in a foreign city. (She was the subject of my previous two posts. At some point I may finish that story. But for now, this is on my mind.) Ours is a relationship born certainly out of mutual physical attraction, but also intellectual and academic respect. We spend much of our time engaging in discussion of recent developments in the world stage, particularly in light of progressive politics, feminism, the notion of privilege, and dietary morality. For the record, I consider myself an ally to most progressive causes, particularly anything dealing with sexual and body rights. But that doesn’t mean I won’t criticize or scrutinize those same movements, because I find that such scrutiny can only improve one’s position, and refusing to see the opposition’s side clouds your judgement and limits your ability to debate them.

It seems I may have pushed it a bit too hard, though. Tina often seemed withdrawn during our visit, save for when we were fucking ourselves into a sweaty stupor. When we parted ways, she shared with me that she felt like she didn’t know who I am. That I present two very different images of myself in almost any issue. I tried to explain what I wrote above, but she said it was more than that. She had caught me in a lie at one point–a minor thing, something I once confessed to her and had forgotten, and didn’t want to admit to in the moment in question. She had called me out on it, I explained, I moved on, but she didn’t.

We are having an affair, she reminded me. Trust is the only thing we have. And you violated that. It was such a little thing. How can I believe you on the major things?

I considered that, and came to the almost immediate conclusion that she was right. I promised to make a conscious effort to avoid such behavior in the future, and it’s a promise I genuinely think I will keep. Ours truly is a relationship built on trust and honesty. She was my friend long before we became lovers, and she knows more about my true feelings and opinions than most people. If I can cloud that for her, then I need to change my behavior.

Yet I don’t feel that way about Ashley. Many things have improved between us, particularly in terms of sexuality and intimacy, but my relationship with my wife is still inherently based on deception and lies. She is my best friend and partner, and once again my lover. I should be honest with her, and loyal. Yet I will sit beside Ashley on the couch at night, talking about our days and our plans for the future while I simultaneously chat digitally with Tina about how badly I want to fuck her. And not the slightest hint of guilt do I feel.

Someone once told me I might be slightly sociopathic. I sometimes wonder if they were right.

Yeah, I guess this one will turn out to be three-parter after all! I am currently away from home for research, and I suspect this will pretty much be the norm for me for the next several years of my life, if not all of them. But I have arranged my schedule such that I have an hour or so free every night to write and respond to messages and things.

If you want to be successful at this whole blogging business, you have to be diligent about updating.

The final part of this memory will be coming soon. Enjoy.

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The kiss lingers for several long moments. There is nothing overtly sexual about it–no biting, no teasing, no tongue, just a gentle, sweet moment. I finally pull back, my hands still cupping her cheeks. Our eyes open at the same time. We look at each other. Her lips are parted, surprise and desire mingling in her expression. She is breathing deeply, slowly, but heavily. She smiles.

“…oh my.”

My thumb strokes her cheek. “Sorry. I’ve just wanted to do that for so long.”

She bites her lower lip. “Me too…”

And she presses against me, wrapping her arms around my waist as she kisses me again. A faint whimper echoes in her throat, and that’s all I need. Gone is the anxiety, replaced by overwhelming desire. I embrace her tightly, squeezing her body as closely to me as before. My tongue traces the line of her lower lip, and she responds similarly, our tongues dancing against one another. My heart pounds, and my body throbs in anticipation. I grab her waist and guide her back, toward my desk, and she leans against it, half sitting, half standing. I drop to my knees, my eyes level with the lower hem of the red dress. I lean in and kiss her thigh, over the stockings. I can smell her arousal, and it as close to intoxicating as anything can be.

I need you.

My lips glide along her inner thigh, beyond the stocking, moving upward as I draw the dress up and around her waist. True to her word, she wore no undergarments, and my breath catches in my throat at the sight of her. Very recently and expertly waxed, her mound is smooth and lovely. Her labia are swollen and invitingly open, and glistening wet under the fluorescent lighting in my office. She has started to drip down her left inner thigh, and I run my tongue across the wet trail, cleaning and tasting her. She is remarkably sweet with hardly a hint of salt, better than the flavor of any woman I can remember. I follow the trail along her leg toward her pelvis, and lightly press my tongue against her center. Her wetness coats my mouth, and I feel her shudder at my attentions.

I whisper against her, “You were right, clean living makes you taste pretty fucking good.”

She laughs shakily, and begins to say something, but her voice catches and she simply groans as I thrust my tongue as deep into her as I can. I lift her legs at the knees, pulling them up and onto my shoulders to ease access to her. I feel her ankles lock behind me, and I begin stroking her center with my tongue, long, slow movements, from perineum to clitoris, lapping at her wetness, high on the sweetness of her. My hands grasp her hips, shifting her position on my desk, pulling her a bit closer, then move under the hem of her dress and up along her belly, simply exploring the smoothness of her flesh. She squirms a little, suddenly panting, and after no more than two minutes of my attention I can feel her stomach tighten, her hips begin to shake, and she groans louder than before. I feel her tighten under my tongue, convulsing for a brief moment, then I am surprised by the sudden deluge as she cums against me. I groan in my throat, not wanting to pull away for a moment. This flavor is different than before–tart, almost sour, but still not salty, and it drenches my face and chin, my neck, and covers my shirt. She shudders once more, and again, then gasps for air and pushes at the top of my head. I move back obediently and look up at her.

“You didn’t tell me you squirt,” I say with a wry grin.

She laughs again, less anxious than before but still obviously nervous. “Well, it hardly ever happens. I have to be really turned on for it to happen.”

I gesture to my shirt, and the dark patch of moisture that moves from neck to sternum. “I guess you must have been turned on.”

“That sounds like past tense,” she answers. “Presently, I remain turned on.”

I grin up at her, then lean in and lay a gentle kiss on her clit. She shudders and gasps again.

“…me too,” I answer.