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!



Porn Novice

If you were to stand a hetero couple side by side which person do you think the title refers to?  I’d say 90% would assume the female in the relationship is the porn novice.  Yesterday I learned something very interesting about my husband of 15 years:  he’s porn clueless.  Actually, it’s like he lives in a porn vacuum, a time warp.

In the past 6 months we both agree that I have hit my sexual peak. We are having sex more frequently than ever.  We’re having mind blowing orgasms.  We have DAY sex.  We even put our kids in front of a movie and tell them we’re going to take a “nap.”  We lock the door and devour each other.  It’s been awesome for both of us.  Yesterday we found ourselves alone in the house and my husband was eager for me to finish some household task  so that we could have uninterrupted sex before going out.  I don’t remember how we got on the topic, but he said something about licking my ass.  And then we both laughed and joked around about “anal tongue darts.”

I said something about “everyone loving it,” but in real life it’s kind of gross.  Some serious scrubbing and washing needed to happen before I’d feel comfortable with that.  My husband said “what do you mean ‘everyone loves it?'” I clarified that it seems to be in every porn I watch. Yes, I think it’s totally hot, but then there’s the reality of it being an asshole.  He pauses and I can see his mind going, “When have you seen it in porn?”  I respond, “Um, well, sometimes I watch porn.”  As is usual, and maddening to me, my husband goes off on a tangent and said something like “yeah, we’ve not really watched much porn together.  But it would be too difficult anyway because we don’t own any.”

What the FUCK?!  There are so many layers to his response.  First, he glazes right over that I watch ass-licking porn.  And then says we don’t watch it because we DON’T OWN ANY?!  Honey, sweetie, um, who does OWN any?  My face could not hide my confusion and bafflement.   Forehead scrunched up, eyes narrow and coming together, almost a frown on my lips.  What do you mean?  “Well, I mean unless we went to like a video shop and bought some or rented some.”  What    the    FUCK?  (Trying hopelessly not to sound like a bitch.)  It’s called THE INTERNET.  Hon, no one buys porn.  You just watch it on the internet.  “Oh, no, those are just clips. And they’re really grainy.”  Again, insert a big fat WTF right here?!  Actually, not true, I just watched a nice, hot, fully satisfying 25 minute one in HD two days ago!  Really.  For real.  “Well I like the ones with a plot.  You know, the classics, like Debbie Does Dallas and Deep Throat.”  Sweetie, there’s a category for that.  You can actually choose “vintage porn” or “plot porn” and there’s even a category called “porn for women” and it often includes porn with plot lines because women tend to like that.  (And, p.s. I think it’s totally okay and cool that he like plot porn).

I look around to see if we’re in the Twilight Zone or on some hidden camera show.  Holy fucking shit.  Am I teaching my husband about porn?  Yes, yes I am.  I’m still flabbergasted.  Awhile later I said, “so wait, like you really don’t watch porn?  Really?  You travel for work all the time.  What do you do in your hotel room.”  He says, “same thing I do at home. Watch SNL clips.”  It’s true, every night he’s laying in the dark with headphones in watching comedy clips and laughing over and over to himself.  Some argue that porn can tear apart a relationship.  Guess what:  watching SNL on your phone with headphones in and sighing if your partner tries to ask you a question is a much quicker way to tear apart a relationship.  But that’s another post.

This conversation has brought up so many thoughts and reflections about myself, about my relationship.  Most of us grew up with porn as a taboo subject. I knew my parents watched porn. But as was common back then, no one ever talked to me about it.  I feel strongly that my experiences of sneaking their porn ‘sexually imprinted’ me.  And I spent many years wondering if I was gay because my fantasies always went to the scenes of the first porn I ever saw which was girl on girl.  Now I’ve learned that whatever your first experience of arousal is (positive or negative), your brain automatically goes to that place when trying to achieve climax.  This is the definition of sexual imprinting.  If it was a negative experience, it may inhibit your ability to climax or lead to deviant sexual behavior.  But cognitive therapy can help to reprint your brain!   I don’t categorize my experience as negative.  But it did lead to confusion.  I’m definitely bent.  But I really like cocks!

There has always been a slight amount of awkwardness or tentativeness in my sexual relationship with my husband.   I’ve always hidden the fact that I watch porn.  Pretty funny considering I watched porn EVERY SINGLE DAY during the last two trimesters of one of my pregnancies.  And my husband had no idea.  I felt like I had testosterone flowing through my body.  Yep, that baby was a boy.   Because I sometimes watch it, I assumed he does, too.  It’s such a pervasive part of our society today.  But, really, this uncovers a much deeper issue in our relationship:  the fact that I’ve never felt 100% comfortable being myself.  The fact that I am not 100% upfront and honest about what I like, who I am.

We both agreed that we should try watching some together.  Later that night I said I was thankful he didn’t watch porn.  He said “why?”  I said because it can be really damaging and ruin relationships.  This may or may not be a fair statement coming from the “porn expert” of the household.







The Hammam

In 2001, when I was 25 years old, I had the opportunity to travel around the world with my boyfriend for a year.  We spent every single day, 365 days, 24 hours a day, seven days a week together for the entire year minus 2 nights!  In our 11th month of travel we were in Morocco.  It was around Christmas time and I was feeling weary from travel and missing my friends and family.  I was feeling PMS-y, a little depressed.  I wasn’t a newbie. I’d been exploring and having experiences outside of my cultural norm for nearly a year at this point.  I decided I needed to do something for myself, by myself.  I read about the hammam, a bath house, in a travel guide. The description sounded like what I was looking for, an invigorating cleansing.  I gathered my soap and washcloth and sarong and exactly the amount of money the guide book said I needed to bring to the bath house to enter and to get a massage.

During my experience in Morocco, I did not see many women.  They were not working in the hotels, restaurants and cafes or even at the market.  I would see clusters of women walking in the markets to do the shopping all covered from head to toe.  But I hadn’t had any interactions with them. This was to be my first time to be communal with Moroccan women.  The hammam was for women only.  I walked up to a ticket window and purchased my massage and entrance into the bathhouse.  When I walked in to the changing area I was shocked to see many naked women of all different shapes and sizes, but all very different from myself. Feeling shy and rather exposed, I went to a corner and undressed down to my bathing suit bottoms (I was the only one wearing anything at all) and wrapped a sarong around myself.

I walked over to a desk where they would keep my belongings.  No one spoke English.  Only French or Arabic.  I didn’t speak either language, but could understand a little French and say a few words.  The lady at the desk was irritated with me because I was supposed to pay her to keep my things, but I didn’t have any more money. I had only brought enough for the bath and massage (the guidebook didn’t mention this coat-check place!).  As she was arguing with me, a round, jovial woman appeared at my side and argued on my behalf for the woman to take my things.  She reluctantly agreed, but first reached across the counter and snatched the sarong that was carefully wrapped around my body saying that I wouldn’t be needing that.  I was left standing there topless wearing only my bathing suit bottoms and holding my washcloth and bar of soap.
I quickly figured out that the jovial woman was my massage person.  She led me into the bathing area which was a giant walk-in steam room.  It was quite shocking. There were about 60 women off all ages, shapes and sizes in the steam room.  Women and children, friends, grandmothers and their offspring.  They were clustered together in groups or twos washing each other’s hair and backs.  They had dark hair, olive skin and large breasts.  In the center of the room was a trough of water flowing to a drain full of black hair and orange peels.  Women were brushing each others hair and eating oranges to stay hydrated. It was also a very social situation. Women were animated and speaking loudly. Children were laughing.  Clearly, I was not part of this group: tall, thin, blonde-ish and no boobs.  And I was alone.  Very alone.  The hammam is where  everyone came to wash.  They didn’t have a bathtub or shower at their home.  This was their weekly ritual.  In addition to coming in groups, they also came with many toiletries: brushes, shampoo, exfoliating soap and gloves, baskets full of goodies. They had small stools to sit on and little bowls and scoops that they used to pour water on themselves and each other.  I had only my washcloth and bar of soap.  Feeling under-prepared is an understatement.
My round jovial woman walked me to a corner of the room and motioned for me to sit and wait.  She came up to about my shoulder, was wearing a large pair of thinning underwear that came up over the top of her belly and sat beneath her large breasts.  She was topless and her hair was wrapped up in a cloth.  She was very friendly, but left me in the corner with no instruction. I didn’t know what to do.  I looked around and saw the other women scooping up water from bowls and pouring it over their heads.  So I thought I would do that, too.  I squatted down. There was a bowl near me.  So I reached over and scooped some water and poured it on my head.  The woman next to me glared over, pointed her finger and shook it as if to say “No way, that’s my water!” Then she pointed to another area and said in Arabic that I should go get my own.  I felt embarrassed and panicked!  Where was my jovial woman?? Another woman admonished the mean woman for yelling at me. She waved her off and looked at me and said something in Arabic which I’m sure meant “ignore her.” But I was already feeling really uncomfortable and alone.  I felt fragile.I just wasn’t up for this cultural experience and decided to stand up and make a run for the door. Not literally. I tried to walk quickly to the door to leave.  I had forgotten how slick the tile floor was and slipped and fell flat on my back. My long legs sprawled out on the floor.  As I sat up, two young kids stood in front of me staring with mouths open.  I started to cry.
Just as I carefully went to stand up again, my jovial massage woman reappeared again.  She saw my tears and started belly laughing.  She motioned to me that there was nothing to cry about. She helped me up smiling, speaking and laughing and led me by the hand back to the corner.  I cried harder.  Then she sat down, pulled me down to the ground and literally slid me on my bottom between her legs and started dumping water on my head. At this point I was heaving and crying so hard I couldn’t catch my breath.The more I cried, the more she laughed.  I could feel her large breasts jiggling on my back with each of her belly laughs. I had turned into a little baby as she shampooed and washed my hair.  She was speaking in Arabic and French and saying that “no one comes here alone, no solo, only in tourist groups!” She also may have been telling me that I was very brave or a very silly American, but I’m going with brave!  After awhile I stopped crying and started to slowly catch my breath again.
She then wanted me to lay down on the floor (not a very clean floor!!) so that she could scrub, exfoliate and massage me.  I did NOT want my body to touch that floor, but there was no fighting it.  She was pushing me flat and almost forcing me to relax.  She scrubbed my legs and back hard and flipped me over and did the same to my front. When I say exfoliate, I mean vigorous scrubbing and skin flying.  It was intense.  But at last I was shiny, glowing and clean.  I could leave! The crying had stopped and I could almost breathe again without making that hiccup sound that little kids make after a tantrum.
I walked out laser focused willing myself to make it back to the hotel in one piece with no tears. As soon as I stepped out of the bath house that was at the end of a long pedestrian cul de sac, I was faced with hundreds of men sitting outside at the tea houses.  It seemed that all of them felt necessary to call out to me “How was your bath?”  “Did you get a massage?”  “Can I give you a massage?”  “Take me to America?”  I walked briskly, keeping quiet.
When I got back to my hotel.  My boyfriend said with open arms “Hey!  How was it?!”  I burst into tears and said “It was terrible!!”
Each time I share this story I learn something new about myself.  I’ve learned that I am brave and vulnerable and that allows me to have authentic experiences. I’ve wondered what was it that made me cry so much that day?  Many possible answers:  not being part of group, cultural barriers, language barriers, PMS, homesickness, etc. Experiences like this have made me do my best to show empathy and compassion when I see someone struggling to fit in. And I’ve learned that sometimes the things that make us cry at the time, make the BEST stories later!

Music in the Shower

I have a new bathroom. A fancy new spa-like shower. It’s a Japanese-style shower/bath combo.  Meaning a wet room where the bathtub is in the shower.  You can see one like it here.  The bathroom itself is incredibly indulgent and sexy. And I’ve just (re)discovered the bliss of having music in the shower.  My new bathroom is my escape from the stress of my life.  Sometimes I get a few minutes to have a hot shower ALONE in my bathroom. (Other times I begrudgingly allow a tiny human to take a bath while I take a shower). The music adds an element of sensuality.  It’s also uplifting and can take me away to another time and place.  My Spotify moods have changed daily, even hourly.  If it’s a Saturday morning I may play Stevie Wonder.  On a Sunday night I’m listening to Ryan Adams.  And the other days I’m rotating through Florence and the Machine, Brandi Carlile, Pete Yorn, Patty Griffin, Ben Folds and My Morning Jacket.  Lately I’ve wanted to be carried away quite often.

If you read the last post you’ll know that I sent a Facebook message to someone I had a one-night stand with 18 years ago. It was actually a thank you note.  “Thank you for one of the best nights of my life 18 years ago.”  About three months to the day of sending that message, and thinking that I would never hear from him,  I got a message back. The response came at such a strange time for me.  I was on vacation with my family and having a wonderful time!  The week couldn’t have been more perfect.  We were at the coast with perfectly clear, sunny, warm weather ALL week!  Everyone was getting along.  It was stress-free and easy.  I was feeling so grateful toward my husband because he had stepped up and was cooking most of the meals.  We weren’t bickering.  We were experiencing a peace and calm that my family rarely achieves on a daily basis.

On Thursday, in the middle of the day, a Facebook messenger message popped up on my phone screen. My heart skipped a beat and I grew flush immediately.  My throat felt tight.  I had a pit in my stomach.  His tiny picture was on my screen in a bubble.  This wasn’t an email he penned hours ago that I was just now reading.  We were in real time!  2300 miles away he was responding.  I was so nervous to open the message.  Was he going to say, sorry, I have no idea who you are?  Or, no, I don’t remember that night, are you sure it happened?  Or, I’m married, you’re married, what gives?  I let out a deep breath I’d been holding (possibly for 3 months?) and tapped on the bubble.

His reply started off innocent.  Wow!  It had taken him so long to see it.  “What he wouldn’t give to read that journal.”   I was laughing inside and thinking, well, we did share the experience together so if I was going to share the journal entry with anyone it might as well be him.  He asked if I’d written anything about the gap between his teeth.   I couldn’t believe he remembered how much I love that.  Remembering my love of the gap signaled to me that we both had a pretty strong memory of that night. My messages grew more flirtatious, but just out of the reality of the explicit journal entry.  What brought us to that moment in time was a very x-rated recounting of an amazing night.  So it’s not so surprising that there would be a sexual overtone to the conversation.  I told him there was mention of another body part!  And that I’d wondered if he ever got to play MLB (Major League Baseball)?  He asked “How long was it? The journal entry, of course. Ha,ha.”

The exchange started off that Thursday evening and picked right back up on Friday morning.  It seemed innocent, albeit exciting. After all, I was chatting with the person whom I’d had one of the most significant sexual experiences of my life.  I wasn’t announcing it to my husband. In part because I didn’t want him to know that I’d contacted this guy in the first place. But also because of the super frail male ego. I didn’t want my husband to think that one sexual experience in my twenties was comparable to the hundreds we’d shared together. It was just different. That was the first clue to myself that maybe I was hoping for something else, something more.  But I didn’t know what or how.

And then the conversation picked back up on Friday night.  At first I was clueless as to the direction we were heading.  It was late.  I was in bed when my phone dinged. My husband was snoring like a freight train in the next room.  He’d fallen asleep in a bunk bed with our daughter.  “Who are you with?”  “Let me see.”  See?  See what?  See me?  Why?  I’m wearing leggings and a fleece and my hair is windblown from the beach.  Just go look at my profile on Facebook.  And then his phone number appeared.  “Call me.”  I fumbled in the dark to the living room downstairs and wrapped myself in a blanket.  I was nervous and shaking.  But also very excited.  I dialed the number and and heard “hey.” It wasn’t an altogether unfamiliar voice.  Even 18 years later I could hear the person with whom I’d made such an incredibly magnetic connection.

And for that night and the next i found myself doing something I didn’t even know I could or would ever do.  I had phone sex.I could not have predicted that one month later I’d be sitting in my bathtub, drinking wine in candlelight waiting for the ding of my phone from someone 2300 miles away.

The Kitchen Dance Party

Hey. I’ve had a pretty good week.  There’s been quite a few kitchen dance parties going on mid-day at my house.  I’ve been blasting Macklemore and Ryan Lewis. Our favorites are Downtown and Dance Off . And I’ve been feeling like the ceiling can’t hold us.  It’s fun. It’s a release.  And my kids get to see me being super silly and I think that’s important.  There are too many moments when I’m hustling everyone to get ready, eat breakfast, brush teeth, brush hair, get in bed, get out the door and on and on.  And half the time I’ve lost my shit and my barks turn to yelling.  I hate being monster mommy.

But honestly there’s another reason for my kitchen dance parties.  Something no one can see in my head.  Inside I’m bursting at the seams with lust.  I know. SAHM, married, young kids. Those words aren’t usually in the same piece of writing as lust. I can’t believe it myself. And, unfortunately, the feelings of lust aren’t for my husband.  Well, he is benefiting, but that’s another blog post altogether.

So how in the hell did I get here from where I began? I wasn’t unhappy per se.  I wasn’t looking to have an affair.  The potential for one just fell in my lap.  Read on to find out how I went from being a regular mom and wife to a virtual adulterer.

Mortified and My Own Undoing

Have you heard of Mortified?  Before I take all the credit or all the blame, I blame Mortified Nation for my undoing (I’ll get to that part later). I’m a huge fan!  I’ve been to see the show 3x’s in the past year.  Real people just like you and me stand on a stage and read aloud their journals from middle school, high school and sometimes, college. The show is gut-busting funny and cringe-worthy.  And the best part about it, for me, was the realization that we are all having the same human experience. Especially in the teen years.  Boys want pussy.  And girls want a boyfriend. Unless the boys want dick and the girls want to see what it would be like to kiss a girl, there’s that, too.  But, ultimately, we’re all unsure of ourselves in those years and we’re all angst-y and angry and depressed and we’re sure nothing will ever get better.

After the 3rd show I was thinking, man, I wish I had kept a journal in high school! I decided to dig around the basement even though I was certain I hadn’t actually written anything down.  But guess what?  I had, indeed, written some stuff down and it is pretty perfect Mortified material. Well most of it is, minus one special entry.   The one entry being too explicit, too x-rated, too romantic trashy novel-type piece from college.

It was literally just a piece of notebook paper ripped out of a spiral notebook.  It wasn’t dated, but the memory was clear. It was written late in the Spring semester of 1998.  I was 22.  I had gone with my friend, Ashley*,  to a “baseball” party. Parties always seemed to be categorized by major or sport played.  The parties we usually attended were PJ (photo journalism), Theater or The Stoner House along with an occasional frat party here and there.  So here we were going to a “baseball” party and I knew no one except the friend I’d come with.  I’m not sure how we ended up there.   I think Ashley had met one of the guys who was having the party in a class.  Ashley and I were definitely flirty, boy-crazy and very much into discovering our sexual selves… sometimes even together.  Before that night I’d always had some Catholic guilt and worked at “keeping my numbers low.”  For me, this only applied to intercourse.  Blow jobs, oral sex, fingering and dry humping were all totally cool with me.  I think that night I subconsciously decided that “keeping my numbers low” was just a way of fooling myself into believing that I was still pure and chaste, but why?!  Most likely to protect my heart, too.  I decided to forgo the heart and fully give into my primal instincts. (Way more fun!)

So there I was crammed into someone’s apartment with 50 other people, standing against a wood-paneled wall when I saw a guy across the room towering over everyone else it seemed.  From my mind’s eye we were the two tallest people in the room.  I’m 5’9″, so I doubt that’s an accurate perception. But he’s 6’4″, so he was above the crowd to me. The last guy I’d dated before this party was 6’5″, so I’d come to realize that I love taller than average guys.  Being 5’9″ for as long as I can remember I had never felt petite.  I’d always felt like an amazon woman which made me feel less than feminine and unpretty.  I never felt like I could be described as “cute” and I didn’t feel like a super model either.  I didn’t have long blonde straight hair, I had long curls that had been described as “what color is your hair?” “Is it auburn, brown, blond or all?”  And I had booty but no bust.  So seeing a guy taller than the rest eyeing me from across the room was curious and very exciting.

He was not only tall, but dark and handsome, too.  He had dark, thick, not straight hair. Like maybe if he grew it out, he’d have curls, but it was cut very short. His eyes were dark. And when he smiled, it was all over.  His smile revealed a perfectly imperfect gap between his front teeth.  I melted. I absolutely love(d) it! He zeroed in on me from across the room and made a beeline toward me. I think he said something like “who are you?” or “I need to know you.”  Whatever he said, it was flattering, but his actions were even more so.  It was like a powerful magnet had pulled us together. My journal entry revealed that “within minutes of meeting I knew it was inevitable that we would have wild and crazy uninhibited fucking.”

We started talking and he was touching my hair and kissing my neck and very soon he had me by the hand leading me to his room.  I remember we had to kick someone else who was just a party-goer out of the room.  Up to that point I didn’t even know that he lived in the apartment.  I remember sitting on his bed and talking about Whiskeytown, a band we both love. Music has always been a measure of compatibility for me.  It’s a huge turn on to find someone who likes the same music as me.  But that night didn’t need any help, I was already completely sunk.  The music thing was just a sweet bonus.  We also talked about baseball, after all it was a “baseball” party. He was on the baseball team and was leaving in a month to go to MLB try-outs.  I was leaving in a few weeks, too, to go work at a theatre in New England.  The night couldn’t have brought together more seemingly different people.  But our interests and passions didn’t seem to play into our physical attraction.  This was based purely on an undeniable physical compatibility. It was happening. The talking was over.

Finally we started kissing.  There was no adjustment period.  It was one of the best kisses I’ve ever had (and he said one of the best he’d had, too.)  No awkwardness or teeth knocking. Just soft lips in perfect unison with just the right amount of tongue on both sides. So perfect.  Very quickly our clothes started coming off.  He made me feel so sexy and confident.  Up to that point I felt like I’d always been the one pursuing someone which is a vulnerable position to be in when you’re not sure what the other person thinks of you.  But that night I didn’t have any doubts.  He pulled off my panties and laid back.  I crawled over him and lowered myself onto his face.  There’s a first time for everything!  I was so wet and it felt so amazing.  He licked and sucked my pussy for awhile. I wrote,” When he was finished I straddled him and kissed his wet mouth.  Licking the edges of his mouth to taste myself.  I tasted so good.”

Next it was his turn!  I unzipped  and pulled down his pants.  His huge cock poked out of his boxers.  It was so big!  I pulled down his boxers and took him into my mouth.  It was so big that it was almost uncomfortable.  I felt like I was going to choke.  I licked, sucked, rubbed his cock for awhile,  I knew I had to have it inside of me.  I couldn’t wait.  I think it had been several months, maybe even a year since I’d last had sex.  I was so tight.  I straddled him and slowly guided his huge cock into my wet pussy.  It hurt a little bit going in. We fucked in unison, hips in perfect timing.  I rode him hard.  It was incredible.  I grew tired, but still wanted more.  He picked me up and flipped me over onto my stomach, ass in the air.  He came in from behind and fucked me hard.  My head slamming into the pillow.  We fucked for what felt like an eternity until he came.  We fell asleep with the smell of sex and alcohol and our sticky bodies stuck together. The last line in my journal entry reads “I love penises! Okay, I can’t write about this anymore without masturbating. Gotta go for now.”

Finding the journal entry stirred me.  Never before had I  written down an experience like that and hadn’t written anything so descriptive since.  It was a special night that even 18 years later I could remember so well.  I started thinking about him.  Many times over the years I’d fantasized about that night.  Wishing I could recreate it. I wondered if he remembered, too. I’d Googled him before, but never tried to connect.   I figured I was probably one in a million. I doubted that “one of the best kisses of his life” still held true for him.

I found him on Facebook and Instagram.  From what I could put together he had a wife and at least one kid. I decided to write him a message, well more like a thank you note.  “Thanks for one of the best nights of my life 18 years ago.”  And then I went on to compliment his beautiful wife and cute kid and tell him about my family.  It was flirty, but innocent at the same time. And it became my own undoing.