A Message?

The fellow I went to the club with last weekend sent me an e-mail (not out of the blue, we'd been having a conversation...about restaurants) and attached was this picture without an explanation:



I wrote back and asked him if there were a message in this? Or, if I had been bad - already?

What do you think?

The only thing I didn't like about this picture was the name - "SmackMyBitchUp". I hope there's no message in THAT!

HNT - November 29

I'll let you use your imagination with this one.



Happy HNT!

The Therapy that is Sex (not to be confused with Sex Therapy)

I couldn't decide if I should tell my therapist that I'd gone to a sex club. I wavered back and forth between telling her and discussing it (although in how much detail would be another question) or not telling her. In which case, what would I talk about? Since that's what's on my mind.

I still hadn't decided by the time I got to her office. We started with the usual chitchat and whatnot. And then I blurted out, "I don't know whether to tell you something or not." Well, clearly, I had made up my mind.

I realized that telling her or not telling her wasn't a decision I had trouble making because she was my therapist, but simply because it's a decision I'll make with everyone. There are people I'll tell easily, knowing they'll get a kick out of it and we'll have a fun conversation, and people whom I will never in a million years tell. And then some, like my therapist, with whom I'll be on the fence about sharing.

So, I told her in detail how it all came about, my going in the first place, and in not so much detail the events that transpired. She knows I engaged in sexual activity with the guy I went with and probably assumes I engaged in sexual activity with other people at the club. I alluded to that, without coming out and saying I sucked some guys cock while his girlfriend and his wife watched, etc.

My therapist is brilliant. And I don't mean that in an intellectual way. She is emotionally brilliant. Once I told her I knew it was right. She has no judgments about it. Or, about me. She knows I lean towards being submissive. We've discussed it and discussed some possible psychological reasons as to why I prefer to give up control. We have these conversations all without bias. And I would know. I don't care how good a therapist, or even actor, a person is, if there's a judgment, you can tell.

In this discussion I realized that I really liked going to a sex club. I look forward to going to more and other similar activities. I'm at a point in my life where I have a need to push my boundaries. To expand myself and my limits. And to share that expansion with like minded people. To surround myself with similar players. We are mirrors for one another and when in the company of people who reflect how you feel, it becomes an environment of growth.

Constant growth. Constant change. It really is what I strive for in my life. A week or so ago I was down. Very down. I go there sometimes. To that pit. Sometimes I can get myself out, sometimes I need help. But, it's not a place I'm unfamiliar with. I also know that if I never went there, if I never saw or experienced that dark side of myself, I would be stagnant. It compels me to change and to grow. You can't fall down without having to figure out how you're going to get yourself up.

Being sexually adventurous is new to me only in just this past year. It's new and exciting and a little scary. I'm excited to have found a new element. A new venue. A new adventure.

A Fond, and Sad, Farewell

We bid au revoir to our good friend Roper from Confessions of an English Gentleman. He's decided to shut down his blog for personal and security reasons. His words and insights will be sorely missed.

Ciao, for now.

The Club

"I want to go watch them."

"Oh, I don't know. They look pretty private, over there."

"It's a sex club, there's nothing private about it. Come."

He grabbed my arm and pulled me up from the couch we were on and, giving me no choice really, led me over to another couch on the other side of the room. It was at an L shape with the couch occupied by a man and his 2 women. I say this because it had already been explained to us that this man was with his wife and his girlfriend. At the moment, one of his women, the brunette, was kneeling between his legs and sucking his cock. His rather excellent cock, I might add. Thick and long and cut and hard and...

So, we watched as her head bobbed up and down, making his cock appear and disappear, making his head loll to the back of the sofa and his eyes close as he got lost in the pleasure. The other woman, the blond, sat to the right of him. After a bit he turned towards her and kissed her as he continued to be serviced by the brunette.

We sat on the couch and watched this scene in the semi-darkness of the club as the music pounded downstairs on the dance floor. Other couples wandered in and watched a while, too. People came and went, watching, touching, focus shifting and shifting back again.

"I want you to suck his cock. I want to watch you suck his cock."

"Oh, I don't know. I mean..."

He walked over to the group and, leaning in towards the man, whispered something in his ear. The man looked over to me and nodded. Oh no, I thought. Oh no.

"Get up."

As I got up and was led towards the trio, the brunette got up and moved over to the left making room for me. I was nervous and not the least of which to find that these women would not be very happy at this intrusion. I knelt between his knees and looked up into his eyes, which were a warm, deep brown and he gave me a little lascivious smile. Somewhat tentatively, I put my hand around his cock and pulled it into my mouth.

And then I felt her hand on the back of my head. Stroking my hair and then my back, and then down to my bottom. Her face close to mine as I sucked and licked and sucked her mans cock. I pulled my mouth up and off his cock for just a moment, my hand still stroking up and down and in just that second she pulled my face towards her and kissed me. A soft, deep kiss, her tongue pushing insistently into my mouth. Even through the the music, I could hear him moan his approval as he watched.

I gently pulled away and continued my ministrations to his increasingly large erection. Now tasting a bit of precum. And, I was joined by her mouth. Mine on his cock-head, her tongue licking up and down the shaft. Every now and then our tongues would touch, our lips would meet, our focus shifting back and forth from each other to our task.

Through the stupor of my excitement I finally noticed that her shirt was raised up and her breasts were exposed. Her man had a hand on her nipple and was pinching it. In between licking or sucking his cock, in between me guiding it into her mouth, she would stop and her eyes would close and I could hear a little gasp of breath as he pinched just a little harder.

I stopped for a moment to breath and found another pair of lips meeting mine. He had pushed the head of the blond woman on his right down towards us and we kissed, her and I. More soft kisses, more hot tongue swirling in my mouth. More cock.

I don't know how long this lasted. Not long enough, certainly. I wasn't there when he came and don't know who dealt the last blow, so to speak. But, I will remember and relive those moments, in a dark and noisy club with 3 strangers I'll never see again, as some of the most exciting in my life.

Gone, But Not Forgotten

This blog has taken a decided turn towards the non-sexual, of late. Well, mostly. Maybe I should qualify that and say that it's turned away from being graphically sexual. And, turned away sounds like I'm shunning it. I'm not. What am I trying to say?

I miss writing about sex. I miss writing the nasty, smut filled, hot and moist prose that were the impetus for this blog. I miss writing about it, I miss thinking about it, I miss having it, I miss being charged by it. When I began this blog I was obsessed. I was a woman on a mission (or a rampage). I wanted sex, all the time, with almost anyone. Well, I'm pickier than that. But, at the time, not so much. I had a constant hum in my cunt. A continuous buzz and I was always wet. I could hardly focus on day-to-day activities and tried to arrange my day-to-day activities to be about sex. It was all I could do not to masturbate numerous times throughout the day. Sometimes, I would.

And the sex I wanted was not run-of-the-mill. I wanted hard, aggressive, painful sex. I wanted to be taken. Spanked, exposed, inspected, and hurt.

It's what I still want, really. I could never tolerate being "owned", but I want someone who will use me. Regularly. Use me and love me.

So, even though I'm not writing much these days about it, and even though I'm not really thinking about it much, either (depression has a way of nullifying sex drive), it's there. I haven't become vanilla (although, I admit, if I fell in love with someone and he couldn't go to these places, I would let it go).

I guess there's hope (whaddaya know). Even just briefly writing this for you now stirs something in me. A little bit.

Epilogue, or somewhere in the middle

It's so hard not to wonder what it was I did that drove him away. I knew it that morning. The morning we got up, after fucking again, we sat with coffee and tea for a while talking, he took a shower, and got on the train to go home. I knew it then. I knew before he got on the subway when he gave me a tight lipped, close mouthed peck goodbye. I sensed something had changed. But I didn't know what.

So I started to go over it in my mind. Every detail (that I could remember - I had drank a bit) of what was said and done in the hours he was here. In the weeks before that night as we worked our way into bed. I remembered his enthusiasm. He seemed genuinely interested in me. We talked about our lives and things and it was close and intimate. And we kissed a lot and that was amazing. And he obviously wanted more.

Until he didn't want any. Was it something I said? Was it the coffee - I'm a tea drinker, so maybe my coffee was really awful? Was it my apartment? My bed? My cat? Where I live? My body? My body. It could have been my body. As I said in the other post, I'm okay. I look pretty damn good for 48. But I look better with clothes on, it's just the truth. I'm not fat, but I'm not toned, either. I'm a bit flabby. I have an unattractive ass. My tits sag a bit (although they're really not too bad).

But maybe that's what it was. He expected something else. The outside package promised something that, once opened, didn't deliver.

I go over and over in my head what it could have been. The truth is I'll never know. He won't answer my e-mails or phone calls (not that I'm badgering him with both, but it's been 3 days). He is now among the disappeared.

I know someone out there is going to say 3 days isn't a long time, but in fact it is, isn't it? Think about it. You've spent a couple of weeks talking to someone almost everyday. Talking and flirting and getting together and kissing and walking hand-in-hand and then talking some more. And then you fuck. And then it's so quiet you could hear a water drop. It may not sound like a long time, but in comparison to what preceeded it, it's eternity.

The truth is I just don't know if I can do this anymore. If I can keep doing the meet and greet thing. Getting to know people. Feeling like there's a connection, only to find it was a short lived one. Only to end up feeling like there's something seriously wrong with me. I can't do it anymore. I'm exhausted. I'm too old for this. How about that. I'm not the resilient 20-something who can bounce back with hope for the next one. I don't really have that hope. There aren't too many next ones for me. It's just reality.

If I have to spend the rest of my life alone, I'd rather not spend it at all. It feels so pathetic. Going out with friends all the time. Always being at a movie or dinner with a girlfriend. A middle aged girlfriend. Two middle aged women alone. It's so obvious we're single. It feels so obvious. I can't stand it.

Having had even the couple of weeks with him where, when out, we walked hand in hand, or my arm in his, makes the absence of it so profound. It makes me realize how much I miss it. Belonging to someone and knowing someone belongs to me.

I know this is pathetic. But, you know what? This is my blog and I feel pathetic. This is what I have to say right now. It's eating at me so I have to write it out. You don't have to read it.

You may also think that I was somehow smothering or too clingy, but be assured that wasn't the case at all. In fact, when we were together, he was the one always touching me. My hands over the table. Holding hands while walking. Flirting on the phone or e-mails or chats. I'm not a clingy person. I admit, I can be a bit insecure, but this disappearing act is why.

Remember when you were first in love with someone? That feeling that you couldn't get enough of them? You wanted to spend every minute somehow connected? You felt connected, even when you weren't together. And then, when you were together, you had to touch them in some way. A hand on their leg, or arm, or hand. Or even just leaning against them, and they against you. Kissing all the time, fucking as often as you could.

That's what I want again. That's what I thought I'd found.

I guess I'm too old for that now. I guess I can never really have that again. Maybe it's too adolescent. Too idealistic. I guess at 48 it's unrealistic to think it's even possible. The most I can hope for, if I can hope for anything at all, is someone I like spending time with. Someone I can talk to. Someone I don't mind kissing. Or fucking.

I guess I'd better start to realize that, unless I want to be alone forever, I will have to settle for someone. That just breaks my heart.

Prologue

This is a post I put on my other blog somewhere in the middle of last night. I've decided it's okay to put here.

This is about writing instead of doing something stupid. Something regrettable. I've done millions of regrettable things in my life, and contemplated the most regrettable too many times.

So, am I thinking I'd like to die? Yup. I am. I know, it's crazy. But, haven't we all felt it at one time or another? That life simply wasn't worth living? That, given the alternative (living), death seemed preferable? Of course we have. I guess I've just considered it maybe a little more than others.

It runs in the family, what can I say.

I'm 48 years old.

Forty Eight Years Old.

I've been single for 6 years. No, more than 6 years. Six years and 4 months. I've dated. I've probably been on hundreds of dates in the last six years. Maybe not hundreds, tens anyway. Maybe 50. Maybe more than 50. Regardless, I've been on lots of dates. I've introduced myself and told my boring story about where I live and what I do and what my life has been like so many times I'm thinking I should write up a little laminated card to give out at the beginning of a date. It would be so much easier. Quicker. Less boring, maybe even. For me, at least.

Maybe that's it. Maybe I'm boring. Of course, I don't think I am, but maybe I really am. My friends seem to think I'm okay. Although, I don't have that many friends anymore. Mostly because we've just gone our separate ways. Them usually to marriage and parenthood. Me to, well, to this, I guess. I am boring.

I'm 48 years old. I look pretty good for my age. Although, not as good as last year. I'm aging. It's true. It's a fact I can't escape. I have an okay body. It's not great. I'm not fat by any stretch, but I'm not toned especially, either. I try. I go to the gym. But it doesn't happen as quickly as it once did. I'm a little flabby. I've lost and gained and lost lots of weight in my life. This shows in my body.

This too, I'm sure, would drive someone away. Someone who has aspirations of sleeping with a 40-something woman more like Teri Hatcher, let's say, or the woman on CSI, Marg Helgenberger, I think her name is. I don't look like them. So, if someone were expecting that, they'd be disappointed.

And so, before me, lies the great expanse of life. Of however many years I may live. Could be a year, could be less, could be 40. It's a great expanse no matter how long it is and contemplating living it alone is dreadful, frankly. Dreadful. My mother lived most of her adult life alone. I don't want that. I don't want my mothers life, but somehow I've gotten it. Or seem to have.

I'd rather die than live my mothers life.

My heart does literally hurt. I haven't lost love, well not just now. I maybe haven't lost anything at all. Except maybe my pride, which I don't have a tremendous amount of anyway. I've lost hope. That's what it is, really. I've lost hope. Defeated. I feel utterly defeated. Like I've been fighting the last 6 years. Well, I haven't been fighting for a relationship, but it is a struggle, somehow. It shouldn't be.

And of course, one wonders what one is doing wrong. Or what is wrong with oneself. My flaws are, of course, numerous. Maybe too numerous. Maybe I should try to identify them and eradicate as many as possible.

Maybe I shouldn't take it all so personally. But how the fuck do you not take it personally? How can I possibly detach myself from rejection? On some level, some very sick and sad level, I've gotten used to it. To being rejected and being disappointed. What awful things to get used to.

And maybe that's a sign that I'm doing something wrong. That I'm taking the wrong approach. I just think I'm too something. Or not enough of something else. Over and over.

And that's not to say I haven't done a share of rejection, myself. There's definitely been love interests that I did not find interesting. I have a friend who thinks that maybe I'm a tad too picky. I'm not entirely sure what he means by that, except that when he mentions it I always think that if I settled for less than what I wanted, what would I have gained?

If anyone's actually reading this you're probably wondering when I'm going to shut up.

Any minute now...

Hallelujah!

All I have to say is this - last night and this morning, I was fucked four glorious, cunt filled, orgasm producing times.

I used to think older men (meaning men my age) had performance issues. Now I think that's an urban myth. Well, maybe not a myth. Because I have had that experience. But not last night. Oh, no. Definitely not.

I'm going to toddle off to bed now for a morning nap so I can function sometime today. Sweet dreams, indeed.

To Out or not to Out...Myself

The difference between insomnia and staying up late is, of course, intention. Staying up late is reading till you can't keep your eyes open, watching TV till you've had enough of the inanity, talking on the phone till you're literally too tired to flirt. Insomnia is turning the light off at midnight and, at 2 a.m., finding yourself awake enough to open your eyes and stare into the semi-darkness. Last night I was in a state of the latter.

And I thought, well, maybe I'll get up and write a bit. In my blog. But which one? I have another, you see, that I've not mentioned here before. It's a myspace blog, on my myspace page. Another thing I haven't mentioned here before. There's lots of things I haven't discussed here, and I'm beginning to find it increasingly difficult to keep my "two" lives...no not lives, personas?...separate. I wanted to write about insomnia and the chatter in my head and masturbation and maybe my family and, and, and...

And, therein lies the dilemma. In one blog (this one) I can discuss my thoughts and feelings up to a point. A very specific and identifying point. In my other blog (myspace) I can talk about more details of my life, but I wouldn't at all mention masturbating, or being really horny, or not being horny, or anything sexual except for vague inuendo. For the first time, last night, I found myself to be frustrated by this. I've discussed this here to some degree, merely questioning the two aspects of my life and how they may or may not overlap. At that point, I wasn't particularly frustrated or feeling the need to merge these two forums, just curious about them. That's changed.

I keep a journal (paper - be aghast!) and that's a place where much of these aspects of my life blend. But my journal is not a place where I take care and concern about the writing itself. The blog(s) are kept as a way to communicate, but also as a way to hone my writing skills. My grammer, my wit (I'm assuming something here), my insight, etc. Sharing it with you forces me to do that. And, there is the exhibitionist in me that's wants to expose myself, my sexual self, to you in a way that's satisfyingly literate.

So, what to do. Perhaps nothing. Maybe all I needed to do, at this point, was to talk this out. I'm very clear that there's a line I can't (read: won't) cross as far as identifying details of my life. It's a risk I won't take. As it is I worry that should I die suddenly, my journals (the paper one's) will be discovered. And read. There are simply things I'd rather my family and some of my closest friends didn't know about me. Details of my thoughts and desires that would, in a word, squig them out. But, that's another dilemma for me to contend with.

In the meantime, I stay anonymous (in this blog). It gives me the freedom to write out my desires and needs. And my frustrations in the detail that's necessary to excorcise them.

Now, about insomnia and masturbation...

Erotic Personality

Here's something that is not in the least bit surprising.

I found this quiz at Remittance Girls blog.

I took Sage Vivant's Erotic Personality Quiz and discovered I'm a Romantic!

What is your Erotic Personality? Find out now..


Here's what it says about me:

The Romantic can think of nothing more erotic than being saved from peril. They are not necessarily helpless people, but the notion of being saved makes them feel desirable and sexy. The Romantic needs to feel sought-after and practically worshipped before sex can be on the agenda. They imagine partners who not only make passionate love to them soon after saving them, but they imagine those partners will know how to please them without any instruction whatsoever. Their lover’s sexual finesse inspires their own, heightening their capacity for sexual pleasure. The Romantic is especially fond of people who can read their minds and deliver the sexual excitement that they secretly desire.


And I wonder why I'm single.

And according to this I'm not really submissive. They describe "The Bottom" as the submissive. Whatever.