Doesn’t sex need to be at least a little bit dirty for some of us to enjoy it to the utmost?
Yesterday I listened to a spokesperson for polyamory explain to me why he believes that having multiple partners with the permission of your main partner is by far the best way to live your sex life. Okay. Sure. I believe him in that it’s the best way for him to live his sex life. (But why the need to proselytize?)
Personally, I come from the cheat-and-lie Old School of Monogamy. Illicit affairs. The sword of Damocles hanging over my head. Sex in the afternoon with a lover followed by giving Hubby the best blow job of his life that night. Ah, I still remember my first extramarital lover and the incredible orgasm he gave me as I lay fully dressed except for panties on top of a chenille bedspread in a Howard Johnson’s motel in downtown St. Louis. I was 29; he was 50. His tongue moved like a thousand butterflies swarming my clit….I still have a fondness for orange chenille.
Poly? No thanks. I hate talking about relationships; and if you try to create a set of relationship rules with me, I will break them. I do not want the details of my lover’s other lives. There is something too naked and wholesome, too bland and safe about that--like full-out Neo-Tantra with its emphasis on soul kisses and so forth. I want some artifice and the privacy that allows me. Sometimes I need to be fucked in black lace thigh-high stockings and pearls and nothing else. Or taken fully clothed from behind. Maybe I want to wear my stilettos to bed. I was never a Hippie.
My bedroom game is also somewhat submissive; and it’s not my life game. I want to be dominated by a lover right through the orgasms; and then, he needs to realize who I am in the world and respect that. A lot of men have trouble with the changing dynamic. Either they think I want BDSM. No. Or they cannot make the switch from bedroom to the rest of life.
I was Dick-matized for over a year by one of those men. He never got past the fact that he picked me up in a bar. But, that dick. (Dick-matized: the state of being so totally into the dick that you overlook the fact that the guy’s a jerk. Carlin Ross and I came up with the term when we were podcasting for her Cherrybomb site.)
I had an on-again/off-again, love-him/hate-him relationship with D. He is cosmopolitan, sophisticated, chauvinistic, virile, stylish--a complicated man, my type. We never exactly “met.” I know that I noticed him--and later he told me that he watched me--at a jazz bar in our neighborhood. In one year of mutually taking note of one another he said one sentence to me: “You’re trouble.”
One Saturday night in October I was at the bar with friends, a couple visiting from L.A. It was 2:30 a.m. The couple were tired and ready to go back to their hotel room. The temperature in the bar was uncomfortably hot. I took off my cashmere cardigan, glanced over at the bar and caught Big D’s eye. He smiled and came over to me.
“Would you like some champagne?” he asked--making that more than twice the number of words he‘d ever spoken to me.
He put out his hand. I took it and walked out the door with him to his apartment. There was no champagne that night.
While kissing me, he unzipped his pants. In his hand he held that dick, the one I sometimes think I dreamed into existence, so badly did I long for it. Long, thick and proud with its wide head rising like a nobleman separated from the powerful shaft by the ridge of the corona that was in my fantasy a rich gold necklace, the tribal emblem of the king. He had me.
“I don’t know your name,” I mumbled.
He laughed and said, “Of course, you do,” and took my hand and led me back to his bedroom.
No, I didn’t know his name at the time. But the sex, omigod the sex! Naked, he was beautiful, as he needed to be to possess that dick. He massaged my clit, parted the lips of my labia, licked the moisture to the surface. And then he entered me. He fucked hard and fast, slow and easy, alternating positions--him on top, then rolling to his side to pull me on top of him, finally half on our sides, one of my legs up in the air-- until I was dizzy, crazy. Then he drove it home.
“Suck my dick,” he said when he could breathe again.
I took it into my mouth for the first time and felt it throb thrillingly to life again.
“That’s your dick,” he said. “Suck it.”
And I did.
I lost a necklace in his bed that night, a necklace he never found. The push/pull dynamic started right away--on both sides. We came together, we pushed apart. He never respected me aside from my sexual abilities. But his dick. It is my fetish object. It is the life force. I thrilled to its contractions in my mouth, the taste and feel of his sperm shooting down my throat.
I came when I sucked his dick. Sometimes I humped his leg as I sucked, like a bitch in heat, and my moans were as loud as his.
We had booty calls with champagne and strings where there weren’t supposed to be strings but yet they stuck to us like that stuff children spray out of cans.
He called one night. I put on black lace-topped thigh highs and high heels. We drank wine and kissed and caressed on the leather sofa. He pulled my breasts out of the black lace push-up bra and sucked my nipples. I caressed his dick, held it in my hand.
He reached his arm behind me, tossed a big pillow down to the floor between his legs and pointed with one finger: down.
And I went down.
When I was finished with him, I put my breasts back inside my bra. Leaving him limp with his pants still around his ankles, I went home that night, never having removed my jeans. I felt like I owned him, at least for one night.
Things ended badly--around the time his dick was losing its hold on me. I did get my own back. Babes, I screwed him out of a business deal.
I wish that magnificent member a better life support system in the next reincarnation.
