The Artist

For the past year my hormones have been absolutely out of control.  For many of my friends their hormones are out of balance and having a negative impact on their sex drive and mood.  For me, it’s the complete opposite.  I’m as horny as a 16-year-old boy.  Finally, I understand what drives boys and men to have this insatiable desire for sex.  Testosterone seems to be pumping through my body.  This American Life recently aired a 2002 episode called “Testosterone” in which a transgender man (who used to be a woman) explains the eye opening experience of testosterone injections and the overwhelming desire to fuck every single person in sight.  And if not a desire to fuck them, curiosity about what they look like naked.  This. Is. Me. But I haven’t had testosterone injections, I don’t have facial hair and I’m not developing a deep voice.  In fact, quite the opposite, I’m pretty sure that several would agree that I’m oozing feminine sexuality.   My desires don’t discriminate, man or woman.  If something about you sparks something in me, then I’m probably imagining you naked.  Thankfully my body gives me a break sometimes and it isn’t 24/7 day in and day out.  (How maddening and exhausting that would be!)  It’s cyclical and some weeks are more overwhelming than others.  This week happens to be a “horny week.”

“Horny week” prompted me to share this next blog post.  If you’re trying to follow along chronologically with the events of my life, it won’t work.  And looking at me linearly would just make me look clinically insane.  So just enjoy each piece.

Back in the spring I was visiting friends in the Southeastern part of the US. We visited a Sunday Market that had many different art, craft, clothing and food vendors.  One of the first booths I came upon had these beautiful linocut prints of various old homes and buildings around the city as well as cyanotypes or “sun prints” as they’re commonly called.  I was immediately drawn to the cyanotypes using natural objects: leaves and flowers.  Living here in the Pacific Northwest I’ve become especially fond of ferns.  There was a large, 18×20″ cyanotype in blue of various ferns scattered. I loved not only the ferns, but the large amounts of negative space filled with the indigo dye.  The artist himself was working the booth and very friendly. I was immediately drawn to him.  He had a big warm smile and endearing eyes behind smart rectangular frames that somehow evoked tenderness.   He was tall, thin, cocoa colored skin, short dread locks and a calm gentleness that made him feel approachable.  I told him I needed to look around a bit, but that I’d probably be back.

I returned an hour later to buy the large fern sun print as well as a simple linocut of a wildflower bouquet.  As I was checking out I said something about living in the Pacific Northwest.  He said, “I’ve always wanted to live in a cabin in the woods in Oregon.”  I laughed and playfully said, “Me too!  Let’s do it together!”  He smiled and glanced up at me.  We said our thank yous and I went on my way.  A month later I emailed him to see if he had an Instagram account.  I was going to take a photo of my framed print and tag him in it.  He does and so we connected via Instagram.

In early summer I was back in the Southeast traveling around and visiting friends.  The Artist was now following me on Instagram and he noticed that some of my photos were taken in a relatively close-by city.  He private messaged me and asked how long I’d be in the area.  I said I’d actually be back in his city the next week and staying for several days.  He said he’d really like to see me.  And wondered if I was seeing anyone?  Hmmm…it’s complicated, I say.  So I told him the truth.  I said I am married, unhappily.  I’ve asked for a separation, but my husband does not want one and I don’t feel financially able to just move out on my own.  I’m back in the Southeast not only to see friends, but because I have two lovers who live in his same city. One of the lovers is someone I should just cast away, but the other is special and when I’m with him it feels like love.  At this point I decide I should probably find out The Artist’s name!  Are you ready for this?  Okay, this is not his real name, but I have to come up with something that sounds as if he was named by older white parents who had him late in life (which I don’t think he was, that’s just the image his name evokes).  Sherman Frederick. And he’s 27.

Sherman takes it all in and says, that’s okay.  He’s in a long-term open relationship with a 46-year-old woman. He tells me how gorgeous he thinks I am.  How he loves my eyes, my smile, my neck.  I ask him to send a photo because it’s been 3 months or more since I’ve seen him and I just want to be sure I’m remembering him correctly.  Yep, those same tender eyes and nice full lips.  And then he sends a full body shot.  Whoa!  Totally not expecting that.  First, I didn’t expect his nicely chiseled physique.  And second, I couldn’t have guessed that between his legs hung the most gorgeous cock.  It looked to be a really good size.  I was actually a little worried what it would be like hard since it looked so big hanging there.  We fall into conversation about what we’d like to do to each other.  How much he wants to taste me and how much i want to ride on that cock.  I’m soaked by the end of the conversation.  And excited. So excited for the following week!

Yes, in my life I’ve had quite a few exceptional sexual encounters.  But meeting up with Sherman was like no other experience I’d ever had.  Prior to this, my most memorable sexual escapades often happened late at night, sometimes after drinking and smoking pot, usually with someone I knew at least a little bit and always with someone my own age or older than me.  Sherman was different.  I knew nothing about him except his art (even after Google-sleuthing!)  He is 14 years younger than me!  He made the first move (I’m nearly always the seeker.)  And we made a plan to meet up early in the day at his studio/apartment for one specific reason:  to fuck each others brains out.  I let a friend know where I would be *just in case.*  I really had no worries about Sherman.  His vibe and energy was positive, sensual, open and honest.

So there I was, 11am on a Thursday at the door of his carriage house apartment.  I felt confident, clean and ready to be devoured.  And that is exactly what happened.  Sherman opened the door shirtless and invited me in.  We went up the stairs to the open studio apartment.  An unmade queen-size bed flanked one side of the room. A jar of coconut oil sat on the side table next to it, readily available if we needed any lubricant.  The kitchen and a dining table, clearly used for Sherman’s work-space were off to the left across the room.  The space was bright.  Art work hung on the walls.  And there were lots of books everywhere.  We stood in front of each other next to the bed and he said how amazing I looked.  He liked my tight-fitting brightly colored mandala print skirt.  We took each others faces and began to kiss. He lifted my shirt and pulled it off over my head.  I slid my skirt down.  I had no hesitations, no reservations about my body in this brightly lit apartment. I pulled down his sweat pants.  I reached down and touched his smooth, hard cock while we kissed.  It looked so good.  I sat down on the edge of the bed and took him into my mouth as far as I could go to the back of my throat. Slowly, slowly I pulled my head back and let it gently glide out of my mouth.  His cock is perfect.  It’s long, but not too wide.

He asked me to turn around and kneel on the bed.  He wanted to see my ass.  I obliged. I stood back up and pulled off my bra and hot pink panties.  He wanted me to to lay back on the bed and spread my legs wide so he could fully see my pussy.  Sherman looked at and examined it and talked about how beautiful it is and how perfect it looked.  He ran his finger around my lips and clit and reached in to feel how wet it was and then devoured it with his mouth.  He said over and over that I tasted so good, that my pussy was so fucking beautiful. We were up and down and around and around each other.  Tongues, lips, hands.  Bodies entwined and groping.  I was so fucking excited to have his cock inside of me.  It felt amazing.  I think my favorite part was him thrusting and fucking me and then watching his overwhelming desire to pull out and taste me again with his mouth.  I loved tasting myself on his lips. He remembered that I had said in a message that I love to be on my stomach.  I rolled over onto my tummy and he felt my wetness with his finger and then entered me from behind. He pulled me up onto my knees and got a finger full of coconut oil and gently caressed my asshole.  He entered my pussy and then fingered my ass while we fucked and I rubbed my clit.  The intensity was explosive!   We fucked in every position.  Took a break and then fucked some more.  All the while he told me how sexy, beautiful and gorgeous I am.  Sherman literally worshipped my body and I his.   Not a bad way to spend a summer afternoon.

After we dressed he showed me his art process and some of the latest linocuts he was working on.  We chatted for a bit in the beautiful courtyard between his carriage house and the big old home to which it belongs. Knowing my love of plants and flowers, he wanted to show me some of the flowers his girlfriend had planted.  We kissed goodbye and I went back to my lover’s house to wait for him to come home from work.  An affair within an affair.  After weeks of processing my time with Sherman,  I came away with this:

It is incredibly freeing and awesome to

  1. Feel an attraction to someone.
  2. Mutually recognize it.
  3. Act on it.
  4. Know that there doesn’t have to be anything more.

There is only respect for each other.  Affinity for that person.  And appreciation for the attraction.

Never in my life have I experienced something like this. Not before and not since.  I thought I could take this insight and apply it to other people, but, so far, I can’t.  Sherman, himself, helped me understand why that is.  It’s probably the same thing you’re thinking, too.  It’s because I don’t know him.  I don’t have an attachment to him. And I don’t have any proximity to him.  We don’t share friends.  I don’t know his routine or habits. He is far removed from my daily life and I did not get wrapped up in his story.  I allowed him into my story, but he is capable of appreciating me without wanting to save me or be part of my daily life. There is no infatuation.  No longing. No unmet expectations. No one feeling let down by the other. And no side wishing or wanting more.  How often are humans actually satisfied with the end-result of an intimate experience? We are such deeply complicated creatures who feel so much.  But guess what?  NO REGRETS!  Hands down Sherman was one of the best sexual experiences of my life and I do not, and will never, regret it.  How many women in their forties, how many mothers in their forties, get to be worshipped by a gorgeous man? (Motherhood and sexuality will be a whole other blog post! Mothers want sex, too!)   And not in a sleazy, creepy way.  In a sensual, but hungry, way.   I don’t know if Sherman and I could ever recreate it.   Thank you, Sherman.  I needed that.






The Library

The weeks following the one-night-stand that I write about in the first blog post were filled with heart-break, rejection and general self-loathing.  I went into that incredible night thinking it was just sex, and it was, but I wanted more of it and he did not. The night had been so electric and magnetic that I couldn’t imagine why he wouldn’t want to do it again.  I remember blathering through a tear-stained face to my roommate, Ashley,  that it was because he was wearing beer goggles and when he woke up in the morning he knew he’d made a big mistake.  I felt ugly, unwanted and so upset with myself for caring.

Ashley was getting sick of me.  Of course, she was still hooking up with various people and clearly didn’t carry the plague I did.  I was moody and irritable.  I hadn’t even turned a head since my epic night of uninhibited fucking. Ashley came home one day, literally with her new swimmer on her arm,  and said “get over it!”  “It’s time to get yourself together.”  And even though it hurt, I knew she was right.

We were coming up on end-of-semester finals.  One evening, mid-week, Ashley and I decided to go to the library together to study.  In between studying, we took spots at the computers located in the center of the library.  This was 1998 and the internet was still very new to me.  Ashley was the first person I knew who had a Hotmail account and she may have even helped me set mine up that night.  She also knew how to message people on the other computers around us.  Across the table from our computer was a tall, chiseled, muscular football player named Jake.  Ashley and Jake had hooked up at a party in the fall, so she new him a little.  They were flirtatious for sure.  I drooled every time time I passed him on campus.  I seriously doubted that he even knew that I existed.  I know, I know. This is sounding much like a John Hughes movie! But this, in fact, is the retelling of a true story that happened to me. As fantasy and wet dream as it sounds, it fucking happened. Sometimes I still cannot believe it.  Ashley sent a message over to Jake that said “my roommate thinks you’re really hot.”  His interest was peaked (really, is it always that easy?!)  Then she said, “She’s really sad. You should come over and cheer her up.”  He asked why I was sad.  She told him a baseball player had ditched me after a hook-up and I was having a hard time getting over it.

Jake then wrote, “I’ll be over around 10pm, I need to study a little more.”  What?!  Ashley and I walked home from the library giddy.  I really didn’t believe he would show up.  Ashley, on the other hand, said, “Yes, he’s totally coming!  I can tell by the way he was checking you out.  He thinks you’re a hottie!”  I wasn’t buying it.  When we got home, I got into my pajamas, brushed my teeth and headed to bed.  I had just turned out the light and was laying in the dark when I heard a knock on our front door.  My heart was racing.  Ashley answered the door and I could easily hear them in the living room of our tiny little two-bedroom carriage-house.  At first I thought that since I’d gone to bed and they had history, they’d just hook up again.  Then I heard Ashley say, “C’mon, let’s go in her room and cheer her up.”

What happened next is a blurry, yet totally sober exchange of saliva, hands, sweat, moans and cum.  Jake and Ashley sat on either side of me in my double bed and pulled down the covers.  I really don’t know who kissed who first, Jake and Ashley or me and Jake.  Ashley had one rule with me, no kissing each other.  I could lick her tits, finger her and kiss any other part of her body, but no kissing on the lips.  Jake went down on both of us as we caressed each other from top to bottom. I can still feel the goosebumps on Ashley’s skin as she came with him sucking on her clit.  I remember Jake standing silhouetted from the alley street lights at the foot of my bed.  Ashley and I unzipped his pants and pulled them down.  We took turns taking him into our mouths.  Then he layed back and I finished him off.  It was an absolutely amazing, dream-like night for all three of us.  And it was just what I needed to get over the hump of the rejection from the one-night-stand.

*What started out as our own little inside joke ended with each of us hooking up with someone from nearly every sports team at our university: soccer, track, baseball, football and swimming.  I never connected with a swimmer. Only Ashley could add that one to her list.  Ahhh, but baseball and football will forever stand out in my mind!