Quality Control

I was 13 years old the first time a boy went down on me. He was also 13 and it was on the cross-country trail that connected the middle school we attended to the high school we would be attending in a year and a half. A couple of girls in our class came looking for us, and while they knew we were messing around, they were not prepared for what they rolled up on that fateful winter’s day. Thank God for curiosity. Had they not been snooping, no one would have believed it otherwise: that a boy went down on a girl. Even then I had to wonder, “Who taught him this?”  There was never even any pay back, it was so quick and suddenly there were two girls watching us with their mouths wide-open in disbelief. You have to understand where that put me in the order of things. It would still be at least another year before the advent of oral into the average teenager’s diet, and that was still mostly girls going down on boys. The first vestiges of experimentation is usually attributed to the girl, as soon as she gets her braces off.

While playing the vision of his bobbing, blond head lapping me up, I began to think about what it must be like down there. So while laying in bed, I reached in with my finger and tasted it. I knew, even then, that I was embarking on a charmed sexual existence and I had to be sure that my pussy tasted good. Thankfully, it did.

I have to admit, I check myself every so often. Whether on the lips of someone who has just indulged or the trusty finger-test. A friend of mine was shocked to hear that this, I was more shocked that she hasn’t ever wondered about her own vaginal flavor and indulged.  No well-trained chef would put the sauce out there without knowing that it tasted good and fresh. Why should I be any different?

Happy. Thanks. Giving.

Raaaaaaandom hook-up Thanksgiving weekend with a guy I know from around a certain scene of cats I party with once in blue moon. I was a little surprised when he started texting me, then a couple days later more texts ensued and the level of intimacy was raised. He wasn’t at all bashful about filling me in on his own latest escapades, until finally I had to let him know that a panty change was in my immediate future. That’s when I get the address. Showed up and he was an absolute gentleman. Drinks, pre-requisite convo, then the clothes came off and we went to the bedroom. He was incredibly giving. I am so totally into a good fingering and he was not afraid to go down like a champ. It’s pretty obvious that this man has been around and he had technique down to the numbers. Fast little tongue on that fellow, I climaxed twice during that session. We took a break, watched a movie, cuddled (funny how this happened in the middle, not the beginning). We decided to get ready for bed, because it was a school night for me. Let me tell you that this player had an arsenal of new toothbrushes under the sink, all I had to do was pick a color and go. Now that takes some planning. I’m left wondering just how much money a month this guy spends on toothbrushes.  We slept for about an hour, then during some half-awake cuddle session he got hard. Hard.

I’m 5’2 and when he slid his hard cock in, it filled me up completely. The only thing I can compare it to is a can of cranberry jelly. Stay with me on this one; the goal of a can of cranberry jelly is to get the cranberry jelly out of the can in one beautifully, congealed loaf. If the loaf is standing erect, you should be able to just put the can back over it, and let the jelly slide in and out, always filling in the circumference of the can airtight, until it’s ready to serve. Well, that’s exactly how a good cock should feel, like it’s taking up the whole space over and over. I hope he keeps my toothbrush on reserve.

Ah, Serge….

Double Dipped

I had sex with two different dudes in one night. Not at the same time. I had sex with one guy, then about 3 hours later had sex with the other. This is probably the fourth time this has happened to me. I say it that way because it has never been anything that I planned, it just kind of happens. I guess that’s what they mean by when it rains it pours. The second was far better than first, so I’m glad the whole thing went down, so to speak. The first dude came all over my stomach, so I have to admit it felt a little awkward when dude number two started kissing and licking there. I kept writhing around, trying to keep his tongue on my side or more near my breasts. I think he noticed because he said I tasted salty. I finally had to tell him, “I’m really ticklish on my  belly.” We continued for hours, sans the tummy play.

Hey, Man, Sorry About Your Air Mattress…

I didn’t think we would really pop it.

Young Buck, Pretty Cock

Well-groomed, hot-body, not the brightest bulb in the box, but I wasn’t looking for someone to talk to. At least not in the intellectual manner. The cock was pretty. I was impressed and I have laid on eyes on a lot of cock. It’s the type of cock that should be used as a mold for dildos. Seriously. He was very proud of his abdominal muscles and of re-iterating the fact that he had done 500 crunches that morning. This was, of course, a segway for him to lift his shirt, which leads to the shirt coming off and my hand running across the muscles and down into the pants. For what? Pretty cock. Did I mention how cleanly shaved he was? I mean balls and everything. Not a hair to impede any sort of access to the cock. I’m going to take at stab at this and say it was at least ten inches. And tan, as he also has a thing for tanning beds.

Young Buck likes things rough. I was a bit shocked when he grabbed me around the throat, to the point where I actually said, out loud, “Oh, you’re one of those.” He replied with, “Shut the fuck up and take off your pants.” He was physical. He liked to stand on the bed and tear it up from behind, which was rather amazing considering he was 6’3″. “I wish you could see this,” he was able to grunt out while riding me, standing, as I was on all fours with my ass tilted high towards him. I wish I could too, but the mirrors in the room were poorly placed in relation to the bed. He switched positions quickly, not really giving me the chance to get my own thing going on. At some point, Young Buck’s pretty cock was back in my mouth and before I could even touch myself he had shot off. That was a bit of a let down. He then told me to spit it out (duh, asshole). I guess he’s used to women doing that because we only swallow when we’re in love.

Then, he left. Not that I mind, because I find it difficult sleeping next to strange and I really wanted to sleep, but I was engorged. That’s right, I had a case of female blue balls because I had not gotten mine when Young Buck decided to peace out. I sang vibrato for a minute, if you get my drift, to take care of things. It’s going to be a few more years before Young Buck thinks less about himself and more about the pussy laid open before him. Making a man cum is easy, making a woman cum is a phenomenal skill and a thing of beauty to behold. A man with a certain amount of sexual prowess wears the making of a woman climaxing like a notch on his belt, or on his bed post, which ever is closer. What’s the point of a pretty cock if you’re not going to use it to spread joy and peace through the land? Such a waste…

Learn To Live With It

It’s been a while. I was out experimenting, with different ideas. To be honest I got called out about something and to prove a point, to myself more than anyone, I decided to get with the program and join Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous or SLAA. Now I have to admit when I first heard that a group of sex addicts are going to be meeting up over coffee, the wheels start turning and my imagination runs wild with possibilities. The first thought being that I would meet some lovely, nasty, beastly beauty of a man and we relapse together in the parking lot after the meeting. So to avoid such a thing, my introductory meeting was women’s only. I’ve been known to switch-hit, but muff-diving as a way of life has never been my thing. This was the worst slumber party I have ever been to and it only lasted an hour. A lot of good-looking, well-educated women crying over married men who they not only work with but are having affairs with. The most depressing are the lot who have been attending meetings for five years, still bereft over their “qualifier,” the term used for the person who made them realize that there was a “problem.” I never got on board with this term. For some reason I like to refer to mine as the “outlier,” because statistically speaking what we had was so far off the charts, how could I have not been addicted to it.

My next meeting was co-ed and far more entertaining. We go around the circle introducing ourselves. “My name is Whiptcreeem and I am a sex and love addict.” Then everyone says, “Hello, Whiptcreem” and you lay it down for the next two minutes as to why you are there, leaving out the really dirty details (yawn). There was the “player,” who by his own admission had no other talent but sex, so from high school on he has honed his skills. Then the teacher, who turned on his overhead projector, connected to his laptop, connected to the internet, still on the craigslist ad he was cruising before the middle schoolers took their seats in class that day. We had a stalker, a couple gay men mentally abused by their much older boyfriends over the years, the soon-to-be ex-wife of a musician just off suicide watch and a handful of “anorexics,” the avoidants of any and all forms of intimacy.

I never thought that I would be someone who in the midst of some life folly, would feel the overwhelming need to have to go to a meeting. However, I found the meetings cathartic, insightful, and a  little humorous. When faced with some work difficulties,  something that had nothing whatsoever to do with sex, I was off to the nearest meeting. Fearing that I was late, I sped through rush hour traffic, ran from the parking lot to the meeting room and found three people, one woman and two men, gathered around a table. I plopped down in a chair, out of breath at this point,  and I introduced myself “My name is Whiptcreeem and I am a sex and love addict.” Silence. Then it hit me: “This isn’t the SLAA meeting is it?” They shook their heads “no.” Unabashed, I apologized and went back to the car.

I haven’t been back to a meeting since. I’m not ruling it out, I’m just saying that after a lot of soul-searching, I’m not ready to hang it up yet. And why should I? judging from this past weekend, some of these boys still need to learn a thing or two.  By all means, stay tuned…

Finding The Right Vessel

New Year’s resolutions are made to be broken say the folks who break them. Sometime this past January, I joined their ranks. While not clear on the exact wording of my resolution, it had something to do with making an effort to cultivate a “normal” relationship or one that gives the illusion of normalcy (mediocrity), so I joined a dating website. These are interesting institutions, but just because you pay thirty bucks a month, doesn’t mean it’s guaranteed to work. What is guaranteed, in Los Angeles anyway, is that if a man invites you over for dinner at his place it’s a clear indication that sex will follow. It was our second date. The drinks were great, the main course was nothing more than some sort of pasta and broccoli, dessert was three minutes of tube steak. There seems to be something about the way I flex my back muscles, arms outstretched across the headboard, while getting it from behind that makes a guy blow is wad. I should know better by now. I left feeling less than filled up.

Enter the start of my second week of work, behind the scenes, on some late, cable-channel films, aka Skinemax. Insult to injury is that I have been watching young, up and cumming porn stars dry-fuck each other for a week (as this is “soft-core” they don’t really do it in these, but the same kids do all the porn). I was more impressed with the female performers so far. Then one tall, blond, wall of a man and veteran of the genre rolled onto set. He seemed trashy and full of himself. After his first scene of the morning, it was obvious that he had made some of the men around set uncomfortable. I guess it was the way he reached around and grabbed his co-star (a leggy brunette) by the throat while he fucked her from behind. No one noticed me move closer to the monitor intrigued by his method. Or maybe it was the way he repeatedly smacked her ass, not hard, just enough.

A mild flirtation led to the divulgence that he was in from San Diego and needed a place to stay for the night. I needed someone to do it right. After work, I met him back at my place. I showed him my bedroom. He went down on me and plugged every hole he could find with a digit. Then we started the intercourse portion of our evening. For a second he almost let go. He got up out of bed abruptly and stretched. I was charmed by his consideration. He’s a biter, so we wrestled around a bit more before I got on top and rode that shit. Being much bigger than I, it was nothing for him to just flip me any which way he wanted and even take one opportunity to spit on my asshole,  a bit forward for a first night.  At some point there we were, looking into each other’s eyes with hands on each others throats. No asphyxiation (I don’t do that anymore) just enough pressure to let the other person know that we are there and long enough for a simultaneous climax.

Having some professional cock more than made up for the disappointing flop that had occurred the night before. The dating website guy called, but I never called back. I just can’t respect a guy who does it on the second date and I don’t feel the need to go back down that road if I don’t get off. My porn star, on the other hand, has been inviting me down to San Diego for a couple of weeks now and let me know when he was going on a small tour with Chippendale’s. Impressive? Yes. Dateable? No.  As they say, “A safe port in every town.”

Craigslist

Well, the picture was hot enough anyway. A man with a thinly built, muscular frame, jeans worn loose around the waist and a chain menacingly wrapped around his hand, it was taken from a low-angle. Neck down only, too soon to start talking faces when trolling for sex on Craigslist. There is a whole array of entertaining images on Craigslist when you get away from the furniture ads and actually venture over to the personals section or more specifically “casual encounters.” The guys who post cock shots, the silly cartoons of fetishists, the filled up frames of BBW’s (big, beautiful women), personally I would stay away from anyone who hand scribbles out their own face with a Sharpie, but I don’t judge others for being into that sort of thing. Back to him: he wants to dominate me, tie me up, whip me and give me permission to cum. Not me in particular, yet, but whoever is reading his ad.
Formalities: I respond with a pic and sales pitch of my body and sexual prowess. He responds with more pics featuring his face and inquiring to my thoughts/feelings on anal. He’s not that bad, a bit cute actually. Let’s just call him “Craig”. Craig and I meet for coffee. The body is there, but , well let’s just say he takes better pictures. Still, I’m horny and I can work with this. Craig is into BD/sm, which stands for a myriad of different things. Bondage, Discipline (or Dominance)/submission (or sadism and masochism)*, I’m sure it all depends on what part of the country you’re from. Do you see how “BD” is capitalized and how it looms large over “sm?” These people take it that seriously. Somebody had to think that up.
It doesn’t go down after coffee, which I would have been cool with. It goes down a couple nights later after drinks at a bar near his house. For a guy looking for sex on a classifieds website, Craig really likes to talk and hang out. He’s a sweet nerd from a good upbringing and is a working professional at something I don’t remember. We go back to his place, I’m checking out the exits, I text a friend the address just in case I wind up missing, we get through the door and goofy, affable Craig says, very sternly, “Take your clothes off, get on your knees.”
I obey. “You will address me as Sir or Master.” I reply, “Yes, Sir.” Then Craig gets to work pulling out a leather collar, leather locking wrist cuffs, ankle cuffs, and chains. He painstakingly fashions each one around the appropriate appendage and locks each one with tiny, little locks with a tiny, little key. He handcuffs my hands, and chains my hands to my feet. For extra measure, he chains me, via the collar, to the TV stand, just in case I try to make a run for it. There I am, lying naked on this guy’s floor, chained to the entertainment center and I think, “Damn, all it took was two vodka tonics.” Craig is manically clinging chains behind me, like Old Marley coming to warn Scrooge. This goes on for ten minutes while he rigs the chains through the, yes, metal d-rings attached to studs in the ceiling. They appeared only slightly conspicuous in the nautical-themed apartment decorated by his mother, come to find out later. As I lay there on the floor, I realize that none of this is about me and I don’t mean the de-humanizing aspect of BD/sm play, but this guy is into the meticulous set-up, the sound of chains, the pomp and circumstance, ritualistic aspect.
Eventually, Craig unshackles my feet and leads me from the floor to the new set-up and chains me, arms splayed upward and legs chained wide apart to two more d-rings bolted in the floor that were hidden in the shag carpet. He places a gag in my mouth and I protest when he tries to blindfold me, a wish he acquiesces to as a whole part of this lifestyle is into respecting people’s boundaries. It is in this position that he proceeds to spank me, hard, with a leather paddle until my body is simply convulsing forward, using the strength of the chains to catch and throw me in this ecstasy. All the while screaming and spitting with wild abandon through the gag in my mouth. Saliva ran down my chin, a sight that Craig enjoyed to no end. He whipped out a vibrator and used it on my clit.
I begged him to take me to the bedroom, again leading me there with my little collar and chain. Once we get to the bed, he pulls the chains that were connected to the bed frame out and begins the whole process again. He has a large, beautiful cock. I end up spending the night. However, we never got it right, for me anyway. Too much stimulation when I was chained in the upright position and not enough when I was chained to the bed. If I had a free hand, I could have corrected this matter and gotten off. But like I said earlier, I don’t think it was about me.
Craig invited me out for dinner a couple nights later and I joined him. It is here that I realized that I was not going to see him again. It became obvious that he wanted more than a kinky, on-line hook up. He spoke of couples he knew who had met in “the lifestyle” and have since gotten married. To be honest, I felt a little bad when he started talking about special ordering me my own set of wrist cuffs for my tiny wrists. I could see where this was going. I let the fling die, where it was born, in an e-mail. It goes without saying, “You can chain me up, but you can’t tie me down.”

* source: wikipedia

Admitting Defeet

We had been friends for a few years. I could always count on him for a fine dinner, a glass of wine and a friendly good-bye. Nothing that remotely ever even smelled of sex or attraction, except maybe on my part in the beginning. That moment had been extinguished by the wise words of a now dearly departed confidante, “Sometimes, it’s good to  just be good friends.”

Honestly though, I spent a couple of years masturbating to thoughts of him. I held my breath at the end of every one of those purely platonic date nights in suspense only to drive off in my car, alone, repeating, “Sometimes, it’s good to just be good friends,” over and over until I could get home and release my frustrations on my own.

A couple of weeks ago, after a day of cruising galleries and a candlelit dinner, we decided to throw caution to the wind and do the damn thing. Five years of wondering and agonizing were about to culminate in a little, gorgeous boutique hotel in a dreamy college town where neither of us lived (neutral territory). He laid on the bed, inviting me to join him. I sat on top of him and kissed him. No turning back; now or never. Clothes came off, condom on and I was thrilled at his size, he had been holding out on me.

Then shit got awkward, in the worst way. Maybe it was the alcohol, perhaps the lights were too bright or the build up was just too much. Two good friends of the opposite sex finally dive in and for all our wonderful conversations on art, life, and love we don’t know where to put our arms. However, we persisted, we had to make it work even if the condom was too small. I reflected on how unlike all those fantasies rehearsed solo in my bed this had become and I started to rue de-robing. Then, in one final attempt to get this humdinger off the ground, he turned to me and said, “Maybe if you put your feet on it.”

I had been wearing sandals the whole day, but it was worth a try. He certainly did come back to life, for another minute anyway, preferring both feet as opposed to one I learned. After several more attempts at intercourse, it became apparent that the feet were the catalyst, like waving hands to control the oscillators and amplitude of a theremin, it only came to pitch when my feet were in direct contact. The sexiness of the moment was gone for me. Nothing left to do but leave him with a kiss as he jacked off with the hotel lotion.

I got to my car and started the drive home, all the while thinking, “Sometimes, it’s good to just be good friends.”