With the stock market bouncing up and down like tits on a 40-year-old stripper and the economy veering off a cliff, I have to wonder if this was the best time to quit my job and fly halfway around the world to an entirely uncertain future in pursuit of my dreams.
But I've always been a glass-half-full girl and have pressed on through some pretty tough times. I was a few weeks past sixteen when my parents kicked me out of the house, and I only had a few hundred dollars saved from babysitting gigs. Now, some seven years later, I have enough money saved to be able to live on just the interest alone, if I'm extremely frugal. Seven years ago, right after 9/11, the economy was pretty wretched, too, but I managed to find a waitressing job, where I learned if you were nice and smiled a whole lot to the customers, particularly the men, you could make pretty decent tips.
I ran across the following quote from Mark Twain that seemed relevant for me in this moment of contemplation: Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the things you did do.
If I live that long, twenty years from now I'll be 43 years old. I have not a clue where I'll be or what I'm doing. I do think, however, I won't regret completely picking up stakes like this and starting fresh.
I used to see a lot of middle-aged women in Las Vegas who looked like they had a hard life. One manager at the club where I worked had been a stripper earlier in her life, but the only jobs she could get now paid far less. She lived alone in an efficiency apartment and had enormous tits to which gravity had not been kind. I sometimes would wonder, "will I end up like her?"
With only a GRE and given my resume -- waitress, nude dancer, sometimes model -- I know I don't have a lot of career options. But I'm not worrying about that now. I think some of James is starting to rub off on me. He says, "live today for today, but don't do anything that'll stuff up tomorrow."
My future may look somewhat daunting but not frightening. And I'm happy, for the first time in my adult life, that I'm not going it alone.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
nymphomaniac or sex addict or hypersexual?
A good friend who started reading this blog emailed me the other day and asked how my being hypersexual was any different than being a nymphomaniac or a sex addict.
Half of this answer is very easy: hypersexuality is the same thing as nymphomania -- the latter is no longer used clinically to describe women, just like the equivalent term satyriasis is no longer used for men. The dictionary describes hypersexuality as someone who is "excessively interested or involved in sexual activity."
So what's excessive? Is my wanting sex two or three times a day "too much"? My shrink brother long ago told me that sex drive will vary considerably from person to person, so what one person considers "normal" would be "excessive" to another. I have known people who have sex more frequently than three times a day and some who engage in what I call "binge sex," essentially fucking all day for like twelve or fourteen hours straight. Is that excessive?
Some shrinks use the term "hypersexual" in a pejorative way while others do not. I'm sure some would look askance at a woman who likes three bonks each and every a day. Others would just say I had a high(er) sex drive. And, our society does differentiate between gender on this topic: a guy who likes a lot of sex is a "stud" and cheered on by his buddies, but a woman who likes a lot of sex is a "slut" and someone to avoid.
Sexual addiction, however, is something quite different. Hypersexualism is to a wine connoisseur what sexual addiction is to alcoholism. Having a glass or two of wine each day is a far cry from downing three scotches before 7:00 a.m.
If your behavior is more like that of a junkie or an alcoholic, where you pathologically crave sex to the point it entirely controls your life, then you may well be a sex addict. Does your whole life rotate around the constant desire for sex, your "drug" of choice? Is your sexual activity highly destructive, where you have anonymous sex with unnamed partners when you already have a loving spouse or partner? Do you make choices simply because they may lead to you having more sex?
One therapist I had tried to convince me I was a sex addict whereas another therapist tried to convince me I was not. I ultimately agreed with the latter. While I love sex and I need sex regularly, and while I sometimes have engaged in "risky" or compulsive behavior, I don't think my life is out of control because of my hypersexualism. Let's face it, sex is a whole hell of a lot of fun, and it burns calories; why should I have less?
I'd write more about this topic but, at the moment, my sweetie is sitting on the bed with that mischievous twinkle in his eye...
Half of this answer is very easy: hypersexuality is the same thing as nymphomania -- the latter is no longer used clinically to describe women, just like the equivalent term satyriasis is no longer used for men. The dictionary describes hypersexuality as someone who is "excessively interested or involved in sexual activity."
So what's excessive? Is my wanting sex two or three times a day "too much"? My shrink brother long ago told me that sex drive will vary considerably from person to person, so what one person considers "normal" would be "excessive" to another. I have known people who have sex more frequently than three times a day and some who engage in what I call "binge sex," essentially fucking all day for like twelve or fourteen hours straight. Is that excessive?
Some shrinks use the term "hypersexual" in a pejorative way while others do not. I'm sure some would look askance at a woman who likes three bonks each and every a day. Others would just say I had a high(er) sex drive. And, our society does differentiate between gender on this topic: a guy who likes a lot of sex is a "stud" and cheered on by his buddies, but a woman who likes a lot of sex is a "slut" and someone to avoid.
Sexual addiction, however, is something quite different. Hypersexualism is to a wine connoisseur what sexual addiction is to alcoholism. Having a glass or two of wine each day is a far cry from downing three scotches before 7:00 a.m.
If your behavior is more like that of a junkie or an alcoholic, where you pathologically crave sex to the point it entirely controls your life, then you may well be a sex addict. Does your whole life rotate around the constant desire for sex, your "drug" of choice? Is your sexual activity highly destructive, where you have anonymous sex with unnamed partners when you already have a loving spouse or partner? Do you make choices simply because they may lead to you having more sex?
One therapist I had tried to convince me I was a sex addict whereas another therapist tried to convince me I was not. I ultimately agreed with the latter. While I love sex and I need sex regularly, and while I sometimes have engaged in "risky" or compulsive behavior, I don't think my life is out of control because of my hypersexualism. Let's face it, sex is a whole hell of a lot of fun, and it burns calories; why should I have less?
I'd write more about this topic but, at the moment, my sweetie is sitting on the bed with that mischievous twinkle in his eye...
Sunday, September 28, 2008
leaving las vegas
I hate goodbyes, so I just wanted to sort of slip quietly away when I left Las Vegas last night for good. In the final weeks, I said farewell to friends individually or at my surprise birthday party a few weeks ago. One of the few things I remember from high school French is how they have two ways of saying goodbye: "adieu" is farewell forever, whereas "au revoir" is goodbye for now. So I like to think I said "au revoir" to my friends, although I seriously doubt I would ever live in Nevada again. But, unlike cheese, friendship will keep when you travel from city to city.
I always thought Vegas would be something of a bookmark for me, between more notable chapters in my life, and I think that's still true. I'm confident the chapter ahead will be far more memorable than the one that came before Vegas. I left Los Angeles on short notice to finish a very toxic relationship, and Nevada offered a curious way station. I didn't think I would be leaving Las Vegas just as a new relationship was starting, nor did I believe I would find the kind of love that I have. I came to Nevada to heal, and now I feel whole and ready to blossom.
My employer hosted a going-away bash for me. My "regulars" were all sorry to see me go -- and some gave me the most outlandish of tips -- but I just felt like I couldn't leave the club quickly enough. The fact that James was at the bash, too, kept me calm in those final hours. When you're ready to go, you can't get away fast enough from what you're leaving behind.
On the way out of the city, I told my sweetie I wanted to stop at a favorite overlook which offers a view of Las Vegas. This would be sort of my "adieu." I had brought him here once before, and he remembered the exact spot. He pulled off the highway and took the narrow road into the hills overlooking the desert.
We climbed out of the car and quietly watching the shimmering lights far in the distance. Las Vegas appeared to be floating on the quiet night, a mad sprawl of light so improbable in the silent desert it seemed a kind of waking dream. The only sound was an approaching thunderstorm somewhere in the mountains and the far-off howl of a lone coyote.
So many people go to Nevada hoping to find luck, to wish upon a glittering neon star, to catch a dream that might come true. I never thought I had much luck and certainly didn't expect to win anything, but I was leaving Las Vegas with something I never had before: true love. He was standing behind me and holding me in his strong arms, not speaking, as if realizing by instinct this was a moment meant for silence. There are times when he seems to read my mind.
After a while, I said softly, "I'm ready to go." He took me by the hand and led me back to the car. He returned to the highway and headed away from Vegas. While he drove, he took my left hand in his right, but we didn't speak, for nothing needed to be said at that moment. I did not feel remorse because, at this ending, I sensed a new and glorious beginning.
The radio was softly playing one of those distant stations you can always pick up in the night desert. The music changed, and Marianne Faithfull began singing "The Hawk," one of my all-time favorites. I heard James softly say, "I love this song," and my heart skipped a little beat. He squeezed my hand gently as together we listened to Marianne's soulful voice fill the car with lyrics that seemed written for that very moment:
Gotta make your own rules, child,
Gotta break your own chains.
Your dreams that possess you
Can blossom and bless you
Or run you insane.
The moment is yours, child,
To lay on the line.
The past just don't matter,
Tomorrow won't mind.
I don't deserve you,
I'm only human.
But I swear I'll love you
Just as hard as I can.
Storm on the mountain
Stars in the sky
Running for glory
Freedom to fly.
Will you remember,
Way down the road,
Somebody loves you
More than you know.
I always thought Vegas would be something of a bookmark for me, between more notable chapters in my life, and I think that's still true. I'm confident the chapter ahead will be far more memorable than the one that came before Vegas. I left Los Angeles on short notice to finish a very toxic relationship, and Nevada offered a curious way station. I didn't think I would be leaving Las Vegas just as a new relationship was starting, nor did I believe I would find the kind of love that I have. I came to Nevada to heal, and now I feel whole and ready to blossom.
My employer hosted a going-away bash for me. My "regulars" were all sorry to see me go -- and some gave me the most outlandish of tips -- but I just felt like I couldn't leave the club quickly enough. The fact that James was at the bash, too, kept me calm in those final hours. When you're ready to go, you can't get away fast enough from what you're leaving behind.
On the way out of the city, I told my sweetie I wanted to stop at a favorite overlook which offers a view of Las Vegas. This would be sort of my "adieu." I had brought him here once before, and he remembered the exact spot. He pulled off the highway and took the narrow road into the hills overlooking the desert.
We climbed out of the car and quietly watching the shimmering lights far in the distance. Las Vegas appeared to be floating on the quiet night, a mad sprawl of light so improbable in the silent desert it seemed a kind of waking dream. The only sound was an approaching thunderstorm somewhere in the mountains and the far-off howl of a lone coyote.
So many people go to Nevada hoping to find luck, to wish upon a glittering neon star, to catch a dream that might come true. I never thought I had much luck and certainly didn't expect to win anything, but I was leaving Las Vegas with something I never had before: true love. He was standing behind me and holding me in his strong arms, not speaking, as if realizing by instinct this was a moment meant for silence. There are times when he seems to read my mind.
After a while, I said softly, "I'm ready to go." He took me by the hand and led me back to the car. He returned to the highway and headed away from Vegas. While he drove, he took my left hand in his right, but we didn't speak, for nothing needed to be said at that moment. I did not feel remorse because, at this ending, I sensed a new and glorious beginning.
The radio was softly playing one of those distant stations you can always pick up in the night desert. The music changed, and Marianne Faithfull began singing "The Hawk," one of my all-time favorites. I heard James softly say, "I love this song," and my heart skipped a little beat. He squeezed my hand gently as together we listened to Marianne's soulful voice fill the car with lyrics that seemed written for that very moment:
Gotta make your own rules, child,
Gotta break your own chains.
Your dreams that possess you
Can blossom and bless you
Or run you insane.
The moment is yours, child,
To lay on the line.
The past just don't matter,
Tomorrow won't mind.
I don't deserve you,
I'm only human.
But I swear I'll love you
Just as hard as I can.
Storm on the mountain
Stars in the sky
Running for glory
Freedom to fly.
Will you remember,
Way down the road,
Somebody loves you
More than you know.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
last days
I begin my grand adventure tonight. In a few minutes, I'll power down my laptop and put it in my suitcase. After work, I hit the road, first for about a week seeing sites like the Grand Canyon and Death Valley and Yosemite with my sweetie, then on to LA for a few days, then off to Australia on October 8. My visa is good for one year, but I cannot stay more than 90 days in one stretch, so that means I'll have to make some trips to New Zealand. (James reminds me with a mischievous smile, if I happen to marry an Australian, that limitation will no longer apply.)
I may not be able to write in this blog every day, but I'll try to make entries at least three or four times a week. I find writing this very cathartic, notwithstanding I suspect very few people are actually reading the thing. I have received a few emails and one comment from people I don't know, so somehow it's getting out there.
James teases me because he says no one will want to read about "the adventures of a hypersexual woman" when she sleeps with only one guy. Well, the blog isn't called the "all-new adventures of a hypersexual woman," and I certainly plan to write about some of my past experiences. But if ever you find this blog boring, please do not hesitate to let me know.
You can always reach me here: hypersexualgirl at gmail dot com.
I may not be able to write in this blog every day, but I'll try to make entries at least three or four times a week. I find writing this very cathartic, notwithstanding I suspect very few people are actually reading the thing. I have received a few emails and one comment from people I don't know, so somehow it's getting out there.
James teases me because he says no one will want to read about "the adventures of a hypersexual woman" when she sleeps with only one guy. Well, the blog isn't called the "all-new adventures of a hypersexual woman," and I certainly plan to write about some of my past experiences. But if ever you find this blog boring, please do not hesitate to let me know.
You can always reach me here: hypersexualgirl at gmail dot com.
Friday, September 26, 2008
the butterfly effect
In early August, I made a new online friend through one of the social networking sites. Unlike most people you meet through those sites who never seem to get beyond "u r fine lookin babe" level, Patrick was both articulate and funny. He knew from the get-go that I was an exotic dancer and, like most red-blooded heterosexual males, he was inquisitive about my job and life (it was clear from my online profile that I'm sexually voracious). He nonetheless probed tactfully and respectfully.
In one of our first message exchanges, he asked something like, "what are you planning to do with your life and where do you see myself in ten years?" At the time, I didn't give it much thought, but his question really got me thinking later as I was going about my day. It became what I sometimes call a "George and Clarence moment" where you unexpectedly step back and take stock of your life. (For those not up on their movie lore, George and Clarence are characters in It's a Wonderful Life.)
I had been toying with the idea of leaving my job and traveling the world again so I could do more modeling. At that point, I had about $475,000 in savings, so I could do a lot of things. I really had no idea what I would be doing in ten years, but I certainly didn't want to be still dancing naked on a stage, so I came to the epiphany that some changes were necessary in my life.
I knew, however, that I would need to beef up my portfolio with some recent shoots and that meant lining up some TFPs. (A TFP -- short for "time for print" -- is a photo session where the model is not paid but receives complementary stills for his/her portfolio.) So I started scouting the various modeling websites for photographers looking to do TFPs in the Vegas area. I also put the word out to some model friends that I needed some quick TFPs.
My friend Bee told me she had turned down a TFP but knew the guy was still looking for some female models. I met him for coffee, and although I had some reservations about his portfolio, I figured what the hell.
The morning of the shoot, I was pretty wiped from having worked a long week (and if you don't think dancing is a hard job, try doing it for seven hours, five or six days a week), but I couldn't bail on the photoshoot -- that's just totally unprofessional.
I was the last one at the shoot, and it was pretty obvious from the get go that it was going to be a rancorous affair. One of the male models apparently thought he was in the same league as Mike O'Hearn and was being a complete pain in the ass. The photographer was distracted, so I introduced myself to his assistant for a wardrobe check. I then said hello to some of the other models standing around. It was a beautiful morning in the desert, so to clear my head and get away from the squabble, I walked about a hundred feet to this little rise and looked off to the mountains in the distance.
"Hello there, you okay?" I heard a deep, sonorous Australian-accented voice ask behind me. I turned and felt the earth move a little bit. I've seen a lot of attractive men in my life but there was something about this guy that just struck me from the get-go. We started talking about nothing, about prima donna model wannabes, but I was just sort of mesmerized by James's soulful eyes. (Okay, he wasn't wearing a shirt and he's very muscular and tanned, and I of course noticed that, too.)
Needless to say, as detailed elsewhere in this blog, James and I very quickly became an item. If I hadn't gone to that shoot that day, however, I would not have met him. If my friend Bee didn't tell me about the TFP, I wouldn't have gone to the shoot. If I hadn't been thinking about beefing up my porfolio, I wouldn't have been looking for some TFPs. If I hadn't been thinking about making some big changes in my life, I wouldn't have been thinking about beefing up my portfolio. And if Patrick hadn't asked me that question, I might not have done anything.
I titled this post "the butterfly effect" because that's what happened here. In chaos theory, a change in something seemingly innocuous, like a butterfly's flapping wings, may cause unexpected larger changes in the future, such as a tornado, hence the butterfly effect. Patrick's little nudge propelled me in a certain direction, and that led me to meet someone who has become very special to me. (The irony of all this is that the TFPs from the photoshoot where we met were pretty close to abysmal.)
Now I doubt if Patrick intended all this by asking his question (unless he truly is one of Clarence's progeny), but there was a bit of subtext to his inquiry, even if unintentional. All in all, I think he meant it in a kindly way, and it was a very sweet gesture.
The moral to this story is that little kindnesses may sometimes pay great rewards, if not for you, then for someone else. You can change someone's life with just a tiny flap of your wings.
In one of our first message exchanges, he asked something like, "what are you planning to do with your life and where do you see myself in ten years?" At the time, I didn't give it much thought, but his question really got me thinking later as I was going about my day. It became what I sometimes call a "George and Clarence moment" where you unexpectedly step back and take stock of your life. (For those not up on their movie lore, George and Clarence are characters in It's a Wonderful Life.)
I had been toying with the idea of leaving my job and traveling the world again so I could do more modeling. At that point, I had about $475,000 in savings, so I could do a lot of things. I really had no idea what I would be doing in ten years, but I certainly didn't want to be still dancing naked on a stage, so I came to the epiphany that some changes were necessary in my life.
I knew, however, that I would need to beef up my portfolio with some recent shoots and that meant lining up some TFPs. (A TFP -- short for "time for print" -- is a photo session where the model is not paid but receives complementary stills for his/her portfolio.) So I started scouting the various modeling websites for photographers looking to do TFPs in the Vegas area. I also put the word out to some model friends that I needed some quick TFPs.
My friend Bee told me she had turned down a TFP but knew the guy was still looking for some female models. I met him for coffee, and although I had some reservations about his portfolio, I figured what the hell.
The morning of the shoot, I was pretty wiped from having worked a long week (and if you don't think dancing is a hard job, try doing it for seven hours, five or six days a week), but I couldn't bail on the photoshoot -- that's just totally unprofessional.
I was the last one at the shoot, and it was pretty obvious from the get go that it was going to be a rancorous affair. One of the male models apparently thought he was in the same league as Mike O'Hearn and was being a complete pain in the ass. The photographer was distracted, so I introduced myself to his assistant for a wardrobe check. I then said hello to some of the other models standing around. It was a beautiful morning in the desert, so to clear my head and get away from the squabble, I walked about a hundred feet to this little rise and looked off to the mountains in the distance.
"Hello there, you okay?" I heard a deep, sonorous Australian-accented voice ask behind me. I turned and felt the earth move a little bit. I've seen a lot of attractive men in my life but there was something about this guy that just struck me from the get-go. We started talking about nothing, about prima donna model wannabes, but I was just sort of mesmerized by James's soulful eyes. (Okay, he wasn't wearing a shirt and he's very muscular and tanned, and I of course noticed that, too.)
Needless to say, as detailed elsewhere in this blog, James and I very quickly became an item. If I hadn't gone to that shoot that day, however, I would not have met him. If my friend Bee didn't tell me about the TFP, I wouldn't have gone to the shoot. If I hadn't been thinking about beefing up my porfolio, I wouldn't have been looking for some TFPs. If I hadn't been thinking about making some big changes in my life, I wouldn't have been thinking about beefing up my portfolio. And if Patrick hadn't asked me that question, I might not have done anything.
I titled this post "the butterfly effect" because that's what happened here. In chaos theory, a change in something seemingly innocuous, like a butterfly's flapping wings, may cause unexpected larger changes in the future, such as a tornado, hence the butterfly effect. Patrick's little nudge propelled me in a certain direction, and that led me to meet someone who has become very special to me. (The irony of all this is that the TFPs from the photoshoot where we met were pretty close to abysmal.)
Now I doubt if Patrick intended all this by asking his question (unless he truly is one of Clarence's progeny), but there was a bit of subtext to his inquiry, even if unintentional. All in all, I think he meant it in a kindly way, and it was a very sweet gesture.
The moral to this story is that little kindnesses may sometimes pay great rewards, if not for you, then for someone else. You can change someone's life with just a tiny flap of your wings.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
hitting on me
I'm standing in the supermarket checkout line last night after work with James. After midnight, the store only has one checker, so the line can be long, as I know from experience.
James is very tactile and affectionate in public. While we're waiting, he's gently caressing my midriff and whispering sweet nothings into my ear while I read the tabloid headlines aloud to him.
And then the guy behind us in line starts hitting on me.
"Wow, what a pretty girl you are," I hear to my left.
I hear James sort of hiss in his breath. I turn slightly and see my new admirer, and he's about 5'7", maybe 50, all of 130 pounds. He doesn't appear to be blind nor mentally impaired nor drunk. Can he not see I have a rather large boyfriend with a paw on my bare flesh? (I was wearing a midriff tanktop and jeans shorts, by the way.)
I think for a moment this is a customer at the place where I dance, but he looks utterly unfamiliar to me.
"Why haven't I seen you when I was here before?" Mr. Pipsqueak asks in his come-hither voice.
Now I've been hit on by guys many times, but this is a first for me, while I'm clearly with another man. And I also know that James is very protective of me and can veer into possessive very easily. I sort of square my feet into the checkout rack so, if he goes after the guy, he has to go through me, and I know he would not hurt me.
"Back off mate," James growls at Mr. Romance behind me while pulling me closer.
"Jeez, I was just trying to make conversation," my admirer retorts.
Fortunately, at that point, our order is up next for the checker, and we're out of the store inside of two minutes. As we walk to the car, and James has his arm firmly all the way around me, I look sideways and see Mr. Pipsqueak heading to a new Mercedes parked near the door.
I try to laugh it off, but James is not amused. He says he knows I think he's too protective, but this is exactly why he has to be, he insists. I tell him I've been hit on before and know how to handle myself. (It is wonderful, nonetheless, to have someone to watch over me.) He need not fear losing me simply because some other guy spews out a ridiculous come-on line.
I have to say, however, I'm still mystified by what happened. Was the guy a masochist? Does he hit on girls with their boyfriends and then sue them when they beat the crap out of him? Was that how he was able to afford the Mercedes?
James has a different idea. "That's because you're catnip, babe," he says this morning at breakfast with a smile after he's gotten over wanting to pound the guy into the supermarket pavement. "That guy knew he had one chance, and the odds were less than squat, but he couldn't help but make his play." Then he adds, after kissing my nose, in his Aussie accent, "poor troppo buggah."
James is very tactile and affectionate in public. While we're waiting, he's gently caressing my midriff and whispering sweet nothings into my ear while I read the tabloid headlines aloud to him.
And then the guy behind us in line starts hitting on me.
"Wow, what a pretty girl you are," I hear to my left.
I hear James sort of hiss in his breath. I turn slightly and see my new admirer, and he's about 5'7", maybe 50, all of 130 pounds. He doesn't appear to be blind nor mentally impaired nor drunk. Can he not see I have a rather large boyfriend with a paw on my bare flesh? (I was wearing a midriff tanktop and jeans shorts, by the way.)
I think for a moment this is a customer at the place where I dance, but he looks utterly unfamiliar to me.
"Why haven't I seen you when I was here before?" Mr. Pipsqueak asks in his come-hither voice.
Now I've been hit on by guys many times, but this is a first for me, while I'm clearly with another man. And I also know that James is very protective of me and can veer into possessive very easily. I sort of square my feet into the checkout rack so, if he goes after the guy, he has to go through me, and I know he would not hurt me.
"Back off mate," James growls at Mr. Romance behind me while pulling me closer.
"Jeez, I was just trying to make conversation," my admirer retorts.
Fortunately, at that point, our order is up next for the checker, and we're out of the store inside of two minutes. As we walk to the car, and James has his arm firmly all the way around me, I look sideways and see Mr. Pipsqueak heading to a new Mercedes parked near the door.
I try to laugh it off, but James is not amused. He says he knows I think he's too protective, but this is exactly why he has to be, he insists. I tell him I've been hit on before and know how to handle myself. (It is wonderful, nonetheless, to have someone to watch over me.) He need not fear losing me simply because some other guy spews out a ridiculous come-on line.
I have to say, however, I'm still mystified by what happened. Was the guy a masochist? Does he hit on girls with their boyfriends and then sue them when they beat the crap out of him? Was that how he was able to afford the Mercedes?
James has a different idea. "That's because you're catnip, babe," he says this morning at breakfast with a smile after he's gotten over wanting to pound the guy into the supermarket pavement. "That guy knew he had one chance, and the odds were less than squat, but he couldn't help but make his play." Then he adds, after kissing my nose, in his Aussie accent, "poor troppo buggah."
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
that terrible thing that I did
When I was 13 years old, I did a terrible thing that could've gotten a man sent to prison for many years. While some people say he was to blame, I have to accept my share of the responsibility for what happened. It's also an experience that has shaped who I am today.
So I guess I should start at the beginning.
Sometime around my 13th birthday, I was at a sleepover at my friend Megan's house with some other female friends who were aged 12 and 13. Shortly before that, Megan had discovered her brother's secret stash of porn, which she shared with us at the party. Except for Megan and I, the other girls were horrified at watching what unfolded on the screen, which memory serves me was some kind of gangbang gonzo stuff.
Megan and I, however, were hooked and in the ensuing weeks we watched every video in her brother's stash several times. At 13, I knew the basics of sex, but watching the videos put everything in a whole different perspective for me. I distinctly remember being aroused at the sight of muscular men pounding away at much smaller women.
In short, I got very excited about what I saw on-screen and wanted to try sex for myself. So I "borrowed" one of Megan's brother's videos and arranged a private showing with a brash boy in my class named Andy, who was never short of comments about my tits and wanting to kiss me. Andy claimed he had seen a lot of porn, but it dawned on my 13-year-old self as we were watching the tape that Andy probably had never seen any porn before -- specifically he was wowed by the money shot, which is as ubiquitous in porn as trashy shoes and plastic tits.
Nonetheless, I asked Andy to fuck me. His response, which I remember vividly, was a combination of excitement and fear. I took off my clothes, and he inexpertly fondled my breasts and hesitantly touched my vagina. I then tried to get him to take off his clothes, and suddenly Andy was very hesitant. He told me I should get dressed because his mother might soon be home from work at any minute.
Needless to say, Andy was a washout. He was more talk than action, which I have learned is true for many grown men, too. I tried with a few more boys in the subsequent weeks but, like Andy, at 12 and 13, they couldn't get past touching my tits before bailing.
Somewhere I got the idea that I should try with someone older. I came right out and asked a boy on our street who was probably 16 or 17, and he flatly turned me down.
At this time, I had a growing crush on an English teacher at our school (the one mentioned in this post). The teacher was young, handsome, and athletic, the sort who was nice to every student and whom every student loved. Mr. S, as I will call him, was always very encouraging to me in class and wrote very nice comments on my extra-credit essays, which I churned out in copious quantities just for those notes.
So one day, with the help of some passages reworked from Megan's brother's Penthouse stash, I gave Mr. S a very explicit essay about an imagined sexual encounter involving him and me. I then paid a visit on his classroom about an hour after school, when I knew he would be getting ready to go home after reading his students' assignments.
Mr. S said he had read my essay and asked me to leave his room at once. I ignored him and proceeded in a very awkward way to try to seduce him. He suddenly stood, walked into the hall, and summoned a female teacher to get me out of the room. As a result of what happened, I was expelled from the school. I, of course, was crushed at the time.
My indifferent parents sent me to a shrink and left it up to her to handle the matter.
For my part, I was determined to try again.
I next set my sights on a divorced neighbor whom I will call Ron who lived on the other end of our street. Ron worked nights and hung around the house during the day. He was a very good looking guy, in his mid-40s, muscular, and athletic. He was also very friendly and, in hindsight, I recognize that he was something of a flirt. He would always comment about how pretty I looked when I went by his house or how I was looking so grown up, that sort of thing. (At the time, I looked more like 16 than I did 13.)
So I started to flirt back. I told Ron how he looked so much better than the other men on the street, how I liked it when he worked in his garage without his shirt, how good he looked in his tight jeans, and so forth. I can still see Ron's face when I did this, and I sort of recognize now that he knew he was playing with fire, but he would respond by doing things like flexing his biceps for me bodybuilder-style.
One day when he was working shirtless in his garage with the door open, I walked in and grabbed the proverbial bull by the horns. I told Ron I wanted to lose my virginity and I wanted him to be the one to do it.
He asked me to leave at once, but I did not. Then he tried to be avuncular with me, telling me that I was too young and that I should wait until later when I fell in love with a guy. I tried some kind of ploy in response, like didn't he find me pretty, and that only made the situation more awkward as he tried to reassure me without touching me.
Ron said nothing to my parents and, in hindsight, I have to realize he did get something out of me coming down the street to flatter him. Notwithstanding what had happened that day, he continued to work regularly in the garage without his shirt. I would watch his house from some bushes across the street, and when I saw the garage door open, I would stop by and, as I well knew at the time, torment him.
This went on for several weeks. One day, however, Ron was just sitting in the garage, drinking beer as if waiting for me to arrive. I walked in and started on my usual taunt. He flicked the garage remote, and the door dropped behind me. When I came over to his chair and started in on him, he grabbed me and roughly manhandled my breasts while saying something like "is this what you want?" I imagine, in hindsight, he thought I was just a cock tease and would run away at that point, but I was in heaven. I started removing my clothes. I remember him watching me with this look of horrified wonder and saying "sweet Jesus" over and over again as I touched myself in a manner I had seen in Megan's brother's porn videos.
Needless to say, Ron did not ask me to stop. When I was fully naked, I sat astride him on his lap. I remember that he was red in the face and very nervous but he did touch me, much more gently this time. After a few minutes, he stood up, dropped his jeans, and revealed his semi-erect penis while saying something like, "do you really, really want this?"
I was weak at the knees with excitement at that point and insisted that was what I wanted. He pulled his pants up, looked away for a long moment, then turned to me and said something like, "if you really want this, you come inside now, but you got to realize there's no turning back and I could get into a lot of trouble for this." I insisted we carry on and that I wanted him to take my virginity.
Needless to say, Ron did as I wished and then some. For the next seven or eight months, I regularly visited his house after school, where he and I had sex. In hindsight, it's a miracle I didn't get pregnant or that one of the neighbors discovered what was happening. (After that first day, Ron did school me on how to be more clandestine about our meetings.)
I know I fell in love with Ron, but I now realize it was a very twisted and confused love. I imagine he was primarily driven by lust, but I know he cared for me in a certain way.
We were never caught. Near the end of the school year, Ron suddenly was not around any more and his house went up for sale. He never said goodbye, and I never saw him again. I have to imagine in hindsight he was going through a private hell and realized he had to get away from me. He made a clean break.
I've told various friends about this, and most of them are less forgiving of Ron than I am. As I see it, I was the seducer, not he. Yes, he should have known better, but I preyed on him. If we had been caught, he would probably still be in prison today.
Ron taught me a lot about love and sex. I often wonder, if it hadn't been for him, if I would have gotten into a lot more trouble with other boys.
I know I did a terrible thing, but it's part of who I am.
So I guess I should start at the beginning.
Sometime around my 13th birthday, I was at a sleepover at my friend Megan's house with some other female friends who were aged 12 and 13. Shortly before that, Megan had discovered her brother's secret stash of porn, which she shared with us at the party. Except for Megan and I, the other girls were horrified at watching what unfolded on the screen, which memory serves me was some kind of gangbang gonzo stuff.
Megan and I, however, were hooked and in the ensuing weeks we watched every video in her brother's stash several times. At 13, I knew the basics of sex, but watching the videos put everything in a whole different perspective for me. I distinctly remember being aroused at the sight of muscular men pounding away at much smaller women.
In short, I got very excited about what I saw on-screen and wanted to try sex for myself. So I "borrowed" one of Megan's brother's videos and arranged a private showing with a brash boy in my class named Andy, who was never short of comments about my tits and wanting to kiss me. Andy claimed he had seen a lot of porn, but it dawned on my 13-year-old self as we were watching the tape that Andy probably had never seen any porn before -- specifically he was wowed by the money shot, which is as ubiquitous in porn as trashy shoes and plastic tits.
Nonetheless, I asked Andy to fuck me. His response, which I remember vividly, was a combination of excitement and fear. I took off my clothes, and he inexpertly fondled my breasts and hesitantly touched my vagina. I then tried to get him to take off his clothes, and suddenly Andy was very hesitant. He told me I should get dressed because his mother might soon be home from work at any minute.
Needless to say, Andy was a washout. He was more talk than action, which I have learned is true for many grown men, too. I tried with a few more boys in the subsequent weeks but, like Andy, at 12 and 13, they couldn't get past touching my tits before bailing.
Somewhere I got the idea that I should try with someone older. I came right out and asked a boy on our street who was probably 16 or 17, and he flatly turned me down.
At this time, I had a growing crush on an English teacher at our school (the one mentioned in this post). The teacher was young, handsome, and athletic, the sort who was nice to every student and whom every student loved. Mr. S, as I will call him, was always very encouraging to me in class and wrote very nice comments on my extra-credit essays, which I churned out in copious quantities just for those notes.
So one day, with the help of some passages reworked from Megan's brother's Penthouse stash, I gave Mr. S a very explicit essay about an imagined sexual encounter involving him and me. I then paid a visit on his classroom about an hour after school, when I knew he would be getting ready to go home after reading his students' assignments.
Mr. S said he had read my essay and asked me to leave his room at once. I ignored him and proceeded in a very awkward way to try to seduce him. He suddenly stood, walked into the hall, and summoned a female teacher to get me out of the room. As a result of what happened, I was expelled from the school. I, of course, was crushed at the time.
My indifferent parents sent me to a shrink and left it up to her to handle the matter.
For my part, I was determined to try again.
I next set my sights on a divorced neighbor whom I will call Ron who lived on the other end of our street. Ron worked nights and hung around the house during the day. He was a very good looking guy, in his mid-40s, muscular, and athletic. He was also very friendly and, in hindsight, I recognize that he was something of a flirt. He would always comment about how pretty I looked when I went by his house or how I was looking so grown up, that sort of thing. (At the time, I looked more like 16 than I did 13.)
So I started to flirt back. I told Ron how he looked so much better than the other men on the street, how I liked it when he worked in his garage without his shirt, how good he looked in his tight jeans, and so forth. I can still see Ron's face when I did this, and I sort of recognize now that he knew he was playing with fire, but he would respond by doing things like flexing his biceps for me bodybuilder-style.
One day when he was working shirtless in his garage with the door open, I walked in and grabbed the proverbial bull by the horns. I told Ron I wanted to lose my virginity and I wanted him to be the one to do it.
He asked me to leave at once, but I did not. Then he tried to be avuncular with me, telling me that I was too young and that I should wait until later when I fell in love with a guy. I tried some kind of ploy in response, like didn't he find me pretty, and that only made the situation more awkward as he tried to reassure me without touching me.
Ron said nothing to my parents and, in hindsight, I have to realize he did get something out of me coming down the street to flatter him. Notwithstanding what had happened that day, he continued to work regularly in the garage without his shirt. I would watch his house from some bushes across the street, and when I saw the garage door open, I would stop by and, as I well knew at the time, torment him.
This went on for several weeks. One day, however, Ron was just sitting in the garage, drinking beer as if waiting for me to arrive. I walked in and started on my usual taunt. He flicked the garage remote, and the door dropped behind me. When I came over to his chair and started in on him, he grabbed me and roughly manhandled my breasts while saying something like "is this what you want?" I imagine, in hindsight, he thought I was just a cock tease and would run away at that point, but I was in heaven. I started removing my clothes. I remember him watching me with this look of horrified wonder and saying "sweet Jesus" over and over again as I touched myself in a manner I had seen in Megan's brother's porn videos.
Needless to say, Ron did not ask me to stop. When I was fully naked, I sat astride him on his lap. I remember that he was red in the face and very nervous but he did touch me, much more gently this time. After a few minutes, he stood up, dropped his jeans, and revealed his semi-erect penis while saying something like, "do you really, really want this?"
I was weak at the knees with excitement at that point and insisted that was what I wanted. He pulled his pants up, looked away for a long moment, then turned to me and said something like, "if you really want this, you come inside now, but you got to realize there's no turning back and I could get into a lot of trouble for this." I insisted we carry on and that I wanted him to take my virginity.
Needless to say, Ron did as I wished and then some. For the next seven or eight months, I regularly visited his house after school, where he and I had sex. In hindsight, it's a miracle I didn't get pregnant or that one of the neighbors discovered what was happening. (After that first day, Ron did school me on how to be more clandestine about our meetings.)
I know I fell in love with Ron, but I now realize it was a very twisted and confused love. I imagine he was primarily driven by lust, but I know he cared for me in a certain way.
We were never caught. Near the end of the school year, Ron suddenly was not around any more and his house went up for sale. He never said goodbye, and I never saw him again. I have to imagine in hindsight he was going through a private hell and realized he had to get away from me. He made a clean break.
I've told various friends about this, and most of them are less forgiving of Ron than I am. As I see it, I was the seducer, not he. Yes, he should have known better, but I preyed on him. If we had been caught, he would probably still be in prison today.
Ron taught me a lot about love and sex. I often wonder, if it hadn't been for him, if I would have gotten into a lot more trouble with other boys.
I know I did a terrible thing, but it's part of who I am.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
hey barbie, where's ken?
It's fashion week in Milan. As a sometimes model, I always look at these things with one hand over my eye because they often seem to be more about the ridiculous than the beautiful. I've only done a little bit of runway modeling in department stores, where you're dressed in safe clothes that customers might actually buy, so I've never been forced to wear something laughable.
I don't know how top models can keep a straight face in the absurd outfits they're expected to wear sometimes at the big couture shows. I know if I feel ridiculous in something, I can't help but project that outward. Maybe that's why I've only had limited success in the field, because I can't be a mindless mannequin.
I've noticed more and more these days a real tendency to depersonalize the models to the point where they don't even look human. Pick up a copy of Vogue and look at the advertisements. Women are made up with an unnatural sheen and stare into the camera with a complete vapid blankness like dolls. They have utterly no personality.
I had to laugh when I saw the models for Moschino in Milan. They look like Barbie dolls, not real women (I read later, on a fashion website, where a reporter said the same thing). Whatever happened to making models look sexy and gorgeous? The clothes aren't bad, but why make the women look like they're not women at all?
How many people do you know who look like this...
You can always reach me here: hypersexualgirl at gmail dot com.
I don't know how top models can keep a straight face in the absurd outfits they're expected to wear sometimes at the big couture shows. I know if I feel ridiculous in something, I can't help but project that outward. Maybe that's why I've only had limited success in the field, because I can't be a mindless mannequin.
I've noticed more and more these days a real tendency to depersonalize the models to the point where they don't even look human. Pick up a copy of Vogue and look at the advertisements. Women are made up with an unnatural sheen and stare into the camera with a complete vapid blankness like dolls. They have utterly no personality.
I had to laugh when I saw the models for Moschino in Milan. They look like Barbie dolls, not real women (I read later, on a fashion website, where a reporter said the same thing). Whatever happened to making models look sexy and gorgeous? The clothes aren't bad, but why make the women look like they're not women at all?
How many people do you know who look like this...
You can always reach me here: hypersexualgirl at gmail dot com.
Monday, September 22, 2008
on kittens & BDSM
I freely admit I'm a voyeur. I love looking at other people having sex and love it when people tell me about their sexual adventures, no matter how out there.
I have long been a voyeuristic reader of this blog, written by a woman who has a BDSM relationship with a man whom she very much loves. The anonymous author is a very good writer and also quite explicit about both her feelings and her experiences.
A sample paragraph, where the writer tells about how her "master" speaks to her when he's fucking her: "'You are such a little whore. Look how much you love doing that.'" I continued, sure that if I showed how his words affected me, he would only taunt me further. He pulled me up on his lap and had me fuck him. He didn't seem to care if I came. He was using my body for his pleasure only."
As I detailed in this post, I prefer when a man is very dominant in the bedroom but also very tender. However, I'm not interested in being slapped or punished or told I'm a slut or forced to wear nipple clips and eight-inch heels. I don't want a guy to piss in my mouth or give me enemas or make me do ass-to-mouth or pour hot wax on my tits or lock me in the closet.
At the same time, I would not be attracted to a man who didn't care whether I was satisfied or not when he fucked me. I don't quite see the difference between that and just plain old bad sex. But different strokes for different folks, and if both of them are into it, then more power to them. They have a special kind of love. Who am I to judge?
The first time James called me "kitten" (he has a ton of pet names but tends to favor that), I thought of the woman's BDSM blog and told him about it. I detailed some of the things I remembered the woman said her "master" had done to her. He had a sort of stricken look on his face, and his big brown eyes got even bigger. "I could never do that kind of thing to you sugar," he said sincerely. "You don't want me to do that kind of thing, do you? Because I can't."
I just hugged the big oaf and told him of course not, but that I was nonetheless fascinated by hearing about this other girl and her adventures as well at looking at things like Ken Marcus's photos, where a strapping guy roughly facefucks a helpless bound woman. He looked at me with this amused grin he gets sometimes and whispered, "kitten, you're kinda twisted." Then he kissed me very tenderly on the neck, which served as a reminder that I like big powerful men who are gentle, not cruel.
I asked my shrink brother once about why I was so interested in learning about BDSM even though I had no interest in being that submissive nor loving a man who was cruel. He gave me the usual shrink answer, "why do you think you're so interested?"
I honestly don't know.
I have long been a voyeuristic reader of this blog, written by a woman who has a BDSM relationship with a man whom she very much loves. The anonymous author is a very good writer and also quite explicit about both her feelings and her experiences.
A sample paragraph, where the writer tells about how her "master" speaks to her when he's fucking her: "'You are such a little whore. Look how much you love doing that.'" I continued, sure that if I showed how his words affected me, he would only taunt me further. He pulled me up on his lap and had me fuck him. He didn't seem to care if I came. He was using my body for his pleasure only."
As I detailed in this post, I prefer when a man is very dominant in the bedroom but also very tender. However, I'm not interested in being slapped or punished or told I'm a slut or forced to wear nipple clips and eight-inch heels. I don't want a guy to piss in my mouth or give me enemas or make me do ass-to-mouth or pour hot wax on my tits or lock me in the closet.
At the same time, I would not be attracted to a man who didn't care whether I was satisfied or not when he fucked me. I don't quite see the difference between that and just plain old bad sex. But different strokes for different folks, and if both of them are into it, then more power to them. They have a special kind of love. Who am I to judge?
The first time James called me "kitten" (he has a ton of pet names but tends to favor that), I thought of the woman's BDSM blog and told him about it. I detailed some of the things I remembered the woman said her "master" had done to her. He had a sort of stricken look on his face, and his big brown eyes got even bigger. "I could never do that kind of thing to you sugar," he said sincerely. "You don't want me to do that kind of thing, do you? Because I can't."
I just hugged the big oaf and told him of course not, but that I was nonetheless fascinated by hearing about this other girl and her adventures as well at looking at things like Ken Marcus's photos, where a strapping guy roughly facefucks a helpless bound woman. He looked at me with this amused grin he gets sometimes and whispered, "kitten, you're kinda twisted." Then he kissed me very tenderly on the neck, which served as a reminder that I like big powerful men who are gentle, not cruel.
I asked my shrink brother once about why I was so interested in learning about BDSM even though I had no interest in being that submissive nor loving a man who was cruel. He gave me the usual shrink answer, "why do you think you're so interested?"
I honestly don't know.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
do not eat
I've given most of my clothes away to charity because I'm only taking two packed suitcases with me when I hit the road at the end of this week. I needed some new running shoes, however, so I picked up a pair today.
I noticed, after I got home, that there was a little moisture-absorbing packet inside the box (it's technically called a "desiccant"). You often see these when you buy certain kinds of electronics and apparel.
I had to laugh, however, when I saw what was printed on the package: DO NOT EAT.
In all honesty, the thought never crossed my mind. I usually don't eat shoe packing, just like I don't eat gum I find stuck on bus seats.
Are there really people out there who think, "mmmm, look at this little packet of unknown powdery substance I got with my shoes. Bet that tastes great! Can't wait to dig in."
Now I imagine this "warning" was some brilliant idea spawned by some corporate lawyer somewhere who got paid several thousand for this brainstorm. He/she thought the manufacturer could be absolved of liability by putting a completely asinine disclaimer on the package.
Only a small child, however, would be tempted to eat the stuff, and then that child couldn't read anyway. So why bother?
No wonder the rest of the world laughs at Americans.
You can always reach me here: hypersexualgirl at gmail dot com.
I noticed, after I got home, that there was a little moisture-absorbing packet inside the box (it's technically called a "desiccant"). You often see these when you buy certain kinds of electronics and apparel.
I had to laugh, however, when I saw what was printed on the package: DO NOT EAT.
In all honesty, the thought never crossed my mind. I usually don't eat shoe packing, just like I don't eat gum I find stuck on bus seats.
Are there really people out there who think, "mmmm, look at this little packet of unknown powdery substance I got with my shoes. Bet that tastes great! Can't wait to dig in."
Now I imagine this "warning" was some brilliant idea spawned by some corporate lawyer somewhere who got paid several thousand for this brainstorm. He/she thought the manufacturer could be absolved of liability by putting a completely asinine disclaimer on the package.
Only a small child, however, would be tempted to eat the stuff, and then that child couldn't read anyway. So why bother?
No wonder the rest of the world laughs at Americans.
You can always reach me here: hypersexualgirl at gmail dot com.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
too good to be true?
I was talking the other day to a girlfriend about James, and she said something like "he sounds too good to be true."
Yes, James is sweet, gorgeous, and a fantastic lover. But he certainly has his flaws. He's 38 years old and doesn't have more than a few dollars to his name. He has even more of a checkered past than I do, which includes a criminal record (more than a decade old, however) for brawling. He is very much a present day kind of guy -- doesn't look back nor forward very much -- and thus offers little in terms of stability.
Bachelor #1 is a handsome, successful surgeon; Bachelor #2 is a cute, successful lawyer; Bachelor #3 is a hot former male stripper and escort. How many girls would pick #3? They might like to look at him, and even play around with him a little, but he's not an "ideal catch" for most women. For many women, he is more one-night-stand material, something James admitted about himself the first time we met.
In turn, I'm not the kind of girl most guys would want to take home to mom. Guys almost always love that I'm sexually adventurous and pretty uninhibited. I'm fun for the weekend. But I'm not the kind of girl with whom they want to make a life. I realized that long ago, and that's why, truthfully, until recently, I sometimes felt lonely.
So in many ways James and I are kindred spirits. We are sort of like human party favors whom most people see as superficial. We're good for some fun but we're dismissed as ephemeral. And yet there's someone else below that "fun" surface. I think that's what both James and I recognized in the other from almost the moment we met. That's why we connected so strongly in such a short period.
I read one of Ian McEwan's earlier novels recently, wherein one of the characters said something like many people find love, but only one in a million people find true love. I'm thinking more and more that's what I've found with James. If that's the case, then it's all the more ironic, because I think we have a passion that so few people find in their lives, yet "most people" might think the both of us were rather shallow.
You can always reach me here: hypersexualgirl at gmail dot com.
Yes, James is sweet, gorgeous, and a fantastic lover. But he certainly has his flaws. He's 38 years old and doesn't have more than a few dollars to his name. He has even more of a checkered past than I do, which includes a criminal record (more than a decade old, however) for brawling. He is very much a present day kind of guy -- doesn't look back nor forward very much -- and thus offers little in terms of stability.
Bachelor #1 is a handsome, successful surgeon; Bachelor #2 is a cute, successful lawyer; Bachelor #3 is a hot former male stripper and escort. How many girls would pick #3? They might like to look at him, and even play around with him a little, but he's not an "ideal catch" for most women. For many women, he is more one-night-stand material, something James admitted about himself the first time we met.
In turn, I'm not the kind of girl most guys would want to take home to mom. Guys almost always love that I'm sexually adventurous and pretty uninhibited. I'm fun for the weekend. But I'm not the kind of girl with whom they want to make a life. I realized that long ago, and that's why, truthfully, until recently, I sometimes felt lonely.
So in many ways James and I are kindred spirits. We are sort of like human party favors whom most people see as superficial. We're good for some fun but we're dismissed as ephemeral. And yet there's someone else below that "fun" surface. I think that's what both James and I recognized in the other from almost the moment we met. That's why we connected so strongly in such a short period.
I read one of Ian McEwan's earlier novels recently, wherein one of the characters said something like many people find love, but only one in a million people find true love. I'm thinking more and more that's what I've found with James. If that's the case, then it's all the more ironic, because I think we have a passion that so few people find in their lives, yet "most people" might think the both of us were rather shallow.
You can always reach me here: hypersexualgirl at gmail dot com.
Friday, September 19, 2008
in the land of monogamy
At some point, without ever discussing it with James, I crossed back into the territory known as monogamy. It now goes without question, if we were separated for a week (as would have happened had he not changed his flight to Australia), I would not even think about fucking another man. So that means, I guess, we're officially a couple.
As I noted in my opening post to this blog, I have a tendency to wander pretty quickly if a man does not satisfy me sexually. There are places I know in Vegas where I could meet a guy and have him fuck me inside of an hour or two. (Whether it would be a decent fuck, of course, is never guaranteed.) I wouldn't even think about doing that now.
I find myself looking at men differently, too, these days. (I still look at eye candy, and James has no problem when I do.) But I don't find myself looking as much. I find myself comparing men I see with James. ("He's hot, but not as hot as..." etc.)
A very cute friend named Brad -- a "friend with benefits" more specifically -- comes to Vegas about three or four times a year. He emailed me the other day to say he was going to be in town soon and wanted to see me. I thought for a while how to respond. My first inclination was to lie, to say I was going to be out of town when he was here. But what would be the point in that? I'm leaving the country for an extended period of time, so it's more likely than not, even without James, that my path and Brad's would never cross again.
I quickly realized, too, that to keep people "in reserve" like Brad is being a chickenshit about my commitment to James. I'm a very impulsive person in some aspects, so not saying "no" to Brad and other "friends with benefits" is only feeding my impulsive nature. I'm no longer looking for hookups, so why keep in touch with guys who are only really interested in me for that?
So a few minutes ago I sent Brad a short email saying that I was leaving Vegas very soon and that I was now "seriously involved" with a guy, which means I'm no longer on the gameboard, so I would not be able to see him. He responded almost immediately with a very sweet note, wishing me the best of luck, but there was a certain "have a nice life" subtext to his words.
I realized when I was reading his note that I'm going to be giving up a certain number of my male friends now that I live in the land of monogamy. When you've been friends with someone primarily for sexual reasons, there's no real common ground for a platonic relationship, I don't think. So I will have to let them go. I'm glad, though, that I still have some really nice platonic male friends with whom I hope to keep in regular contact.
A relationship is about getting and giving. I'm more of a taker than a giver, but now I think I'm learning to be a little more of the latter.
You can always reach me here: hypersexualgirl at gmail dot com.
As I noted in my opening post to this blog, I have a tendency to wander pretty quickly if a man does not satisfy me sexually. There are places I know in Vegas where I could meet a guy and have him fuck me inside of an hour or two. (Whether it would be a decent fuck, of course, is never guaranteed.) I wouldn't even think about doing that now.
I find myself looking at men differently, too, these days. (I still look at eye candy, and James has no problem when I do.) But I don't find myself looking as much. I find myself comparing men I see with James. ("He's hot, but not as hot as..." etc.)
A very cute friend named Brad -- a "friend with benefits" more specifically -- comes to Vegas about three or four times a year. He emailed me the other day to say he was going to be in town soon and wanted to see me. I thought for a while how to respond. My first inclination was to lie, to say I was going to be out of town when he was here. But what would be the point in that? I'm leaving the country for an extended period of time, so it's more likely than not, even without James, that my path and Brad's would never cross again.
I quickly realized, too, that to keep people "in reserve" like Brad is being a chickenshit about my commitment to James. I'm a very impulsive person in some aspects, so not saying "no" to Brad and other "friends with benefits" is only feeding my impulsive nature. I'm no longer looking for hookups, so why keep in touch with guys who are only really interested in me for that?
So a few minutes ago I sent Brad a short email saying that I was leaving Vegas very soon and that I was now "seriously involved" with a guy, which means I'm no longer on the gameboard, so I would not be able to see him. He responded almost immediately with a very sweet note, wishing me the best of luck, but there was a certain "have a nice life" subtext to his words.
I realized when I was reading his note that I'm going to be giving up a certain number of my male friends now that I live in the land of monogamy. When you've been friends with someone primarily for sexual reasons, there's no real common ground for a platonic relationship, I don't think. So I will have to let them go. I'm glad, though, that I still have some really nice platonic male friends with whom I hope to keep in regular contact.
A relationship is about getting and giving. I'm more of a taker than a giver, but now I think I'm learning to be a little more of the latter.
You can always reach me here: hypersexualgirl at gmail dot com.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
does porn = adultery?
The latest issue of The Atlantic Monthly has a short article entitled "Is Pornography Adultery?" where the author opines whether married consumers of smut are, in fact, breaking the Seventh Commandment. The article can be found free online in its entirety here.
The writer weasels all over the place with his premise and never delivers much of a money shot in terms of a conclusion, but you don't need a doctorate in logic to realize he would have a hard time finding his ass even if he was sitting on his hands. The biggest flaw in the piece is that he assumes married consumers of porn do it in secret without a spouse's knowledge; therefore, smut watching ventures into some kind of adulterous territory simply because it's prurient. I know a lot of married couples who enjoy pornography. Apparently in his ivory tower, the magazine's writer does not know such ribald folk.
While I don't make my living in the porn business, I do make it as a nude dancer, so one could apply his same sloppy logic to my arena: "Is Watching Naked Women Adultery?" Using his fractured paradigm as a template, one would have to reach the same wishy-washy conclusion.
His article also fails the stink test because he wiggles away from what would obviously be a politically incorrect corollary: those who appear in pornography are somehow committing adultery, too, by luring married men into their pixelated dens of sin; after all, you need at least two people to commit adultery. Ergo, women who appear in porn are some kind of wanton, depraved, home-wrecking harlots. (By extension, I would fall into this same category, because I'm dancing around on stage nearly every night, with bare tits and shaved snatch in full view of many married men.)
But what do I know? I was thrown out of high school in the tenth grade, while the author of the article, no less than a senior editor at the magazine, probably has a degree with honors from some Ivy League university. I do know, however, if anyone asked me to write an article like that, I might at least try to prove something without tripping over faulty presumptions first.
You can always reach me here: hypersexualgirl at gmail dot com.
The writer weasels all over the place with his premise and never delivers much of a money shot in terms of a conclusion, but you don't need a doctorate in logic to realize he would have a hard time finding his ass even if he was sitting on his hands. The biggest flaw in the piece is that he assumes married consumers of porn do it in secret without a spouse's knowledge; therefore, smut watching ventures into some kind of adulterous territory simply because it's prurient. I know a lot of married couples who enjoy pornography. Apparently in his ivory tower, the magazine's writer does not know such ribald folk.
While I don't make my living in the porn business, I do make it as a nude dancer, so one could apply his same sloppy logic to my arena: "Is Watching Naked Women Adultery?" Using his fractured paradigm as a template, one would have to reach the same wishy-washy conclusion.
His article also fails the stink test because he wiggles away from what would obviously be a politically incorrect corollary: those who appear in pornography are somehow committing adultery, too, by luring married men into their pixelated dens of sin; after all, you need at least two people to commit adultery. Ergo, women who appear in porn are some kind of wanton, depraved, home-wrecking harlots. (By extension, I would fall into this same category, because I'm dancing around on stage nearly every night, with bare tits and shaved snatch in full view of many married men.)
But what do I know? I was thrown out of high school in the tenth grade, while the author of the article, no less than a senior editor at the magazine, probably has a degree with honors from some Ivy League university. I do know, however, if anyone asked me to write an article like that, I might at least try to prove something without tripping over faulty presumptions first.
You can always reach me here: hypersexualgirl at gmail dot com.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
ten observations about men
Here are some random observations about men, based on having slept with about 700-800 of them:
1) Most men are not nearly as good of lovers as they think they are.
2) Most men do not have a clue how to eat out a woman.
3) Most men cannot last more than 10 minutes before shooting their load.
4) Most men are not multi-orgasmic.
5) Most men seem to have learned about anal sex from bad porn, which is why they are clueless about how to fuck a woman in the ass.
6) Most men will not look you in the eye when they fuck you.
7) Most men seem to think sex is like a silent movie and therefore they must not make any sound.
8) Most men are not anywhere near as kinky as they think they are when they say they're kinky.
9) Most men lick tit like it's a lollypop.
10) Most men lie about their dick size.
You can always reach me here: hypersexualgirl at gmail dot com.
1) Most men are not nearly as good of lovers as they think they are.
2) Most men do not have a clue how to eat out a woman.
3) Most men cannot last more than 10 minutes before shooting their load.
4) Most men are not multi-orgasmic.
5) Most men seem to have learned about anal sex from bad porn, which is why they are clueless about how to fuck a woman in the ass.
6) Most men will not look you in the eye when they fuck you.
7) Most men seem to think sex is like a silent movie and therefore they must not make any sound.
8) Most men are not anywhere near as kinky as they think they are when they say they're kinky.
9) Most men lick tit like it's a lollypop.
10) Most men lie about their dick size.
You can always reach me here: hypersexualgirl at gmail dot com.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
the post wherein I get all girly-girl and kvell
I work Tuesday nights to Saturday nights. So that means my weekend begins about midnight Saturday and runs to about two on a Tuesday afternoon. James has a much more flexible (but sometimes inflexible) schedule, and he has been able to finagle things so we spend almost all of Sunday, Monday, and part of Tuesday together.
I just left his place a little while ago, and I'm already feeling a little blue because I'm missing him so. I didn't even know him a month ago, and now he's the center of my world. He's told me that he feels the same way after we have to be apart. We now sleep together most nights, but he usually works days and I work nights, so that's just not the same as being together 24/7.
I said it before here, but I feel I just have to say it again -- I've never felt this way about a man. Yes, I know it's a cliche, but it's 100 percent true with James: he completes me.
A month ago, if you told me I would be all girly-girl about a man like this, I would've called you a liar. But how life changes on a dime.
I tried looking at some pictures I have of him -- alone and together -- and that makes me even more blue, so I stopped.
I've tried to articulate to friends and my shrink brother why I feel this way yet have failed. I guess that's what true love is all about. So I won't go on at length about how wonderful James is, how caring, how he is so supportive of me, how he's such a wonderful lover, yada yada yada.
I just wish that everyone could find what I have found in their lives. I'm missing James at this moment, actually tearing up thinking about him, but I know I will see him again soon.
I'm not Jewish, but I've picked up a little Yiddish from friends who are. There's a word I think that describes this feeling -- kvelling. If you're kvelling, you're sort of glowing all over. That's how I feel when I'm with James.
He completes me. He makes me kvell.
I just left his place a little while ago, and I'm already feeling a little blue because I'm missing him so. I didn't even know him a month ago, and now he's the center of my world. He's told me that he feels the same way after we have to be apart. We now sleep together most nights, but he usually works days and I work nights, so that's just not the same as being together 24/7.
I said it before here, but I feel I just have to say it again -- I've never felt this way about a man. Yes, I know it's a cliche, but it's 100 percent true with James: he completes me.
A month ago, if you told me I would be all girly-girl about a man like this, I would've called you a liar. But how life changes on a dime.
I tried looking at some pictures I have of him -- alone and together -- and that makes me even more blue, so I stopped.
I've tried to articulate to friends and my shrink brother why I feel this way yet have failed. I guess that's what true love is all about. So I won't go on at length about how wonderful James is, how caring, how he is so supportive of me, how he's such a wonderful lover, yada yada yada.
I just wish that everyone could find what I have found in their lives. I'm missing James at this moment, actually tearing up thinking about him, but I know I will see him again soon.
I'm not Jewish, but I've picked up a little Yiddish from friends who are. There's a word I think that describes this feeling -- kvelling. If you're kvelling, you're sort of glowing all over. That's how I feel when I'm with James.
He completes me. He makes me kvell.
Monday, September 15, 2008
why I never did (much) porn
Drake is a cute gay bartender in the club where I work. We often work the same shifts and sometimes take breaks together. He's a friend, so that means he gets to hear me bitch about my sexual frustrations.
One day when we were talking, Drake said something like, "why don't you do porn? Then you could fuck all the guys you want."
I told him, in all honesty, that was an issue with which I had already wrestled.
I have been approached on occasion by people in the business offering porn gigs. I have (with two exceptions, to be discussed later) said "thanks, but no thanks."
Now I'm a girl who makes her living dancing naked. I've put naked pictures of myself on various adult websites for hookups. I have, on occasion, fucked two or more guys at once. I talk about sex quite a lot. I'm neither a prude nor shy nor ashamed that I've worked in some "unsavory" jobs.
But porn just isn't for me. I have no problem with porn, love to look at the good stuff, and like some of the people I've met who work in the business.
I love fucking and, in my mind, working in porn would spoil sex for me. It would become a job. I used to love dancing, and now I find myself loathing it because I do it for hours nearly every day. So why ruin fucking by turning it into a chore?
Another thing a lot of people don't realize about porn is that it's in a terrible economic slump now. It used to be porn girls could practically name their own price and make hundreds of thousands of dollars a year. Not so any more. There is a glut of women in the business who no longer get enough work (I hear about this all the time at work). Some of the girls I work with who also do porn are now doing escort work, which I would dislike even more.
So why bother? (This logic was all formulated, by the way, before I met James, so it really is rather academic now -- I am no longer sexually frustrated.)
I titled this post coyly "why I never did (much) porn." I actually did two lesbian porn scenes in DVDs I've never seen. I did this strictly for the money, back when the money was golden in porn. I had just gotten out of a very destructive relationship and was close to destitute. One scene was okay but the other was a pretty horrible experience; my "costar" was a dyke and really got into manipulating me because she knew I was straight and just there for the cash. It was not my finest hour, but I've always been the sort to soldier on and use experience as a teacher.
So the only porn I probably will ever make is stuff with someone who really turns me on. James and I have already made some great stuff. More about that another time.
You can always reach me here: hypersexualgirl at gmail dot com.
One day when we were talking, Drake said something like, "why don't you do porn? Then you could fuck all the guys you want."
I told him, in all honesty, that was an issue with which I had already wrestled.
I have been approached on occasion by people in the business offering porn gigs. I have (with two exceptions, to be discussed later) said "thanks, but no thanks."
Now I'm a girl who makes her living dancing naked. I've put naked pictures of myself on various adult websites for hookups. I have, on occasion, fucked two or more guys at once. I talk about sex quite a lot. I'm neither a prude nor shy nor ashamed that I've worked in some "unsavory" jobs.
But porn just isn't for me. I have no problem with porn, love to look at the good stuff, and like some of the people I've met who work in the business.
I love fucking and, in my mind, working in porn would spoil sex for me. It would become a job. I used to love dancing, and now I find myself loathing it because I do it for hours nearly every day. So why ruin fucking by turning it into a chore?
Another thing a lot of people don't realize about porn is that it's in a terrible economic slump now. It used to be porn girls could practically name their own price and make hundreds of thousands of dollars a year. Not so any more. There is a glut of women in the business who no longer get enough work (I hear about this all the time at work). Some of the girls I work with who also do porn are now doing escort work, which I would dislike even more.
So why bother? (This logic was all formulated, by the way, before I met James, so it really is rather academic now -- I am no longer sexually frustrated.)
I titled this post coyly "why I never did (much) porn." I actually did two lesbian porn scenes in DVDs I've never seen. I did this strictly for the money, back when the money was golden in porn. I had just gotten out of a very destructive relationship and was close to destitute. One scene was okay but the other was a pretty horrible experience; my "costar" was a dyke and really got into manipulating me because she knew I was straight and just there for the cash. It was not my finest hour, but I've always been the sort to soldier on and use experience as a teacher.
So the only porn I probably will ever make is stuff with someone who really turns me on. James and I have already made some great stuff. More about that another time.
You can always reach me here: hypersexualgirl at gmail dot com.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
sometimes I write poetry
Sometimes when I'm in the right mood, I try my hand at poetry, writing about sex or the world around me. When I was in high school, I was madly in love with this particular English teacher (and is that ever a story I will have to tell sometime here) who encouraged me to continue writing after he said my work was promising. When I lived in Los Angeles, I submitted some poems for a local poetry festival and was invited to read the following, which is sort of based on a real experience that happened when I was working in Palm Springs:
your thumb is an invitation
jutting straight up
like an eager phallus
yet your thick, sun-browned shoulders
are the right invitation for me
my car slows on the embankment
you tumble into the seat
muscled stomach rippling as you sigh
your loose jeans gape at the waist
revealing a shadowed pelt below
another invitation
my mother's warning echoes in my memory
a hitchhiker is an invitation to trouble
you shoot me a wolf's grin
your too-pretty blue eyes glitter
a boy's flaw in a man's body
the sign reads, "rest stop -- this exit"
a surprise invitation
my turnsignal chirps like an eager bird
we still have not exchanged a word
parked behind weedy pepper trees
screaming with locusts in the apricot dusk
I sit astride you as you rise into me
my wetness an invitation
your words finally come now, but barely
"yes" "harder" "faster"
to encourage your roughness
I bite your thick arm
solid and veined like a tree limb
you like that invitation
and thrust harder
bringing me over my private precipice
you shoot inside of me
then lean back against the seat
breathing loudly, smiling smugly
yet you never kiss me
I drop you where you ask
at a shabby house in town
I do not know your name
nor do you know mine
to exchange such words now
would be an invitation
your thumb is an invitation
jutting straight up
like an eager phallus
yet your thick, sun-browned shoulders
are the right invitation for me
my car slows on the embankment
you tumble into the seat
muscled stomach rippling as you sigh
your loose jeans gape at the waist
revealing a shadowed pelt below
another invitation
my mother's warning echoes in my memory
a hitchhiker is an invitation to trouble
you shoot me a wolf's grin
your too-pretty blue eyes glitter
a boy's flaw in a man's body
the sign reads, "rest stop -- this exit"
a surprise invitation
my turnsignal chirps like an eager bird
we still have not exchanged a word
parked behind weedy pepper trees
screaming with locusts in the apricot dusk
I sit astride you as you rise into me
my wetness an invitation
your words finally come now, but barely
"yes" "harder" "faster"
to encourage your roughness
I bite your thick arm
solid and veined like a tree limb
you like that invitation
and thrust harder
bringing me over my private precipice
you shoot inside of me
then lean back against the seat
breathing loudly, smiling smugly
yet you never kiss me
I drop you where you ask
at a shabby house in town
I do not know your name
nor do you know mine
to exchange such words now
would be an invitation
Saturday, September 13, 2008
the best fuck I might ever have
James and I had sex three days after we met. That was very hot, perhaps one of my top-five or even top-three fucks of a lifetime. I'll write about that in detail sometime in the future.
The second time, a week after we first met, may well go down as the best fuck I will ever have. That's what I'll write about today.
One of my unfulfilled fantasies was to meet a man who was both very dominant and extremely tender during sex. I've met my share of very dominant men, and they can be rough or even a little cruel during sex, but they're not very tender nor are they so tuned into the woman's needs. They're into slapping, pulling hair, shoving you on the bed, "suck my cock you little whore," that sort of thing. And I've met my share of men who are very tender in bed, but they are usually quite passive and do not take the lead.
The first time James and I had sex, things were very hot, but we were both sort of aggressive, and it was just a really intense rutting. My thighs were sore afterwards, and work was a bitch the next day, because I'm on my feet dancing for hours at a time.
When James and I had brunch a few days later and made plans to meet up a second time (by this point we both knew the other was hypersexual), I mentioned in passing I might have to take things a little slower when we had sex because of my thighs. He was instantly contrite and apologetic about that, which was so adorable because James typically looks so fiercely masculine, but when he becomes emotional, his gorgeous brown eyes just get so big and wounded that I just want to eat him up.
The second time we had sex, after my work on Saturday, the end of my work week, I was really pretty wiped out. We met at his place, when his roommates fortunately were out of town. We were sitting on the couch, and James started out very gently, with lots and lots of kissing and caressing, getting me all warmed up. He stood, took me my the hand, and led me into the bedroom. He slipped off my shorts (I usually don't wear panties because of my work) and my camisole, laid me back on the bed, then set to work on my pussy with his fingers, lips, and tongue. Pretty soon he had me in wonderland. The man sure knows how to eat cunt.
After this went on a few minutes, I said to him something like, "I want you to fuck me now," but he answered firmly but gently with a big wet smile something like, "no, I don't think you're ready to be fucked, kitten," and then he went back to work with his tongue and fingers. A few minutes later, I tried to squirm out from underneath him, so he grabbed me off the bed, hoisted me on his shoulders, and kept working on my snatch with his lips and tongue, now in a very aggressive way, pulling my cunt completely into his mouth and then pushing it out again.
At this point, I was starting to just go wild because, although I didn't really articulate it in my head at that moment, I was sort of realizing he was being both dominant and extremely attentive to my needs. This went on for many minutes, and he would not put me down until I had two really intense orgasms, so intense that I was hyperventilating. Finally, he slid me down to the bed and nuzzled my neck with his lips.
After we both sort of caught our breath a minute or two, I climbed on my hands and knees on the bed and bellowed to him "fuck me now" or something similarly crude and blunt. I spread my legs in a bad imitation of a nympho porn star.
He just stood there smiling with his mischievous grin a long moment, then slid off his shorts and tanktop. He flopped down at the head of the bed with his arms spread on the headboard and whispered to me "come here." I did so immediately and took hold of his cock, but he then he grabbed away my hands and told me I had to put them behind my neck and that I would get to play with his penis when he was good and ready to give it to me. All the while he had an adorable, teasing smile on his face.
He told me to sit on his abdomen, and he started kissing me intensely and sucking my tits while I felt his now-hard cock bobbing against my backside. By this point I was just about out of control with desire and, between kisses, I begged him to fuck me, but he told me to be patient. I was close to tears at that point I wanted it so much.
This went on for about 15 minutes, and I was so wet by that point I could feel a puddle on his stomach, while he kept kissing me and sucking on my tits. Finally, he hoisted me up and entered me very slowly. Although I was on top, which usually means the woman sets the pace, he had my ass firmly grasped in his hands so I could not move. He began fucking me really slowly and gently at that point, although he was completely in control, because I could not move my ass at all. He is so strong that, even though I was pushing against him with all my weight, he could push back harder.
So I said something to the effect of "faster!" and he said something to the effect that, no, I needed a good slow fuck and just to relax. So I just gave in. From there, he proceeded to fuck me very, very slowly but gently, all the while in control. He would lift me up too high sometimes so his cock fell out and then take his time about getting it back in, which of course just drove me even more crazy the way he was teasing me.
I know at that point it crystalized in my head that my fantasy was coming true -- here was a very dominant man who was also incredibly tender -- no slaps, no filthy talk, no hairpulling, but he was completely in control and dominating me by teasing me and making me beg.
What made this all the more intense was that I had never mentioned to him this was my fantasy.
He fucked me very slowly like this for about an hour, changing positions only once so we were spooning, all the while holding me so I couldn't go any faster and thus had to let him set the pace. I came multiple times, several times the most intensely I think I have ever had an orgasm. Finally he came without ever speeding up, then we just held each other while I floated somewhere beyond Jupiter. He whispered something teasing at that point about how my thighs should be all right the next day.
It wasn't until the following morning that I told him about my fantasy and how he had inadvertently fulfilled it.
Hence the reason this might be the best fuck I will ever have. Because while he has done the same thing again to me -- very dominant but very tender -- it was not the surprise of that second evening. It was sort of like skydiving. The first time is always more intense, even though every time you skydive thereafter, it's still a rush.
The second time, a week after we first met, may well go down as the best fuck I will ever have. That's what I'll write about today.
One of my unfulfilled fantasies was to meet a man who was both very dominant and extremely tender during sex. I've met my share of very dominant men, and they can be rough or even a little cruel during sex, but they're not very tender nor are they so tuned into the woman's needs. They're into slapping, pulling hair, shoving you on the bed, "suck my cock you little whore," that sort of thing. And I've met my share of men who are very tender in bed, but they are usually quite passive and do not take the lead.
The first time James and I had sex, things were very hot, but we were both sort of aggressive, and it was just a really intense rutting. My thighs were sore afterwards, and work was a bitch the next day, because I'm on my feet dancing for hours at a time.
When James and I had brunch a few days later and made plans to meet up a second time (by this point we both knew the other was hypersexual), I mentioned in passing I might have to take things a little slower when we had sex because of my thighs. He was instantly contrite and apologetic about that, which was so adorable because James typically looks so fiercely masculine, but when he becomes emotional, his gorgeous brown eyes just get so big and wounded that I just want to eat him up.
The second time we had sex, after my work on Saturday, the end of my work week, I was really pretty wiped out. We met at his place, when his roommates fortunately were out of town. We were sitting on the couch, and James started out very gently, with lots and lots of kissing and caressing, getting me all warmed up. He stood, took me my the hand, and led me into the bedroom. He slipped off my shorts (I usually don't wear panties because of my work) and my camisole, laid me back on the bed, then set to work on my pussy with his fingers, lips, and tongue. Pretty soon he had me in wonderland. The man sure knows how to eat cunt.
After this went on a few minutes, I said to him something like, "I want you to fuck me now," but he answered firmly but gently with a big wet smile something like, "no, I don't think you're ready to be fucked, kitten," and then he went back to work with his tongue and fingers. A few minutes later, I tried to squirm out from underneath him, so he grabbed me off the bed, hoisted me on his shoulders, and kept working on my snatch with his lips and tongue, now in a very aggressive way, pulling my cunt completely into his mouth and then pushing it out again.
At this point, I was starting to just go wild because, although I didn't really articulate it in my head at that moment, I was sort of realizing he was being both dominant and extremely attentive to my needs. This went on for many minutes, and he would not put me down until I had two really intense orgasms, so intense that I was hyperventilating. Finally, he slid me down to the bed and nuzzled my neck with his lips.
After we both sort of caught our breath a minute or two, I climbed on my hands and knees on the bed and bellowed to him "fuck me now" or something similarly crude and blunt. I spread my legs in a bad imitation of a nympho porn star.
He just stood there smiling with his mischievous grin a long moment, then slid off his shorts and tanktop. He flopped down at the head of the bed with his arms spread on the headboard and whispered to me "come here." I did so immediately and took hold of his cock, but he then he grabbed away my hands and told me I had to put them behind my neck and that I would get to play with his penis when he was good and ready to give it to me. All the while he had an adorable, teasing smile on his face.
He told me to sit on his abdomen, and he started kissing me intensely and sucking my tits while I felt his now-hard cock bobbing against my backside. By this point I was just about out of control with desire and, between kisses, I begged him to fuck me, but he told me to be patient. I was close to tears at that point I wanted it so much.
This went on for about 15 minutes, and I was so wet by that point I could feel a puddle on his stomach, while he kept kissing me and sucking on my tits. Finally, he hoisted me up and entered me very slowly. Although I was on top, which usually means the woman sets the pace, he had my ass firmly grasped in his hands so I could not move. He began fucking me really slowly and gently at that point, although he was completely in control, because I could not move my ass at all. He is so strong that, even though I was pushing against him with all my weight, he could push back harder.
So I said something to the effect of "faster!" and he said something to the effect that, no, I needed a good slow fuck and just to relax. So I just gave in. From there, he proceeded to fuck me very, very slowly but gently, all the while in control. He would lift me up too high sometimes so his cock fell out and then take his time about getting it back in, which of course just drove me even more crazy the way he was teasing me.
I know at that point it crystalized in my head that my fantasy was coming true -- here was a very dominant man who was also incredibly tender -- no slaps, no filthy talk, no hairpulling, but he was completely in control and dominating me by teasing me and making me beg.
What made this all the more intense was that I had never mentioned to him this was my fantasy.
He fucked me very slowly like this for about an hour, changing positions only once so we were spooning, all the while holding me so I couldn't go any faster and thus had to let him set the pace. I came multiple times, several times the most intensely I think I have ever had an orgasm. Finally he came without ever speeding up, then we just held each other while I floated somewhere beyond Jupiter. He whispered something teasing at that point about how my thighs should be all right the next day.
It wasn't until the following morning that I told him about my fantasy and how he had inadvertently fulfilled it.
Hence the reason this might be the best fuck I will ever have. Because while he has done the same thing again to me -- very dominant but very tender -- it was not the surprise of that second evening. It was sort of like skydiving. The first time is always more intense, even though every time you skydive thereafter, it's still a rush.
Friday, September 12, 2008
yet another sex blog?
First, me in a nutshell if you don't read my profile: I'm a 23-year-old American woman, considered attractive, some say pretty, in shape, and I work as a nude dancer in Las Vegas. I have an extremely high sex drive. When I say that to a man for the first time, his eyes invariably light up, and he wants to know me better.
The reality is, however, that most men cannot keep up with me, which leaves me frustrated. If I'm in a relationship, and the man cannot have sex with me at least twice a day, I start to wander. Sad to say, most men cannot fuck for several hours every day. They dream but they do not deliver.
My friends, particularly female, have encouraged me to start a blog, perhaps out of a certain weariness at hearing me bemoan my sexual frustrations. A few weeks ago, I decided to do that, and planned on beginning today, my 23rd birthday.
Then, suddenly, my world turned upside down a few weeks ago. I met James. He is 38, an Australian living temporarily in the United States, a decorated RAN veteran, a sometimes model, sometimes bodyguard, sometimes male stripper, and a one-time carpenter and male escort.
In short, I have fallen completely head-over-heels for this man, who in his own right professes his love for me every day. He is witty, funny, sweet, intelligent, tender, kind, inquisitive, smart, intuitive, and a fantastic listener. Where has this man been all of my life?
He's also the best lover I've ever had and one of the few men I've ever known who can keep up with me in bed. (And, believe me, I have known a few men in my day; I have slept with hundreds of men since I became sexually active.)
To add icing to this cake, the man is gorgeous -- 6'2", 245 pounds, less than 6 percent body fat, very muscular, can bench press over 500 pounds. He's not pretty-boy handsome but more rugged and masculine. Yes, I'm superficial, I'm drawn to sexy, attractive men with ripped abs. He doesn't disappoint. His deep, sonorous voice is about three times as sexy as Russell Crowe's.
In all candor, however, while the package is very fine, what I love most about him cannot be seen with the eyes.
To add to my delirium, he is as equally goofy about me. We have promised each other "no secrets ever" (he will be the first person to see this blog) and have already shared lots of stories from our dark pasts. For a while I thought there had to be a catch to this guy -- an abandoned wife and kids back at home in Australia, a criminal record, a murdered ex-girlfriend buried in a shallow desert grave, something. But, alas, that other shoe has not dropped. We were fated to meet, he insists, and now we are enjoying our destiny.
Ah, you're saying, this will be a blog written by some gushy nympho, going on and on about her new boyfriend. Yeah, give it two weeks.
No, it won't be that. It'll just be me. Sometimes talking about James. Sometimes talking about my travels (I'm due to leave for Australia on October 8, a journey planned before I met James, but now we'll be traveling together). Sometimes talking about my sexual adventures, past and present. Sometimes talking about the good and bad in my life. And sometimes the very bad, when I'm up to it (and fortunately past it, I trust).
I hope you enjoy what you read and please feel free to add comments. If I don't make you think on occasion, at least I hope you'll be entertained at times.
You can always reach me here: hypersexualgirl at gmail dot com.
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The reality is, however, that most men cannot keep up with me, which leaves me frustrated. If I'm in a relationship, and the man cannot have sex with me at least twice a day, I start to wander. Sad to say, most men cannot fuck for several hours every day. They dream but they do not deliver.
My friends, particularly female, have encouraged me to start a blog, perhaps out of a certain weariness at hearing me bemoan my sexual frustrations. A few weeks ago, I decided to do that, and planned on beginning today, my 23rd birthday.
Then, suddenly, my world turned upside down a few weeks ago. I met James. He is 38, an Australian living temporarily in the United States, a decorated RAN veteran, a sometimes model, sometimes bodyguard, sometimes male stripper, and a one-time carpenter and male escort.
In short, I have fallen completely head-over-heels for this man, who in his own right professes his love for me every day. He is witty, funny, sweet, intelligent, tender, kind, inquisitive, smart, intuitive, and a fantastic listener. Where has this man been all of my life?
He's also the best lover I've ever had and one of the few men I've ever known who can keep up with me in bed. (And, believe me, I have known a few men in my day; I have slept with hundreds of men since I became sexually active.)
To add icing to this cake, the man is gorgeous -- 6'2", 245 pounds, less than 6 percent body fat, very muscular, can bench press over 500 pounds. He's not pretty-boy handsome but more rugged and masculine. Yes, I'm superficial, I'm drawn to sexy, attractive men with ripped abs. He doesn't disappoint. His deep, sonorous voice is about three times as sexy as Russell Crowe's.
In all candor, however, while the package is very fine, what I love most about him cannot be seen with the eyes.
To add to my delirium, he is as equally goofy about me. We have promised each other "no secrets ever" (he will be the first person to see this blog) and have already shared lots of stories from our dark pasts. For a while I thought there had to be a catch to this guy -- an abandoned wife and kids back at home in Australia, a criminal record, a murdered ex-girlfriend buried in a shallow desert grave, something. But, alas, that other shoe has not dropped. We were fated to meet, he insists, and now we are enjoying our destiny.
Ah, you're saying, this will be a blog written by some gushy nympho, going on and on about her new boyfriend. Yeah, give it two weeks.
No, it won't be that. It'll just be me. Sometimes talking about James. Sometimes talking about my travels (I'm due to leave for Australia on October 8, a journey planned before I met James, but now we'll be traveling together). Sometimes talking about my sexual adventures, past and present. Sometimes talking about the good and bad in my life. And sometimes the very bad, when I'm up to it (and fortunately past it, I trust).
I hope you enjoy what you read and please feel free to add comments. If I don't make you think on occasion, at least I hope you'll be entertained at times.
You can always reach me here: hypersexualgirl at gmail dot com.
Technorati Profile
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