Sex-Specters, Orgasm Demons, and Jizz Sheets: An Evolution of my perceptions of other people’s sex lives and *my* space

 

I was in a love-full and sex-less marriage. I don’t remember the last time I had sex with my husband before he died, but I’d estimated it’d been at least three years, if not longer.

When I started dating again…well, the first guy was poly and his partner wasn’t comfortable with him having sex with me because I have genital herpes. So, we didn’t have any sort of genital contact in that direction. My mouth made plenty of contact with his genitals, though.

Then the second guy was deathly afraid of my fearsome hoo-hah. He was also attempting poly. He ended up having sex with his other partner but continued to refuse me, though he said he loved me. He just couldn’t bring himself to cross that line.

Again, he had no issue with my touching his genitals with my mouth.

By then, I’d re-discovered the local kink community and started throwing house parties now and then, inviting friends over for weekends of food and fun.

The one thing I asked was “don’t have sex in my house.” See, ’cause if I wasn’t having sex in my house then I didn’t want anybody else to have sex in my house. It was my space and if I didn’t get to use it that way, I didn’t want anybody else to use it that way.

Not all my friends got that memo, and it’s not like I had the rules posted on the wall. One of my friends and their partner went to go take a nap in the guest room, and ended up having sex while I was in the house entertaining other guests. I could hear them. Eventually, I got over it, though I was admittedly annoyed they left the sheets on the bed at the end of the weekend for me to change.

A year later, I had another friend come stay with a partner for an extended period of time. That friend knew how I felt about being abstinent in a sexually charged world and asked if it would be okay for them to have sex with each other while staying with me. I still wasn’t having sex, but …whatever. It was a guest room and it had already happened with other people, so why not?

I told them as long as they washed their own sheets that was fine.

It wasn’t fun, knowing other people were doing things in my house that I couldn’t do because the string of partners I’d encountered up to then didn’t want to do it with me. Of the mouthfuls of men who didn’t fuck me over the course those two years, there were a couple I would have wanted to have all-the-way sex with if they’d lasted long enough for me to trust them.

All of them opted out.

I’m glad of it now. I’m especially grateful for the one who opted out because he KNEW I had feelings for him that he didn’t return. His opt-out wasn’t about the herpes, it was about being a good friend and not tarnishing that friendship by leading me on any further.

Eventually I met someone who became (and still is) the partner who didn’t opt out. I recall the first time he invited me to stay at his place, which he shares with one of his partners. I jumped into my poly chatroom and asked a bunch of questions. What is the proper etiquette for this? They don’t have a guest room. I’ll be shagging on her bed. Should I offer to wash the sheets? Bring my own? How do I ensure that I am not encroaching on her space?

And someone in the chatroom reminded me, “it’s his space, too.”

Turns out, if my metamour takes any issue with others sleeping in her bed, it’s a surprise to me. Our partner takes it upon himself to wash and change the sheets before and after I leave. I help him re-make the bed on the few occasions I stay there.

I realized I truly admired her for this. The more I’d think about it, the more my original feelings about other people having sex in my house feel odd to me now. Like, who cares? I stay in hotel beds all the time that have probably had thousands upon thousands of people fucking on them before I got there.

That never bothered me. It’s just a physical space, and …yes, technically within my house that I own it is my space, but it’s still just space. There aren’t little sex-specters hanging around haunting me…”ooOOoooOooOOOooooo! I am the ghost of your sexless past, phi!”

And yet, not even two months ago I wrote a post here asking if it was normal to feel weird about wanting to masturbate in my coworker’s apartment while she was out of town and letting me stay there during my water-leak fiasco.

Spoiler alert: I did. She’s none the wiser and I’m sure she’s not being haunted by my orgasm-demons; though I’ll admit didn’t do it on her bed. I sat on the floor in the bathroom.

All of this was inspired by a friend’s recent situation. While the friend is out of town, their partner is entertaining a guest in their shared apartment. It’s all well-and-good, except just prior to the trip, this guest and my friend had a falling out, and now they are not feeling so good about having their space “invaded” by someone they’re not on good terms with.

And I see the point. But I also see the point of the people in the chatroom a long time ago who reminded me that “it’s his space, too” and regardless of metamour-relations, their partner is still entitled to use their space the way they want to within the boundaries and agreements of their particular poly relationship, which (up to this point) includes inviting other partners over when one is out of town.

It was interesting, though, as I was listening to my friend’s story, how different my reaction is today as to how it would have been two years ago when the thought of someone else having sex in my house made me feel uneasy, much less in my bed with my partner.

In this particular instance, I think I would feel similarly – that someone who’d disrespected me should not be taking advantage of my space for their orgasms; but then again – I live alone. I think if my partner lived with me, I might have to swallow my discomfort because it’d be his space, too.

But, that particular example notwithstanding, I no longer feel that other people (in good standing with me) fucking in my house would bother me, as long as they wash their jizz-sheets and re-make the bed before they leave.

Go figure.

Irreplaceable

I had a dream last night. It involved time travel. There was one of him and he was going through time collecting all of me at different ages and in different timelines. It was like a poly dream where he was still my only one, but he had several of me and he loved them all dearly.

I told him about it as I woke up. “Luck you,” he said. And I replied, “Nah, lucky YOU.”

I mean, he had a half-dozen me’s to keep him busy. But each one of me still had to spend time without him, and that was sad.

I thought back to the dream. There was an old version of me with grey hair who wore frumpy sweaters. He loved her, too.

“Whenever I’m with you…. no, wait. Even when I’m not with you,” I corrected myself, “Since we’ve been together, I sometimes forget that….,” I paused, trying to figure out how to say it right. “I forget that I’m not perfect. Or that I’m not everyone’s ideal. I forget that I’m not thin.”

He smiled. He understood what I was trying to say. Since I’ve been with him, I forget that I’m fat. I forget that the form-fitting dresses aren’t really “sexy” to the rest of the world. I forget to feel insecure about myself. “I see me the way you see me,” I said.

“Well,” he answered, “I am unique in the world. Then again, there could be dozens of others who think like I do that could replace me.”

“No,” I said. “Nobody could ever replace you in my life. And I don’t think anybody could ever replace me in yours, either.”

He shook his head, agreeing with me. “No, that would be impossible,” he said pulling me close.

Poly or not, he loves me for who I am. At any age. What we have is unique in the world, and nobody could ever replace us in each other’s lives. That’s enough for my monogamous heart to feel secure in my relationship.

I think that’s what that dream was telling me, but I only need to catch him staring at me with his big loving eyes to know it when I’m awake, too.

And *scene*.

She wasn’t prone to blushing; hardly anything really embarrassed her.

But this.

“So, is that a yes?” he asked without a trace of bias one way or another. It was all up to her.

“I think so,…” she said.

“Think so? I think it’s better if you know so.”

She looked over at the other side of the room where the person in question sat chatting with a friend. She’d enjoyed chatting with him. She wasn’t emotionally connected, but she liked him as a person.

“Yes.”

“Okay. I love you.”

“I love you too.”



He’d already ordered her to strip down, which she did without delay. It wouldn’t be the first time she was naked in the dungeon, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. She felt a shiver rush through her body as he stood with his back to her, arranging items from his toy bag onto the table. Damned place got the air conditioning fixed a little too well, she thought to herself.

Meanwhile, she saw the occasional person walking by, sometimes pausing to take a look. It was a slow party, and early still. Not too many people milling around. She didn’t make eye contact, but she kept note of how many paused and how many didn’t through her peripheral vision.

He turned to face her and smirked. “Turn around,” he ordered, and she did, facing the far wall of the cell. He came up behind her and pressed his still-clothed body against hers. “Are you ready?” he murmured in her ear.

“For what?” she asked, her voice barely registering below a squeak.

At once, one arm reached around her throat and put her in a choke hold while the other hand clamped over her mouth.

“Today’s the day,” he whispered. He pivoted her around to face out toward the hallway. They were no longer alone in that cell.



It’d been months since anybody but her lover had so much as touched her. And here was this man, this other man, running his fingers slowly up her torso and over her breasts. Her lover kept her in the hold, as if presenting his possession to a new friend.

Her pulse racing, she closed her eyes to try to relax. She sank back into her lover for support and shifted her thoughts to focus on the sensations rather than the context.

When she felt a warm, wet mouth surround her nipple she moaned. At that point, her lover’s arms released her from his hold and began caressing her skin, down her arms, over her hips, and down her thighs. The mouth had moved up from her nipples and over her chest and was now kissing her neck. She could smell his shampoo, and it was pleasant.

Just then, her lover’s fingernails dug into her thighs and she gasped, wrapping her arms around the other man for support as she breathed through the pain.

Her lover chuckled softly in her ear.

“Last chance,” he murmured quietly. “Yes or no?” he asked.

Breathlessly sandwiched between the two men, she answered in the affirmative. “Yes, please.”



Together they led her to the low, padded table, positioned against the padded wall. “Get up, on your back,” her lover spoke as he patted the table with his hand.

She did as she was told and lay her head back. She lay there, looking up at the winch over her head and began to shiver again. Where had they gone?

Moments later, she heard their footsteps returning and each of them grab her by an ankle and bend her knee up. In unison, they each cast a coil of rope and began tying her legs into position – bent, with her ankle to her thigh – and the spread and secured to the legs of the table.

She felt the warmth of a tongue on her clit and moaned. Without knowing whether it was her lover, or the other, she was at their mercy. It didn’t take long, however, before she knew the answer to her silent question.

With a hop onto the table, the other positioned his now naked body in a straddle over her face. He leaned forward against the padded wall to guide his cock past her lips.

There it was. The point of no return. In her thoughts she took a mental picture of the scene. She checked in with her emotions. And she realized…

…she was enjoying it.

As the shock wore off her instincts kicked in and she began rolling her tongue and suckling at the cock in her mouth. She reached her hands up and placed them over his ass and gently urged him to push deeper. He moaned.

Her lover laughed. “There’s my whore,” he said, jamming his fingers into her cunt.

Her first orgasm happened just as the other’s cock pushed past the barriers and into her throat. She dug her fingernails into the flesh of his ass as she writhed, unable to shut her legs or shift the weight of him off her chest.

With a low groan, the other pulled out of her mouth and climbed down. She heard the sound of the condom wrapper being torn open just as her lover had leaned over the table to kiss her mouth. With one hand still rubbing her clit he filled her hungry mouth with his tongue, and she reached up to cradle his face lovingly.

He moved his head back to inches and looked into her eyes. They held their gaze locked, just like that, as the other penetrated her cunt slowly.

It was like that when the second orgasm came. Her lover’s fingers circling her clit, his eyes recording every movement and emotion in her face, as the other took his pleasure from her dripping wet and open cunt.

“God damn,” said the other as her cries and moans echoed off the walls.

“My good whore,” her lover responded, as he climbed up onto the table and took his position inside her mouth.



She’d lost track of time. She remembered some time passing with her lover in her mouth and the other in her cunt when she heard the question being asked, “Does she take it up the ass?”

She remembered the two of them working to unsecure the rope from the table , and unwrap her legs from their binds.

She remembered being moved off the table, fondled and kissed by the other while her lover put a condom on and lay himself down on the table.

She remembered climbing on top of him and lowering her cunt onto his cock.

And she remembered the look of pure, hedonistic joy as they both felt the other’s cock enter into her ass without too much difficulty.

She’d lost track of her orgasms.

She only knew when she’d shifted from “yes, …fuck yes….more, more…” to “Ohmygod please come…please, please come….”

Other came first. He pulled out and stumbled over to sit in a chair. Lover was next. She lay there, with his cock still throbbing inside her, her face buried into the nape of his neck.

When she lifted her head up and looked into his face, he was all smiles. She smiled, too, and kissed him passionately.

Slowly they disconnected their bodies, and she looked over at other, who was drinking from a cup of water and seemingly enjoying the view.

“So…hello. Nice to see you again,” she said with a glimmer in her eye.

“Nice to see you too!” he responded cheerfully.

They all laughed and began picking up their clothes and the rope and cleaning off the equipment.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a couple of the spectators quietly and respectfully shuffle off and leave them to decompress alone.

Emergency kittens, orgasms, and Firefly in the wake of an unsettling election

Originally posted for my Fetlife audience; but lightly modified for a broader audience.


The cycle of writing topics on FetLife generally works as such: a thing happens. There is a divisiveness in opinion on said thing. Lots of posts start flying back and forth with heavy, anger-laden commentary within them, and inevitably, some people who grow weary of the fighting say something like “Can we get back to the kink?”

Then, this last time, that very request became cause for further divisiveness.

This entire election has been emotionally draining. Just a few weeks ago I even wrote about how difficult it was to find my “smut” in light of all the ickiness I felt about the national narrative on women.

Through it all, I never stopped being kinky.

I might have been less inspired to write about it; but there was still rope, spanking, hard fucking, throat grabbing, and cocksucking going on in my life.

I even masturbated to orgasm the night of the election, but I had trouble doing it. See, it was after 3am. I needed to get some sleep. I know that orgasms make me sleepy.

I literally justified an orgasm to myself.

Since the election, I’ve been more vocal on facebook and a lot more engaging with conservative family members has been happening. Those of my fetfriends who intersect with me on facebook have seen what’s happening there.

It’s exhausting.

And last night I reached a point where I needed to shut it down. I watched television shows, funny youtube videos, and browsed cat-related subreddits. I also ate a pizza and had some cookies.

And then, I felt like writing something; but I didn’t want it to be serious. I wanted to write something sexy. Or funny OR ANYTHNG BUT SERIOUS.

And similarly to that November 9th orgasm, I had to justify it to myself.

But, really, I don’t. I won’t speak for everybody, but I am a multidimensional person. Fetlife (and this blog) isn’t a place where I only express one part of myself (the kinky part); but the only place where I can express ALL of myself. That means sometimes my posts are thoughtful and introspective, and sometimes they’re sexy and drool-inducing, and sometimes they’re just plain ol’ attempts at humor.

I’m all of those things. Thoughtful, sexy, funny. I’m all of those things all the time, even when I don’t particularly feel one in the moment.

I keep remembering when Lorne Michaels of SNL asked Rudy Giuliani after 9/11 “Can we be funny?” and the then-mayor of New York responded, “Why start now?”

This world is far from perfect. I’m going to do my best to shed light on some of its imperfections and work to make them better; but at the same time, I can’t allow myself to become hyperfocused on just those ugly parts of life. There is beauty, and laughter, and passion, and love in my life as well.

So whenever I need to take a break and look at EmergencyKittens on twitter or take a smut break or go masturbate ’cause it helps me relax…

I’m gonna. And you can, too.

3:00 AM; November 9, 2016

I went to sleep when my candidate suggested that we do so. I can understand her not wanting us to be awake to bear witness to the hour in which she conceded this election to a reality television show star.

But, I woke up a few hours later and couldn’t help it. I refreshed the NPR page and saw that the nightmare was, in fact, a reality.

There are those who earnestly voted for him. And there those who refused to vote for either of them. Some of the former are people who fall into the category of “people I love,” distasteful as it might feel at the moment.

I keep hearing Haley Joel Osment’s voice in my head: I see racist people. Some of them don’t even know they’re racist.

Those same people are now calling for the “reunification” of the America they worked so hard to divide and segregate. They’re also the ones daring to question Secretary Clinton’s class for not making a public concession. WAIT, WHAT? NOW ‘CLASS’ IS IMPORTANT TO YOU?

There’s so much I want to be able to post on Facebook, but I have to be more careful and measured there, as the bonds of family could potentially be at risk. I did manage this, though:

I will defend my rights and the rights of the people I care for. Understand that I will not be forgiving of those who work for or support the dismantling of hard-won rights of women, the LGBTQ community, or people of color. In the coming years, watch what you consider to be a “joke” because we won’t be laughing. “Locker Room Talk” will not be tolerated. “She can’t take a joke” will not be tolerated. Hate speech will not be tolerated. I am setting my boundaries as a woman and as an ally to those who are frequently marginalized by a society that decided it no longer had to hide its ugly side. Be mindful of these boundaries if my continued presence in your life matters.

And it goes for people here, as well. Most of those who remain on my friends list now are not people who would give me cause to worry about any of this; but a few months ago I did unfriend someone for making a joke at the expense of trans people.

I see the emboldened already calling for us to get to work to make a difference in two years during the midterms and again in four if/when this country holds another election. And yes, …absolutely, yes. This experience, this election, has been a wake up call for me. I now see a truth that I was blind to before, and I saw it months and months before yesterday’s election.

This country is racist, misogynistic, xenophobic, and intolerant.

I didn’t want to believe that and my head was in the sand, but it is no longer.

We got passive. I got passive. I relied on shit just working itself out.

I want to be wrong about this. I want nothing more than to be absolutely wrong about the doomsday scenario that is playing out in my head under four years of a reality show regime.

Fuckin’ rub it in my face if I am and I will gladly take it because this is one instance where I REALLY don’t want to be right.

I am scared. I know so many of us are. But, as I said earlier tonight – the scared will only last so long. Soon, the anger will set in – and with it, the drive to push back and reclaim the relationship I want to be in with my country.

Until then, for those who are frightened and for those whose lives are far more at risk in the upcoming four years because your outward appearance doesn’t blend in as well as mine does; know that I and so many others like me are in your corner. Call upon us as allies and let the strength of our voices together keep you as safe and protected as we can.

With love,

phi

Bathtub Drabble

When a challenge is presented, one either elects to accept or reject it. Should one accept said challenge, one should fulfill said objective to the best of her ability.

Which brings me to this point, crafting one hundred words via text while in a hot, bubble filled tub as suggested by he whose suggestions are accepted with similar reverence as the above referenced challenges.

I recall a time in the not terribly distant past in which another challenge presented itself within the confines of this very same tub.

I have twelve words to convey that underwater blowjobs are indeed possible.

More November Dribbles and Drabbles

November Dribbles: Perfect Circle

Someone over on FetLife created a November Dribble/Drabble challenge.  A drabble is a story made up of exactly 100 words (title not included in this version of the challenge).  A dribble is exactly half that – a story set in 50 words.

The challenge is to complete either one drabble a day or one dribble every two days (as telling stories in fewer words can be more challenging).

I didn’t catch on to the challenge until November 7th, so in order to catch up, I posted three dribbles in the morning, and a drabble later at night.

Here are the dribbles.  Next post is the drabble.

#NovemberDribbleDrabble


Perfect Circle (Part 1)

It had been a stressful week, but not unexpectedly so. “Will you have the energy to do anything later?” he’d asked. She replied confidently that she would. “I want you to fuck me so hard I forget my name.”

“Oh, I’ll remind you your name, whore.” he replied.


Perfect Circle (Part 2)

They sat in the theatre, exactly 1127 seats, most filled. Comedians traipsed across the stage in measured order. The music began; he ran his warm hand gently up her bare arm. The music, crowd, and stress dropped away. For the first time in weeks, she felt still and silent again.


Perfect Circle (Part 3)

“Please, please, please!” Her cries were muffled by the palm of his hand, else echoing through hotel room walls. He’d pounded her into orgasm after orgasm earlier, but now forced her tortured restraint. As her pleas reached critical mass, he growled, “What’s your name?”

Whore,” she responded breathlessly.

Permission granted.