SexyPrime, a blog by Susan Crain Bakos

IT'S KIMMIE WEDNESDAY!-- "Dirty Little Secret," PartTen

 

Kimmie is back with part ten of "Dirty Little Secret!"  I know you are as happy as I am to receive this new chapter.  (After talking to Kimmie last night, I woke early in anticipation of finding it in my mailbox.)  SexyPrime has received scads of emails the past two weeks while Kimmie took some time off to mourn the passing of her beloved dog Holly. 

From one reader:  "I love your Kimmie author. Her latest story describes my now husband and I know that might be gross to some, but God he is GOOD!  Thanks for your blog."

You are welcome, from Kimmie and me.  And now, here she is--

 

 

Dirty LIttle Secret, part ten

The next day, as much as she wanted to tell her friends that she had had the most amazing sex of her life, she didn’t.

She couldn’t.

There was absolutely no doubt that the next question would immediately be, “Who is it?” followed quickly by, “What does he look like?” and those were answers she definitely wanted to leave alone. “A random hairy fat man,” just wasn’t a socially acceptable answer, although it was the very real truth. A random hairy fat man had done things to her that she had never even known existed, things that now made her realize that the great sex she’d had up to then, though good, hadn’t been great. He did things to her that still had her smiling and shaking her head at the thought of it.

And she wanted more. She was a junkie, instantly hooked. She would have been scared to think that she might never feel that good again, except she was already planning on when to see him next. She didn’t want it to be too soon. That would give him all the power. She would hold back, stay cool and control herself. She smiled. She could do this. Her entire midsection was happily tender, but when her stray thoughts settled on his fingers inside of her, she knew her body was ready to go again as soon as her brain released her.

 She called him that night.

He chuckled as he answered the phone, making her blush. She was glad they were miles apart so he couldn’t see it. She made herself stay light and casual, asking about his day, talking about a few of their friends, telling him some silly story. She chattered on, not even sure what was coming out of her mouth, but knowing she had to keep talking.

He didn’t say a word. The conversation stalled, and he let it. It was quiet. She struggled into the silence for a moment, fighting the words on the tip of her tongue. She wanted him to fill the void so badly, to keep her from blurting the only real thought on her mind. Say something, she mentally pleaded into the quiet, but he wasn’t letting her off so easily. Damn him, she thought desperately. Don’t make me do this! But before that thought was entirely formed, she heard her own false overly-casual voice – “So… what are you up to tonight?”

He chuckled again, and she was busted. She felt her face get hot. She was so transparent! She wasn’t fooling him with her happy little social call. He’d known the instant he saw her number on his phone what was going on in her head. He knew what she wanted. She covered her face, embarrassed even sitting there by herself. She was an awkward teen all over again, trying to be suave and failing miserably.

And yet, even in her misery, she felt the blood start to rush to a certain little place between her legs. She clamped her hand down over her crotch and rocked forward, trying to tell her shut up. She knew he was going to make her ask to come over; he wouldn’t make it easy on her and offer himself. She shook her head, trying to negate the heat rising in her body. He was so frustrating. So contrary and maddening! And yet, she heard herself clearly ask him if he wanted company later. And just as clearly, she felt her body sing happily as he chuckled and told her she could come over.

 

copyright 2008-2011, www.sexyprime.typepad.com; PARTIAL reposts only permitted with link back to original article on SexyPrime.

THE TROPICAL QUEST FOR A NEW SEX PILL--Bananas, spiders and pick-up lines

 
"Banana Spider" by writersblock on Photobucket

 

Are you one of those single women who ask attractive men for cooking advice in supermarket aisles?  I’m not.  But if I did take that approach, I would plant myself next to the bananas and ask him if he knows what a woman could do with a green one.  (Joking.  Really.)

Some adventurous Babe, try that and tell me how it works.  Should the right spider come along and bite him as he contemplates the answer to your question, he may be left with a four-hour erection that, of course, he will associate with you.  (Let’s hope he has one of the less painful Endless Stiffies.)

The Brazilian Phoneutria nigriventer, also known as the banana spider or wandering spider, occasionally stows away in banana bunches and, upon awakening from a long, chilly flight in the cargo hold, finds itself in the produce section of an American supermarket.  Possibly it is a cranky little spider, ready to bite the first hand extended into the banana pile.   

My pal Steve Otero, co-founder of Sexy Spirits, sent me a link to a story, “Spider venom that causes four-hour long erections ‘could be the new Viagra’” from the U.K.s Daily Mail.  As I’ve said before, the Brits do a better job of reporting on sex science stories than the American media does.  Our headline will be more along the lines of “Poisonous spider bite delivers killing hard-on" followed by a report that distorts the facts.

Scientists at the Medical College of Georgia are studying the spider, native to South and Central America, looking for a possible new drug to treat erectile dysfunction—and maybe women’s arousal issues too. 

Dr Kenia Nunes, a physiologist at the college, says the banana spider’s bite contains various toxins, including one causing priapism, “a condition in which the penis is continually erect for up to four hours, even longer.”  In a study reported in Journal of Sexual Medicine, she gave fat rats with high blood pressure a small dose of the toxin, a peptide called PnTx2-6.  They were flaccid no more.

Other side-effects to the spider’s bite include loss of muscle control, severe pain, and difficulty breathing—all of which can be fatal if the victim is not treated with anti-venom.   (The Mail reports:  “According to the curator of arachnids at the University of Washington’s Burke Museum, Rod Crawford, only 10 humans out of 7,000 have died from its bite.”  Good news, especially if you don’t carry an anti-venom kit in your supermarket tote bag.)

Unlike drugs including Viagra, Levitra, and Cialis, which increase blood flow to the penis by suppressing a natural body chemical that inhibits erections—the spider toxin works by allowing surrounding muscles to relax, letting blood flow naturally to the penis.  Possibly in women, the blood will flow more easily into the clitoris and surrounding tissues, inducing feelings of arousal.  Stay tuned.

And watch where you put your hand in the supermarket.

 
Photo Credit:  "Banana Spider" Naniketa on Photobucket

 

copyright 2008-2011, www.sexyprime.typepad.com; PARTIAL reposts only permitted with link back to original article on SexyPrime.

ASK AUNTIE SUE-- Abandoned, Angry, Hurting (and very annoying) Husband Needs Your Help

 
Auntie Sue's Legs, Photo by Trent 

 

Today I am devoting the column to one reader’s big messy story—and I’m asking you to advise him.  I love this man, but have hit the wall in helping him.  (I told him to read Pamela Madsen's book, Shameless and get back to me after.  See my review.  Like the Cowardly Lion, he must find his courage; and Pamela is the inspiration for that.)

JG has been writing to me about his marriage for months.  Last summer when we first corresponded, he said that he had a good, solid marriage, but the sex was disappointing.  His wife didn’t like to try anything new, never had been good at oral sex, considers his masturbating to porn cheating on the marriage—and preferred not to do the old routine all that often anymore either.  He was frustrated, horny and feeling deprived.  As the months went by and he moved closer to having an affair to get his sexual needs met, he told me more about his marriage, including his problems reaching orgasm due to meds for depression.  Not too many years ago, she suffered a nasty infection that an infectious disease expert said could only have come from an untreated STD.  The gynecologist said he didn’t think so.  Nobody tested either one of them—which sounds like criminal malpractice to me.

She blamed him.  He said he’d been true to her except for one brief indiscretion with a good, clean woman (no condom) and one lap dance at a strip club.  Yes, he blamed the lap dancer.  I said, “Unless that was a lap dance culminating in sexual intercourse, I don’t think so.”  He admitted his pants hadn’t come off.  I suggested his wife may have strayed, but he said, “No, she wouldn’t do that.”

Uh-huh.  I explained the Madonna/Whore complex to him, but he said, “That’s not me.”  Oh, no, of course not.  Good wife/dirty lap dancer.  No Madonna/Whore there.

At Christmas, she told him she was unhappy and wanted a separation, then left  in a carefully orchestrated move obviously planned well in advance.  The woman is genius at moving on while holding on—just in case the new life doesn’t work out, she’s still married.  Meanwhile, he’s paying all the expenses on their home plus their kids’ college costs while she keeps her salary for her new apartment and travels.  He still doesn’t think she is seeing anyone else. 

After she left him, he cried and whined and said he wanted her back and didn’t understand why she was unhappy and why she had to leave.  I reminded him that the sex that had been lousy for him wasn’t any better, and possibly worse, for her.  Plus, she had her righteous anger about the STD because even if she had lovers, they no doubt were clean, good men; and her husband was the one who brought the dirty lap dancer into their life.  Wasn’t her sexual rejection of him a message about the marriage?  What was so surprising about her decampment?

I urged him to make connections—with a real woman or women, not that there is anything wrong with porn/hookers/strippers/Hooters’ waitresses—but how about a real woman who would expect action and reaction?  Also I suggested he make some friends of his own or develop the casual “guy” friendships he has now.  But he says he is “all alone in the world” because he isn’t able to discuss his marriage with his wife’s best friend whom he thought was also his friend or, for that matter, with anyone in their social group.  “I am left out of the community,” he moaned.  It’s clear to me that the wives in this group are the friends and the husbands come along—until they are no longer attached husbands.  Not only the best friend but all the women have been hearing about JG’s inadequacies (as perceived by the wife) for years no doubt.  Why in hell wouldn’t he want his own team when he’s crying in his beer?

I listened to him whine about how he can’t talk to his wife’s best friend but she talks to her all the time—and, dear readers, I gave him the verbal slap in the face and said, “Snap out of it!”  My patience with his inability to see that marriage and the separation realistically and grow up enough to create his own confidants—at least this much—has frustrated me.  He sounded like a spoiled child, telling me he wants his wife back and his “community” in his corner as well as hers.  Yeah?  I want the body I had at 37 when it was absolutely as perfect as it has ever been.  Oh, and I would like to win a big jackpot lottery without buying a ticket too. 

That’s the short version of his story.  He’s also a good-looking man, very sexy in photos, who can be funny and smart—and write hot erotic scenarios—when he isn’t obsessing on what he’s “lost.”

Advice, readers?  I hope someone has the words that will help this troubled man put on his big boy pants and explore the world.  By the way, I ran this past him before posting.  He has no problems with my summation—and does want your help.

 

Quickly, on an unrelated topic:  I ran into Rebecca the other day at a Starbucks in Harlem.  She looks fabulous, as always.  If you are newer readers and never read Rebecca, go to the category Rebecca Fridays and see what you missed.  She has a unique voice, funny, sexy, cheeky and wise.  Her incredibly busy career got in the way of her writing so SexyPrime lost Rebecca.  But her collected posts await your discovery or re-discovery.  Dr. Betty Dodson says that Rebecca’s post on her mother’s pubic hair is one of the funniest things she’s ever read; and that is high praise.  Enjoy!

 copyright 2008-2011, www.sexyprime.typepad.com; PARTIAL reposts only permitted with link back to original article on SexyPrime.

THE FRENCH TEDDY BUTTOCKS PLAY-- A New Sex Wardrobe Basic

 
Photo Credit:  "Lace Teddy" on Photobucket

 

Frenchwomen have great lingerie.  As we learned from reading my pal Jamie Cat Callan’s book, Frenchwomen Never Sleep Alone, their bras and panties are matched sets.  (She also says the ladies are apt to have a sensual surprise for their man when they undress, "like wearing a red silk slip under their all black, very chic and simple ensemble.")  The current favorite panty styles are lace boy shorts or lace deep Vs with the tops of the V striking the hipbones.  No thongs.  (Thongs are so over.) Frenchwomen buy expensive camisoles and tap pants and teddys in luscious silk and lace, as high in quality as they can afford.  (In general, Frenchwomen buy fewer wardrobe pieces, be it teddys or pencil skirts, in higher quality of fabric and cut, than American women do—and then spend more money to have them tailored to fit perfectly.  I love the racks in Paris shops, not crowded like ours, each offering something special.  The classic teddy colors are black, white, ivory and the palest shade of pink, like the fading glow of orgasm on the cheeks.

Some teddys are flirty and almost shy, with little shorts; others, like the one pictured, rise high and expose the globes of the ass—and it is these globes on which we focus now, followed perhaps by attention paid to the tender anal opening.  The object is not anal intercourse, but rather creating pleasurable experiences for her in that part of her body.

This is Buttocks Play—with the occasional naughty fingers or anal wands drifting pleasurably astray.  NO pressure.

• First, ask her to lie on her tummy so you can give her a back rub.  Talk sexy to her about how much you love her body, including her buttocks.  After you have worked down her back, lightly massage the “small” of the back, the little area at the base of the spine, with small, circular strokes.

 

• Now move further down, widening those circular strokes on her buttocks, hips and upper thighs, applying slightly more pressure but not too much.

 

• Take her buttocks into both hands and squeeze lightly.  Gently knead her flesh.

 

•  Stop and kiss that opulent flesh between squeezes and kneading movements.  Lick her buttocks with broad, flat strokes of your tongue.

 

• Starting at the bottom, press your thumbs firmly into the flesh of her buttocks.  Kiss the tissue surrounding your powerful thumb.

 

• Use that thumb in the smooth upward running motion, following the curve of her ass up. Pay attention to her responses.  If she tenses, pulls away or flinches—too much pressure.  Now go back to the start of the curve and move your thumbs slightly further apart and create another curved line.   Repeat several times with each curve wider than the last.  Imagine that you are creating a pattern not unlike the waves of orgasm she will experience a little later.

 

 

• Ask her if she would like you to move a finger or two—or a sex toy—inside, merely to tickle and tease, to stimulate and arouse.

 

• Use your finger(s) or anal wands (or anal beads for a new thrilling sensation) to explore gently the tender tissues just inside her anal opening.

 

• Use the (well-lubed) wand in an up and down motion simulating intercourse that is respectful of delicate anal tissues.  Or insert the beads slowly, one at a time. The beads trigger contraction in the sphincter muscle which can trigger orgasm.  Or with one finger (lubed and protected by a finger cot), move in a gentle circular motion, touching the sides of her rectum wall.

Remember, of course, not to touch her vagina with fingers or toys that have just come out of her anus.

She should be feeling warm, yummy and hungry for you—so make love to her, but smart man, don’t push against her anus again tonight.  Let  her want it.

 

OTHER SEX WARDROBE BASICS

The Black Lace Boy Shorts Spank & Stroke

Push-Up Bra Sex Tricks

The Tight Dress Quickie

The Black Silk Blouse Cleavage Game

The Flippy Skirt Quickie

THE BLACK LACE-TOPPED THIGH HIGHS INTERCOURSE TRICKS

 The Boyfriend Jeans Mutual Hand Jobs

The String-of-Pearls Seduction Kit

The Pencil Skirt Quickie

The Boyfriend Shirt Quickie

The Basic Black Dress of Blow Jobs

The "Skinny Jeans" BJ Orgasm

The Red Heels Kiss

The Red Heels Quickie

 

copyright 2008-2011, www.sexyprime.typepad.com; PARTIAL reposts only permitted with link back to original article on SexyPrime.

WHAT BECOMES A LEGEND MOST?--The Tributes to Elizabeth Taylor

 
Photo Credit:  "Yellow Rose" on Photobucket

 

More infamous than Angelina in her day, Elizabeth Taylor was not consumed by Fame.  It did not chew her up and spit her out.  She prevailed over the love and hate.  More than that, she did not even seem to care about the inconsequential idiots who judged her.  She owned her bad behaviors—and they were numerous—and she was modest about her accomplishments and incredible generosities—and they were numerous too.  If you are not old enough to remember, she was the first celebrity who stood up for those infected with HIV-AIDS and the first to raise money for a cure.  In the name of her good friend the actor Rock Hudson who died of AIDS, she lent her star power to that cause when doing so was likely to end the average star’s viability as a marketable commodity.  That takes guts.  Shockingly, she still sold a lot of her own perfume, especially to middle-aged women who stood on line for her appearances at the cosmetics counters in upscale mall department stores. 

When I was a little girl growing up in the 50s and 60s, I loved paper doll books; and the Elizabeth Taylor paper dolls were my favorite, not merely because of her hourglass figure and the clothes patterned after movie studio designs.  She had something that I was sure Doris Day did not have. As a small child, I somehow intuited from the little knowledge I had—bits of conversations between my mother and my grown sisters, articles in the magazines I only glimpsed at the “beauty parlor”, what hairdressers’ shops were called before Warren Beatty’s star turn in the movie “Shampoo”—that Elizabeth Taylor was not like the other movie stars.  She was truly sexy, a word my mother did not know I knew, a word I couldn’t define though I knew Elizabeth had it.

My niece Elizabeth born when I was five, shared the famous name (also my grandmother’s name), which we reduced to “Liz” or “Lizzie”; and like La Taylor, she didn’t like that much either.  Finally, our girl insisted on Beth.  She was not the “Beth” of Little Women.  Nor did she grow up to be the suburban Beth of soccer Moms.  Again like Taylor, she married eight times.  Now it is clear to me that we should have by-passed the “Elizabeth” altogether and called her E. Jane, “Jane” being her middle name; that would have suited her.  (She died way too soon, at 49, of heart disease; and one of the last things she did before she collapsed was email me, lovingly describing the flowers I'd sent for her birthday.)  One memorable Thanksgiving dinner, at which Beth announced yet another forthcoming marriage, I scandalized the family by saying, “Beth, you don’t have to marry every man you fuck.”  The silence was so profound, I could hear the sodden over-cooked vegetables give up their last feeble crunch.

In later years, Elizabeth Taylor said ruefully that she blamed her eight marriages on her Puritanical parents who taught her that sex belongs in marriage.

She was one of us—and yet she lived in a special celebrity world, more rarified than the one inhabited today by Brangenlina, the closest thing we have to a “Liz and Eddie”, followed by a “Liz and Dick” scandal in modern times.  Taylor stole Debbie Reynolds’ husband Eddie Fisher and famously dumped him for Richard Burton.  (Aren’t we all waiting for the Big Dump that will leave Brad punching Jen’s numbers into his cell phone?)  If you haven’t read the story of the Taylor-Burton love life, you really should. See my review of Furious Love, "Women In Love:  They Live In Passion".  Their story is bold and big and glamorous in a way that such stories cannot be in the age of 24/7 media and over-exposure.  We have heard too many earnest comments about the importance of family combined with tips for keeping the “hot” in their monogamy to believe that Brad and Angelina are really all that glamorous and tempestuous.  Celebrities are not that different from everyone else; and the tabloids have their cellulite photos to prove it.They just look better and have more money.

Elizabeth Taylor has been called “the last of the Hollywood stars.”  She was a legend.  What I love best about her:  She did not give a damn for the opinions of the small-minded idiots who presumed to judge her.

She must have laughed at the internet trolls.  So do I.  I shall continue to do so in her honor.  Elizabeth Taylor knew the secret of life:  People you don't care about can't hurt you.

 

 
Photo Credit:  "Violet" by Morgan on Photobucket

 

copyright 2008-2011, www.sexyprime.typepad.com; PARTIAL reposts only permitted with link back to original article on SexyPrime.

 

THE MATTER OF THE MUSE: Women, Art, Sex and A Little Madness

 
Photo Credit:  "Banana" on Photobucket
 

 

Back in the 90s, I was often in D.C., but not so much anymore; and I miss the museums where I spent many happy hours taking in the latest exhibits, often with friends Carolyn or Marilyn or both.  (Good times.)  We favored the African Art Museum and the Arthur M. Sackler and Freer Gallery of Asian Art (all part of the Smithsonian) but made memorable forays into the National Gallery of Art where we took in the sublime Vermeer exhibit and I really saw light on canvas.  Dutifully, we also paid homage at the National Museum of Women in Art where I recall seeing only one truly impressive exhibition, “Carr, O’Keefe and Kahlo:  Places of Their Own”, featuring the paintings of Emily Carr, Georgia O’Keefe and Friday Kahlo.

Otherwise, though we never said so to one another, the regular collection and the exhibitions were simply nice.

I was reminded of that while reading two new books on women, art, muses and a little bit of madness.  In Art and Madness:  A Memoir of Lust Without Reason (Nan Talese/Doubleday), author Anne Roiphe writes about being a young woman in the 1950s when her heart’s desire was to play muse to a Great Male Writer. 

She writes: 

“This sudden and overwhelming desire to bring coffee to the side of a writer, to wash his socks, to stare down his enemies, internal or external, seems inexplicable in the light of the following turns of history.”

In pursuit of that goal, she was briefly married to a playwright who fulfilled one part of her imagined great male talent:  He drank a lot.  (“I believed in the drunkenness of artists the way I believed in the elephant’s love for peanuts.”) While he fulfilled his drunken destiny, she waited alone in the Park Avenue apartment her mother bought for the young couple.  Perhaps if they had lived a downtown Bohemian life and he’d taken her with him to the parties and pubs, she—given as she was to wearing black leotards—might have found that lifestyle glamorous and stayed married to him longer. But she had a child with the playwright before divorcing him, a daughter whom she neglected somewhat in the search for another, greater man.  One reviewer describes all these men with the word:  “semi-famous.”

In her unhappiness, she considered suicide “like Virginia Woolf” but realized she needed to write something worthwhile before she could honorably walk into a river with stones in her pocket as Woolf did.  She saw the feminist light.  Her life as a muse was over.  It’s a fascinating read while it lasted—and begs the question, How many of the women who devoted themselves to the care and nurturing of writers, musicians and artists had similar talents of their own that they neglected?

Artist Lee Krasner, wife of the painter Jackson Pollack, struggled more with her roles.  On the one hand, she played muse, nursemaid to his drunk, business agent and social coordinator and finally, after his death in a drunken car crash, manager of his estate, the keeper of his flame.  On the other hand, she created her own art—and after meeting Pollack, did so under the shadow of the leading Abstract Expressionist painter of his time.

In a 1973 interview, she said:

"I happen to be Mrs. Jackson Pollock, and that's a mouthful. The only thing I haven't had against me was being black. I was a woman, Jewish, a widow, a damn good painter, thank you, and a little too independent."

 

In Gail Levin’s new biography, Lee Krasner:  A Biography, (William Morrow), we get the most fully developed literary portrait of Krasner, the artist, ever written.  The story of her marriage to Pollack—(“He was drunk when they met at a party.”)—her role in his career, his untimely death in a car crash in the Hamptons, and her devotion to preserving his legacy is well-known to readers of artists’ biographies.  But Krasner herself has remained fairly neglected, given her stature as an artist.

She didn’t have her first solo exhibition until she was 65 years old when 18 of her abstract paintings were shown at the Whitney Museum of American Art in New York City.  Thanks to feminist advocates, she was recognized as a Modernist master by the time of her death in 1984.  Some of my favorites of her paintings are reproduced in Levin’s book.  (Frankly, I prefer her to Pollack, but, of course, I am no art critic, merely a woman who likes what she likes.)

Krasner’s life makes compelling reading.  She was living as a Bohemian before meeting Pollack and even shared an apartment, sans benefit of marriage, with Igor Pantuhoff, another painter who eventually made his name as a society portraitist.  Her work had been shown and well-reviewed by critics, including one who said it “was so good, it’s hard to believe it was done by a woman.”  Yet when she and Pollack displayed paintings in an exhibition of husband and wife artists, critics noted that the men were typically bolder, more daring and creative than the women.  (Alas, they were right.)

Perhaps the tame and tidy nature of the art in the National Women’s Museum of Art can be partially explained by this:  There seems to be, and always was, a dearth of male muses.

Even today when Beta males pick up the domestic slack for their Alpha wives, the men are hardly muses.  Their women are corporate executives, professionals, big wage-earners.  The Beta men, in fact, are more likely to be artists, writers, musicians, entrepreneurs—working without muse.

So I have to wonder what would Pollack have been without Krasner—and vice versa?

 

copyright 2008-2011, www.sexyprime.typepad.com; PARTIAL reposts only permitted with link back to original article on SexyPrime.

 

More favorites from Kimmie!

Kimmie is continuing her much-needed break, but she would love to invite you to revisit some more beginnings of her favorite stories! See how they all began:

• Animal Instincts, Part One
• Part Boy, Part One
• The Perfect Storm, Part One

copyright 2008-2011, www.sexyprime.typepad.com; PARTIAL reposts only permitted with link back to original article on SexyPrime.

 

 

SEXUAL IMPRINTING--What makes us who we are sexually?

 
Photo Credit:  "Lady In Red" by Linda Terry on Photobucket

 

“I knew I was BDSM early on.  When I was pre-pubescent, I tweaked my nipples to get aroused.  I tweaked them hard,“ Submissive Woman.

Her email arrived as I was deep into conversations with Mr. X—a man who loves kinky older women—and also pondering my own attraction to Sexy Beast, with whom I share a Midwestern background and upbringing. (See Diary of an Affair in categories on right hand side of blog.)  I realized with a start that he reminds me of the men in my family, my ex-husband, good male friends—Midwestern men who are strong, competent and reliable in the traditional masculine way yet egalitarian-minded.  Good men, smart and warm, funny and sexy—they differ from the stereotypical New York or L.A. man in their down-to-earth approach to life and the fact that they are more likely to do what they say they will do.  Am I in my sexual comfort zone here—and is that why I can fantasize safely exploring my submissive side with this man? 

Does the fact that I grew up around such men help explain why even my first lover was a gallant boy who cared about pleasing and protecting me and why I have never been in an abusive relationship or fallen for a real jerk?  (In other words, I’m not necessarily smart or even lucky, just well-programmed.)

What makes us who we are sexually? 

How strong is the imprint of early sexual experience on adult sexuality? 

Can your sex life be determined by what happens to you at fourteen or sixteen or eighteen—or even younger?

According to my friendDr. Patti Britton, creator of sex coaching and author of The Art of Sex Coaching, the bible for the profession, and past president of American Association of Sex Educators, Counselors and Therapists (AASECT) says, “Yes, early experiences and influences play a big part in determining who we are sexually.  You are right on.  ‘Sexual imprinting’ is a good way to call it.”

Few studies exist on the bio/psycho/social determinants of sexuality—which surprises me because the topic is so relevant to human sexual behavior.  Research tends to focus on a single factor—for example, the impact of a Sexually Transmitted Disease or age at first sexual experience—rather than the interaction between several factors, like the loss of virginity to an older woman plus dysfunctional family plus early exposure to certain sex acts, for example, spanking or foot fetish. 

A recent study in Thailand, for example, looked at whether or not a man’s early initiation with a prostitute affected his “promiscuity” in later years.  The research was flawed from the start because fewer young Thai men do go to a prostitute for their first sexual experience now.  Greater awareness of HIV-AIDS among prostitutes combined with more likelihood that women will experiment sexually too is changing the sexual landscape there.

“Sexual Imprinting in Human Mate Choice”by Tamas Bereczkei (Department of Psychology, University of Hungary) and Petra Gyuris and Glenn E. Weisfeld (Department of Psychology, Wayne State University, Detroit, MI) research conducted for The Royal Society in the U.K., does look at the influence of family on our choice of mates.  It’s an interesting paper and makes me want to know more.  Often the most compelling case for sexual imprinting seems to be made by individual case studies, stories of sex lives in intimate details.

Mr. X was initiated into sex at age fourteen by a kinky (and dominant) sixty-year old woman, “a fading femme fatale” who imprinted her tastes on his developing sexuality.  At fifty, he is a man who loves many women and is scrupulously honest with all of them.  Juggling two, three, four, five relationships at a time, he is always open to new possibilities—“Driven to see what’s better out there”—he says, yet longing for The Last Love. A successful corporate executive with impeccable manners and exquisite taste in ties, he wants to find the woman who will be his primary relationship now until the end of his days.  (Really?)

He missed the typical experiences of the teen sex years, no groping girls his age in the back seats of cars.  After the first, there was another older woman with a dominant personality, a butcher, with “strong hands” that she used on every part of his body.  Then a woman whose husband came back from Vietnam such a damaged man that she told everyone she was a war widow.  Not surprisingly, his sexuality developed along different lines than his compatriots who were turned on by coy schoolgirls.  He preferred older women—and kink—and still does.  Particularly he likes to be spanked and worship a woman’s feet.

He’s had sex with women representing every profession, Mensa members, corporate executives, artists and other creative types, women of different races and ethnicities, hair and eye color, body shapes and sizes.  His number?  Over three hundred women—only one notolder than he is.  On average, he has three to five sexual encounters a week and rarely with the same woman more than twice.  And he still associates filter cigarettes and Dewars Scotch (the first lady’s “drugs” of choice) with arousal. 

The classic work in this field remains Lovemaps: Clinical Concepts of Sexual/Erotic Health and Pathology, Paraphilia, and Gender Transposition in Childhood, Adolescence, and Maturity (Prometheus Books, 1988) by the late Dr. John Money.  He pioneered the study of paraphillias ("perversions" in the common vernacular) and also gender role identity, the later field leading him to a very public failure.  He encouraged the  parents to assign a gender to an Intersex baby—with disastrous results.  In studying men with fetishes and other sexual desires outside the norm, however, he developed the concept of Love Maps, his most accessible, and undeniably brilliant, work.  We all have Love Maps.  Sexual tastes are imprinted and encoded in our brains at a very early age, depending on our experiences—and our personalities which help determine how we process those experiences.

If you’ve ever pined for a man who only likes busty blondes (and you are not) or a woman who only falls for older men (and you are younger than she is)—then you have come up against the power of the Love Map.  You can’t change someone else’s brain program.  I’d love to hear about your Love Maps. 

What makes you the person you are sexually?

 

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ASK AUNTIE SUE: A Reader Has The Last Word About (Getting) The BJ

 

Last week's Auntie Sue was devoted to questions on getting your sex needs met.  One reader, who'd written me a long letter about his wife's reluctance to perform a blow job, thought I was speaking directly to him, though I wasn't.  (Dear Reader, you have no idea how many men write to me about this issue.)  He wrote back.  His letter is instructive and enlightening for men as well as women so I am giving him today's column as a guest post.  Thank you for writing, J--and stay in touch.

From J--

"What I learned by talking to my wife about this, is that her displeasure is not about the act of fellating itself (though for some other women I'm sure it is, and that's different).  It is about what she thinks that act MEANS.  The men she was with before, taught her this was not an act of intimacy, and not even simply an act of sexual need.  It was an act of disrespect, of a man toying with her and throwing her away just because he could.  If I thought that way about cunnilingus, I probably wouldn't go down on her either.  But that's not what I feel about it, and what she has learned, can be unlearned.

"I think I see my task more clearly now.  My job is to replace this perverseness with something much better.  I am to entice and seduce her, to help her see what I see, oral sex as a sign of intimacy and total personal acceptance, and of course sexual pleasure too.  I am painting a new and better image, much of it with the power of words.  Daniel Ray's advice to talk during sex is spot on here, and I think can be adapted to help rebuild that trust and associate oral sex with the transfer and enjoyment of mutual pleasure and intimacy. We are lovers and partners, not flings, and I am convinced I can persuade her this is different.  It will be messy and chaotic at times, I'm sure.  But she now seems to feel she can work with me, and if we both stay willing and be patient, this will get done.

"If there is one thing that I would have you take away from this story that your female readers must know, it's that you show the love of your life that he IS the love of your life not just with words and weddings and children. You must show him IN BED!  If you love him, rock his world, learn and be willing to be as much his fantasy as your basic orientations will allow.  He gives his all for you, and you must give that energy back and show him that more than any other man in the world, it matters to you that he is sexually happy and satisfied.  If he's any man of character, you'll have in return a man who's truly faithful to you.

"Women are the gatekeepers to sex and relationships.  They decide which men are rejected and which are accepted and loved.  And men really, really like sex.  That gives women power.  But it also guarantees their decisions will have consequences ... Big ones.  When women decide who gets access and who is denied, believe me, men are paying attention to you!  They are not listening to your words.  They are watching your actions.  Because they know that's what will teach them the truth about what attracts you.

"Men really, really like sex. So much so, that they are very pragmatic in how they approach.  If men see immature, disrespectful partyboys get access and then quickly dump women and still get more access, more men will seek to imitate that behavior.  If the respectful, hardworking, loving beta gets rejected, expect that fewer men will give you roses and not pressure you for casual sex.  Through your decisions, you mold the men you deserve.

"So if you want respect, reward respect and punish disrespect with lack of access.  And do not hold grudges over from one man to another.  Do not punish one man for the sins of another.  Failure to respect those basic rules has created the army of bitter Roissybots, harsh and crass misogynists to whom romance is pretty lies and love is not much more than a game of bedding as many women as possible.  It doesn't empower women, or most men, to be sexually happy.

"I guess that's about it.  If you find any of this epilogue worth post then slice, dice, bake, and serve.

"Regards,

J"

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HER PEARLS, HIS TRICKS: A Reader Tweaks The-String-of-Pearls-Seduction Kit

 

Photo Credit:  "Pearls" on Photobucket

 

SexyPrime's men readers are the best.  They are generous with sex tips, including this one, a contest winner ("Doing It Dressed--The Sex Wardrobe Basics Books Give-Away")

JG writes:  "I love The-String-of-Pearls-Seduction Kit.  When my girl wraps her pearls around my balls and gives the occasional tug while blowing me--it literally blows my mind.

"One day I took the pearls from her and said, 'My turn to do you.'

"I held the pearls in one hand, letting them graze her vulva lips as I stroked them open with the other hand.   I licked her lips until she was wet and turned on.  Then I gently ran the pearls up and down them.

"Continuing to rub the pearls against her lips with one hand, I put two fingers of the other hand in a V surrounding her clitoris.  I licked along the sides, lightly on the shaft and tip--and pursed my lips and carefully sucked her until she was writhing.

"Finally I moved the pearls up and held them in V fashion around her clit and--by this time she was begging me to let her cum.

"She said the pearls felt exquisitely sensuous against her tender parts and added a new dimension to the CJ, cunnilingus."

Oh, yes...............

 
Photo Credit:  "Woman with Pearls" on Photobucket

copyright 2008-2011, www.sexyprime.typepad.com; PARTIAL reposts only permitted with link back to original article on SexyPrime.