Have you ever asked someone older and wiser and more fuckable than you for advice on sex? There’s a good chance that sage slut said “Just relax!”
You probably nodded like that made sense, then muttered “easy for you to say, whore”and stomped off to sulk and panic.
That never happened to me, of course.
For Mother’s Day, my husband got us sex toys. Specifically some bondage toys. We’ve been wanting to learn more about BDSM and incorporate more than a few cub scout knots and creative dirty talk into our play.
Now, I’ve mentioned to A (husband) a few times that I wouldn’t mind trying a few of the advanced rope techniques outside of the typical intense official “scene”. In fact, for safety’s sake, it would be my preference. He admitted that weekend that he finally realized that I meant we could make our play more casual. That it was ok to try and figure out how to tie a chest harness while watching the latest episode of Chuck..
We tried it the other night. We started off casually, laughing a little at first and then, as we got more adventurous, a lot. Send just as quickly, we went from laughing hysterically to gasping though one of the best sexual experiences of our lives.
The best part was that, because we were so relaxed, we communicated our needs more readily and more clearly. That can only lead to more awesome sex.
I don’t think I have ever been more satisfied with a sexual encounter. In other words, it was fucking awesome.
I am now lucky enough to own a Kindle*. I never thought I would like a Kindle, honestly. The feel of a book, the smell of a book, was something I never thought I’d want to give up. However, I’ve realized that there are significant advantages to an e-reader of any kind. Want to hear them? No? Oh, then go read this. Otherwise, here you go:
1. The books are cheaper. Sometimes it’s just a few dollars, sometimes it’s $15+ dollars. Whatever, it rocks, because I rarely read a book more than once, and having a bookshelf full of books I will probably never re-read is irritating.
2. It’s easy to hold the thing in one hand without getting a hand cramp because you are playing/feeding/changing the toddler/baby/baby with the other hand.
3. It doesn’t require wall space, a Target bookshelf that was a PITA to put together, or eventually an ill-organized yardsale.
4. I can read erotica anywhere – ANYWHERE – and you won’t know that I’m reading it. Until I get up and leave the room quickly while reaching to unbutton my pants, that is.
*Yep, that’s an affiliate link to Amazon, but this post is not sponsored. Though it probably should be, because I have clearly outlined the BEST reason to own a Kindle, ever.
I’m hella busy, yo. HELLA BUSY. So, I am enlisting the help of some of my fave (old & new) bloggers to fill up my space and give you interesting, fresh content here while I’m off banging my head against a wall. Or doing WordPress Design. It could be either. Or both.
First up is Kisha, who blogs at In Through the Out Door, a site I just recently discovered (and now subscribe to) via Girl Talk Thursday. She offered me the choice of writing something serious, funny or risque, and OBVIOUSLY I picked risque. Oh, and put down your Diet Coke before you get to the end, your laptop won’t appreciate the spit-take!
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Dudes. I am SO excited to be here, guest posting for my chick Mommy Geekology. I love me some geeks…my hubby is an electrical engineer, and actually has said, out loud, “You can’t spell Geek without EE!” He is so lucky he makes a lot of money, seriously.
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I was a late bloomer. That may be surprising to those who know me, considering what a slut I am how sexually open I am. But I didn’t start messing around with boys until my junior/senior year of high school, and didn’t lose my virginity until I was 19.
The first guy I was with was my first everything…you name the base, he was the first to round it with me. And since I wasn’t much of a porn fan, I had a VERY limited knowledge of the male anatomy. I knew what it did, and how to make it do what it did, but that was about it.
Because of this limited knowledge, I was unaware of what was considered small, and what was considered large. I did know, however, that my boyfriend liked to receive oral and that I was basically a head goddess. I could deep throat that thing until the cows came home. I just figured I was born with a natural talent. Some people are singers, some people are athletes, some people are exceptional at giving head. Whatevs. Whenever we’d be getting really into it, he would always say, “take it all, baby, take it all!” And I would be thinking, “oh yes I will because I am AWESOME!”
Fast forward a few years. We broke up, I was ready to sow some wild oats and basically get my slut on see what else was out there. I went to a bar one night, picked out a dude who was to my liking, let him get me drunk, then took him home. Rawr. We get in the bedroom, clothes start coming off, I unzip his pants and my chin drops to the floor. ”Holy shit, that thing is huge!” I exclaimed. Looking back, it was probably only a bit above average, but compared to what I had been broken in on…wow. Not only did I give him an ego boost he still probably carries around to this day, I gave myself a jaw ache for the ages.
After confiding in some girlfriends, and whoring around some more doing some research with cute boys, I finally had enough data to come up with a baseline. Boyfriend had been tiny. Pitifully tiny. Three inches tiny. Oh man.
Of course when I met Husband, I told him this story. Because nothing makes your current man more secure than telling him how pathetic your previous men had been. He laughed, said he wasn’t surprised, and me and his python effed for hours. Fabulous. And it turns out I am a head goddess even with normal sized men. Yay!
So Husband and I get married, and we came back to my hometown for a visit after the ceremony. We end up at a bar with a bunch of my old friends, including Boyfriend. I think Boyfriend was still a little butthurt over me marrying someone else, and has always been the type to show off. So he comes over and buys the whole table a round of shots, and asks Husband to make the toast. Husband raises his shot glass and says, “Take it all, baby. Take! It! All!”
Thank god he said that before the shot was in my mouth, or there would have been duck fart sprayed all over everyone at my table. And yes, not only does he have a big dick, he’s got the sense of humor to match.
This morning I stumbled on Marlen James Photography – boudoir diary. I want this woman’s job. She takes photographs of naked (or near naked) people. Seriously. That is her job and dammit I want it. Her most recent post is a tutorial of sorts – how to take a decent “boudoir pic” (<— Yes, that means NAKED or at least in some fine underthings) of yourself without Photoshopping. If it doesn’t come out well, she’s offering her services to Photoshop the pic yourself (if you’re brave enough to send it to her!) for $10 each, which could be the cheapest gift that you give to your lovah this year, and the most appreciated. If you’re in Canada, you might be able to get this chick to do the shoot for free.
Since this is a lot cheaper than a surround sound system, you can bet what I’ve got planned for my husband this year. For every gift-giving occasion. Father’s Day? Naked pictures of your wife. Easter? Naked pictures of your wife. 4th of July? Naked pictures of your wife. Winter Solstice? Naked pictures of your wife.
You get the idea.
Anyway, head on over and read her quick & easy tutorial. It’s simple, but she offers a few tips and, most importantly, shares some damn sexy photos of herself. So you’ve got two poses to emulate, too! Unfortunately what she doesn’t explain is how to set the timer and get yourself over to the bed to pose while practicing self-bondage… anyone got a tutorial for that?
I won’t Photoshop your pictures, but feel free to send them to me, too. Or better yet? Submit that shit anonymously or otherwise to Boob Emancipation. OMG. Please. Yes. Now. Why is your shirt still on?!
This week’s Girl Talk Thursday prompt is – In a world without consequences, what kinky fantasy/thing would you do?
I’ve made no secret of my kinky tendencies on this blog. While it’s not all I write about or talk about, my thoughts and words and writing are splattered with my passion for bondage and power play.
In a world without consequences… I had to think about that for a bit. Define it. No laws, no judgment, no effect on my children, family life or relationships. Just me and my lover(s) in a world where I’ve made all the rules.
I’d build a house with a secret floor reserved for various pleasure chambers. I’d buy things like cages and flagellery cases. I’d soundproof the room and spend thousands of dollars at upscale, kinky sex shops. I’d reach out to bondage networks with my husband, searching for the perfect mate to share our bed when we feel like it. When he feels like it. I’d spend hours not making any decisions except to continue to give over my power to him. We’d test the boundaries of my self, I’d find and luxuriate in that wonderful sense of being that is sub-space. I’d walk naked through my house wearing nothing but cuffs and collar. I’d wiggle my butt and swing my hips knowing that in my choice to give up my choices, I gained a powerful weapon – my sexuality. We’d stop to eat, to drink, to sleep. We’d fuck. We’d make love. We’d lay lazily intertwined watching tv without bothering to clean up.
I’d spend a weekend playing at 24/7 BDSM. I’d convince my husband to have sex with me in public. I’d call up my sexiest girlfriends and tell them to come to my house, naked and slightly drunk, while my husband wields the video camera. I’d do everything, and anything, I wanted.
Then I’d snap out of my reverie, awoken by the baby giggling in her crib, and get up to start my day, because we all know a world without consequences doesn’t (shouldn’t, couldn’t) exist. .
Summer, 1998. I am 14 years old. I dance several times a week at a dance studio in my town. I have long brown hair. I don’t usually wear makeup but I feel confident, and pretty.
My first job was at a local convenience store. The owners were Peruvian, an older married couple. The wife was my boss, and her husband worked the counter with her. He smiled a lot, spoke little English. He had white hair and was affectionate. At first, I liked to think of him a the Grandfather I didn’t really have.
It all started innocently enough. He would comment about how skinny I was, that I should eat more. He offered me tata and snacks for free. His wife was so austere, so stern, so harsh, it was a welcome reprieve when he spoke to me. It was a small store, and it was usually just me and them.
I can’t pinpoint when, but at some point he started to make subtle advances. He would put his hand on my waist as I walked by, murmuring about how tiny I was, about my “beautiful dancer’s body.” He’d come up behind me and put his hands on my waist, my shoulders, touch my hair. I didn’t do anything about it. I was young. I didn’t quite understand what was going on, though I knew I wasn’t entirely comfortable with it. I rationalized that he was just a nice, lonely old man. Like a grandfather. I clung to that thought, using it as a rationale to continue working there, continue talking and joking with him, continue ignoring what was really going on.
He became bolder. He would tickle me, taking the chance to slide his hands under my shirt and touch the soft skin of my belly, the smooth curve of my back. I giggled, I danced away, I pretended it was ok.
Even bolder. He would slide his hand up underneath my shirt, complimenting my beauty, my grace. I tried to ignore it. I joked, I spun away, I stopped rationalizing and went with a full-on mental block. It wasn’t happening.
One Sunday morning at 5am, putting together newspapers, I hit my breaking point. My mother was there with me, helping me put the papers together. While she was in the back and I was carrying papers out to the front of the store, he pushed his hands up beneath my shirt and touched my bra. I ripped away from him. I didn’t speak to him again. I quit my job a week later, and it was a year or more before I told my mother what had happened. Not until my sister wanted to apply for a job there. I couldn’t bear the thought of her going through the same thing.
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May, 2009. I am 24. I am working at a corporate office, and I am pregnant and happily married. I love my job.
Nearly 2 years ago, I discovered I was pregnant with Geeklet. We were thrilled, and after a couple of months I decided it was time to tell my boss. He took me out to lunch. He drove. We talked. He was a good friend of mine. We worked in a small department, all sitting together in a large office. Three of us, only three of us — young Greek guy that I was sure was gay, whose attitude often rubbed me the wrong way, and Gustavo. He was from Peru, and he was a true gentleman. He held doors for me. He opened car doors and offered to get me a drink at company functions. He was proper and kind and sensitive.
He was even kind, and gentle, and a gentleman, when he asked me to have sex with him.
He was kind, and sweet, when he told me he’d nearly cheated on his then-fiancee (now wife and mother of his child) while she was still in Peru.
He was gentle when he told me that he wanted to have sex with another woman, but didn’t want to pay for a prostitute. But I seemed nice, and he thought I might have sex with him.
He was sweet when I refused him.
He thanked me for not slapping him.
He drove us back to work, and he was polite throughout the entire afternoon.
He was polite when HR called him in and questioned him about the incident.
He was gentle and remorseful when he admitted to asking me for sex.
He was gentlemanly and polite when I changed departments because I could no longer work next to him.
He was polite when I confronted him months later to tell him that I thought I deserved an apology.
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I’m at a new job now. I work in a department of women. My husband works here. It’s a good arrangement. ‘Nuff said.
I’m calling this a “Green Post” because it’s been recycled from my old blog. One of the challenges of the Mominatrix #sexualrevolution was to do a little down-low landscaping, and I thought I’d share one of my experiences with waxing. This is supposed to be funny, so LAUGH DAMMIT.
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I understand that there are some cultures where body hair is accepted, even admired. There are cultures also that demand that women or men remove all or parts of their body hair, either as a religious rite or simply because it is culturally unacceptable otherwise. I tried to do some research on this, but have you ever tried doing a Google search for pubic hair and cultural perspectives? Yeah, don’t. Or turn safe-search on.
Anyway, other cultures aside, my own personal preference is to be clean-shaven – pretty much anywhere that I can be. I love the hair on my head But I also keep that short. I don’t like long hair. Hubby had long hair before we met. If I had known him during his goth or subsequent quasi-goth stages, we would not have dated. When we did meet, he had a nice military haircut. Totally acceptable and attractive!
My reasons for wanting to be hairless “down there” are numerous, from simple to upkeep, to cleanliness, to the “eww gross” factor during oral… the list goes on. No landing strips for me, either. Not a fan. It looks funny, to me. And it’s more upkeep! I’d have to trim and shave. I think that’s asking a bit much from a girl who doesn’t even get to shower as often as she’s like. (Aren’t you glad that you only know me virtually? lol. )
So, with that oh-so-essential background information, my candid account of getting a Brazilian wax while 7 months pregnant last Saturday follows:
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The spa room was very nice. There were nice fresh sheets and towels on the table in the center of the room. The walls were painted in calming earthy tones, and soothing music played in the background. There were some nice iron scrolls on the walls, a hook and hanger for my clothes, and a display of creams and lotions. I had just come from getting my hair cut and my maternity massage, so I was relaxed and feeling sexy and fun and flirty. The clinician, Rachel, offered me a drink of water or some tea. I politely declined – I think that peeing on the woman clearing out your bush is rude, right? I’ll be honest, I’m fuzzy on the proper protocol during a Brazilian wax.. but I think peeing on people is out unless you’re filming a crazy porn or something.
Rachel, by the way, is absolutely gorgeous. Long, dark, curly hair, big big eyes with long lashes, little cupid mouth. It was almost a little insulting how pretty she was. I mean c’mon. If I’m going to have someone staring at my vagina for an hour, I’d rather that she be less attractive than me. If she’s going to be more attractive than I am, and she’s looking at my vagina, she better not be down there to give me a Brazilian.
(Whoops, just outed myself. Bisexual, anyone?)
So, where was I? Oh yeah. Gorgeous girl, first Brazilian wax, 4 months of growth because I can’t reach my own hoo-hah and a huge pregnant belly.
She told me that I could hang my clothes on the hanger and get up on the table, she’d be right back. That’s right folks, she left while I undressed. She also left while I dressed, at the end. How weird is that? I mean, it’s not like she wasn’t going to see it anyway!
Then again, after I had stripped and gotten up on the table, I draped a towel over myself. Even as I arranged it to keep my bits from showing, I questioned why I was bothering. I mean, she was going to be getting up close and personal. And yet… it would have felt so weird to leave it all hanging out!
So when she comes back in, I’m lying on my back, wondering why they didn’t bother to drywall the ceiling because those dated ceiling tiles are really unattractive to look at, when she pulls my leg to the side and plops some sugar-lemon gel on the area with a little spatula. No “How do you do, let me grab your leg here for a sec.” No “How about dinner? A movie? Sex in the back of my conversion van?” Not even a warning “Let’s go!” Just flip the towel aside, grap the spatula, plop the wax and hello, pain. Let me tell you – that gel is hot. And when it catches on the little hairs, it hurts a little. But I thought to myself, so far, so good. This’ll be quick and dirty. It’l hurt, but then I’ll be able to go, and I’ll never have to look this beautiful woman in the face again. Then she grabbed one of those little waxing strips and laid it on the gel. No problem. Then she took her whole hand (gloved, thankyouverymuch) and rubbed the strip down with significant pressure. Let me just say this – not so much a problem on the bikini line area. Totally strange when you get to the “inner” area. I was really, really glad that I wasn’t going to have to see her outside of this context.
Then she started talking to me, asking when I was due, did I have any names picked? I thought it was a little weird, but figured that she was curious and maybe trying to get her mind off of the task at hand (literally….)
I was right in the middle of telling her that I was due on ((RIP)) ((internal scream of surprise and pain)) November 4th, but that my daughter was ((RIP)) ((oh good lord that burns)) about 10 days early, so ((RIP)) ((I bet I’m as red as a tomato down there right now)) this one might be an October baby. With every bit of gel applied, she would apply the wax strip several times and rip, rip, rip away.
I was horrified at the pain. It burned. It hurt. It ached. It was sharp, and tingly, and there was nothing good about it, no way. I had heard that some women like to get this done. I think that whoever told me that was mistaken. They probably said that they like it as much as they’d like an ice pick to the eye. Or they like it as much as they’d like to swallow burning coals. Or that they like it as much as a visit from their mother-in-law while potty-training their first child, who happens to have diarrhea.
But I had started. And I figured that as long as I could just sit there, deal with the pain, and get it over with, I’d be fine.
But no. Rachel was seriously chatty. She would ask me about how I liked living in B-town, and whether I liked it more than BL-town versus N-city, and how her boyfriend wanted to live in B-town but she wanted to live in N-city even though the commute would be worse, etc etc. Every so often, she’d pause, and squint at my lower half. I’m not sure if she was puzzled, or strategizing, or what. It was all very surreal and strange, and somewhat awkward.
It went on and on. This is not a quick process – it took 50 minutes to get everything.It was a pattern. Apply wax, ask a question, furiously rub on waxing strip, wait until I started my answer, RIP. I swear, she was doing it on purpose. She probably got some sort of sick thrill out of seeing whether she could get me to scream in the middle of my answer. (I’m proud to say that I did not! Though there was much wincing, pausing, and flinching)
I tried to rationalize the whole experience and say that it was good practice for childbirth. I mean, pain at intervals lasting for 30 seconds to a minute (oh, the burning!) while maintaining conversation with the people around you. Because that’s totally how we all imagine our birth experience. Discussion about politics and complex science while also bringing life into the world, without any pain medication. I mean, that’s what my childbirth plan reads…. yeah.
The worst part was the end, though. I had told her that I wanted everything – even the wayyy back – gone. She tells me that the last part is the least painful, don’t worry, and if I could get up on the table on my hands and knees and arch my back, that would be great. (Oh, how many times have I heard that? “This won’t hurt a bit, now bend over… ) So, with my big ass and my pregnant belly and my ridiculous stretch marks, I got up on that table and posed like I was asking Hubby to do it doggy style. My stomach rested on the table. My back was arched, my ass was in the air, and she says to me “That’s great.”
Oh goodness.
So she applies the gel and gets the strip, and right after she pulls the strip off, I start to giggle.
A word of advice: the next time that you’re in a table, ass proudly displayed in the air, while someone removes the hair from your body using a spatula, wax, and some cloth strips, do not giggle. It’s weird. It puts a strange mood in the room. No matter that you quickly, VERY quickly explain that you’re just thinking about how funny this will be to tell people later, and that you’re thinking of getting an at-home wax kit so that your husband can see how it feels to have the hair brutally ripped from his body, or that you know it’s totally inappropriate and you’re so sorry you don’t mean to giggle but you just can’t stop…
It’s weird. And for the last few minutes of that waxing session, there will be a silence in the room, like a thick, wet, flannel blanket, dampening everything. And you’ll still be stifling giggles.
Needless to say, I’ll be back in four weeks to get it done again. (That’s right, go back and read that sentence again. No typos, I promise.) (It lasts four weeks!) (And Hubby is paying!)
When Princess Jenn approached me after my recent comments on Part 1 of her Relationship Series with an opportunity to discuss my experiences with BDSM, I jumped on the chance. I am by no means shy (surprise!) and I am not ashamed of my sexual preferences (short girls with curly hair? COME TO MAMA) or my sexual style (hand me some rope and wink at me and I am putty in your hands) so why not?
Her series looks to be amazing – coming right out of the gate with Part 1 discussing open marriages and Part 2 tackling BDSM… well let’s just say that you’ll want to subscribe to both the posts AND comments.
Make the jump over to her place and leave me a comment. As long as you’re respectful, all comments are welcome.
Hello. My name is MommyGeek, and I am a horny bitch.
I got dressed up today because I want to get laid. My inlaws are in town and all I can think about is getting laid. I think I have a problem. And the first step is admitting it, yes? And then the next step is getting laid, right? Oh please say yes.*
Can I trust you? Can I make a full confession here? I love sex. A lot. It’s amazing. I love sex even more now that I’ve found a partner who truly understands my …..exotic tastes. I’ve found a man who can give me multiple orgasms. Who knows just which buttons to push, and how long to push, and how hard.
It fucking rocks.*
Despite what my mother thought, I am not an easy girl. I held firmly onto my virginity until I was 19, and then my first experiences with sex weren’t very great. One guy “surprised” me with a back door entrance (NO!) and another had hair that smelled like dirt. After another called me a broad, I was done. Until I met DaddyGeek.
He made love to me on a Thursday. It’s one of my favorite days of the week. Always has been. He whispered the most wonderful, poetic, beautiful things in my ear, and he truly worshiped my body. (It’s probably the most gentle sex we’ve ever had!) It was amazing. I think of it often.
There was a time, when we had first moved in together, that I lived in his Air Force dorm room with him. We lived in a tiny itty bitty room – I think it was probably 10×10 or 9×10 – but we loved it. We were young (we still are) and in love. Most importantly, we were in lust.
We made whoopie several times a day, every day, for weeks on end. One day he rebuffed my advances, saying in a tiny, pathetic voice – “I can’t do it again. I’m chafing. It hurts!” Poor little guy!*
We had every kind of sex. We had loud sex. Floor sex. Bed sex. Standing sex. Sitting sex. Traditional sex. Quickie sex. Marathon sex.
Oh, the Google hits I shall get.
Now we have two children and a two bedroom apartment. Geeklet’s crib is in our room. It’s hard to find time, energy, and space. Especially when all we want is a little kink. We manage, just not as often as we’d like. I mean let’s face it – I’ve had two children. No matter how youthful, taut and slim my body was pre-kids, it’s suffered. And though I don’t think I cut too bad of a figure at this point, there are places I’d rather hide. Sometimes I can’t get up the energy to have sex simply because I feel disgusting.
I find it helps if I get a little dressed up. Today I passed on the comfy khakis and plain vneck shirt and went for a nice pair of black business slacks, deep purple tank and cute little gray jacket. I went with heels. I put on a little makeup. I pulled my hair back into a bun.I feel like the Secretary. (Have I mentioned that that the movie that made me realize just how much I enjoy the kink?) It’s been a little while, but too long however you count it. I need this. I truly believe sex is a critical part of marriage.
His birthday is coming up. A joke was made, but I’m seriously considering it – don’t buy anything for him except a big red bow. My gift won’t be appropriate at the family party, but he’ll appreciate it more than a gift certificate. ::seductive wink::
Today, though. Today I am so damn horny. I hope you don’t see me on Twitter tonight.
*Yup, those are sex puns! You clever little thing.
PS I apologize for the rambling. It’s not my fault. All I can think about is sex. It’s like I’m fourteen. And male.
Oh, and put down your Diet Coke before you get to the end, your laptop won’t appreciate the spit-take!
In a world without consequences… I had to think about that for a bit. Define it. No laws, no judgment, no effect on my children, family life or relationships. Just me and my lover(s) in a world where I’ve made all the rules.
But I also keep that short. I don’t like long hair. Hubby had long hair before we met. If I had known him during his goth or subsequent quasi-goth stages, we would not have dated. When we did meet, he had a nice military haircut. Totally acceptable and attractive!
Just ... no. {Wardrobe malfunction}
Excess
