Tuesday, October 6, 2009
A few years ago (so…back when I was a toddler, of course) a gorgeous man approached me at the gym while I was sweating profusely and seconds away from cardiac arrest on the treadmill.
Number 1: I am not now, nor have I ever been, one of those weird people who lives for the gym. I don’t think vigorous exercise is akin to torture, I mean “enhanced interrogation techniques,” but I would much rather be eating something stuffed with butter…and cheese…and bacon!...while horizontal than trying to get my heart rate up to its maximum optimizing cardiovascular calorie burning zone. Or whatever.
And that is never going to be possible because I walk a lazy 18-minute mile while daydreaming and frantically searching through my ipod for something, ANYTHING to make that monotonous bullshit go by faster.
Number 2: When I work out (envision the air quotes) I wear a garbage bag. Not a literal hefty cinch sack, but its apparel equivalent: the loosely gathered drawstring yoga pant and voluminous loosely fitted undershirt. And my dangerously low self-esteem thinks that’s the way everyone at the gym should dress, regardless of size. I think that the gym, just like the hospital and jail and every other torturous hellhole, should be the great equalizer: everyone is miserable and teetering at the brink of death, therefore no one looks better than anyone else. I don’t wear lipstick to have a pap smear, and I wouldn’t wear it to spend an hour climbing the Stairmaster. Not so for some other women who frequent my gym. In the locker room, while I am trying to secure the immobility of these enormous boobs in their ironclad harness, other ladyfriends are clustered around the shared mirror straightening weaves and touching up makeup. The first time I witnessed it I thought for sure that they’d just finished a strenuous workout and were headed out to a fancy dinner or something. It never occurred to me that adjustments might need to be made prior to the actual workout.
If I have shit on my face it congeals and itches at the first hint of moisture, let alone the sticky tan paste that would form during half an hour of moderately-paced calisthenics. I would claw my fucking face off. But the furious dabbing of yellowy beige makeup sponges let me know that it was NOT SO for these hoes; there are big, muscle-y fish to be caught swimming around the free weights, and this blush and mascara and lip gloss are the hook that will snare them!
I caught sight of one of them through the smelly after-work masses, literally posing on the elliptical machine. She was moving so slowly the machine could not possibly have been ON, making “fuck me” eyes at all of the meatheads who walked by. She had her tits propped up so they rested just below her clavicle, and she was wearing those late 90s bikershorts with an actual leotard over it. My inner angry feminist was all“bitch, please” but that shit appeared to be working. That fake-ass Jane Fonda had dudes drooling all over her, while I was sitting on a dirty mat in a puddle of my own drool because my dumb ass thought using that mountain climbing machine was a smart idea and had debilitating cramps snaking up my whole right side.
So I am on the treadmill next to this smoking hot girl with a body like a rubber band. Lithe, lean, smooth, bendable limbs, running half-naked at a speed reasonably close to that of light, her pony tail bouncing staccato in my peripheral vision. The naked at the gym thing KILLS me. Not "locker room naked" as, for me, that is just a frantic messy whirlwind of ripped off work clothes and struggled into gym clothes with the least amount of possible exposure. But "naked on the machines naked." For every person drowning in comfortable rags, there are TWO with band-aid sized sports bras and “shorts” the size of my period underwear, lunging and squatting and doing backwards crossways upsidedown lateral raise lifts while balanced on an exercise ball and suspended in mid-air. And they make sure you see them in all of their tanned and toned glory: running faster than you without ever breaking stride. Or a sweat.
And this girl is pounding the shit out of the fucking treadmill, running so fucking fast that I felt like I might have been walking backward in comparison. I had set the timer for forty minutes, and I was halfway there. I usually hit a groove after fifteen minutes or so, when my muscles start to feel warm and limber and I stop bothering to wipe the drops of perspiration that collect at the tip of my nose.
I never look anyone in the eye while I’m there, for fear that one millisecond of eye contact and these health nuts will figure out that I’m a fraud, that I don’t really want to change my sedentary lifestyle, I just want to feel a little less guilty the next time I eat an entire pizza. My usual MO is to just stare at the calories burned counter, lost in fantasyland, imagining that bag of m+ms I ate on the way to the gym being melted off my thighs.
So color me surprised when I glanced up and noticed the most delicious piece of dark chocolate ass I’ve ever laid eyes on making his way over to me. He was doing that thing that confident, stunningly attractive people always seem to do while you are watching them; that gliding thing that makes them look like they are on invisible roller skates or some shit. Now I’m not one to sweat a motherfucker too tough, but I might have gaped a little bit.
This dude was outrageously fine. He was one of those naked people (fuck them!) in tight-fitting shorts and tank made out of that fancy sporty material that they only sell at those fancy sporty stores I’ve never seen the inside of. He looked like he had been cut from the face of a fucking mountain: taut skin stretched over hard bulging muscles, a road map of veins humming beneath the surface of his hairless arms and legs; slender, spectacularly defined legs leading down to those tiny athlete ankles, pecs you could eat your dinner off of, chiseled abs rippling under that clingy bodybuilder shirt.
Or something like that. I can’t be sure. Like I said, I just glanced.
Even Flo Jo's ass next to me slowed down to drink in this tall glass of water, and that snapped me right back to fat reality. Of course. He’s not coming over to talk to ME, he’s coming over to talk to this BITCH. His workout partner and physical equal. In that instant I pictured their life together: doing crunches and pull-ups, cooking healthy meals, giving birth to a tiny track team. So I turned up the volume on my jams and focused on trying to burn off those Oreos I had eaten, too.
But curiosity killed the cat, and when he was standing below me, beaming up (glorious teeth on this one, too), I stopped the music altogether thinking, I am going to vomit and then kill myself if I have to stand here and bear witness to this American Gladiator love connection. I looked at the timer, and was crushed to realize I still had twelve more minutes to go.
“Hi,” he said. His voice was a rich, deep velvet that made me die inside a little bit.
“Hi!” she said brightly, slowing her treadmill so that she could talk, and it was still twice the speed I was walking. Bitch. I could see the visions of their acrobatic future sex life dancing in her head.
He turned and smiled at her and nodded, and then turned back to me. “I was actually saying ‘hello’ to YOU.”
And then my heart stopped completely and my stomach fell out of my butt. “What?!” I said too aggressively.
But he continued to smile and extended his hand, which I wouldn’t shake for fear of how sweaty and clammy and gross mine would be. He introduced himself and started talking, and the whole time the only thing I could think about was how I was at the point in my workout where breathing with my mouth open is the ONLY option. I stopped the treadmill and stood there watching his teeth go up and down, making words I couldn’t comprehend through my thick haze of disbelief. So I just kept smiling and nodding while Daisy Duke started her treadmill up again, running so fast this time that her shoes started to smoke.
Our first date was at a Starbucks, because I do not believe in food dates. And not because I don’t believe in food. I believe in food more than I believe in most humans. In fact, it’s this love of food that made me pick Starbucks. Because talking and eating don’t go together. Either you never fucking speak or your fifty dollar steak gets cold, and mommy doesn’t play that.
I’ve seen more than my fair share of after-school specials, and even as I was pushing open the goddamned Starbucks door I expected this to be some cruel joke he and his jock friends decided to play on the miserable fat girl with the glasses, that they were all in the bar across the street, huddled over their beers giggling while watching me sit by myself at the table in the window.
But Gym Dude was already there when I walked in, dressed in form-fitting trendy clothes. I was suspicious the whole fucking time, trying valiantly not to like him too much, even though he was warm and relaxed and told hilarious stories that weren’t trying too hard.
Two venti mochas later I decided I was going to fuck him.
Fast forward a month, and we had been on several really nice dates at chichi places that required nicer shoes than any I had ever previously owned. We made out a few times, during which I’d resisted the urge to stick my hand in his pants (which took more inner strength than you could imagine).
We had our first apartment date on a Sunday, and he arrived bearing cake. After dinner, he asked me if I would mind eating it in front of him, which sounded weird, but not weird enough to stop me. He sat on my bed and watched me intently, licking his lips. I asked if he wanted some, and he politely declined. Ah well. His loss. That cake was fucking delicious.
The next time he brought brownies, which asked me to eat out of the pan with my fingers. The time after that? A rotisserie chicken, which he asked me to pick up whole when I ate some. Then a blueberry pie. It never really struck me as strange, I just thought he had really good manners. Although he never ate anything himself, he didn’t always sit and stare while I ate. He would busy himself looking through my cds or working on a crossword, but always making sure I was full. I thought it was sort of sexy even, a dude who appreciated a woman who likes to eat.
Weeks of this went by, trips to the movie theater and museums and night clubs punctuated by nights spent at my place or his stuffing ourselves (er…myself) full of sumptuous treats.
While I didn’t really have a reason why, a huge part of me was flooded with shame when I would think about gym dude and what it was we were (or weren’t) doing. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what exactly was embarrassing about our relationship, but I knew deep down in my cholesterol-laden soul that something in the milk wasn’t clean. I didn’t tell anyone about what we were doing. It was my scrumptious little secret.
And then he gave me a reason to be filled with searing fucking shame. Four months and we still hadn’t had sex, which was fine by me as I had started to feel like a brown whale propped up on bloated feet and contortionist sexual positions seemed totally out of the question. He showed up late on a Saturday with two grocery bags of goodies. At that point he had begun to figure out what I liked, and I lit up like a Christmas tree when he pulled out a pint Chubby Hubby.
"Eat that naked,” he admonished softly.
I don’t know if it’s stupidity or what the fuck makes you not even think twice about something like that. But I didn’t, I just said “Okay!” and took all of my clothes off standing in the middle of the kitchen. “Can I have a spoon now?”
“Eat it slowly,” he said, handing me a spoon, and dropped his pants.
Now THIS is what the fuck I’m talking about! I’m a filthy whore in the worst way, and I had been chomping at the bit to get a piece of that action. Four months is like a lifetime to a dumb slut like me, and I was itching to get it on. Fat feet or not.
I ate the ice cream while he watched me and masturbated, twice, before pulling his pants back up and apologetically skulking out of my apartment, leaving me with a frozen hand and a confused look on my face. Ben and Jerry should make a flavor called Blueberry Balls.
You know, you always find a way to justify whatever gutter butt shit it is you’re doing, and I convinced myself it was worth a little sexual deviance to be that close to such smoldering manhood. Plus, I was saving a ton of fucking money on groceries! So I let him come over again.
We carried on like that for months, him awkwardly jerking off in my kitchen while I consumed fat grams by the thousand. I needed new pants and he bought them, telling me I was beautiful when I complained about the weight I was putting on.
I have a considerable number of stomach issues, and this little episode was murder on my guts; I would go days at a time without a formed stool, just rivers and rivers of liquid diarrhea. We still went out and did normal things, and that helped to enable the lie I’d formed in my head about how real our relationship was.
“The fetishistic practice of feederism can involve inducing weight gain to the point of helplessness. Feederism refers to the acts of feeding, encouraging eating, or being served large quantities of food. Sexual pleasure is derived from the act of eating itself, and/or from the process of becoming fatter.”
I read this information, or some similar derivative, in a pamphlet in Gym Dude’s bathroom while shitting out the half dozen or so Krispy Kremes I had eaten earlier that day. Krispy Kremes, I might add, that he had placed his gigantic erection through before asking me to eat them off of his penis and jerking off in my fucking face. That was the sugary glaze that broke this whore’s back, and after I nearly singed my fucking asshole cleaning my intestines out, I figured my blood pressure and I would be better off never calling hot ass gym dude ever again.
To this day I see him at the gym, flexing his glutes and pumping up his traps and delts and lats. I try to pretend I don’t see him, those glistening muscles straining against the wet fabric of his workout gear. My sphincter still shudders every time we make eye contact.
He has only spoken to me once since our escapades ended. I was on my way home after a workout, sweaty and gross beneath my winter coat. He flashed that dazzling smile at me and I felt my resolve start to give.
“I miss you, Sam” he said sadly in that gorgeous voice of his. “We had something special.”
“YOU had something special,” I snapped. “What I had was early-onset heart disease.”
He smiled. “Call me if you ever get hungry.”
And if I ever do I just might. He is really fucking hot. And that asshole still owes me an orgasm.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
It’s possible that the roots of my curiosity about group sex lie within The Big Chill. It was my favorite movie when I was 13 years old—I rented and watched it repeatedly, and it began to form an epic place in my psyche as a representation of contemporary adulthood, a stage of life that as far as I was concerned, couldn’t come soon enough. I’m a Capricorn, so I wanted to be a grown-up from the moment I was born. My first complete sentence was “I love caviar,” which my parents had served for the adults at my 2nd birthday party. And, whether it was because of my parents’ diplomatic but very definitive divorce when I was five, or an early childhood spent nipping at the heels of their circles of pithy, alcoholic relatives and bohemian friends, or what, but my vision of adulthood did not include me, daddy and baby makes three. That seemed rather lonely and isolated to me. Instead, I imagined something like a co-ed, incestuous family of friends forged in the heady maelstrom of a 1960s University of Michigan, who are brought together years later by the elegiac suicide of one of their group, to spend a weekend in a beautiful Carolina country house making sumptuous meals, doing drugs, having intellectual arguments and fucking one another.
Yeah. That was my shit. It turns out one of my best friends, Sara, was also enthralled with The Big Chill, and we began to conceive of our own Big Chill weekend, to occur at her family summer house in Wisconsin and include two of our other girlfriends and a group of four boys, the members of which changed according to whomever we had a crush on at any given moment. One day, Sara came to school beside herself with excitement: she had asked her parents whether they would actually chaperone us on such a trip, and they said yes! The date was set for May, over three months away. We immediately started a Big Chill notebook, which we passed among the girls, who each wrote fantastical entries of what would happen on this grand weekend in the woods. There was a lot of sex and intrigue in that notebook, although none of us had had sex and I don’t think any of us really planned to. A little making out, or “scamming” as we called it, was what we were conversant in and this was appropriate for our age.
But me, the sophisticate, ever trying to push the envelope, couldn’t wait. One weekend in March, we heard that Matthew Sanger’s parents were out of town and he was going to have a “set,” or party. All of the popular guys were going to be there. I remember Sara was over and I was ironing cloth napkins, a household chore I found oddly satisfying. I made a decision in my head that I then shared with my friend: “Sara, we need to make something important happen in our lives. I propose that tonight, at the party, we suck dick. No one in our grade has done this before. It should be us.” I’m sure Sara was apprehensive—and I was too, although I was acting like deciding to put my mouth on a penis was as natural as ironing cloth napkins. Nevertheless we went to the party, got our other girlfriend Rhys in on the plan, pulled two lucky guys into a bedroom and took turns sucking them off. The penises, and our skills, were underdeveloped, and I know that neither of the guys came—this was new for them, too. But when we emerged from the bedroom, and later from the party, I had such a sense of power and pride in what we had done. And we had accomplished it as a group! We did it, you guys! We sucked dick! And we did it together! But the fallout from our decision was not pleasant—rumors spread around the school like wildfire, and we got reputations not as brave and innovative sexual pioneers but uh… as sluts. And, to add insult to injury, I was dis-invited to the Big Chill weekend by Sara’s parents for corrupting their daughter.
But I never really lost that inclination to “make things happen” or to “conduct experiments” that came from ideas in my mind rather than sensations in my body. I went through more conventional sexual-romantic experiences in late adolescence and early adulthood of having boyfriends, having sex with them, alone, and happily alone, loving them alone, and happily alone. I became what my father is—a serial monogamist—which is a sight better than what my mother is—alone. But I was never really single, never had the experience of playing the field, of being my own agent, since those early days. I had three long-term relationships from the age of 17 on and as the years passed, in the back of my mind I started to wonder, is this it? Only this dick, only these lips? Are the only two relationship choices lifelong monogamy, or serial monogamy? I was determined to never be involved in infidelity, based on secrets and lies, which goes against everything I believe in. But I really couldn’t see how even the happiest couples wouldn’t at some point crave sexual, or even romantic variety. The divorce and adultery rates corroborate this suspicion. What was the matter with me? Was I a swinger? Ew. No. Well… maybe?
Fortunately, I had an ally in no less than my most recent boyfriend, Johnny, one of the most amazing people I have ever known, who to this day is my best friend. As openly communicative as we are, I was really scared to tell him, straight up, that I fantasized about being with other men. Of course I hoped he might be somewhat sympathetic because, unlike me, John is bisexual. And I was right. We began a conversation about opening up our relationship that lasted probably a year before any real action took place.
There was an earlier stage of this opening up, one that I like to call the Fucking Our Friends stage, which proved quickly to be too treacherous for either of us to handle. Turns out The Big Chill was not the ideal model after all. Bummer. We agreed we needed to put some structure on this. We needed to cast out way beyond our immediate, even tertiary circles. We needed to find the other open-minded freaks out there, and fuck them, and let them fuck us. In the same room? Maybe. Apart? Well, let’s just see who we’re dealing with here.
So that’s how we came to be members of the Lifestyle Lounge. Who knows what Lifestyle Lounge is? OK. Well, for those who don’t know, it’s a social networking website for swingers. It’s pretty amazing, actually. I recommend it to anyone who has a curiosity about this sort of thing. The interface is cheesier looking than Myspace and it costs $20 bucks a month, but if you want to enter a different, fascinating world where what’s up is down, where all these little pockets of our upstanding citizenry—all social classes, all races, all creeds—are making arrangements and celebrating the right to suck and fuck thy neighbor’s wife, and thy neighbor’s husband, or both at once—Lifestyle Lounge is the place.
It is important to know that the swinging lifestyle revolves around couples. The average couple on LL is in their mid forties, more physically fit than you will ever be, more tan than you will ever be, waxed to the gills—waxed all up in the gills, you might say… maybe a tit job, maybe a bleached anus. You know. And yeah, they like fucking all different kinds of folks in different kinds of ways. But other than that, they are totally normal. Like, completely fucking normal. Like, condo owning, “professional,” Range Rover driving, Trader Joe’s shopping normal. Well, maybe that isn’t so normal. But I guess I was expecting some more scenester young people and friendly hippies up on there. And the weirdest thing of all is that these couples, for the most part, are leading a double life. Their friends, their coworkers, their families—the “vanilla world” as the swingers like to refer to it—know nothing of their exploits. The hot threeway with some bisexual chick they picked up at a bar. The seven people pile-up out in the suburbs a few months ago. The trip to Hedo last spring. Ahh, Hedo… For a community based on sexual freedom, it’s sad to me that so many swingers are still in the closet. But there they are, locked in this duality of being that is not unlike adultery. They are having an affair with themselves. Crate and Barrel days, ass-to-mouth nights.
The other important thing to know is that the main forms of fucking these couples are looking for is either a threeway with an experienced bisexual woman, or swapping with a complementary couple. Single people get in where they fit it, the bisexual woman being primo top choice. Single men, or SMs, in Lifestyle parlance, are the least popular, and often treated by the couples like chattel or expendable drones in the beehive of group sex. However, this has created something of a buyer’s market for the minority of women and couples who want to invite different men into the bedroom.
After some fits and starts, we met Chris. He was 36, lived in Albany Park and managed a hip record store in Lakeview. Intellectually and physically he was our peer. We had a couple of hot threesomes, and then Johnny decided to go to Europe for a few months to work on a book. With Johnny’s blessing, Chris and I continued a nice little relationship of sorts, and I almost forgot that the reason we met in the first place was swinging. Chris started asking me if I was interested in this girlfriend of his or that, and what if she brought a guy over one night, and I realized, oh yeah, he wants to have a foursome. Oh, okay. Sure, I was game.
We made a date for a couple weeks later. This other girl Chris was sleeping with named Maria and some guy whose name I don’t remember showed up with a 12-pack of Stella and we sat around the kitchen nervously sucking down our beers and cigarettes. I think this was a first for all of us but Chris, who clearly enjoyed being the organizer and leader like the Leo he is. I sized the newcomers up and decided that, especially if I had a couple more beers, I could definitely have sexual relations with them—even Maria (I had never been with a woman before). I started to get excited. We retired to the living room. Chris and I started making out on the couch. Someone came from behind me and encircled my waist, their hand on my throat. I looked up to see other dude’s face looming in for a kiss. I made out with him for a minute. OK kisser, not great. I turned back around to see Maria and Chris making out beside me, shedding their shirts. Maria straddled me, pushing me back down on the couch. “You’re really pretty,” she breathed. “You look like Dita von Teese.” I’ve heard this before, but it’s a nice compliment. We started kissing, then expertly removed each other’s bras. The boobs were the best part: I have boobs, you have boobs. I’m touching your boobs, you’re touching mine. Other than that, making out with a girl for the first time was a dissociated experience for me. This is nothing against Maria, an attractive and experienced bisexual girl. But when I was kissing her, it just felt like I was kissing disembodied lips. I tried to give myself a thrill, to tell myself, you’re making out with a girl, isn’t this amazing?! But, it kind of wasn’t. Not bad, not good, just… not real feeling. I’m going to have to make out with a few more girls before I close the casebook on my sexual orientation, but I think it’s fairly safe to say that I’m straight. And being a straight girl does not bode well in the swinging world.
After these appetizers, we moved on to the main course. Chris and I were fucking on the couch and Maria and dude were doing stuff on the rug below. Chris sensed trouble with the other couple, and suggested a switcheroo. After about five minutes with dude on the floor, I figured out what the trouble was. Performance anxiety. He could not get a hard-on for his life. I’m a good sport, and I know this is a very sensitive, if not the most sensitive issue for men in the bedroom, and I really tried my best to arouse him, gently, slowly, with understanding and patience. But try as I might, an erection was not going to happen, and I wanted a break anyway. I offered to go get us some beers and we sat back on the rug in front of the fire to watch the Chris and Maria show.
Now this I was really curious to see. Besides the whole frisson of seeing my lover in action with another person, Chris had told me specifically that sex with Maria was different—that she liked a little rough play and domination from her partner. It was interesting to see how indeed, the sex was rougher than the sex Chris and I had, with him slamming repeatedly into her and her making low, growling little animal noises that crescendoed into loud, guttural come cries. In fact, for a second I thought she might be crying. And then, suddenly, out of fucking nowhere, as he reached his own climax, Chris spit directly on Maria’s face.
Whoa. That was a surprise. Frankly, I was disgusted. But Maria didn’t seem to mind and like I said, I was trying to be polite and a good sport. I started to clap, nudging other dude to join me. “Bravo!” I said. “Let’s smoke a joint.”
The post-coital of a group sex experience is probably my favorite part. It’s the closest to my beatnik commune fantasies as I’ve gotten. We sat around nude, blankets wrapped around us, passing around the joint and talking of this and that. In spite of our differences and our difficulties, we had made a foursome happen. And we did it together. I was proud of us, and told the group as much. We clinked beer bottles, and then Chris and I went to the bedroom, leaving Maria and dude to camp out in the living room.
When we woke up the next morning, they were gone. Chris talked to Maria on the phone later and apparently after we went to bed, dude was hard as a rock and ready to go, but came in like two minutes, leaving Maria unsatisfied. The next morning, he blamed her for introducing him to us depraved individuals, and damn right he couldn’t get an erection, that was the weirdest shit he had ever been a part of. “Seriously?” I said. “That sucks. I thought dude was pretty nice and smart, and I didn’t really care that he couldn’t get hard. But he called us weird and depraved, and dissed Maria? What the fuck? Why would he do a thing like that? What is wrong with people?”Chris shook his head. “Because he is being an insecure dude!” He sighed, looked and me, smiled, shook his head again. “Jess, I like you and you’re really smart and everything but when it comes to certain things… kid, you’ve got a ways to go.”
By Jessica Riddle
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
I knew this was his game or whatever, that he had memorized that poem to recite to the ladies, and that he was probably not making much headway on Ulysses in a bar, but it didn’t matter. I got drunk and hung out with him every Thursday, I wasn’t interested in anyone else, I found him attractive; that was enough for me.
The bouncer was six or seven years older than me and prone to acting more like that divide was maybe 20 years. He offered me advice that an older sibling or a grandmother might. He also offered more racy social advice, like when he told me I should sleep around some more.
After we’d known one another about a year or so, he introduced me and my roommate to another bar, an after-hours bar that was often open until 8 a.m. and whose clientele consisted of bar workers, drunks, cokeheads… and then me and my roommate. It was here that he would drink with me and occasionally we’d talk about sex or, more specifically, the possibility of us having it. He was very open about the fact that he was into sadomasochism, though at the time I had no idea if this was an unfulfilled fantasy or the reality of his sex life. Probably not the constant reality, as I’d seen him leave both bars with drunk patrons and I doubt those sloppy one-night stands involved a lot of heavy bondage play or whatever. Plus, during these conversations, he was always referring to himself as a degenerate. I couldn’t tell if this was a self-hating thing or some kind of S&M terminology. Possibly a way to identify other S&M enthusiasts at bars? Like you introduce yourself, you say that you’re a full-time accountant but really just a degenerate, there’s a wink and a nudge and someone is eagerly fingering the nipple clamps in his pocket, maybe?
His dream was to be a sub and I not so subtly indicated I would be willing to participate, but he’d have to be the dom. Not only do I get stage fright, but I’m pretty sure no one just bursts onto the S&M scene as an amazing first-time dom. Like I said, I was kind of in love with him. Failure during our first time wasn’t an option. I figured no one can fail as a sub, because you just have to do what you’re told, right?
After countless conversations about the possibility of consummating this bouncer-patron union, we set a date – a Sunday night, when he would be bartending. He’d contact me with “instructions” and I would meet him at the end of his shift. I knew I needed a few drinks first, so that night my roommate and I visited the bar we lived above and drank, expectantly awaiting his call… waiting, and waiting some more until I was kind of drunk and figured he was breaking our big date. Could I text him? Can the sub request instructions, or do they have to be proactively given? Would I get a literal spanking if I prodded him? Would I mind if I did? Eventually I did text him and he quickly responded with a list of items I was to buy.
These included: A dog collar and a silver bullet, which my roommate had to tell me was a vibrating egg type thingy. He also requested cheap red lipstick and either a body stocking or a French maid’s costume (at this, my roommate and I shrieked with laughter and made a solemn vow that neither of us would ever, ever wear a body stocking. Ever).
I bought the cheap lipstick at the Duane Reade near his bar. Luckily for me – and for everyone, really – there is a 24-hour sex shop on 6th Avenue kitty-corner from Duane Reade. It was here that I bought a maid’s costume, which I found to be a ridiculous waste of money since it was completely sheer, as well as a much-too-expensive dog collar and the damn silver egg, much to the amusement of the middle-aged men who worked there. Mission accomplished; I already felt like the slut I was going to play that night.
I met him at the bar and he gave me a free beer, which I quickly and nervously drank. After the last patron had left, he went through my bag and gave his approval. He closed up and we took a taxi to his place.
When we got there, he ordered me to go get dressed. I exited the bathroom in an embarrassingly revealing outfit to find him still in his shorts, t-shirt and baseball cap. My dom was wearing a baseball cap. That’s awkward. I asked if he wanted me to apply the red lipstick, figuring it was intended to make me look even sluttier and more ridiculous. He said it was for something else.
We went to his bedroom, where he indicated I should kneel on two pillows he’d placed at the foot of the bed. Then he pulled out the… shackles? It was a set of handcuffs attached to a set of anklecuffs. These were not playful plastic cuffs covered in cute zebra-print faux fur. They were solid, heavy metal cuffs. So, apparently he was not bullshitting about this S&M stuff. I let him chain me up and he made sure I had my balance before blindfolding me. Fade to black.
I would love to give you a specific and heavily sensory account of what ensued, like a really great description of what IcyHot feels like when it’s put in your ass as a punishment, or at least a detailed account of which dildos and vibrators were placed where. Embarrassingly, I barely remember the things I was punished for; I think I was primarily ordered to perform oral sex to his stringent specifications. But it was years ago and, frankly, I was slightly drunk. I have more of a snapshot memory of the whole thing, interrupted frequently by the whole blindfolding business.
I know that there was also a ball gag. Like straight out of the gimp scene in Pulp Fiction. Of course I secretly rejoiced at that because I love that movie! I also remember that at one point, the purpose of the lipstick was finally revealed. He blindfolded me again, gently laid me on my back, and wrote on my stomach with it. I was to guess the words he was writing. Mostly I giggled and guessed dumb things like my name. Of course, he actually wrote things like “Slut,” “Bitch” and “Slave.” Whoops.
It was quickly becoming obvious: I was not, in fact, a very good submissive. Not at all. I found most of it amusing, I was unable to believably act afraid or nervous or pretend to be in pain. I couldn’t guess the obvious words being written on me and I smiled and laughed too much. I enjoyed the experience because it was something else I’d tried, an extra-special notch on my headboard, and there was the possibility I was impressing him – though that was doubtful. Let’s face it, my only previous exposure to S&M had been erotica and softcore porn. Maybe if I’d rented some more amateur S&M stuff, I would have expected the overly bright room, the ridiculousness of the whole set-up, and the fact that the players were not movie-star attractive or even really worthy of a Kmart sales page in the newspaper. The Boy Scouts have it right: always be prepared, lest one choke on a ball gag with laughter.
Then it was time for the sex. Off came the cuffs. He turned off the lights, produced a condom, and we got to it.
Me? I moved to Chicago, I found the Sunday Night Sex Show, and I eventually engaged in submissive behavior with a straight face. You see, Tyra Banks taught me that I can just smile with my eyes.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Monday, June 1, 2009
As one might expect, I moved on pretty quick
Over the years, I've had some trials and tribulations
by: Ellie Maybe
But vaginas are just SO much more complicated. They all can look so different from each other, there are all these folds and different clit sizes and lip sizes and frankly it takes awhile to figure your way around one specific pussy.
Ok, so long story short, we're all over each other, and it's both super hot and kinda scary at the same time... kinda like when your high school gym teacher has cornered you in the utility closet and he's all "If you want to make the team you're gonna have to show me some initiative," and you feel both totally sexually harassed and afraid but also super turned on, and you know it's wrong but you really do want to make the team, and anyway he's kinda cute for a guy in his late 40's, so you just sort of go along with it, you know? No? Oh.
Anyway, so we're dancing and I have to pee. So I say, "I have to pee." And she says, "I'll come with you." So we get to the bathroom and there's a line of girls waiting, so Serine and I just stand there quietly, looking at each other from the corners of our eyes. Finally a stall opens up and it's my turn. So I go in, and she suddenly pushes her way in behind me.
"Oh, I'll just come in too," she says.
"Uhhh," I say, "Ok, but I have to pee."
"That's ok," she says. So, I sit down and start to pee. At that moment, Serine grabs my face and shoves her whole entire tongue down my throat. And. It. Is. AWESOME. We're making out like death row inmates and all the time I'm totally peeing. To this day, that's the closest to water sports that I've ever come. I stop kissing her only to wipe and pull up my pants and then we're back at it, slamming each other back and forth against the stall walls. The loud chatter of the line of waiting girls outside goes from 10 to dead silence in about five seconds as they realize what's going on.
"Let's get out of here," she says, coming up for air and all I can do is nod, take her hand, and walk out of the stall, past the line of gaping undergrads. One of which I did recognize as one of my Sociology 101 student. Whoops.
We go to her place. We're in her room. We're tearing off our shirts and sucking tongues, hands everywhere. She has amazing tits. I suddenly mentally turn into a sixteen year old boy. "Oh my god, boobs," I think. "I'm totally touching boobs right now. For real. Oh my god. This is so cool."
We're down to our panties and fall onto the bed. She's kissing down my body, my lips, my neck, my breasts, my stomach and I feel her hand tug on my panties. And then I remember.
Ok, backing up a bit. At this time, I also happened to be "seeing" this guy (read: fucking) who was like an undergrad, but he was in his 30s, all non-traditional student, total pill-popping, super dirty hippie Deadhead. Usually not my type, but hey. Central Illinois. Anyway, I'd let him come over and get stoned and go on and on and on about Durkheim and Max Weber and the sociological theory and blah blah blah, and finally he'd get around to fucking me. So at one point post coital, he looked at me and said "Why do you wax that?"
What? I asked.
"Your flower. The good Lord put petals on it for a reason. Let it groooow."
Well that was just about the dumbest thing anyone has ever said to me in or out of bed, but A) like I said, pickin's were slim and B) anything that promotes my laziness is ok by me. Don't shave you say? You don't have to ask me twice! So. I did not touch that shit for months. I was rockin' more 'fro than a late 70's Blacksploitation flick.
So right as Serine is about to pull down my panties to expose my "flower," I remembered that my garden more closely resembled the deepest of overgrown Amazonia than that of a tulip. I cringed, but there was no going back now. She pulled them down and I heard her gasp.
Gasp! she said and looked up at me.
"I have been waiting for a pussy like this!"
"What?" I asked.
"All you American girls are always so bare," she said in her thick accent. "Like little girl! I don't understand that. You are WOMAN. I love hair! I love this pussy!"
"Oh," I said. "Well. Good. Yayyy for me!"
She started kissing my stomach, moving down my legs, on to my inner thighs.
Oh my god, I thought. This is it. My most current number one fantasy is about to come true! A super fucking hot Eastern European girl has got me completely naked on her bed and is about go down on me! This is going to be awesome!! I laid back, shut my eyes, and awaited what was sure to be the kind of ecstasy that only a woman can bring to another.
What is she doing? I thought. Ok, ok, she's just warming up. No worries.
Why is she...? Why is she over there? What does she think that does? Because the answer is nothing. This is... Oh, wait. Ohhhh yeah. Right there! Good good. Just do that. Good.
Wait!! Why did she stop! Arrghghgh! This isn't the Red Lobster Combonation Platter, just pick ONE thing and stick to it!
This isn't working, I thought. My big theory of a woman knowing exactly what to do, down the drain. She was really bad. Now what do I do? I thought. Do I fake it? God I hate that, but ugh, this would probably classify as an emergency situation.
And I was considering just that, when she suddenly stopped and looked up at me.
"Mmm," she cooed. "I'm like your little kitty cat. Meow."
She went back down and started licking me again, purring like a cat.
Did she just meow into my pussy? I thought.
Yes, she did. Yes, she was. With every lick, she ended with a meow.
Lick, Meow. Lick, Meeeoooow.
Well that did it for me! Five more meows and my buzzer blew.
Ohhhhhhhh my god!!
Cats. Who knew?
I learned a very important lesson that day. You should never assume that someone is going to be good or bad at something soley based on their gender or appearance. It's wrong to stereotype. The other thing I learned is that Armenians are really hairy.
-by Jill Neumann
Saturday, May 30, 2009
It’s not just possessions that are left behind after sex; my self-respect will fall under his bed and I’ll never see it again. Or my hope to find a real man gets twisted in a ball at the bottom of his sheets and lost there next to a lone sock. Guys have left things at my place too and I haven’t deemed them important enough to return. So thanks for the Tupperware!
In my first week in Chicago I slept with a French tourist who I happened upon at the annual Rubber Ducky Race. He had this sexy scar on his eyebrow from ultimate fighting and his accent was too good to resist. At the end of the race he caught a rubber ducky that was thrown up to the crowd and gave it to me. We took it home right away so it could shower off the disgusting river water. His ducky was not so silly looking or flimsy as the rubber duckies bobbing in the Chicago River. He had the most enormous beautiful cock. After returning back to France he left the rubber ducky and also a map of Chicago which I found quite useful since I had just moved and hadn’t acquired one yet. I used this map to show the city around to an ex-boyfriend who came to visit soon after.
My ex quickly got bumped up from sleeping on the floor to sleeping in my queen bed. He had DE, delayed ejaculation, probably the only medical condition I will not donate money or run a race in the pursuit of a cure. He made me cum multiple times before he did.
So I slept with an ex and all I got was his Lincoln Park t-shirt that he forgot to pack. I wear it alone to bed sometimes and when I masturbate in it, I’m reminded that my vibrator batteries wear out a lot faster than he would have. (And those damn batteries are impossible to find- a conclusion that I came to since I couldn’t find them at Isam’s Food and Liquor across the street.)
Then there was John. John was in a rehab for rich kids up in Evanston. He was black with striking green eyes that got me hooked. We’d fuck in his room that was like a five star hotel suite. I tried to quit him several times but kept relapsing. I’d find myself stopping in after errands or anytime before his midnight curfew. A nice thing about seeing someone who isn’t allowed to leave without supervision is you can pretty much count on them always being near their bedroom. One day I swung by to have sex after purchasing a drying rack and promptly forgot it there. That week I finally got on the patch and kicked my John habit, never to see that drying rack again. It’s all terribly ironic because John never made me that wet in the first place.
I met someone new which always helps in the quitting process. It’s like trading cookies for cigarettes, diabetes for lung cancer. It’s not exactly good for you, but it’s a step up. However my plan for casual sex was foiled when I actually started to like this new guy. He had a good sense of humor and I loved the way he loved dogs. We spent a few weeks hanging out not touching at all, not even an accidental arm graze. One evening we were watching movies after I had a root canal operation and I couldn’t have felt less sexy. I couldn’t feel my entire face. Miraculously I ended up in his bed. I wish I could have felt his lips on mine because I bet it was damn good. When we had sex, (just an hour before the November Sunday Night Sex Show), I wanted the sex between us to be amazing because to me, he was the most amazing man I’d met in Chicago. He borrowed a book of mine, The Prophet that my grandmother gave me for graduation. I’m really close to my grandmother but wow she’d be shocked if she knew the things I wanted to do to him. When I wrote her letters I didn’t exactly go into detail on how much I loved it when he came in my mouth. Khalil Gibran, however, I don’t believe would be appalled in the slightest, based on his illustrations. I could feel him lose interest in me and so I did the sophisticated adult thing and got drunk at a friends house and dictated an email that she wrote to him saying I could never see him again. I wished I had waited to get my grandmother’s book back but there is never really the right time to act irrationally about someone you like. I pictured The Prophet collecting dust on his bookshelf with my grandmother’s handwriting inside and my heart being used as a bookmark. He did write back: “Thanks for the fun times!” Like I’m fucking Sea World or some amusement park. We’re glad you enjoyed your stay.
Feeling the sting of rejection I ignored better reason and agreed to a New Years Eve date with a guy named Nick I met at a party. He was incredibly intelligent and I do like a guy with something going on upstairs but it’s also nice if he has a well-built staircase. This guy’s staircase was not made out of chiseled marble. Nick’s staircase was more of the kind you’d find leading up to the old servants quarters in Paris: narrow and made of wood that you think will break at any step. So instead of mounting a gorgeous staircase leading me into 2009, I slipped on lime juice and fell down a flight of stairs (the kind of stairs I’d want to fuck- hard and tall). It hurt like hell and I seriously injured my ass. I spent the rest of the night in his bed with a bag of frozen peas on my butt since he didn’t have an icepack. I could hardly move without shooting pain up my spine. Despite my throbbing ass, I guided his hand down to finger me and it felt unbelievable. Completely forgetting my broken butt, I let myself succumb to the pleasure of his finger and tongue on my clit. The next morning I limped away, leaving my contact case on his bathroom sink.
I was surprised by how it wasn’t easy to replace him or the contact case right away. Where the fuck can a girl find a CVS and a good fuck in Rogers Park? Wine glasses worked as a temporary replacement for both: filled with wine during the day and contact solution by night.
To date I haven’t had sex since the Bush administration which has been good for the inventory of my stuff but I’d trade a set of headphones or panties for an orgasm right about now. I’m not too concerned- I’ll be leaving something somewhere with someone in no time.
And one of these days I’ll go out and get a new drying rack,
but they should know that they’re never getting me back.