The Worst Way to Hear “No”

What if

you said “yes”

And fucking respect me

Anyway?

Do not protect me

I will not break.

Do not protect me.

For my lust, I do not carry guilt.

Yes, my body is a temple.

A temple for pleasure.

Pleasure that I choose.

I choose you.

And, yet, you choose shame.

Society has taught you

Women are fragile.

Women are hearts waiting to be broken.

What if women feel

The same desire as men?

I am naked.

I am on top of you.

I want you.

You respond,

“I care about you.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

Too bad, you just did.

–Rejection

I’m not a poet, I’m not even a “writer.”  But these are the words that came spilling out of me this week.  I’ve been carrying this rejection from a dear lover for over 20 years.  I’ve always been a sexual person, but as a teenager and twenty-something I never felt it was something I could fully own.  I worried about being “too much.”  I didn’t know if my desires were weird or normal.  I didn’t know if girls and women could fully show their sexuality and “lust,” or desire for pleasure, without being labeled.  I worried about being called a “slut.”  I worried about someone [with whom I did not feel an attraction] assuming that I was “loose.”  And at the same time I truly had no idea what was normal on a date.  I don’t mean what was expected of me. I mean, “what do other girls do on dates?”  Am I the only one who____fill in the blank___?

On my first date with my first boyfriend, at age 15, we kissed and groped and dry humped and I gave him a blow job.  I thought it was fun.  He seemed to enjoy it, too.  I wasn’t sure what other people did on dates, but I didn’t hear any voice in my head that said “hold back.”  After getting home he called me and said that I was “too fast for him”  and quoted scripture saying my “body is a temple.”  I was mortified.  I felt embarrassed.  It NEVER occurred to me until recently that he hadn’t stopped me from giving him a blow job! And he didn’t quote any scripture a month later when we decided we were ready to “do it.”  I remember laying there while losing my virginity and thinking this is it?  This is what I’ve been saving myself for?  This doesn’t feel that good.  It doesn’t feel bad, but it’s not extraordinary.  

Following that relationship I became a “born again virgin” and took a vow of celibacy with my Catholic youth group.  My intention was to wait to have sex until marriage. Although, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to keep up my end of the deal.  In the 3 years between losing my virginity and meeting the 2nd person I would have sex with, I didn’t count all the other stuff like oral sex, fingering, dry humping, hand jobs.  As long as there was no intercourse, I still felt like I was keeping my “vow.”   But then I met Tom aka “Tommy the Hottie Who Needs My Body.”  Our physical attraction was overwhelming.  I wanted him with every fiber of my being.  He wanted me, too.  But our relationship was fraught with the usual push and pull of two people who always seem to be wanting each other at different moments.  One is “all in,”  the other pulls back.  One pulls back, the other is “all in.”  But regardless of that, our physical chemistry was always perfection.  And that’s when the moment I refer to above occurred.  I’ve never forgotten it and I’ve never forgotten the shame I felt.  I just wanted to be fucked!! I wanted to forget all the other stuff and let ourselves melt into the pleasure of our bodies.  Instead I heard those words that have been ringing in my ears for decades.  And, at 19, that wouldn’t be the last time I heard similar sentiments:  “I respect you too much.”  “You’re too special.”  ” “I don’t want to mess things up.”  “I don’t want to send mixed signals.”  “It might ruin our friendship.”  “I’m not that kind of guy. And you’re not that kind of girl.”

Guess what?!  I am that kind of girl. And you are that kind of guy.  I won’t even get into my own struggles that go beyond “hetero-normative behavior.”  We are born creatures of the wild.  We are born with instincts. We are born sexual beings with millions of nerve endings to feel pleasure and pain.  Both men and women.  I want women’s sexual desires to be normalized.  I want slut-shaming to end.  I want all women to make their own choices about how, when and with whom they use their bodies for pleasure.

This idea is not anti-#metoo or anti-consent. It’s not even anti-monogamy.  Commitment, fidelity and verbal agreements between a couple are another subject altogether.It goes hand in hand with consent.  I want to fuck who I want to fuck.  Not who wants to fuck me (unless it’s mutual, of course:).  A woman who is confident in her sexual desires should not have to fear unwanted sexual touch or advances by a person with whom she does not share an attraction or doesn’t agree to a sexual encounter with.  And a woman should not be made to feel weird, different, loose, slutty or shameful because she desires wild and crazy uninhibited fucking.  Respect me anyway.

,

 

Paying Homage to Fingering

When is the last time you thought about getting fingered?  What? You haven’t thought about it in 20+ years?  Me neither!  It’s a sexual act that falls to the way side once the nuptials have been completed.  Or in my case it was.  Foreplay became nearly obsolete.  The only thing entering my vagina after marriage was my husband’s hard cock.  Occasionally, a finger in the ass.  I can’t recall my husband fingering me (even in the early days!)  I had no idea what I’ve been missing!

“Bad sex” has been in the headlines lately.  You can count me as one who has definitely experienced my share of “bad sex.”  And some of those memories are from bad fingering.  Ramming. Jamming. Dry. Unpleasant.  Horny teenagers and young adults who didn’t know how to talk about sex or pleasure or consent.  Boys who didn’t know how to use their hands with finesse.   I could see on the face of my lovers that they thought they were doing “it” right.  I have this horribly vivid image of a guy in my head with his gritted teeth, sweat beads forming as he fingered the FUCK out me saying over and over in a thick Kentucky accent “you like that? you like that?”  Fuck no, I didn’t like that!  I couldn’t walk properly for days!!

Getting fingered wasn’t all bad.  Sometimes it was good.  But, like so many young women, I was naive and unsure of myself.   I never spoke up or joined in by touching my clit while I was being fingered.  I feared not knowing what was “normal.”  I feared being called “weird” or “kinky.”  I, for damn sure, NEVER had an orgasm from being fingered.  And after 15 years of marriage those memories were very dusty and faded.  Fingering isn’t something that had even occurred to me for years!  It never crossed my mind that fingering can be as pleasurable and orgasmic as penetration from a cock!   My husband and I had a pretty standard routine.  We’d spiced it up a bit over the last year by adding in some anal sex, the purchase of a new vibrator (yep, my fabulous Shibari) and having sex more frequently.   But basically it went like this:  blow job, penetration, use my vibrator to cum, he cums on my stomach, good night. Yawn.

In November I separated from my husband.  This was my ticket for more exploration, more escapades, more sex! The sex I had been so hungry for over the last year and a half.   *A note to the hungry:  It is unbelievably easy to have sex if you just want to have sex. * It’s as if I’ve been wearing a sign on my head (or ass) that says “Fuck me.” My pheromones must be enveloping me like a cloud.  An invitation for the starving to be fed.  And although I’m on Tinder and had a few Tinder dates, dating sites are not where I’ve found the majority of my lovers.  Four of my recent lovers have come from being in the right place at the right time:  proximity!  And this is how I met Alex.

Alex is about 6’3″ with a slender build and great shoulders. He has light brown (probably blonde as a kid) straight hair that he keeps cut short.  He has a very defined widow’s peak and his hair is always combed back or up.  He has a dark beard that comes and goes, I’ve learned.  Without the beard, his smooth skin makes him look 16.  He has strong eyebrows and almost glowing light blue big eyes, surrounded by thick long lashes.   He has a huge, full-toothed smile.  His mouth is always slightly open when he’s smiling like he’s about to say something really flattering.  And little creases form at the corner of his eyes when he smiles.  Never patronizing, always genuine.  The first time I saw him was the second week of December.  It was a Sunday night.  I was hung over and tired from being out late the night before at a holiday party.  I was regretting having organized a get together for my preschool mom friends at a neighborhood bar.  But, in truth and form, I do love being a good hostess so I showed up to the bar 15 minutes early to make sure everyone felt welcome when they arrived.  When I walked in the door of the bar my eyes scanned the room.  Alex, who was bartending that night, gave me a big welcoming smile and head nod.  I didn’t know him.  I’d never seen him before.  But the air was immediately electric.   By chance some friends of mine were at a table having drinks before dinner on their “date night.”  I sat down with them.  The table was centered on the wall about 20 feet from the bar. I chatted with them for a few minutes and when I looked up, there was Alex giving me that big smile again.  I looked around to see if he might be looking at someone else, but we were the only people around.

What I came to love about Alex that night is that he makes every single person who comes up to the bar feel like a superstar.  When he looks at you and takes your order, you feel special.  Since that first night I have watched woman after woman after woman dazzled by him.  I can see their imaginations, dreams and lust when he turns to pull the tap or grab a bottle from the glass shelf.   It’s not a show.  It’s genuine. He enjoys making people feel good.  When my group of mom friends showed up we spent much of the night whispering about how “hot” the bartender was and how he seemed to fancy several of us. He was engaging.

For the rest of the night Alex and I caught glances of each other, but he never tried to strike up a conversation other than to take my order.  Maybe he was nervous?  I know I was nervous.   He ended up getting off work while our party was still there. My friend and I had our coats on and were about to leave when I noticed he was looking at me again.  We took our coats off, ordered waters, sat back down on the barstools and said goodbye to all the other moms.  Alex walked toward the back of the bar with a full beer.  I was certain this was a silent cue to follow him.  We stood side by side in the karaoke room, an open invitation to start a conversation.  Clearly we were both very curious about one another.  Finally we started talking.  I had promised myself I wasn’t going to stay out late. (I wasn’t even wearing cute underwear!!)  Instincts told me that sleep depravation would be well worth it.   We ended up talking for the next two hours intermingled with my friend and I singing some karaoke.   Alex asked, “So are you with the preschool mom group?”  I put my face in my hands, embarrassed that I’d been outed.  He said, “No! They’re great!  Really nice, funny ladies!”  He wanted to know how old I am.  I replied:  “I’m old enough to have gone to college.  I’m old enough to have traveled to 40 countries.  I’m old enough to have given birth to 3 kids.”  He persisted. I rolled my eyes and kind of whined, “I don’t want to ruin my chances of making out with you!”  He said, “Oh, don’t worry!  There’s no chance of ruining THAT.” After I sang Sexual Healing he said, “Wow, that was palpable. The sexual tension and energy in here is crazy.”

A little after 1am I found him in the main bar chatting with a friend.  I was so exhausted from the night before and said I was going home.  He rather enthusiastically asked if he could give me his number?  My brow scrunched up.  Really? What a lame way of saying “this was fun, but not interested.” I said “You could just walk me out to my car.”  He said he didn’t think that was a good idea.  He asked if he could have my number.  I said, “you could just come home with me.”  He kind of froze up and I realized that his friend (girl) was standing close by.  Again he said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”  With no expectations  I gave him my number thinking he had no intention of using it.  I felt depleted, rejected and bummed when I got in my car alone.  The sexual tension had been so strong between us.

Minutes after I got home, my phone dinged.  Alex asked when he could see me again.  He apologized.  He hadn’t wanted to leave with me because there were too many of his co-workers, customers and one of the bar owners around.  Plausible.  Ok, whatever, no explanations needed.  I just want to kiss those lips right now!!   I said now was a good time.  2am on a Sunday night.  I felt just like Phoebe Waller Bridge in the opening scene of Flea Bag.  Anxious, anticipatory, giddy, but wanting to totally play it cool.  Uh, yeah, it’s 2am on a school night!   Alex is 25.  I’m 42.  We were about to embark on a super hot night of sexual escapades.  Yes!

I had just moved into my apartment a few weeks before. I had no furniture. Only a mattress on the floor and 2 lamps.  I led him by the hand to my room.  Both of us saying  we’d never done this before.  I asked how many women he’d gone home with after a shift.  He said, “None. Really. You’re the first.” Whether truth or fiction, he’s damn good at making a girl feel special.   I sat down cross-legged toward the top of the mattress.  He was sort of sitting with one leg off on the floor.  We talked for a few minutes.  Then I said,  “Do you want to kiss me?”  He nodded a quiet “yes” and literally crawled toward me from the foot of the bed like a lion about to pounce.  His beard seemed to be the softest hair I’ve ever felt.  We kissed and kissed and kissed and kissed.  His arms were so strong.  He put his hand around my throat.* He kissed me hard and passionately.  I loved running my hands down his square shoulders and through his soft hair.   His body seemed so freshly formed.  There’s quite a difference between the waist of a 25-year-old and a 49-year-old man.  Everything was more smooth, more firm, more chiseled.  I had no qualms about my body.  I knew Alex wanted every inch of me.  His hands felt so good on me.  Perfectly formed hands.  Not soft. Not too calloused.  Long strong hands.  He has tattoos, but not heavily tatted, at least not in comparison to many around here.  He said he makes music and videos with his brother.  And he’s sort of in a few bands,  heavy metal bands.  He’s just not one of those people you look at and think: heavy metal.  Quite the opposite.  My initial arm-chair psychological evaluation would be: perfectionist.  His hair, his clothes, his hygiene/personal care.

Ahh, and this. This is where paying homage to fingering comes in.  Holy shit.  I guess being closer to your teen years than your mid-life gives you way more recent experience and time for perfecting fingering.  When you’ve had to resist “doing it” on many dates, you finger instead.  Fingering!  Alex is a master (or, um, a perfectionist?)!  I can see him sort of sitting between my legs looking at me as he placed his finger in my pussy.  His mouth slightly open, tongue touching the bottom of his upper lip as he felt my wetness.   He was really fucking good at licking  and sucking it, too!  He could actually penetrate me with his tongue in a way that I’ve never experienced before.  He went down on me for awhile.  And then fingered me with perfect rhythm and pressure and discovered something I didn’t even know I had: my G-spot.  I was on the ceiling.  I came from being fingered!  I came so many times that night.  I haven’t even mentioned his perfect cock.  Large, but not too big and he used it very well.  Smooth.  Well-kept, like the rest of him.  The best thing about having sex with the 31 and under crowd is their ability to go and go and go again.  Because so can I.  And the best part:  we both did “new” things.  That’s probably my favorite part about being a MILF.  I’m not only willing, but LOVE, doing things their age-counterpart lovers/girlfriends won’t or don’t.  For me, the “new thing” was a sexual position that I’ll call The Squat.  I was on my hands and knees and he was able to squat over my behind and penetrate my pussy by doing fast squats. That takes a lot of leg and core power on his part!  And the new thing he got to do is finger my ass!  Dreams really do come true, Alex.  It prepped us for our next adventure together that will have to be separate post.

I want to end with my new found appreciation for fingering.  If you haven’t been fingered in years, do it tonight.  It’s now something I crave.  I’ve made it part of my routine with new lovers.  It has become the main source of pleasure with a current lover which is a whole other topic and post.  But I’ll say that with this current lover fingering has become not only a way that we connect physically, but also emotionally.  I’m grateful for it.  He can hold me and kiss me while he’s fingering me and it becomes this incredibly emotional moment when I cum that sometimes brings me to tears.  I feel closer to him because of it.  The intimacy of my lover cradling me with strong warm arms while pressing his face next to mine and feeling me cum is so deeply moving.

Dear fingering, I love you.  And, dear Alex, thank you so much for showing me how incredibly awesome fingering can be!  You do it so well.  XO

 

*I seriously need a separate blog post for this part.  That was my first time every experiencing being “choked.”  It was new, unfamiliar and a little scary.  But my feeling on that has completely changed over the past few months!  It didn’t tarnish anything about that night.  When we paused I just asked him not to do it again. And he 100% complied.  And as is my way, the next time we were together I told him I’d changed my mind and now I DO like it.  I’ve found that the 31 and under crowd is all about the choking.  I had never ever done it or liked it or knew that it could be done in a safe, sexy way.  Now I ask for it with boundaries in place.

 

 

 

 

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.