Archive for category oral
“There’s no way I would have fucked you in the ass before I was good and ready. Even though you were begging me for it.”
To say my pussy was broken this summer might be slightly overdramatic. It wasn’t actually broken. But it felt like it was.
“Do you miss having sex with men?” he flirted, the corners of his mouth hinting toward a smile. “Do you miss dick?”
“Nah,” I said lazily and licked salt from the rim of my margarita glass. “I like oral sex way too much to miss dick.”
I like to make a lot of noise when I have orgasms. It turns me on, the sounds of sex, not only grunts and moans and bossy directives, but especially the wet sloppy sounds that come from my pussy when I’m hot and wet and bothered. When circumstances require that I bite the inside of my cheek and keep quiet instead of making my usual racket, I will. But I always prefer to be loud.
When I’m making noise, words are related to ordering someone around, whether in my fantasy when I’m masturbating or to a lover when I’m having sex with someone else. “Lick me, eat it, get your face down in there, fuck me, that’s right, fuck me, get your hand in there, stick your finger in my ass.” The string of orders spews out of me, as I clutch a face against my engorged pussy lips (or imagine myself doing so when I’m in solo-orgasm-land), or squeeze my vaginal muscles around a finger or a fist or a dildo penetrating me.
The other night, I found myself telling her to suck my little cock. “That’s right, pretend that clit is a little penis. Suck it, just like I know you can. Give me a blow job. Suck it. Suck it like you sucked off those boys in junior high. Make me come in your mouth.” I thrust my hips against her mouth, my fingers pulling my labia apart, my swollen little nub protruding towards her tongue and lips.
Language can be a fantastic mess. Euphemisms need not apply. Best be simple, straightforward. As Betty Dodson repeatedly reminds us, don’t say “down there.” Be specific. Gather language to describe what you are talking about. The lesson doesn’t end by describing genitals with precision; it applies when talking about activity, too.
That’s the conclusion that comes out of this study from The Kinsey Institute at Indiana University. Doctors, health care workers, researchers, educators “need to use behaviour-specific terminology in sexual history taking, sex research, sexual health promotion and sex education.”
What does “having sex” mean, anyway? Unsurprisingly, the answer depends on who’s asked. There was little difference in answers from men and women, and the respondents were mostly straight. In the media coverage of the study I saw, there was no mention of self-identified transgendered respondents. Very young and very old men excluded the most activities as “not sex.” Oral, anal, manual, just the tip, no orgasm = not sex to many of those guys.
Once again, repetition pulls a draft from dusty storage. Four things prompt this topic’s rebirth:
2. Vagazzling video (YouTube) that I don’t exactly endorse, but it showed up three times this week in my RSS feed.
3. A conversation that included revelations about varied body hair patterns.
4. My waxing appointment.
Opinions about body hair and its removal abound. Some friends express horror, for various reasons, if they learn that I like to have my labia waxed bare. They assume that I will “look like a little girl!” or that it displays some sort of body hatred. On the contrary. As I recently told a friend, not all body hair is created equal. As you can see in genital galleries, bodies have great diversity. The same goes for body hair. Some women, my lover included, are blessed with little or no hair on their labia. Lucky. Lucky lucky lucky. My own body hair grows in a thick woven thatch between my legs, denying access, dampening pleasure and sensation. I’ve tried trimming and shaving, but prefer the more ancient practice of waxing.
Brazilian waxes became common for me when I more fully started loving my body and prioritizing my pleasure. I wax because it feels good and is something I’ve come to adore and anticipate. It’s rare that I shave anymore, and I usually regret it when I do. Scraping a blade across my skin feels barbaric, and the results are less than ideal. But waxing, smoothing a hot substance over my skin, pulling the hair out by the root, treating the skin underneath with coconut or shea butter – that’s what I like. After several years of doing it, the pain is barely noticeable. Even in the beginning, when the pain was more intense, I enjoyed the sensation. Though not a pain slut, I find there is a fluid line between pleasure and pain, and the results of the particular pain of waxing are intensely pleasurable for me.
When working with a new esthetician, I explain to her the compromise I’ve reached with my lover, who doesn’t want my bush gone. Whether it’s age difference or otherwise, she is distinctly turned off by an utter lack of pubic hair. So I tell the esthetician, “No heart-shape, no landing strip, no vagazzling, no dying the pubic hair a ‘fun’ color. Leave an untrimmed, unruly bush up top. But underneath, from the top of my cleft downward, I want it bare.” This compromise works well for both of us who have an interest in my genitals. If I ever go long between waxing appointments, my lover is reminded why waxing matters to our sex life. Minimizing the necessary bush-whacking increases my pleasure, and hers as well.
Mileage varies on all things body-related and sexual. I understand that some relish copious bush, and some genitals feel over-stimulated without fur and appreciate the buffer. My fur aesthetics, however, resemble a backwards mullet. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.