Moral of the story: Jump in bed with the guy. He’ll be into it.

She’s back! And by she I mean my inner demented slut. The one that’s been hibernating through a long and unfulfilling period of monogamous hell whose adventures I used to write about. To be clear - the monogamy was not the cause of the hell.

Wow is it ever good to be back.

Staying in a hostel (I’m certain hostels are hotbeds of hookup history), I lucked out with the hottest, tallest drink of dark-haired water as a roommate. I couldn’t believe my fortune when I first walked in on his beaming smile and heart-stopping eyes. Inward rejoicing and gratitude to gods watching over random room assignment. We flirted a little and he was bold and edgy which took me off my confident horse and intimidated me a little.

Later that night he returned to the room where I had been asleep. As he took his shirt off his skinny body was revealed to my suddenly alert, peeking eyes in the dim hint of light to be beautifully muscular and sculpted, and smoothly hairless. He announced as he slid into his bunk that he was drunk and wide awake - an invitation a mile wide, but I waited too long, deciding and second-guessing my big move. Which was to ask “Are you still awake?” He wasn’t. In moments he was snoring like a train, and I was kept wide awake, but not by his snoring. I wanted to climb in bed with him, wake him with my lips, ravage him, but alas, I didn’t. I got up and took a shower in order to be able to sleep so close and yet so far from such a hottie. Sigh.

The next night, after having all kinds of fun that wasn’t sexual in any way, I returned to the quiet hostel and went to bed pouting because the boy wasn’t there. Undoubtedly he was getting lucky elsewhere. I was SOL for not seizing the day the night before. Sadly, snoozers lose. Just when I started to drift off wistfully, he got home.

Hey, I whispered into the dark. How was your night, he said, coming quite close to my bed. Great, I said, tonight I’m the drunk one. I’m drunk too, he said. He was leaning on my bunk, and put his hand on it. I touched my hand over his, fearfully, noncommittally, and as he turned his hand over under mine and grabbed it, I realized he was also leaning into me for a kiss. I kissed him back with tongue and enthusiasm but also surprise.
He pulled back, planted both hands and sprang into my bunk, as I hastily moved backwards and pulled back the blanket for him to get in. He seized and kissed me and swiftly slid his hands down my body, discovering I was already naked.

By the time I took in this turn of events and a breath he’d ripped off his socks, hurling them to the other side of the room, and his pants as fast as he could, chucking them over the side, and he was sliding down beside me in a singlet and boxers with focused intent.
A kisser, a biter, and a wiggling, hot maximum contact seeker. I found him aggressive but not too fast, cuz he was so kissing and hugging. Biting my shoulders and neck and lips and cheeks, smiling into my face with mingled relief and anticipation. Holding me tightly all the time.
He smiled There’s another couple having sex downstairs. I was all disappointed I wasn’t getting any.

We chewed on each other and slid around in all kinds of ways until I was just dying to be fucked. He wasn’t doing anything but poking it into my thigh in a way I thought must be painful, for him- none of that “will she let me sneak it in without a condom” shit that makes me furious. Big points. Since I thought I had no condoms (thought processes rather diminished) and he said he didn’t, it was an angels-bursting-through-the-clouds moment when I remembered I had some in my car. After my mission to get those I climbed back up beside him and slid his cock into my mouth to find it was as hard as when I’d left. He hauled me up by one leg over his mouth into 69 and just devoured me while I arched my back, pressed my belly into his chest and ground my cunt into his face.

He pressed the condom into my hand to put on him, and then I slipped up to rev cowgirl from 69, through a range of degrees, and then he rolled me over and got on top.

Missionary is seriously hot. I love the weight of a man coming down on me with all the lust and abandon they can express. Grinding me into the wall above my head so I had to put both arms out and push against the wall to push back into him. I loved that he didn’t pull back and then ram. Our pelvises were attached and rocking and circling and grinding. Very nice. His muscular ass in my hands and just rock hard when he flexed it, which he did every time I grabbed it. I could grab him like I wanted to tear a piece out of him and he loved it and did the same back, fisting handfuls of my hair and taking huge bites out of my neck and then kissing me. Always kissing me, always pulling me in closer to him. The blanket wet beneath me with sweat, his body so temperature hot.

Dot dot dot!

The lelo LIV review

Short and sweet:

The controls suck. They’re too small and close together and it’s easy to lose track of which direction the setting you want is as the vibe is up around in you somewhere. I know the ipod dial is esthetic and popular, but it’s really the wrong application for it. Start twisting the wand around and then you have to think which part of the circle you can feel is going to do what - right when thinking is significantly impaired by what you’re doing.

Other than that, it does the job elegantly and easily, it’s beautiful, it’s a great versatile size, powerful, and quiet. I believe the rave it got in the store as being top of the market. It did not wake sleeping neighbours in same room during field testing. Neither did I. I almost want it to accidentally fall out of my luggage somewhere because it’s such an exciting, pretty lime green. It’s very hard, which gives a lot of control and transfers the vibration very directly, but it also vibrates your hand, and kinda numbs mine. I could last longer than my hand can.

I didn’t go on a Charlotte-meets-the-Rabbit bender with it, it just entered my life calmly like a dependable accomplice. I’m sure we will be friends for a looooong time.

Idiot, idiot!

Damn it. The lost potential event.
A guy kinda tried to pick me up on the subway, but I didn't go with him because he waited until he was off the train to overtly summon me instead of actually speaking to me while we were both on the train.
I didn't go, and we'll never know.
He was pretty good looking, and nicely dressed, with lovely dark skin and eyes. I wish I'd gone. I wish I'd gone.
Or do I? Is half the fun in the clean slate of imagination sparked by a hint of chemistry? Plus, it could have been more exciting because it was the most human contact I've had in a week. People are so afraid of contact in big cities.
It's thrilling to know he was interested in me and that could be overturned if he were disappointing, or I was to him. This way, we both get to fantasize about each other tonight and know we're thinking of each other, in the safe realm of projection.
Oh. Fuck. Just realized what an idiot I am. Immediately prior, I was walking down an alley thinking to myself, there must be someone else also wandering somewhere, seeking friendly humanity, and wishing that we would just run into each other. And seriously within the next 30 seconds, we did, and I didn't recognize it.
Fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck. On the plus side, I know my universal request hotline is working. I really need to upgrade my recognition software though, jesus.

The Ugly Truth

In short, a movie worth watching for $3, although I think it would be a very uncomfortable date movie. Don’t take your ladies to see it, guys.

There’s a quote I can’t find, as Google is failing me, that says roughly that we’ll have equality between the sexes when a short, overweight, balding woman in her 60s can consider herself attractive. I was struck watching this movie that we certainly don’t have equality while the beautiful Katherine Heigl, clearly Botoxed and dunked in makeup until her face hardly moves, is put through self-improvement paces by an unshaven, uneducated guy who gets to hide his tummy until comfortable clothes. She is perfectly slim, manicured, and made up; she’s a smart, effective woman with power; she’s perfectly styled, teetering in heels, but she’s the one who needs help. Her hair needs to be longer, her boobs perkier, her clothes sexier, and her attitude - sigh- her attitude needs the real makeover.

All the things that make her competent-detail oriented, meticulous, thorough- are supremely unattractive to any desirable men, and she must submit to the instructions of the vocabulary-challenged grubby guy’s guy wearing white sneakers. Don’t get me wrong, Gerard Butler is sexy. Sexy in a just dragged himself off the battlefield/ranch way. But to juxtapose him with a model of female desirability and give him the upper hand without a hint of irony is a huge statement on our social agreement that makes me very uncomfortable. And I’d prefer to see her with some more lines in her face.

In related news, I got french manicured acrylic nails for the first time. As seen in adult films everywhere. Long, decorative nails- another way women are hamstrung. While I revel in the shiny flashiness, I do not revel in the limitation of not being able to use my fingertips naturally, easily. Typing is strange, and every few words I miss a letter, which slows me down considerably.
I haven’t for the most part bought into the ubiquity of many female style necessities- hair staightening/curling/highlighting, makeup 24/7, nails, total depilation, second skin jeans and high heels. So when I sample this pink and glitter world, it’s an exciting novelty, that I enjoy immensely (in moderation) but also get to examine from a perspective of not being “used to’ it. And if I get used to it, like some women get used to high heels, does one slowly forget what’s been given up? What it’s like to be as comfortable as barefoot; able to burst into a sprint at any moment and feel the soles of your feet curve in muscular response, or to use the very tips of one’s fingertips?

I think it should be a necessary experience for all men, perhaps a class in school. Teenage boys should have to learn to walk in heels, sit in miniskirts, do yoga, wear Spanx and pantyhose, straighten, dye, and blowdry their hair. Learn to apply makeup, wax all areas of their bodies, get acrylic nails, hair extensions, master the mani, pedi, and facial. Then they’re ready to go to the kegger and pick up chicks.

I get that men have a whole host of unique challenges to face in life, and that metros and trannies galore understand the time, energy, and cost that goes into a woman looking good. I love men and admire them for surviving what they do, but in this facet of life, there’s a divide I don’t like.

On the way home from The Ugly Truth, I decided I was a feminist after all, and there’s still a long way to go, baby.

Electric boyfriend

Just got my first grownup vibrator! So excited. A beautifully ergonomic lime green flirtatious little wand of ecstatic potential. I have not yet been able to charge it. Or, ipso facto, take for inaugural drive.
It's been six months since I had sex and only one since I've been out of a terrible relationship. Funny how those can ruin your appetites.
I'm just starting to get a little skin hungry. Very exciting. I simultaneously remember the wistful aching longing of being single in a big world full of romantic comedies and feel the liberating relief and freedom of being a unit of one, autonomously inconsiderate of the feelings of others.
Right now, the sweet success of escape is fresh, with the bitter aftertaste to remind one that a bad relationship is far worse than no relationship. Time to relish being alone.
My writing certainly doesn't flourish when I'm attached, that's for damn sure.
Will report later on my new tool- thankfully one unattached to a penis.

the Yikes-Factor

I've been whiling away far too many hours lately at WWHM, or Why Women Hate Men, a site that's hideously addictive and rather disgustingly genius. Compelling, readable, hilarious- the sheer goodness makes me seethe with envy.

It's been awhile since I ravenously worked my way through all the history and even all the comments of one site. Oh, the laughs.

Oh, the comments! The comments are remarkably well written, forthcoming, and on topic. Even after passing the 100 comment mark, they don't verge off into 3-ring catfights over what that skank Blondie_301 implied about DivaDivaDD's cousin's boyfriend's car stereo. I'm not sure if this is bc of the mission statement outlined for comments at the end of every post, meticulous moderating, or the fact that the readership is mostly female (ie, articulate, educated, sophisticated - need I go on?).

Oh, the glorious luxury I'm wallowing in with abandon! There's just that nasty niggling sense that I'm squandering the numbered grains in my life's hourglass reading about the delusions of devastatingly pathetic douchebags for pure entertainment! I could be planting sunflower seeds, scanning the night skies for UFOs, or memorizing the dialogue of Legally Blonde!

Hostels are sexy

It can't be the confining, creaky bunks, the hard vinyl mattresses, the floors strewn with wet towels and exploding backpacks, or the restless nights under a sleeping body creaking and snoring 3 feet above ones face. So why do I get oddly horny, furtively touch myself, and contemplate sleeping with a breast or two salaciously exposed for any faux sleepers whose eyes have adjusted to the dark?

Is it being unable to masturbate audibly bc you're sharing a room with strangers? Is the air charged with the possibility of a fast hookup with a random, foreign hottie (or more, in rooms for 4-8!)? Is it all the youthful, careless, drunken energy floating around, that's generally exuded by the young, travelling type who frequents hostels?

Inevitably, I get randy within minutes of entering a room with 6 or more bunkbeds. You'd think I had really good memories of church camp, or a thing for military dorms. Every time the door opens, I measure the fantasy potential of the arriving traveler. And I get the urge to exhibit; undress in the dark, pretend to be sleeping in careless, uncovered disarray.

Long ago I got naked with a hostel roommate. It was a co-ed dorm with only the two of us in it, and he happened to be beautiful and sexual, but with unfortunate gaps in expertise. Our activity brought no "fulfillment", although it was memorable and exciting in its own way.

I wanna GI Blow

Oh how I dithered. The probably feel-good and improving Julie and Julia, or the definitely abominable bullet-riddled travesty that happens to include a major object of my long-term lust: GI Joe.

My internal struggle over putting my money in the pockets of no-talent jerkoffs idolizing violence and "Americanism" raged through the previews but faded at the first pout. Sigh. Channing Tatum. Just thinking his name causes salivation.

I can't tell you how many times I've watched Step Up. And that's bc I've lost count, although I FF all the lame parts (that he's not in), so it's only a third as long.

Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje was a pleasant surprise. Total waste of phenomenal chops, but nice to ogle, plus Rachel Nichols and Marlon Wayans were nice to look at. Kind of strange actually, how most of the cast has already proven serious ability in other places, maybe without the A-list acclaim.

I do like them buff. I was also afraid that the passage of time would have dulled his beauty, but happily, he still rocks me. I was a little disappointed that he was rarely smiling, they paired his gorgeous succulence with the charisma-free bad girl with whom he has no chemistry, and that his acting was terribly wooden. We know he can do better when he's relaxed, but 10-1 it was millions of hours of suicide-inspiring blue screen work, and besides- who cares?

I spent the movie with my legs clenched together aching for alone time to shove my hands down my pants and hop aboard the restrained GI in his chest-hugging Goretex; rip open the camo fly of his dusty, thigh-revealing fatigues and stuff my mouth with his cock; swing dance with him in a scanty little slip dress until my hunger runs down my legs....excuse me for 20 mins or so.

I've always had a soldier thing too- VERY against my good sense and principles, but here, the best of both worlds.

There should be a genre for movies like this- Wanted, Shoot 'Em Up. - that are plotless, implausible, shallow, and shamelessly exploit beauty and special effects - BUT YOU KNOW WHAT THEY ARE BEFORE YOU BUY THE TICKET. Why they then get torn up in reviews for lack of genius is beyond me. You don't expect movies like Transformers to be artistic or have depth, you expect them to tickle and sooth the most primitive cravings of your brain stem, and as such, they succeed in being all that they aim to be. Lame. Wonderful. They should be rated accordingly.

Is this a trashy, pointless, gratuitous 'fects-fest? Absolutely. It's a fucking fantastic trashy, pointless, gratuitous 'fects-fest, with good actors and hot, muscly, fantasy-fodder.

I am fulfilled! Well, my Beavis lobe and Butthead cerebellum at any rate. My lust for the drippingly sexy CT is sure to sustain me through many many shuddering orgasms over the next few weeks.

Spectacular news!

I masturbated to ejaculation!

This is remarkable bc A) it's been ages and ages, B) I've never been able to do it to myself, and C) didn't think it was possible for me to "auto-ejaculate". It just happened, out of totally everyday style jerking off.

As far as I know the jury is out on whether female gushing is a talent/privilege/ability that you either do or do not have, or whether it's something all women can do, if they learn how.

It just began spontaneously for me, albeit after I learned that the phenomenon existed, which helped me stop resisting the slightly unpleasant sensation of pressure and loss of control.

There's this point after the normal orgasm that feels like a tantalizing whisper sounds - a hint of something worth pursuing. If you follow that (aka, continue stimulation), it rises up like a tidal wave (hmm, interesting simile), gets somewhat-to-extremely uncomfortable, then discharges its energy in a very literal, liquid way. This feels just as amazing as it was unpleasant a second earlier.

It's that unnervingly unpleasant moment that makes it very hard (or, has made it very hard for me) to do to yourself. It's so nice to have an assistant who can cold-heartedly push you past that to the delightful wet reward.

Aside:
Women's fantasies (by which generalization I mean mine) are so damn complicated, detailed, and reality based. I can't even fantasize about getting face in peace. I fret (in my imagination!) that I might be incapable of speech at the crucial moment, and therefore be unable to warn my pleasure-provider that I could gush in his mouth, and worry that he could be shocked, alarmed, or unprepared.

I like to clue in guys ahead of time about my ejaculatory ability. Informed consent, you know. That sort of etiquette is important to me. The first time a guy came in my mouth, I had NO IDEA that that sort of liquid emission was possible (indeed, inevitable in the circumstances). It's a long story. Needless to say, I would have preferred to have known about it ahead of time. Shocked and perturbed at the time, I froze, then realized my need to breathe, and swallowed, thus setting the precedent for a long cock-sucking career. Cheers!

Give me passion, keep your rich.

So much for nothing to do with hockey. Went to a game last night. Disgusted by the snobbery in the 100 section. I’ve never really paid attention before to the people in the premium seats around me. Sure, they leave 5 minutes before the end of any period, or the game, regardless of the action, they’re all there to show off their wealth and to look at each other, but I never really looked.

Youngish guys making up for not being athletes themselves by relentlessly criticizing the players and all other members of team staff. Youngish women made up to the nines trying to get noticed by the boys on the bench, and barring that, a rich guy seated nearby. Suits with lecherous, entitled eyes. Older women (their wives) married to money but too old to flaunt their sagging looks, so sneering disdainfully and sadly, casting dully beaten eyes around. They are most pitiable. The children of privilege- teens in their parents’ seats and small flag waving children hoisted by young professional parents. All of the above distinguish themselves by being too stylish to wear any licensed jerseys or merchandise, being too busy acting prissy and decorous in casual friday garb, and barely bothering themselves to pay attention to the game or score at all.

If life were fair, there would be a grave computer error that for at least one game a year reversed the best seats in the house with the worst, so that the blue collar fathers and the minor hockey teams, and the working poor who give their kids tickets to one game a year could hear the goalie slap his pads and the goons lip each other off in the corner. They could see the snow from the players skates melt on the glass. They could arrive early to watch the pre-game skate and leap and pound on the glass for every goal and hug the other rowdy fans surrounding them, who are all wearing team colours, holding homemade signs, falling dead silent for the plays, and gasping as one for every turnover.

The atmosphere is better the farther you are from the ice in the stadium.

Drowning today's troubles in the proven-to-be-effective method of fantasizing oneself in some infinitely better reality. Say, in the arms of Georges St. Pierre, the unexpectedly good-looking MMA fighter.

Since my favorite hockey player traded over the border, my well-used fantasy of meeting, dazzling, enchanting, fucking, and marrying him has faded fast. We've had years together, I've been very loyal, but he's moved on, and so am I.

Enter Canada's own heart-stoppingly desirable Quebecois welterweight champion, Gorgeous St. Pierre.

UFC is always sexy, of course. How can you fail televising partially nude, jacked up men writhing around on each other, with blood, sweat, and testosterone pouring off of glistening skin? It's the most primal erotic display.

Grabs me by the crotch, at any rate.

The fighters can be very attractive. Especially if contused eyebrows, dripping wounds, and multiple facial scars do it for you, gladiator style. Matt Hughes is a babe. Some present better with the toque/ball cap and Tshirt post-fight, some the less and tighter clothes the better; most of them are hotter without the mouthguard distorting their lips.

But GSP's sexiness transcends the battered UFC look. Huge perfect smile, lovely eyes, style, style, style, earnestness, and that huge, amazing, incredibly cut muscled body makes him a potential movie star, model, world's sexiest man candidate. Meow. Breathe.

And the way he fights, there's no one likely to be able to fuck up his face for some time. He owns the Octagon, throwing guys down like he's tossing his girlfriend on the bed, making it look easy, making his competitors look like they're in the wrong weight class.

His welterweight title defeat of Jon Fitch was so striking; his strength and style are so powerful and unique; and his just plain amazing hotness is putting him in the big leagues of superstar desirability. His legs are mesmerizing. I didn't know there were so many muscles in legs. And his ripple around while he's wrestling in a breathtaking way. I'm awestruck watching him fight -the grace and power of a cat with the definition of a weightlifter. Sigh. This guy is spectacularly gorgeous.

I wonder if he's one of those guys that is thrilled that it's easier to get babes now, but honestly doesn't know how attractive they are. The hot light, big screen celebration of his alpha dominance, his masculine beauty, and his raw physical power, is an aphrodisiac combination that's going to be taking women out at the knees everywhere.

Maybe not just women, either. My man commented that all the closet homos watching UFC would be slavering all over GSP. I laughed, bc he "wouldn't know anything about that firsthand."

An athlete himself with few hangups, he freely admits his man-crush on GSP, and gushs shamelessly about his admiration, while downloading and rewinding more of his fights. Men want to be him, and couch respect, awe and possibly lust in the acceptable sports-fan role.

Women, on the other hand, aren't subtle at all.

In the finest tradition of celebrity crushing, I've been lurking St Pierre's facebook, website, and blog tonight. He seems like a sweet guy -a genetically lucky athlete, getting to the top with hard work and dedication, unpretentious, and not at all caught up with his celebrity. His blog is so open and endearingly written with the slightest ESL errors.

What is shocking and a little embarrassing are the comments. Or rather, the display of women throwing themselves at him. Not very attractive women either. There's one stunner, but she's definitely the exception. Just posting pictures of themselves, begging for some response. Unhealthy; heavily and amateurishly madeup. Like ... really?

Really? I'm embarrassed for them. What do you think? This god is gonna see that picture of you and say, geez, I really need to meet that chick. She's my soul mate, I can see it in her eyes. Ya right! Save yourself the shame. It's making us all cringe. You might as well post pics of your pussy and say "Please do me? Please?"

The ones who restrain themselves from advertising such naked and hopeless desire in picture form post praise praise praise, licking his feet while trying to stand out from the crowd with insightful detail. You're not fooling anyone. What you are really saying when you comment on what a great personality he has is "You're so hot I've taken leave of my senses and am now drooling on my keyboard." It's still begging. "Please, please, turn the spotlight of your attention on me."

Save yourselves the shame and go jerk off in privacy while you walk down the aisle with him in your mind (or whatever. I go with the "whatever"). It's so much more polite. Privacy has lots of merit, and this internet world of rampant self-revelation has some cons. One of them being how you can so easily post things that you might not if you took at least five minutes of reflection before you hit enter.

Meanwhile, I'm studying those desperately posted pics, comparing my own attractiveness, and feeling smug about coming up favorably. Here I am lushing verbally all over the guy and feeling superior for not throwing myself at him. I'm not likely to stop digitally drooling either. He's luscious, and we get to watch him regularly in bright lights and larger-than-life closeup, which feeds the lust.

It's an archetypal fantasy - the most powerful, brutal guy who dominates all other guys, who smiles sweetly and suggests that he would be gentle and generous and spectacular in bed. He could beat everyone else up with one hand while he effortlessly snatches the swooning damsel (you), up with the other, and whisks you away to a place where you'll totally abandon yourself to ecstasy, romance novel style. Disgusting, but true. Literally true, proven vividly by UFC. There are very very few men in the world that he couldn't beat up in seconds, certainly none in his weight class.

Oh, the phenomenon of celebrity. When it first takes off, it's so easy to watch the train wreck happen behind it, before it gets shielded by editing and PR reps. Especially in the age of accessibility. All that lust getting thrown over the divide between the new superstar and the common hopeful just obscures the humanity of both. I hope it's not too hard for stars. I'm sure all the adulation is fun, but is the cost of being put on a pedestal too high? I hope its still possible for GSP, etc, to find real friends, real love, and to be really equaled and challenged by women who can really see the secrets of his heart and soul, whatever they are.

Things that amuse and delight me

The telltale toilet paper:
I am amused at noticing former toilet paper clinging to the toilet brush bristles. It has clearly been dunked and then dried, and has a handcrafted paper texture that would be artistic in another context. It means that someone has used the toilet brush to help an overwhelmed toilet flush a really big dump, and this makes me laugh inside. Some people might think it's just gross.

Being naked in public with boots:
I did not spend too much time at Burning Man intentionally naked, but once when I badly needed to pee and did not have time to put on anything but my boots (tall, kneehigh, gloriously industrial, buckled, beloved boots), I felt oddly euphoric on my hasty trip to the johns. Taller, stronger, extremely physically powerful, commanding, and totally balanced.

I felt like I could not have been knocked over, literally, nor affected by words, like I was part of another world, seeing through and over other people. This sounds silly now, but the feeling was so strikingly different and real. It wasn't all in my mind. I registered strangers noticing me (although, nudity is obviously never a striking sight there), a couple of sucked-in breaths, and a couple of surprisingly worshipful exclamations, which I ignored haughtily.

No, I was not high. I did no drugs there. Burning Man was dazzingly underwhelming for me, and this moment of nudity was one of my most notable experiences of the week. Infer what you will.

Sleeping in arctic-cold rooms:
I looove being snuggled under hefty covers, alone or with supplemental body heat, in bedrooms with the windows or doors wide open. Colder the better. From merely nose-nipping to oh-my-god-I-have-to pee-I'm-going-to-have-a-heart-attack-between-here-and-the-door cold, I love having 98% of my body cooking while my nostril hairs freeze. It is essential to have polar-ready bedding, and a amiable companion who will not suddenly expose you with a thoughtless roll. That's just an awful way to wake up in the dark. But, oh, the air, the cleanness of it, the contrast! It hearkens back to my winter camping days. Getting up is more difficult, but sleeping in that much more delicious.

Just like the good old days

Oh, great. Now I've stayed up far too late, tweaking, and reading.

Reading my own words: that's so good; that so blows.

Natalie Goldberg (approx): " It doesn't matter. Just keep writing."

Dropping the Charade

I'm Back!

I just discovered that I could still access this blog. I thought it was long lost, as I couldn't remember even my sign-in and had to google "sex and hockey" to find it at all. My email's still working too.

Then I read and read, my own writing, my own history, some of it so cringing and raw, and I wept.

With that much time between me and the events, I don't care so much for anonymity after all. The illusion is overrated, and I got outed in my new hiding spot anyways. I'll just edit out some of the most embarrassing shit so I can sleep better. This is where I temporarily relocated to, the missing writing of the past year. I wanted a new slate to go in a different direction, or have the freedom to. Not sure if I really did. They should be back together now.

So much for the best-laid plans....
..........

I'm so different now.

I've gone all political. I spend much of my energy researching and activising. I feel in my bones the end of all that we think of as civilisation, both the good and the bad.

My social life is totally different. I've dropped most of the friends I thought were forever, two years ago. I don't chase, yearn for, and obsess over boys. I could not be less interested in hockey. Almost none of the things I thought were important or worth aiming for remain current. I don't enjoy the work I do anymore; I'm tired, and distracted.

One of the things I can't believe in my own writing is how much I sought assurance, and doubted my attractiveness. Whatever! That's fixed, at any rate. Like a switch, somewhere along the line it happened. I see my naked body in the mirror first thing in the morning as I throw back the duvet, and I love what I look like. That feels good. For about 10 seconds, I feel proud and sexy, and then that vanishes into the realm of the irrelevant for the next 24 hours.

What I think about in relationship has utterly changed. That's a little confused at the moment, but I'm in a committed relationship that I never thought I'd be in, and all the rules and standards are different when you're relating to someone you intend to be with indefinitely. I'm brand new to that. It's not an easy world.

So, we'll see what happens here. I promise nothing but the intention to intermittently post. History shows I typically post regularly for long stints interspersed with long vacations.

I'm glad to be back.

This blog is dead

As if you haven't noticed, I haven't been writing here lately, and I'm closing this blog for good.

I've felt compromised lately by real people in my life knowing the address for my site, and consequently felt what I'm able to say is limited. No one writes well with an audience crowded in their mind.

I'm moving. Slipping back into the shadows of anonymity with a new blogspot. I'll be contacting many of you (in my private anonymous readership) with the new address in a while.

It's not that I have nothing to talk about here, nothing to blurt out to the unknown public. But what you feel you can say is changed by knowing who's reading. Also, my past, so intimately documented here, feels like a long unwieldy tail following me. What's important to me has changed, and I feel I've changed, so the trail back through where I've been the last three years, as well as the style I've built here, has become a limitation. Everyone wants a fresh start now and then.

All readers: Thank you so much for the attention over this time

The last little while, I've been jerking off every night. I almost can't fall asleep without coming, no matter how exhausted. Great orgasms. I can't even believe myself because I'm so dog-tired and over-worked, I don't know where the energy is coming from. And it's not merely a comforting habit, but a physical, restless need that has to be addressed. Nags until I submit, and then lets me fall asleep.

I'm not complaining. I think it might just be like a stress-release valve.

The fabric of my fantasies has changed. Every night is a new scene, different characters, sometimes even themes I didn't think appealed to me pop up. I used to have serial fantasies, that developed session after session, mutating a little each time, or else I would flip through the favorites like a catalog - what do I feel like tonight? But this last little bit- wow - it's like being in a giant tumbler; like opening the door of the dryer while it's running - you never know what might fall out. And it sometimes feels like I'm eavesdropping on someone else's desires.

Kinda like it. Maybe it's all the erotica and imagery and ideas I've absorbed, shaking themselves out and rearranging themselves. Feels very creative and alive.

Another new development is the degree to which I'm getting still, cropped, stylized images in my mind during fantasy (as opposed to the "I'm in the room/act/scene" experiential viewpoint, or the "seeing it like a movie" voyeur/3rd person viewpoint).

I'm really getting off on some of the "art" I see in my head. I'm switching from verbal to visual. Maybe I'll start drawing again.

I feel like a new person.

Ezra's gone. He tried to talk me into staying with him when he left. Loyal, that is. I bought into that, then he made plans to see Kristi on day 2 after he's gone, and I lost it in an angry but devastated pool of sloppiness, the kind men just love to witness.

"I promise. I've learned the hugest lesson. I don't want to lose you. If I were to [fuck around], it wouldn't represent what I feel for you, so I won't. I know you don't trust me, but that doesn't matter. How I behave is up to me."

He said all the right things and I waffled on my iron clad plan to see him off for good when I said goodbye for the summer. Sure, the guy never ever hurts me intentionally or manipulatively, and I believe him that he was green, he fucked up, and he learned, and I'm willing to give him another chance.

This winter was so damn good. After the hurt faded and I relaxed into trusting him "right now", we had the best time. Loads of laughs, loads of dirty hot sex, loads of straight up easy good times, and I fell in love all over again. I think we both did. It became easy again, like when we were first together and always together because that was the most fun. All with an added, unarticulated depth because we both know what we'd put behind us, and we've just known each other for quite awhile now. I can imagine being beside him for a long ways down the road and don't see any looming reasons why we would fall apart.

That scares the shit out of me. I've never seen that long unending road before. Could I really stay with this guy - gulp!- indefinitely?

However, not long after he's gone, and I feel like I've wakened or healed from a love-illness, or spell, and have a terrible case of the twitches over kindly-mostly promising "loyalty" to him, over his big prove-himself chance.

Lets recap. Here's how my gut reacts. I think about not dating/fucking anyone else for 6 months and see when he gets back if he also made it through and feels the same about me: I sense nervous chemicals gushing into my stomach, feel smaller, kind of shaky, and vaguely irritated.

I think about hittin' the scene, doing my own thing entirely all summer, check out a couple guys, and Ezra coming back by free will (if he does), both of us starting over unencumbered by our history, IF we still feel like it with each other: I feel like shaking out my shoulders, breathing, and liberated. A tiny bit scared - what if this is an opportunity of a lifetime to learn about what the real benefit of long-term relationships is, and I'm throwing it aside?

What the hell is it like to sacrifice your desires for a relationship?

So I'm pretty well sure of what I want now. We'll start over later, if it's still there between us.

Trouble is, haven't told him yet. Doesn't seem like an MSN sort of thing to announce.

Up for air

I feel like I was in a liplock all weekend. Ezra never let go of me. On Saturday he pulled me back into bed at around 1 in the afternoon, and there we stayed.

Sunday I had to put my foot down to be allowed out of bed at all, and then he lurked around me while I cleaned and worked, padding from room to room behind me like a dog somewhat confused that his ball has been put away. Adorably amusing.

We spent a month not kissing; it's like he's making up the time, maybe even making up for all of his girlfriend-less teens.

We are suddenly both behaving exactly like we did when we were "first together"- ie. how we spent all our time before this fall's devastating change.

I, however, don't feel the same. I love him; I think he's a beautiful, sweet person, full of love and so, so well matched for me that fate seems unkind. But he's leaving in May, and the day he leaves, I'm single,and I'm starting over.

There is no way I can live apart from him and have faith in him/ trust him/ believe in him loving me enough to not cheat on me. And I don't want to negotiate a poly- relationship with him, because we are already not based in trust. If he had been honourable and told me about chick#2 before hooking up with her, I would have been all over that.

Well, maybe not. But I would've been all over trying, and totally understood.

Now, I understand completely, and I'm not interested in trying.

I see this curiousity and hunger all over him, (all the more intense because of the new confidence he's been given that he's attractive), about women. How women are different, how their bodies would feel under his hands, what they might want from him, how they might like their sex and how they might scream. Most of all, how many might be interested in him. How well could he do?

And that's the difference. I know how well I can do, and I still want him. He's nowhere near that, and won't be, without tasting many women. So, I'm going to treat him honestly and reverently, with all the love I feel for him, and then turn him back into the world, hopefully with some positive experience and memory to build on. And I'll be grateful for having been able to call him mine, even for a short, illusioned time.

We're gonna spend every minute together, and love each other to bits, until he leaves, and then, he's gone.

The return of Sweetness and Passion

Sweetness has crept back into our flawed and indefinable relationship.

For instance:

Ezra, tanked, rolled in from the bar one night, wriggled into bed with me-the-abstainer-and-avoider-of-clubs, waking me up and asking "What if I really like you?" Like is our extremely meaningful default word for intense adoration.

"What if I really like you?" He asked me a couple times. I said that would be OK, I think. "Really?"

----

We were at a fundraiser together and there was a crowd of people around the local NHL player who was making an appearance, signing cards and t-shirts and stuff. Ezra could see what was happening, because he's tall enough, but I could not.

I said "Pick me up?" fully expecting he wouldn't, because his boys were all around, and it would be kinda juvenile.

He half smiled/sighed at me, and then squat in front of me, grabbing my legs and standing with me in piggyback before I realized what he was even doing. I wrapped my arms around his neck and smiled, suddenly able to see all I wanted to over the crowd, and whispered "Thank you," over and over again into his ear, and kissed his neck. He held me for awhile, then I tapped out to get down.

My legs clamped over his hips, I was overwhelmed with this warmth and delight, that he had picked me up. For some reason, I was just completely touched, because it was such a public, boyfriend thing to do, and I was so thrilled that I still had that.

Of course when I tried to explain that to him later, he looked at me like I was high.

-----

We were at a Junior hockey game together, and discussing the size of this one kid skating. Ezra was calling him a mammoth, a giant, a behemoth. I'm like, "Come on, he's in pads and 3" of skate. He's smaller than you are." I've seen most of this team in the gym in shorts. They are a skinny bunch of teenagers. Horny teenagers.

I was distracted by the guy on the other side of me, but behind me I heard a softly wistful "I bet you'd like that huge defenseman better than me." I turned back to him, "Actually, probably not, because I happen to like you."

"Really? I don't deserve it."

"No, probably not."

-----

Later same game he was being an obnoxious pest and I was trying to corral him, and he slumped back down in his seat, saying "Why do you put up with me?"

Same exchange as before.

-----

I go to work earlier than he does, so I usually slip out of bed and leave him sleeping, oblivious. Lately, as I slide sideways from under the covers and sit up to rise, careful not to wake him, one warm arm will snake out to circle me around the waist and pull me back in for cuddles and neck kisses.

Mmmmm.

------

He bearhugs me in the night. In his sleep. SOOO nice, so comforting. It wakes me just enough to smile.

-----

He comes over like he couldn't wait to get home.

-----

He reaches for me all the time- suddenly seizing me while we watch tv, pulling me by my waistband into his lap as I walk by, tickling and snuggling all the time. I missed this so much.

For awhile, tickling was the transitional device to showing affection. He'd tickle me all the time, anytime, making me jump, shriek, eventually get mad. I'd demand to know why he was suddenly always tickling me, but I knew it was 'cause he wasn't yet comfortable with real loveyness.

-----

I was blowdrying my hair, my head dropped forward and my hair overturned in front of me, wearing pants and a bra. He came in the bathroom behind me, and softly rested his always-hot hands on my waist where my hips start to curve out. Just rested them there, while the blower roared in my ears, and caressed softly up and down my sides.

Then he slid his hands around my bare waist into a hug, leaning over me and resting his check on the skin of my neck.

I stopped the dryer then and turned my head to him for a kiss.

-----

We go to bed at night together like getting into a bath - we can't wait, we burrow in with sighs and groans of pleasure, we wiggle around finding the perfect position, and of course, I huddle into him for his warmth. We looove sleep, and we love sex, and we just love everything about bed.

The other night we were going to bed and he said "Oh, you make me feel so good."

-----

I'm delighted to have all this back. I have real affection I want to express, and he being kind and sweet allows me to express myself again.

The Ex-files

Hmmm. Shane reappears.

Shane is among those who don't know where Ezra and I have been together this fall. Ezra told him "we're not exactly together" and Shane didn't ask any more questions, which was a massive relief to both of us, and we shared a big exhale in bed over it, discussing Shane's arrival in town.

I cringe all over at the thought of Shane finding out that I complied with, even wanted, a monogamous relationship with Ezra, when I wouldn't with him. It's kind of a retroactive slap in the face, and I don't want to be unkind. And worse, that Ezra cheated on me, and I was devastated. Scalp-crinkling shame, that.

I'm sure Ezra feels worse. Shane's last, firmly repeated, injunction to him was to "Treat her better than I did." Sure, you won. I fucked up and lost her, you've got her now, that's ok because I like you both, but don't let me down. "Treat her better than I did." Which he didn't.

Ezra still carries massive guilt over "taking" me from Shane. I laugh and hug him and say Shane didn't care about me, for god's sake, look how badly he treated me. Ezra shakes his head, not buying it for a second, and says, "Nope. There was something there. I hurt him." Lately, he adds, "I hurt the people I love the most."

Shane's so ok with it now, I say. Look how quickly he bounced to Bimbo I, II, and III within 3 months, I say. "He doesn't call me," Ezra says. "He's written me off. I've lost him, and he was my best friend." Noooo, silly, I say. He's just in another world. So far away. He doesn't think of us.

I was right about only that, it seems. Shane bounced into town, called Ezra immediately, and they started doing the rounds of friends and 6packs and catching the hockey and basketball games over hot wings. Shane started calling my house looking for Ezra. He threw in a little small talk to me, in formality. See? I say to Ezra. You guys are fine. Hmm, I think to myself. Shane said goodbye to me on the phone, flippantly, by saying "I'll always love ya, you know that, right?" That was slightly odd.

I hear through Ez that Shane is all hot to get back on a rink. I'm hitting the ice for an hour, so on a whim, I phone Shane, and invite him along. I meant to say "You could come if you want", but instead it comes out "Would you like to come with me?" and I wince. Crap! I don't want to sound like I want to see him! I don't. I'm glad I no longer have to listen to him and carry on the charade of "being friends", and translate, so that he and Ez can preserve their friendship. I'm just... going to play shinny and I know he really wants to too while he's here, and....

He looks like a different guy. I stare at him protractedly, squint, at the guy walking up the street. Is that him? He walks, stands, moves differently, so I'm only sure it's him at the last moment, when he's on my property and laughing, seeing me unsure.

But he is truly characterized by what he no longer does. He does not immediately rant and rave about himself, his car, or his recent, present, and future girls and how hot they were. His complete non-mention of women actually makes me a hair curious. But not curious enough to ask. Oh god no, not that unwary.

He does not move as though he's watching himself in a mental mirror. He does not monopolize all psychic and verbal airspace. He actually asks questions, and listens, and does not jump into a conversational gap by answering the question he just asked you as though he was talking to himself the whole time. He does not (or didn't in so short a time), make any subtle critical comments or "observations". He compliments me. He laughs, and lets me finish not only sentences but whole stories. He is tactful(!) and honors my unwillingness to share on certain topics.

I am astounded.

I'm very impressed. I look at him sideways, trying to catch the old Shane, wondering, has he really changed? It...can happen?

We're pulling out of the rink and he tells me, directly after "thanks for the apple, I'm so hungry", that he loves me still, and it's still kind of hard for him. What? Apple...what?

"It wasn't so bad last year when I had someone, but now, I don't, so it's kinda hard. Don't get me wrong, I love seeing you, you're so much fun, but... I think it's better if I just see you, or just Ezra, it'd be tough to be with both of you together. You're my first love, I'm always going to be in love with you."

Holy shit! Not expecting that. "Wow, honey," I say. "I don't think I ever really believed that, you know?" I didn't. I'm just believing it now. Perhaps, what I've just been through lets me understand the insanity. We all have different insanities.

I'm feeling rather humbled. "I'm so sorry. I truly never believed- you didn't treat me - you - I just didn't realize you loved me that much."

"I know," he says. "I'm sorry for everything."

We're idling in front of my house now, and we hug. I evade inviting him in, because I'm afraid he would accept, and he helps me in the evasion.

We do it again a couple days later. We talk less, and hug longer. I hold his hand in the car when he tells me, still glowing from the exercise, and the cold, how much fun he had. I say goodbye quickly, saying "for sure I'll see you again before you go," but... I don't see him again.

Ezra relays a goodbye to him for me.

Crap! I completely forgot to ask him if he still desires a dick in his mouth, or if he's tasted one by now.

Upgrading!

I'll repopulate my sidebar very soon. Sure wish I could resize the header-???? ( i want to make it a little bigger).

The big blogger beta change means I lost all my comments, though. Oh well, I remember the encouragement.

Still no answer

Well, sex turned into a regular, friendly thing. A flickering echo of its former flame, but... sex. Sex is like pizza, right? When is pizza a bad thing?

I continued to have flashes of rage, and worse, confusion. In my fantasies about submission, anal sex, and real, heavy-duty surrender or worship, Ezra got eliminated from any participatory roles. In fact, I started actively creating in my imagination "the new guy". The Next Guy. The Better Guy. Generous helpings of Ezra's beautiful qualities; slight adjustments/improvements. Fine-tuning.

Then when I see myself unwilling to even imagine my favorite, intense scenarios with Ezra, then How can I have any sex with him? It's all supposed to be sacred. That worried me. Average sex was, at the least, accepting mediocrity, at the worst, soul damaging.

I was sure I didn't want certain things. I didn't want to suck his cock. That's a worshipful, reverent act and a gift, and a gift I didn't want to give him. And he definitely wasn't going near my ass. So why was I sleeping with him at all? Why was offering up my pussy acceptable?

Bad thoughts; confusing issues.

But, Ezra The Basically Kind & Good Human Being (I still think highly of him) was grateful, generous and gentle. We had one battle over head- him wanting it and me not wanting to (another scene I never thought I'd be cast in)- that was teasing but then serious and ended quickly when I got mad, but on the whole, he asked for nothing and followed my lead in all.

Trust builds quickly when someone responds instantly and unselfishly to the slightest discomfort and resistance signals. I appreciated very much how he would (could!) shut it all down if the feeling shut off for me (and it would). Very rare quality in a man - the ability to ignore a throbbing hardon and switch to hugs when your woman suddenly dries up and gets off your cock. Very rare, but very appreciated. Appreciation usually translates to many blowjobs. Eventually.

I also was endeared and worn down by his willingness to go down on me, and slight insistence. "Come on, you know you want it,"not-taking-no for-an-answer, in this case. Very sweet.

So, we continue to have sex. I've stopped crying. I've stopped mentioning Kristi. I've stopped talking about "it". We just do everything together. We laugh and cuddle and argue over movies in the video store. His socks show up in my laundry. He stays over 12 nights out of 13, and we have sex. Slightly limited, diminished sex.

NOW, I feel like I'm married, and it's hideous. Yes, we love each other, but there is unforgiveable hurt under the bridge, and things we don't talk about, and we fantasize about having the sex we used to have with each other, with someone else. Fuck. Sure sounds like marriage to me. Without the commitment. How much does that suck?

Reportedly, he tells people who ask that "We're not really together." This hurts, but, what are we? I wouldn't say we're really together either. I evade this question.

I keep on demanding that he be loyal to me for the winter. After all, we're fucking, we're appearing publicly together, most people who didn't know, don't, and assume we're just still together. What do you want with me now, I ask him? Tell me soon. I will. When? Soon.

Well? I don't know. Come on, what do you want? I know what I want. I want the sadness mitigated. I want you to be with me for the winter. When you leave, it's done. It'll just be easier to mourn you when you're gone, not when you're living across the street. I want to soak up what I can, have fun with you, finish happy. I wasn't ready to let you go.

What do you want? I don't know. I'm confused. I'm sorry. I'm a very confused mess. Tell me soon. I will.

At least we're fucking again

Phew.

After a long more-than-a-month of no sex, no kissing, but constant contact, I guess we hit some kind of breakthrough, and we had sex. Kinda careful, kinda bodice-ripping.

The weight off my (mind?) is immense. I feel capable of writing again, feel some lost stability returned. I didn't know how lost I was.

We didn't plan for it like that. Desperately clinging to him through my devastation, grief, rage, and pain, seeing as he was my familiar comforter (he felt guilty, so gladly put in the time listening to me bawl), evolved to an agreed on "weaning off".

That was awkward. I wanted him around, but rathered he want to be around me. He wanted to be around me, but feared his presence made it harder (ie. made me cry). I was just crying all the time anyways.

So, our mutual desire to be near each other still, aided by decreasing bouts of bawling as weeks elapsed, led to regular nights curled tightly in each others' arms, gripping each other; breathing, and sleeping. Very regular. Quickly, it was automatically every night that he would slip in, undress, and gather me up on his way to sleep. His socks and t-shirts would stay on the floor a couple days.

I thought it was odd, but we just stopped kissing. Even though we were sleeping naked together, the occasional peck on the forehead, or (whoa!) cheek, was the most intimate we'd get. Sexuality dropped off the program altogether. I was never turned on; neither was he. Sometimes I'd get wistful watching him dress or undress. I didn't want to look at him, because his beautiful body just broke my heart; only evoked sadness, not want.

My logic mind didn't like (any of) this one bit. Sleeping with the betrayer, needing him near me to drop deeply to sleep, is conspicuously absent from all "Should" lists of post-cheating and breakup behavior. Being naked, and constantly touching and affectionate, but without arousal or kissing, was even weirder. He was very loving: always hugging me, tugging me by my waistband when I stood up, to pull me back into his lap on the couch.

I decided to just ride it out, although I had no idea where this steed was headed. On the whole, I was too damn tired from surviving to impose any "Shoulds" on anything, and I just let myself go.

One night I kissed him on the mouth. I felt very close to him, and safe, and I wanted to. He did not kiss me back. I grabbed his head and forced a kiss on his mouth. Then I asked him quietly why we stopped kissing. He didn't know. I said I wanted to, again. He squirmed, and said ok, and allowed himself to be kissed again.

Several nights later he kissed me. The next morning he kissed me some more. The next day, more. Carefully. Perhaps he thought it would trigger an outburst of tears. It was kinda like the early times again. Hesitant tongue forays, almost allowing oneself to slip into arousal, hair gripping, then polite release. Very cute, and quickly, very hot. We have so much knowledge of each other now, and our turnons and sounds are so familiar and easy to pull out of each other, ahhhh, it was just nice. New, but known.

We fucked the same way, half a mind's wheels turning on what the fuck are we doing and is this gonna make it way weird?, the other half in the flow. Partly so glad to be finally having sex again, and now past no-return, that we were fast, violent, needy. Normal, unspectacular sex (probably due to that half a mind that got so busy). But what a relief, just the same.

Desperate Sex

I just realized I left a big gap between Ezra coming back and dumping me, and then him popping up in my posts again. Sorry. That's what happens when you're too busy crying. Eventually I'll slot this post into it's chronological order.
--------

When I discovered The Text, I raged. Raged and howled. I was, literally, blinded, and it was very dramatic. He grabbed me and pinned my arms so I wouldn't hurt myself, and we were crumpled on the floor in a knot, my screaming and sobbing kinda the same thing. First I told him to disappear, then about a half hour later, I allowed him to stay. 3 hours later, we had extraordinarily passionate sex.

Oh, and that night, I also told him about sleeping with Dave, and Shane. That was an interesting summer. It was wonderful to get off my chest, the only safe time to reveal that seeming to be when I was so hurt, and there was nothing to lose. There we were, sitting at the end of it all, wide open, raw, and not wanting to carry anything pointless any longer. So I told him it all. No need to worry about him remembering my URL and reading my site. I reminded him that it's all here, written in more detail than he wanted to hear about.

I insisted on telling him with some very specific detail about Shane expressing a desire for him, like it or not. "I don't believe you," he said. No, it's true, I insisted. I wanted him to believe, and understand that crucial element of our beginning- our phoenix from the plane crash that was my relationship with Shane. Nothing doing.

"He's going to ask me someday if I told you. He wanted me to tell you. I'll tell him I did. What will I tell him you said?" I wheedled.

"Tell him I didn't believe you. I don't believe you." To everything else, nothing. I didn't need to tell him. I did, but for myself, not for Ezra. He acted like he didn't care, and he's never mentioned it since. I have no idea if he thinks about it.

I was afraid of hurting myself, of being alone. And he remained nearby, catching me when I fell. He was horrified at what he'd done, at the (a) woman he loved disintegrating in front of him. He was shattered as well, regularly weeping when I bawled, chanting under his breath "I'm so sorry", rocking me, and pulling my hands out of my mouth when I bit them, and seizing my wrists when I pulled my hair.

For a few days, we had the most amazing sex. It was incredible, really. I would scream, rage, bawl, deplete myself, and end up turned on. I'd pull on his clothes, still weeping, and climb on him, and we'd have cat-like, intense sex, and I would come impossibly hard. I got a headache once from orgasm. Then I would smile, and he would say "Oh my god, you're smiling," and I would say "Well look what you just did to me," and he would say "Is that all? Is that all I have to do to make you smile?"

Desperate Sex.

I demanded, constantly: How could you do that to me? How could you not trust me enough to tell me how you felt? How could you lie? How could you? How did you? He always responded, agonizingly, that he didn't know. He had no idea how he did. The worst mistake of his life. He hurt me so much even though he loved me so much. He'd never forgive himself, he hated himself, he learned a huge lesson. I believed that.

I respected him for this: he never backed down from saying it was too scary, too intense, and he was uncomfortable with our relationship. He never begged for forgiveness, or to have me back the way it was. Never once. I appreciated that very much.

He did say many interesting new things. That he was a habitual creature and knew that about himself, and it was so good, he could just see himself living with me, and leaving for the summer, and living with me, and all of a sudden a decade passing, and then, just maybe, he would wish he had done something different. Why couldn't you have told me that? "I don't know." What's so bad about that? I know you're happy with me. "Yes! I've never been so happy!" Then what's so bad about being happy, about being with me? "I don't know, baby. I don't know. I'm so sorry."

That he never feels jealousy about me because he thinks if I'm ever with someone else, they're probably better for me than he is, and I should be with them. (Breathtaking. Hugely meaningful. Frightening in its implications. My jealousy is so fierce, albeit new; I think it means affection. It seems natural.) I ask for more explanation. He can't explain.

That he didn't remember how much he liked me. He just got sucked into this thing with Kristi, fully knowing that he was sleeping with her to irrevocably sever the ties to me, but not suspecting that she would quickly begin to treat him like I had, and construct a replica of our relationship. I half-laughed at him for this. Mocked him for two girlfriends. Told him he couldn't get away with sliding along with her. He knew that. "Yes, I've just learned that."

I looked up polyamory sites, one that happened to be great. I wanted a relationship with him still. I was willing to change. I phoned her. I counselled Ezra regarding her. Translated for him, told him what she was wanting, ordered him to phone her. It's been 3 days - she's tying herself in a knot imagining us fucking and thinking you don't care about her and she means nothing to you! You have to tell her she does. You have to tell her she does, you appreciate her and loved the time you were with her, blah blah, but you also have to tell her you're not going to be her boyfriend.

------

I hit him once. That was horrible. I misunderstood him. I heard him say he couldn't be with me, but because she was waiting for him, and he felt responsibility to her, he would honor that and be with her. Something to that effect. When you can't be with me? I screamed. I split in half- I swear I felt my self fissure. You can't be with me, but you will be with her? I screamed. I got up to my knees, violently throwing his arm off of me and turning on him. How dare you? How dare you? "No, no, baby." He held out his hands. He was trying to explain. I snatched a pillow and forced it down on his face, putting my weight into it, wanting to kill him and wanting to protect him. He yielded immediately. I punched him again and again in the head, through the pillow, screaming just sounds, like an animal. I was watching myself from a little bit behind my head. He didn't even put his hands up to stop me or shield himself. Didn't struggle or turn his head. He just laid there unflinching, and I beat him. I remember that. It was like a movie. I finally snapped back together, and recoiled, standing up, stumbling backwards, falling again, horrified at what I had done, shaking, and he sprang up into action, once again, grabbing me and pulling me to him, to save me from myself. "It's ok, baby, it's ok." No, it's NOT! I hit you. I hit you! I didn't know I could do that! I hit you. "It's ok. It's ok, baby. I'm not hurt. I understand." No, it's not. "Yes it is. I understand." I didn't know... I didn't know...

I very much scared myself that night. I changed from something I thought I was into something I thought I could never be, and I didn't like it. He never once changed the way he treated me. Compassionately, gently.

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He went to see Kristi. He told her he didn't want any girlfriends, and he felt like that's what she wanted from him.

At least, that's what he told me he told her. "I told her what I could, and couldn't, give her." I can't ever know. I know I was alone for several days, knowing they were spending two hotel nights together, having final, wistful goodbye, sex. I know she doesn't email very often. Her texts are cool, perfunctory, polite. And infrequent.

At times I would hit a plane of aching clarity, and be very understanding. I never wanted to trap anyone. Never wanted to ask of anyone that they deny part of themselves, deny attraction or relation to anyone else. The irony! The pain! My first monogamous relationship, one in which I feel so secure and confident of his commitment to me, the first time I feel capable of fidelity to him, because I am so crazy about him, and HE cheats on ME.

I wailed and raged at the irony. You knew the arrangement Shane and I had - how could you think I wouldn't accept change? I thought YOU wanted loyalty! I thought YOU wanted the traditional shit! "I'm so sorry."

I wanted him still, couldn't imagine living without him.

But then, he had stabbed me with a lie, and I'd never trust him again. I demanded that he be loyal to me for the winter. Pretend. I didn't want to face shame, and everyone's sympathetic questions. If he was gonna be picking up other chicks at the bar, I have to move away from town. "No, no. Please don't move!" Well?

He stayed close. When I broke down far enough to phone or msg him and reveal I was crying, he would drop anything and appear to comfort me. I continued to demand that he be loyal to me for the winter. Beg. Stay with me for the winter. Let's just be nice to each other. We like each other, let's just be together. "Yes, yes," he would say. "We should be friends. We get along so good." No, we can't be friends! I cannot be around you without fucking you! (Apparently, I can, but I didn't know that yet.) "Maybe I should go. I worry that it's too hard for you, me being around." NOOOOOOO! "Ok! I'm staying! I just want to make it easy for you."

We stopped having sex. He stayed close, but we stopped having sex. It just disappeared.

One delightful occurrence

I was walking into London Drugs on Yates in Victoria. It was dark, raining, and I felt like I was not only lugging my backpack of day's errands and two bags of groceries, but my heavy feet as well. I was really hot in my puffy jacket, too, and the space between my shoulder blades felt numb.

I passed a guy walking briskly the opposite direction, young, tall, and really cute. Really very cute. Hot. Cute enough for me to blatantly stare at him for the couple of beats between seeing him and passing him.

A couple strides later, I half decided, half instinctually turned to look back at him. Carrying the pounds of groceries I was, this required a full stop. And of course, exactly as I stopped and looked back, so did he.

We looked at each other looking back at each other, a smile cracked my face, and I snapped my gaze away, blinking, instantly flushed with the discomfort of getting busted, and... something else.

The thrill straightened my back and made walking easier. I gave money to the guy begging outside of LD. I was amazed at how happy this one flattering lookback could make me.

Of course, a half hour later I wished I'd been cooler, been bolder, maybe spoke, and an hour later I was imagining fabulous complications. But I am so grateful for this tiny, sweet moment with a stranger in the rain.

Signs I'm doing better:

Having smarmy, romantic, unsexual fantasies about my hockey player being completely enamoured of me. Hey, at least I'm fantasizing. Soon he'll be bending me over a couch with a fist in my hair, and I'll be ALLLLL better.

Two blindingly powerful solo orgasms. Of course, I had been listening to all of Violet Blue's comprehensive archive of podcasts (all day), so getting self off was pretty much erotic inevitability.

I'm eating better, not drinking at all, and painting my fingernails. I'm playing far less poker, and have moved on to roaming Lost forums in itchy anticipation of Lost's Feb 7 return. Oh, and renting Desperate Housewives.

I'm writing lists again! An orgy of lists, in fact. I'm pretending it's just a coincidence that it's New Years, because I hate buying into that shit.

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To the people responsible for the 1000 hits in the last 30 days, you're very kind to check in at all. On the best days I bore myself and on the worst I make myself sick, so I expect no one else to be interested. Thank you.

Signs I have not been doing so well:

Playing far too much late-night, mind-numbing, online poker, with a "create new post" window open and blank behind it.

Playing too much Text Twist (crack for Scrabblers), and Tetris (hey, I totally missed tetris the first time around, when I was like, 12 or something?)

Having smarmy, romantic, unsexual fantasies about my hockey player being completely enamoured of me.

Driving my car off the road and almost killing myself.

Eating like crap.

Drinking daily.

Biting my fingertips raw.

(Most alarmingly), not having any apparent sex drive, evidenced by zero orgasms and zero completions of half-hearted masturbation attempts for a truly astonishing number of days. I'm sure it's into the plural-multiple weeks, actually.

Being uninspired to make lists. I am literally, listless. This alarms me almost as much as the sex drive.

And for better or worse (my feet are still moving), the only genuine sense of peace I can get is from doing/building something that I can look at and be proud of. It's like a hit. And it doesn't last very long. I'm lucky to get a couple hours out of tiling a bathroom, or painting a room. Nothing else will settle the unease inside, or pause the questions.

He's not a mormon

One of my first reactions, after plain fury and muscle-melting devastation, was "why can't we share?" I had so many plans for the winter with him. He's gone for the summer anyways, she can have him then. I can fool around too.. I just want my winter as I imagined.

I phoned her up. She didn't recognize my name, because he'd never told her. This was deeply insulting, and belied what he'd told me, that he had been so torn up thinking of me, and they had "discussed" me. As bad as that was, it was worse to realize I didn't even have a name in her mind.

She started crying preemptorily. (Please don't be mad, I'm crying!) "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean for any of this to happen, I'm so sorry!" Except I wasn't mad at her.

I had a lot of sympathy for her by this time. As truths had emerged, Ez had told me many ways in which we were similar to each other, how they had gotten close, and how strongly she felt about him. I understood all that; I know how I felt about him. He'd also started to show me her texts to him when I asked, in the interests of transparency, and they were plaintive and fearful. I knew she felt abandoned, disconnected, and in a horrible limbo of not knowing what Ezra was feeling about her, or me, or what was to come. I heard him speaking to her on the phone, knew he was evading her questions, knew that she knew he was sleeping with me again.

She wasn't in the mood for sharing. "He's not a mormon, he has to choose one of us". I told her he was horribly confused but I knew he wanted to see her. She said yes, that he had told her he wanted to tell her something. Neither of us knew what that would be. I speculated that Ezra didn't know yet. There were pauses in our conversation.

I tried to convince her I wasn't mad at her. She had thought it was over with Ezra and I; he had given her that impression. "Did you know how close we were? Did you know he was calling me every week? That I was sending him letters and gifts while you were sleeping with him? Having lunch with his mom?" No. No. She was so sorry.

It was clear that she wasn't so attached to him as I, though. She hadn't had the time to be. What if he was going to opt out of a long distance thing with her? Well, then she would move on. "I'm too old to waste my time."

I wished I could feel so clear.

Time to spill the truth

My boyfriend dumped me.

Ezra the perfect returned from his summer of work to tell me that it had been getting too intense for him, he didn't really want a girlfriend any more, and he had slept with someone else to seal the deal.

Except he didn't tell me. I woke up from a nap, and found his cell phone under my thigh, where it had fallen from his pocket. I sleepily flipped it open to a startling text message from "Kristi" with an I! - "miss you! wish you were in my bed!"

This was over a week after he got back. A couple days after I'd asked him point blank, "Did you sleep with someone else up there?" Over a week that he'd been sleeping with me, pretending, "planning" to tell me. A week that I'd been worried and curious why it wasn't the same, wasn't how I'd expected, why he seemed different.

Then he told me that he had been getting uncomfortable with the intensity of us. That he liked me so much it scared him, that he needed a break, that it was so good between us that he could see it lasting forever, and that terrified him.

Oh, and he didn't just sleep with her. Not even sleep with her a couple times. He moved in with her for his last week of work. He was seeing her for a month. She thought he was coming home to dump me and then they'd do the long distance thing. They were already planning to meet up in Vancouver in a couple weeks.

Except he didn't tell me all that, either. I found that out from sneaking his cell phone out of his pocket while he was sleeping and reading her texts. Then he told me truths, slowly, when I asked him very specific questions.

So that's why a month and a half of work away from home turned into a 3 month unexpected blog hiatus.

I'm finding it really hard to talk to anyone. I don't want any damn sympathy, and I want encouragement and suggestions less. I haven't told my parents. I'm dreading christmas.

Obviously, I fell apart, in all kinds of ways, and I'm nowhere near ok yet. But I want to start putting myself back together, and admitting the truth on here to an unknown public is a step.

Don't feel bad if you don't ejaculate. It means you have less laundry to do.

I had another ejaculatory orgasm!! This is fantastic. I didn't think it was so easy for me to do myself, and now with all the practice I'm getting lately, I find that I can indeed make myself squirt.

This one might have had something to do with a hotel room and three young (hard up and horny) roughnecks with a bit of force and a bit of guy on guy, but I'm still gonna take all the credit.

If I can produce them myself, that means I can study this phenomenon. If I could be prepared enough to keep a cup by the bed, I want to measure how much, see what it looks like. What IS it? I'm amazed by the miracle of our bodies, and so thrilled to be among the privileged women capable of ejaculating. Thank god I'd already heard of female ejaculation the first time it happened to me, because it was shocking enough to have fluid flooding helplessly out of me; I think it would have really scared the shit out of me if I'd had no idea what was going on.

Before last week, it was in the realm of things that happened rarely, and from only the exact right circumstances - generally fingers, kind of aggressive stimulation, and it wasn't something that just flowed (pardon the pun), it had to be forced. Ezra's done it for me a couple times too, in slightly different ways, which surprised me. Once he had his thumb on my clit while he was fucking me and I soaked us. I was so startled that it was happening like that, but I still managed to tell him "I'm gonna squirt". It was gorgeous. My fluid running down his legs, and he started to come seeing me go like that. Our orgasms just finished us like a knockout punch. He collapsed on me and we passed out together for at least three hours, waking up soaked, with my shirt around my neck and his jeans around his ankles, lights on, middle of the night, his 180# body still lying on me, cock still in me. Wow. Physically cramped, damp and miserable; heart and soul in bliss.

I regret to say that my initial instinct when I feel it coming is shame. I try to retreat from it, try to announce a warning. I'm afraid of getting the bed wet and try to grab something to staunch it. Of course, all these reflexive instincts are more thought flashes than action, seeing as I'm in the grip of the most powerful orgasm I can have, speech is way impossible, and I'm temporarily relieved of motor coordination as well.

But I feel that I should be glorying in it, revelling the abundant, oceanic explosion of my passion, or some shit. Not "Oh. fuck. uh, uh, aauuughgGGHHH!" And then as soon as I can lift my head trying to see the wet spot and cover it. While Ezra's grinning proudly and "Wow!"ing. I have hazy recollections of his eyes really big, so I know he's down with it all. One of my favorite things about him. He is down for it all. I'd think I'd have to go a long way to initiate something that would make him pause. Ah, yes, so, where was I? I'd like to change that initial feeling about it. I'm sure I'd enjoy it more. So solitary practice might be nice to get more comfortable with it. Understand how it begins in my body and get more used to it.

I think it's entertaining that it's understood so poorly. No one seems to have definitively announced what the fluid is, and where it comes from. Lots of women know exactly how it feels in their body and how to produce it, though. Pushing against the instinct to tighten up is a good suggestion. It does feel sort of like the urge to pee.

And holy shit is there ever a LOT of the stuff. It seems outrageous to me that the body's mechanism for making it has been so elusive. That's a lot of action to hide. You'd think someone might have noticed some mysterious organs down there and wondered "What do these do?" Or there can be a lot. Last time for me was a truly amazing quantity, this time not nearly so much. If I weren't told differently, it would seem like it got saved up.

I'm also entertained by the fact that the Greeks documented female ejaculation, and not as an anomalous deviation, but as a common piece fo trivia. And pre-renaissance, before cadaver dissection, etc, male and female parts were seen as more similar versions of each other, and were known to share the properties of ejaculation. Now in this "advanced" and "enlightened" age, female ejaculation is "new" and being "discovered". All those men studying biology seem to know so little! I'm just guessing that we as a culture are farther "behind", and have so much more to learn about our bodies, and pleasure, and the potential of sexuality than thousands of years of cultures that have preceded us.

Let's get to work, people!

I need to do some more research, (past the first page of results that anyone can google) but one site (that's not especially useful, otherwise) produced this quote I think is hilarious! Context - women feeling inadequate now if they don't ejaculate):
Bottom line: no woman should feel she is being cheated because she doesn't need a pile of towels under her when she has sex