Archive for the ‘Sex & Relationships’ Category


Goodbye celibacy; it’s been torment knowing you.

I’m just lingering here, waiting for these stirrings of desire to be fulfilled.

I’m remembering the feel of your cock: thrusting, throbbing, stroking

Exploring at will any one of your three cherished holes…

All by myself, I try to replicate the feeling, but I just can’t do it justice.

Sliding my fingers across my slippery clit, I almost (not quite) feel you.

The sensation of you swelling, sliding and staying inside me is exalted,

but my manual orgasm is comparatively anti-climactic

When you get me off, it’s so much more intense: my orgasms are

like fireworks exploding through my consciousness

Each successive, succulent climax melts into the one before and after,

until I drift into wholly contented, lust-saturated sleep.

My far-away Superman: please rescue me from the curse of chastity.

Subdue me with your lusciousness and hold me, love me…

Fuck me (soon).


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Somewhere in the middle of the sultry summer night, nature called.  My lover unzipped the front flap of our tent and we headed outside onto the sand of a secluded beach cove along the southern California coastline.  As we were alone, we exited the tent nude.  A pleasurable breeze greeted us, briefly alleviating the swelter.  Even with a nearly-full moon, the lush ceiling of stars above us was breathtaking.  Adding to our overall feeling of auspiciousness, a shooting star fell seemingly directly in front of our path.  My jaw dropped in awe, and I wondered aloud a most sincere approbation, “Oh, how you bless us God, life, spirit, universe…”

With that grateful invocation, my lover and I proceeded to relieve ourselves in the majestic ocean.  (We rationalized that our good actions far outweighed this relatively minor infraction.)  The shock of contrast between our warm bodies and the still-cool water was exhilarating.  We dove under holding hands, then after we arose, we exuberantly collided in a delicious, playful kiss.  As we separated our bodies ever-so-slightly, we noticed a captivating phenomenon: the bright light radiated by the moon cast us in an immaculately explicit, lucid shadow against the backdrop of pristine sand.

As we stood in the ocean, we were bewitched by watching the exquisite subtleties of our well-matched physiques. Every slow, sensual move we made was mirrored and magnified in the remarkable chiaroscuro of moonlight and shadow.  In my heightened state of arousal, I felt my skin turn incarnadine, like a lust-drenched niacin flush.  Without needing to accede, my lover and I met each others’ unspoken desires, choreographed in equal parts by erotic providence and spiritual syncretism.

Deliberately, we decided to delay the consummation of our mutual yearning until we got back to the tent.  Both of us later confessed our suspicions that we might have literally drowned due to our sensual distraction.  We returned to the tent giddy, overly-amped and very ready to merge our inner empyreans.   As we made love, time became evermore malleable and fluid, its interstices seemingly yielding to our mutual need for extended, undulant erotic equanimity.

It was the ultimate power trip: we were reveling in the complementary, egalitarian nature of true inner power.  Luxuriantly supine, I decided that if I had to die, I’d like to do it with him inside me, in precisely this position.   But for the moment, I was ravenously consumed and consummately nourished by the vitality of living abundantly.

When I awoke a few hours later in the full illumination of dawn’s gorgeous color palette of light, my lover was momentarily gone.  Resting on my belly was a velvet drawstring bag, sewn in the design of a labyrinth.  Inside the bag was a smooth, flat dark-grey large stone that was a lapidary masterpiece.  In Celtic-inspired calligraphy, it read in Latin:

ab ovo, ut terminus

et ab novus orsa

saecula saeculorum.

On the other side of the stone was the English translation:

from the beginning, to the end

and from the new beginning

to all eternity.

My lover returned in time to witness the resultant awe I felt at reading such lofty words which I had inspired.  My stupefaction derived from being so comprehensively recognized and acknowledged by someone so much like myself.  We kissed deeply, and as we prepared to delve again into erotic joy, I had an amazing epiphany:

Whole, healed lovers everywhere are the living antidote to Pandora opening the Box.  By unleashing harmony, joy, understanding and reverence, perhaps we may break the spell of all the ills that have been cast upon this world.

This was also published in the Crasstalk blog: www.crasstalk.com

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It is in solitude – always in solitude – that the guard of my masculine nature and identity ebb.  Then, my genderless awareness of my humanity fully unfolds.  It is then that I feel her presence most powerfully: when the prolific psychic residue of the ‘motion in stillness’ that she embodies lingers.  The words ‘intuitive’ and ‘aware’ do not even begin to describe her effortless yet omnivorous understanding, her brilliant tabula rasa mind, and her remarkable capacity for profound tenderness.

In the wake of feeling her gentle yet phenomenal presence – and the subtle but unmistakable void of her absence – my apartment looks exactly the same to the naked eye.  But whole new, transcendent worlds have been birthed from our symbiotic visceral reciprocity.

Our always-immanent metaphysical attraction seems to be taking the course of our lifetimes to evolve into something more carnally fulfilling.  If our sexual expression ever equals the intensity of our exquisite rapport, we will both be willingly consumed by an ever-expanding concatenation of exuberant, balls-to-the-wall stamina marathons of athletic eroticism.

Tonight, she held me cradled in her lap, ensconced in her impossibly comfortable curves and silky soft skin.  With sensitively skilled fingers, she unwound my stressed muscles in a masterfully knowing massage that was an extended foray of deep-release bliss for me.  Beyond tension relief, it was an overall amelioration of my well-being.

Her instinctive talent for nurturing is as inexhaustible as my own need to be so thoroughly nurtured.  It is a powerful reverence which bypasses romantic notion: the unconditional embrace of the Cosmic Mother.  In truth, no one had ever held me as compassionately and adoringly except for my own mother, and that was a distant memory from many years ago.

Delicately, she broke the sweet spell of our shared silence by gently kissing my forehead and saying only, “Namaste.” (This translates roughly as I bow to you in obeisance.) It was a simple gesture and a single word that nonetheless felt like the fruition of the covenant of the holiest of Holy Grails.

Feeling starry-eyed and consummately relaxed, I slowly roused from the altered states that her extended healing had induced in me.  Propping myself up on my elbows, I then turned to face her.  Then I leaned in to meet her in an eyes-wide-open, serenely ravenous and lingering tongue-kiss.  Many mind-blowing moments later, she broke the magnetic connection of our osculation by touching her fingers lightly to my face.

In a sultry tone which did not belie her seriousness, she said, “When we have more time, we will do far more justice to this.  If I possessed the skill to alter the time/space continuum – and the unforgiving rhythms of our earthly lives – I would have you with me for hours, days, weeks, months, years… into timelessness.  Until then…”

I held her to me and finished her sentence aloud, saying, “Farewell is never goodbye.”

This was also published in the Crasstalk blog: www.crasstalk.com

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Melody crawled out of bed luxuriantly, just before the alarm clock could rudely awaken her. She was alone, but the other side of the bed was still warm from her lover, who had just arisen and left for work. She had spent the evening and night with one of her dearest friends, a hopelessly handsome writer and educator named Jason who was, as far as she had known for twenty years, gay. Needless to say, the experience had been a re-awakening for them both.

He had been her English professor, and the last time they’d had sex was when she was in college, immediately prior to his public coming out. She had always known him to be actively bisexual, so it wasn’t a surprise, but his admission that he was gay did nothing to dampen her attraction to him. Their friendship was so strong, she knew not to take it personally, and she encouraged him in his new identity, even though it no longer included the erotic romps she’d come to adore.

Surprisingly, the prior night didn’t involve alcohol or other influential substances, even though back in college they’d both enjoyed getting stoned before making love.  Last night, they had gone to dinner at a delectable Thai restaurant to celebrate Melody’s 41st birthday and Jason’s 54th, which fell three days after hers. Although Jason was newly single, Melody was immersed in a long-term harmonious marriage, so the conversation was largely celebratory. At some point, their talk turned to a reminiscence of their college fling, and they laughed at the magnitude of their folly, both because of the inappropriateness of their teacher-student romance and the inevitability of his obvious preferable attraction to men.

As the night progressed, though, Melody noticed Jason’s choice of words grew progressively more complimentary of her. They had been lovers for a year in college, so each had an intimate remembrance of the other, erotically speaking. While time had surely altered their bodies, they were both still quite attractive, and the chemistry of their powerful and profound friendship was strong.

“Have you ever considered being with someone else besides Dave?”, Jason had inquired provocatively.

“I haven’t been with anyone else but Dave since the last time I slept with you, Jason. So, no, I haven’t.” She assumed that was the end of it.

“First of all, I find that impossible to believe. Secondly, would you consider fucking me again? Tonight?”

Stunned, Melody replied, “Jason, since when do you have sex with women?”

“Not since the last time I had sex with you.”

“So what exactly is this? Are you telling me you’re bisexual again?”

Emphatically, he replied, “Not at all. I just really want to fuck you tonight.”

“Why tonight?” Melody asked, and the lingering question she didn’t ask was, ‘Why did you have to stop twenty years ago?’

“Why not?” he coyly replied.

Melody decided not to question his rationale, because she was already incredibly aroused and intrigued by his proposition. After all, even though it had been decades since last they’d been lovers, she was consistently aroused by Jason’s intellect, spirit, humor and heart. Plus the obvious fact that she had never stopped appreciating how sexy she was, even though it was admiration from afar. Strong guilt feelings surfaced at the prospect of betraying her husband, but since Dave was away on a business trip, she knew that she could forestall dealing with her guilt and the logistics of her actions until afterwards.

They returned to Jason’s apartment, where Melody allowed her once-and-future lover to take the reins of their sexual reunion. She was unsurprised that he mostly wanted to fuck her from behind (old habits die hard, she’d guessed), but she was nearly stunned by how intensely he made her come. This was the kind of sex that you would gladly walk across broken glass to get to. She knew that by virtue of being a woman, she wasn’t giving him all he needed, but he didn’t seem to care; he was glad to please her to the ends of her tether.

Now, the morning after their unexpected and exceptional eroticism, her body ached but she was too ensconced in the afterglow to notice. Later, as she showered and dressed and made her way back into the world, she began to ponder how her friendship and her marriage would survive. She considered the hard truth: that this was almost certainly a one-time thing with Jason, but she now found herself even more drawn to him than before. Returning to her husband’s bed would require forgiveness on his part, and surrender on hers. Would either of them find the balance that was required? Melody knew that she was motivated to do so, as the alternative – unrequited lust for a gay man – had come full circle, and there was obviously nowhere else to go with that scenario.

As if in direct response to her line of thought, as she was heading towards the door to leave, her cell phone rang. It was Jason, wishing her good morning and then saying something that set her mind reeling again.

“Bisexuality in men is uncommon, but it’s also highly underrated.” He paused briefly before continuing, “I might be coerced into doing it again, but only with you.”

Melody was silent, mentally spinning through the possibilities. Her silence went on a bit too long, and Jason spoke again.

“Unless you don’t want to; you know we can still be friends.  Or else, I can meet you back at my place for lunch.”

Replying immediately this time, Melody asked incredulously, “Lunch?”

Just then, another call came in. It was her husband.

She knew that she wasn’t ready to answer that call… not just yet.

Author’s Note: I received some superb feedback on this story, regarding the lack of redeeming qualities in both characters, and the seemingly trite scenario of the gay guy falling for the” one right woman.” I did consider reworking it or adding a second part, but I decided to leave it as it stands. I rather like the way in which both the subject and the “protagonists” of the story are fundamentally flawed, and so I am entrusting the interpretation entirely to the mind of the individual reader.

This was also published in the Crasstalk blog: www.crasstalk.com

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Salome Valentine:

In the wake of thatgirl’s reading my post here entitled “In Praise Of Older Men”,  she and I got into a lengthy discussion regarding the dynamic of our mutual attraction to men significantly older than ourselves.  Our conversation soon came around to the topic of having affairs or relationships with involved or married men.  We decided to co-author this somewhat revealing first-person piece based on each of our own experiences.

While I have always said to myself that I would never get involved with a married man (and I never have), my now long-term boyfriend was involved with another woman when we met.  He and I both managed to assiduously avoid our undeniable attraction for each other for four months.  But it was certainly a “resistance is futile” situation of tremendous mutual lust for both of us, and his relationship with his girlfriend ended very soon after he and I got together. (I was single when he and I met.)

I have heard it said many times that it’s “not as bad” to have a sexual liaison with a man who is merely involved and not married, because marriage is a deliberate, lifetime commitment, and there are often also children caught in the emotional crossfire.  I understand this rationale, but honestly, I think there’s a fundamental breach of personal integrity involved regardless. Granted, it’s of a comparatively different degree, but I felt guilty for what I had done nonetheless.  Many years later, it’s now a moot point.

I’ll never forget meeting my boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend for the first time, soon after they separated.  He had gone by to pick up a few things he’d left at her place, and I’d gone along for the ride, as we had plans together later on in that general direction.  Naively, I had assumed that if I stayed in the car, there would be no drama.  As my boyfriend exited the car and walked towards her house,  I saw his ex leaving her house, walking as if to meet him halfway.  As she handed him the last of the toiletries he’d left at her place, she took a long hard look at me sitting in the car and admonished him, “How could you?  She’s young enough to be your daughter.”  (It sounds like something out of a Lifetime movie script, but it really happened.  I felt about two feet tall at the time.)

As someone who has been cheated on before, I can say that I should have known better than to pursue someone who was involved with someone else. Certainly, I would make better choices now than I did when I was in my twenties.  But, I have no lasting regret, because my relationship has been very enduring, enjoyable and worthwhile.  Both my boyfriend and I have lived and learned from our past mistakes.  What I wonder is why we – people in general, not just women – are so drawn to others who are seemingly unattainable.  I’m sure there are mental health professionals all over the world who are still pondering that moral, ethical and highly individual enigma.


I don’t think most people set out to form liaisons with unattainable/ unavailable people—at least not consciously. There’s more than one kind of unavailable, as well. The married or otherwise committed sort of unavailable is fairly easy to spot. They’re the guys who list “discreet” as their status via online dating sites; they’re the ones you meet over cocktails, and describe their marriages as “unhappy”, or they’ll insist that the divorce is all done but for the signatures on papers.

The other kind of unavailable was touched upon by MissLinda last week in her “IRL” dating post: people who are either emotionally incapable of an adult relationship, or those who, unknowingly, give off the “Not interested” vibe. This story is about the former kind.

A late spring in Rome saw me fall for a man 30 years my senior. Giovanni was world-wise and patient—a hand holder and door opener, which was so unlike the guys I was used to meeting in my early 20s. He had time for four-hour dinner dates, second bottles of wine, and bedtime phone calls from wherever he was traveling, in whatever time zone. It was an immediately enveloping and fiery liaison. Flowers and air tickets would appear at my building, and I’d drop everything, including my work to meet him, anywhere.

Months of excitement gave way to exhaustion, and the reality that I couldn’t keep up a developing career, and a love affair of international intrigue. I longed for a consistent sleep, more than a week or so in the same time zone, and time with friends. With Giovanni’s assurance that his business required the globetrotting, I ended it. Not one to take “no” for an answer, his invitations continued, unabated, until my overflowing voicemail box told him not to expect a response.

A business meeting months later brought us back together, if only for one more torturous afternoon of him begging me to come back. He almost tempted me, but I was resolute that I’d have my life on my terms. A flight awaited that would take me to a trade show, where a new love interest said he’d meet me over the weekend. I was walking down the jetway when an unfamiliar number came up on my phone. I answered it, only to meet my ex-lover’s wife. Who knew he had one stashed far away, on the North Shore of Chicago?

She scolded me for getting involved with someone so much older, telling me that I had my whole life in front of me. And besides, she added, he was a notorious philanderer, and would only wind up cheating on me. “Perhaps he is,” I replied, “but he’s your problem now!” and I promptly hung up. Giovanni spent the next 48 hours filling my voicemail box, begging me to return…and to never again talk to his wife.

This was a bit before we started Googleing people or otherwise checking the background of potential paramours. Considering all the time I’d spent with him, Giovanni’s intact marriage did come as a surprise. I did feel for his wife, who’d clearly been down this road with him prior. I chalked it up to my youth, and being drunk on the adventure, but I made it a point to avoid obligated men going forward—to the degree that anyone could.

Now I’m trying to help a girlfriend wean herself off the allure of her married lover. Part of me feels that her self-esteem prevents her from seeking something that’s better for everyone in the equation. Unfortunately, lover-man is happy to hang on, as long as she’s willing. She’s smart, funny, and over 40.  I’m refraining from comparing her to Carrie Bradshaw… but perhaps that’s her story to tell.

This was also published in the Crasstalk blog: www.crasstalk.com

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When I casually spoke the short sentence, it felt true to me.  But even though it was “merely” a lie of omission, I still sensed that I was walking on a very fine tightrope. Before this, I’d always felt certain of my unassailable honesty.

“He slept in that bed”, I replied, pointing to the twin futon in my large studio apartment.  My response was to my current lover’s query as to where my overnight guest had lain his head the previous evening and night.

While it was wholly true that he had slept in that bed, almost immediately prior to that, he and I had had sex on this bed: mine.  The fact that he was my most-enduring  friend, my first lover, and someone whom I’d only slept with a dozen times over seven years didn’t matter at all to my current beau.  Nor did it matter to him that his obvious judgment of me was steeped in unconscious hypocrisy: after all, he was sleeping with someone else as well.  Yet somehow to him, I became the betrayer.

Sex with my ex had been a clear display of my own immaturity and insecurity. The sex had also been far less mind-blowing than that which I already shared with my current lover.  But earlier the previous evening, when I had called my beau, his other lover answered the phone.  So I took that as a sign that my twice-yearly reunion with my ex should definitely take a sexual turn.  Spite-fucking is rarely pleasurable, but sometimes it feels more satisfying than doing nothing at all.

At last, I felt the scales had been balanced, and all was right in my universe.  I disagree with the adage ” revenge is a dish best served cold.”  I think that sometimes, justice is a dish best served erotically sweltering.  I knew that my beau loved me, as I loved him, but until that point, my entreaties for him to be monogamous with me had fallen on deaf ears.  Unsurprisingly, not long after my conjugal visit with my ex, my current lover told his girlfriend about me, and they separated soon after.  My actions weren’t deliberately devious, but they clearly served a purpose in the grand scheme.

“Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies…” – Fleetwood Mac

This was also published in the Crasstalk blog: www.crasstalk.com

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I remember the days of hour-long massively multiple orgasms, bruised knees, tongue marks on the carpet, pre-dawn booty calls, a 6’x3′ sideways beveled mirror, a roomful of candles, endless sweat, handcuffs and silk scarves, lunch-break quickies, touchdown climaxes watching football, anointing the kitchen floor, kitchen sink, dining room table, in the hallway on the way out the door, front seat of your car (blow jobs and finger fucks while driving), the front and back seats of your car, parked in the garage, against the washing machine, on my office floor, an elevator, massage tables, couches, chairs and beds, bathtubs, showers, hot tubs, mineral springs and a swimming pool, I remember the urgency (always the urgency), my legs spread wide, yogically adept, hair-pulling, ass-slapping, nipple-sucking supplication, wanting you inside me, wanting to become you and you to become me, as though our fervent fucking could actually achieve this, as if by magic, the magic of coming so hard, and over and over again, just from the touch of your tongue, fingers, cock (even coming just from your kiss, the touch of your tongue on mine), when we had nothing to say to each other with words, save for the moans of our phatic fucking, when our bodies communicated all there was to say within and between each other, how I’ve never, ever, not even remotely close, wanted a man anywhere near the way I wanted you, in absolute, unconditional surrender, how I somehow knew from the beginning we’d still be together after all this time, even though now our sexual heat is merely a flame compared to the insatiably blazing erotic inferno it used to be, we know each other so much better, so much deeper, so much truer, and I love you more than ever, still, and always.

Image credit: Alex Gray’s “Tantra”

Title credit: lyric from Don Henley’s song “How Bad Do You Want It?”

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