Sexy Saturdays: Hiatus

 

Please don't chase me down with pitchforks and torches. Sexy Saturdays is taking a hiatus. I just need a bit of a break and I'll be taking Saturdays off for a while. Not sure when I'll bring it back, but in the meantime, you can always go read all the delicious past posts.

Sexy Saturdays: A Dam Shame

 

Kiddos, I couldn't be more excited for the guest poster today! I have known Deb (TheBadassMuppet) since college, since one fateful film class actually, where we talked politics and race and gender theory and not so secretly bemoaned the several Neanderthal men on our campus... Ahh good times. I'm so glad she and I have stayed friends since. She's a fellow bookworm, an incredible woman, strong and opinionated, and a voice in the queer community. I just love her to my toes.

Plus? She's an awesome writer. I mean it. She's so talented. I'd like to say we were taught by the same professors, but I suspect she just has loads of innate talent. You can find her on Twitter and make sure to check out her work at Bitch Magazine. Enjoy!
                   
 “That was ‘C.’ Any better?”

“I – I think so,” I managed, stalling from saying At least I could almost feel that, a little.

Lesbianism was harder than I’d expected.

In high school, my secret girlfriend and I had never had to navigate the slippery waters (har, har) of cunnilingus. Both of us lived with watchful, less-than-gay-friendly parents, and I had barely started to accept that maybe watching bad movies with junior college guys wasn’t as good as it could get. Secretive hand-holding and furtive kisses were as far as we’d dared to go.

Many angst-filled journals later, I was essentially “out” (except for, you know, the family thing) and feeling free and great and blah blah blah, but sex continued to baffle me. In a way, it was like puberty all over again, and, like any adolescent with middling confidence, I hadn’t yet learned to be picky. I dated the first ladies who came my way, regardless of chemistry or how little they had in common with Veronica Mars. The woman in my bed at that moment, for instance, was spacey and appeared to have no other friends or interests. I could not honestly say that I liked her – yet there we were, reinventing the wheel with her head between my thighs. Playing around with boys and men may have been boring as all get-out, but at least I had known what was expected of me. I had always wished sex was like in the movies, in a more literal sense than people tend to say that: sensual kisses that cut directly to post-coital satisfaction.

Years later, as a proud, happy dyke with a rockin’ sex life, I would have a different view. But there was one factor, dear readers, which I’m afraid doomed my first proper Sapphic encounter before it began.

I am referring, of course, to the dental dam.

I was promised Novocaine! (via Flickr)

Lesbian advice gurus Lipstick & Dipstick have asked if the dam might be sexy if it were called something else, something that doesn’t so strongly suggest vagina dentata. Hoo hoo hoody, cum curtain? Funny but, um, no. It wouldn’t. Erecting a rubber wall between your eager mouth and your partner’s treasures, or vice versa, is about as sexy as a root canal, which is probably where the name came from in the first place. Mint flavor is especially bad at taking your psyche out of the dentist’s chair.

If you’ve never had the displeasure, a dental dam is a square of latex big enough to serve as a floatation device. It’s meant to block labia from tongue so that no sexyfluids pass on anything unseemly. If the device sounds, well, unpractical for territory full of nooks and crannies, it is, to the point where most packages’ official instructions (never had to look at those for a condom, did you?) advise to cover the genital-side of the block with lubricant.

Did that kill any sex-buzz you might have had going before checking out this entry? Yeah. That’s the point.

Let’s recap:

1. Lube is no longer an aid for when things get extra-adventurous. It’s an adhesive. And while I’ve read a lot of sexy stories, not a-one has included the word “glue.”
2. You think that strawberryish-if-you-close-your-eyes glove is unappealing on a phallus? There’s a reason the pussy gets infected after contact with sweet food: THE TWAIN WERE NEVER MEANT TO MEET.
3. You have no contact with the other person’s ladyparts, 
4. or more importantly (to me, at that particular point in time) the opposite is true, which leads us to the crucial minus in this equation: 
5. you can’t feel shit.

So there I was, lying on a snakeskin-print sheet feeling all safe and responsible, and I had plenty of time for that because I wasn’t feeling anything else, except a growing sense of anticlimax.

“There, I finished the alphabet!” Her face popped back up, looking triumphant. Now I know my ABCs… I bemoaned the recent demise of my vibrator, Ruby the rabbit.

The second half of my first time confirmed what I already knew: the dam is a damn shame. It seemed less like sex and more like licking a banister. But hey, I thought, at least I’ve officially Been With A Woman now. The knowledge was enough to make me shake, though not in the way one would hope. As Laura M. Carpenter argued, the first time exists so that there can be more. Still, before we stopped, something genuinely exciting occurred: rogue wetness found my tongue when the dam crumpled a bit. (Like I said, they’re unwieldy, which spoils even the official “point.”) She tasted like honey, which was much more arousing than grape eraser. Next time, we’ll both get checked at a clinic beforehand, I vowed to myself. It might take some extra planning, but I knew it’d be worth it.

Sexy Saturdays: “He’s mine tonight”

Here on Sexy Saturdays, I like to get posts from all sorts of different people and I love that today's poster, Nush (Ivy Blaise), while a somewhat new friend, has become a good friend through my blog. I don't want to sounds like a douche, but at first, she kind of felt like my biggest fan. She faithfully reads my blog and comments. But that's how you get to know someone right? So pretty soon we were having convos and talking on the twitter. And I found myself super digging her!
She's super cool and sweet and funny and supportive, is Swedish (she referred to herself as "weird Swedish chick") (also, my dad is Swedish decent and has declared that we all therefore love Swedes), lives in one of my favorite cities, Dublin (I AM Irish after all), and turns out she writes a pretty kickass blog too! When it occurred to me that I wanted my favorite reader to post here, she was pretty shocked but I am oh so glad that she said yes. Her post is delightful. I think you'll think so too.
First, make sure to check out her blog and follow her on the Twitter. Enjoy!

When asked to guest post by Andy I was pretty blown away. Then the first panic kicked in... what the heck will I write?! I am in a long-term relationship today and I am not really into kiss and tell so...

In the end I decided to write about one night quite a few years ago when I was still single.

An evening and night that was pretty awesome.

It was a Saturday night. Spirits were high and a group of us were hitting town. There was, at the time, this very hot and trendy club called “Cuba”. Latin inspired dance music was pumping and the dance floor was heaving with sweating dancers giving it all.

We walked in and straight away I saw this dark-haired gorgeous guy on the dance floor. I do not know what possessed me at the time but I turned around to my friend and said: “He’s mine tonight”.

I remember standing at the bar watching him dance for some time. He moved with the music and looked hot (in more ways than one). It was time to hit the dance floor. We connected straight away. Bodies moving in sync. Eyes smiling and teasing. Hands grazing body surreptitiously. Lips meeting under the pulsing beat.

The others decided that we were going back to the house that I share with my best friend for a few drinks. He comes along. At this stage both of us are very interested in each other and I am really wishing my friends would pick a different place to continue the party.

Everyone plants themselves in the living room with a few beers. We sneak out in the kitchen to continue kissing and running our hands over each other. Somehow we end up in the bathroom and the touching escalates. Buttons are opened and the heat is turned up. Our hands roam freely. Tongues battle for dominance. At this stage we are both so turned on our breaths are coming in gasps.

There is a knock on the door... we are in the only available bathroom in the house. We look at each other and I do not remember who but one of us mouths: “Bedroom?”.

We almost run out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Totally ignoring the catcalls from the living room. Clothes are shed quicker than a blink of the eye and then...

I never saw him again nor do I remember his name but, by god, that was the best one night stand I have ever had.

Sexy Saturdays: I like to WIN

People? You don't know what lucky ducks you are. Today one of my fave people is here posting on mah leetle ol' blog! Miss KLZ of Taming Insanity is my blogging idol. I've decided I'm going to be her when I grow up, so I hope she's okay with that. She's a Don in the Nerd Mafia, for one, but she's also one of the nicest most down to earth people you'll ever meet on The Grand Internets. Her blog is a constant source of amusement, whether she's talking about her insanely adorable little boy or smacking down a funny subject with rapier wit. She calls herself a sarcastic pain in the ass. I call her a sarcasm goddess. Too much? Nope. AND? She rocks the reindeer antlers. For realsies.

I'm sure you're going to love her as much as I do. It's impossible not to. Check out her fabulous blog, and follow her on the Twitter and Facebook. Enjoy!

I was thrilled to find that Andy thought I was sexy enough to guest post on Sexy Saturday. But when I started to think about it, I was a bit overwhelmed.

You see, my husband would murder me dead if he found out I was talking about our sex life in detail on the big ol' internet.

So, instead, I decided to focus on college.

Which, uh, was tough. I've only been with four guys in my life.

Hey now, pick your jaws up off the floor and stop judging. It's not that I'm a prude. Not really. It's that I like to WIN.

Most guys? When you sleep with them? Seem to think they've tricked you into something you never wanted. They act like they won the Sex Olympics and you will now doggedly chase their asses after you've gotten a taste of what they have to offer.

I can't stand that shit.

So, I haven't been with a ton of guys. Because I didn't want to see the smug look on their faces when I ran into them later with their friends. I didn't want their friends nudging them or slapping them on the back.

And, most importantly, I didn't want any of them saying "she's into WHAT?" to each other.

So I slept with men I could trust. Which means, at least one wuss.

Or as David likes to say "You sure dated some losers before you met me." So clearly "winning" is a relative term.

The guy I finally gave it up to? Well, let's just say he had a hard time taking it. Or, maybe hard isn't the right word. It was a difficult task for him to accomplish.

He, uh, well, there's no delicate way to say it. He couldn't keep in the wind in his sails. Because his last girlfriend had traumatized him so much. By dumping him. Three years before.

I should have taken the hint and turned tail to run. But I didn't. I thought that would be insensitive of me. I was a total moron.

I'm not sure why my conviction to win at sex meant that somehow I had to give up everything else to men who didn't deserve me. Sure, they wouldn't bag to their friends about nailing me but...I wasn't bragging about nailing them either. Zero sum game.

Which makes me pretty fucking dumb.

Before I got married, I was lucky enough to realize I was acting like an idiot. I remedied that by taking a nice long break from sex.

Since getting married I've found that sex is a lot more fun when I'm not constantly suspicious that someone will be retelling this story later. But it's also a lot more fun when I can let go and be with someone who I actually respect.

Sexy Saturdays: A Scent for Sore Nostrils

 

Happy Sexy Saturday again, my kiddos! I'm pleased to bring you a second post from my friend Menzies. Hopefully you'll remember his post I Like Pie in which all of my female readers needed a backup set of panties. You can imagine why. If you can't, well, go read. 

I'm so happy he's back to bring you another delicious post. This smartypants kid had become a good friend and I love nothing more than to give him a hard time and challenge his extra large brain. I won't say much more because I think my first intro of him was pretty on the money. Plus? Don't you just want to read already? Enjoy!

Hello again! Can't tell you how flattered I was that Andy saw fit to have me write again, so I'll try not to disappoint.

Like the last time, I have to start with an admission: I have a bad nose. A horrifyingly bad nose. Like, “categorically opposed to working properly” bad. It spends eleven months out of the year clogged, unless I take medication. More maddeningly, it makes me deathly afraid of over-spicing my food whenever I cook for anyone else.

So when I say that my sense of smell is nonetheless extremely important to me when it comes to sex . . . well, you can rest assured I'm not kidding. It's a subtle beastie, to be sure, but it's always there.

Nor am I talking purely out of my ass here, because there is some science underlying what I just said. By this point it's well attested that smell is a much more important sense than we'd been giving it credit for, intricately tied to the way we form memories. Furthermore, it turns out that unless you are wearing zee out-RAGEOUS perfume, or lotion, or some other pleasantly odorous accoutrements, you get used to your own scent pretty quickly. Both of these make sense from an evolutionary perspective: being able to smell everything would render you pretty useless as a hunter.

So it's not surprising that smell is such an important part of sex, and I've definitely gotten lucky there when it comes to my partners. Though I assure you I care very, very deeply about my personal hygiene, I have kind of simple tastes when it comes to soap, shampoo, deodorant and similar products and I tend to reserve perfume for important occasions like dates or interviews. I've apparently also gotten lucky in terms of myself – I can't vouch for this, but apparently I actually smell fairly good most of the time.

As a result, I'm far more acutely aware of the scents on my partners before, during, and after any sexy-time activities. Don't get me wrong, the natural smell of another human body is great on its own – I maintain that a couple hours after showering is optimal for restoration of natural odor – but sometimes, if you're just sleeping beside your girlfriend, the fact that that natural scent is accentuated with hints of pomegranate, or sweet pea, or some fruit I've never heard of and is only found in the most remote parts of the Amazon rainforest, and knowing that that smell is probably sticking to you until you next shower, somehow enhances the experience.

Then there's what happens when you do things other than sleeping with your girlfriend, and amidst all that sound and fury you suddenly realize that smell has changed. A lot. It's no longer woman-plus-pomegranate, or woman-plus-sweet-pea, or what have you – it's suddenly very much woman. Everything that makes that natural smell great is now exponentially more intense, full of pheromones, and if you've been doing it right, at least partly infused with sweat and other bodily fluids. It's the kind of smell that, were you to perceive it without knowing it was related to sex, you'd probably consider horrifying, but in this situation, you can't help but love it. It's hot, it's raunchy, and by God, it is quite the aphrodisiac.

I know I should have a name for it, being a linguist – but I can't even begin to think of a way to put it in English. I resort to euphemisms: “essence,” “perfume,” “scent.” None of them, though, properly signify what it is – that lusty fragrance, that heady balm so unique from person to person, that chaotic, seemingly imperfect, ultimately ambrosial mixture of secretion and production.

Whatever you call it – and I'd love to hear your suggestions – it's certainly a scent for sore nostrils.

Sexy Saturdays: If Those Walls Could Shut Up

  

So I kind of suck. And not in a good way. Out of the many, many Sexy Saturday posts I have brought you, I haven't been so great at getting the mens to post here. Which sucks because I am all about getting all sorts of perspectives, you know? But in my defense (or not), it's not because the guys are too embarrassed to post (because they are way more game than most girlies I ask). It's because I don't know very many male bloggers. SO....I suck. 

When I thought of getting another guy over here, Jerrod of The Yellow Factor immediately jumped into my head. Not literally. I haven't actually met him and that would be weird, not to mention impressive. But I thought he'd be perfect. He's a great writer, for onesies, and he's got this intriguing combination of sweet boy next door meets irreverant humor. And I dig it. I couldn't wait to see what he'd do with the subject. Plus? He's a freaking rock star. Not only is Jerrod blogtastic, he is the co-creator of that blogger mecca Studio30 Plus. I don't know how he does it all.

Before you love his post (which you will), go find him on Twitter, Facebook, and subscribe to his blog.

Enjoy!

The wonderful, crazy, amazing Andy asked if I would do a post for her.  Of course I would never say no to Miss Awesome Sauce. 

Here’s how finding out the topic went down:

Me:  So, the 12th. And it has to be sexy.  Wow.  I'm on it.

Andy:  It doesn't have to be "sexy", just about sex.

(Train crashing into...something...halt.  A train is halting.)

When I tried to think of a post-worthy story on the subject, that I’d be okay with sharing, only one came to mind. The catch is...I’m not the one having sex.

You’re probably thinking, “That’s bad. He’s asked to do a post about sex and he’s going to write about others having it?” But I have good reasons:

1. I'm a nice guy that doesn't really kiss and tell. See, I just won a Studio30 Plus Boomerang Award for Blog You Want to Take Home to Mom. And just like Johnny Nogerelli, I have a rep to protect.
2. I learned things that night that everyone should know. Consider it your friendly, sexual Public Service Announcement.

I went to a New Years Eve party a few years ago at a friend’s house. There were 10 people - 4 couples, 2 singles – and I was one single. The other single... no. One of the couples, let's name them Joe and Ashley, were on their first date.  First date. At a New Years Eve party.

And Ashley...well, Ashley liked the sexy time. No judgment here, you do what you gotta do right? (She actually wanted to take me home to mom a few times, but I knew that was never going to happen. I had my reasons.)

People were drinking so of course some would have to stay the night, and I was one of them.  I was supposed to get one of the spare rooms, while Joe and Ashley were meant to go home. Until they got trashed. That put this single on the couch. Fantastic.

When the party started coming to a close, I was sitting alone in the living room. Everyone else was on the back porch. I don’t know why I was sitting alone in the living room, but I remember feeling very smart and very pleased with myself. But then Ashley came in from the back porch. She walked right up to me, sat down on my lap and kissed me directly on the mouth.  Then, just as abruptly, she got up and walked back outside. I didn’t know what to think. 

About 15 minutes later, everyone that could leave went home.  Joe and Ashley took the room promised to me, and I got the couch with the dog hair.

At first I heard giggling. Apparently Ashley liked to giggle...a lot. I also discovered that she liked to talk a lot. Very demanding that Ashley.  I think the word “mount” was used.
Then I had to go to the bathroom which was, wouldn’t you know it, right next to the champagne room. Blast.

Though the acoustics were even better in there, it was hard to tell whether they were having sex or participating in the Kentucky Derby. I didn't know whether to leave or place a bet. I thought maybe if they heard a toilet flush, they would realize that they weren't in his F150 or the nearest La Quinta.  But no such luck. In fact, the flush had a reverse affect. They assumed that it was the loudest flush known to man and, unfortunately, used it as an excuse to get even louder. 

Back in the living room, I turned on the TV to help drown out the funk. The movie Step Up was on and I thought, “Great. I’m a single guy at a New Years Eve party that got kissed by a girl who is now begging to be choked in the next room. And now I’m watching Step Up because I don’t know how to change the channel on this ancient receiver. All I need now is for the wall to start banging.”

Bang.  Bang.  Bang.   Bangbangbangbang. Bang.  Bang.

Perfect.


So, let’s recap what we’ve learned: 

1. If you’re going to have sex at a friend’s house with 6 other people staying under one roof, try having secret sex.  Playing the “quiet game” isn’t just for children, you know?

2. No one but the people inside of the room need to know how big it is. He knows you can see the size. I don't need to know the size too.  And unless there is a saddle in there, (and there's not because I was in that room earlier putting my bag next to the bed because I WAS SUPPOSE TO SLEEP  THERE... and I didn't see a saddle), there should be no mention of mounting anything.

3. Don't use decorative hand towels to clean up with.  Also, don't offer to take said towels home to wash and return.  Keep them.  That stuff never comes out.

Sexy Saturdays: Fourteen Long Dry Months

I feel triumphant today, kiddos, because one of my fave people on the planet and blog heroes is posting. Here! On my little blog!

Pretty sure I met Alex from Late Enough over at Studio 30+ and I was instantly hooked on her blog. I had only read maybe 3 or 4 posts of hers before I nabbed her to interview for Questions for a Blogger. She writes about parenting and politics and religion and her life in a very relaxed, candid way with a rapier wit with a side of goofball. In other words? She rocks lobster.

She's also one of the warmest, most supportive women you'll meet. She's supported my Etsy site with a giveaway on her new baby This Blogger Makes Fun of Stuff (which you should totes check out) and I've truly, truly enjoyed becoming her friend. Plus? You guys, she's like super freaking smart. And her kids are entirely too cute, like it shouldn't be legal how cute. For serious. Oh and? She's like a total cat lady too. Even though she has a husband and kiddos. Because she had cats first. And cats are forever. Or something.

Anyway, before you fall in love with Alex like I did, go find her on the Twitter, Facebook, and, bien sur, subscribe to her blog. Enjoy!

My husband and I didn’t have sex until we were married. 

Holy crap was I ready.

Because it wasn’t that we were both virgins.  We just wanted to do something different for our relationship.  And, um, that was DIFFERENT.

We didn’t even kiss in our first two weeks of dating.  Scott said to me: My friend told me that sometimes girls can feel weird about not kissing so I wanted you to know that I’m doing it so we can get to know each other and talk instead of just making out.

To which I responded: It’s okay. I had a dream about where we would first kiss and it’s not here.

However, I did NOT have a dream that we wouldn’t have sex for fourteen months.

At my bachelorette party, we played a game where my friends sent Scott questions and I had to guess his answers.

Question 5: What’s position does Alex prefer when you sleep together?
Scott: Um, her stomach?
Me: Oh, we haven’t had sex.

I’m pretty sure three people fell out of their chairs.

It’s not that we are hyper-religious.  I don’t really think God cares about premarital sex. 

I just had always slept with the people I dated.  Usually sooner rather than later.  I think it was a combination of every other movie where the couple sleeps together immediately because they are THAT MUCH IN LOVE and the idea that if a guy wanted to date me to get in my pants, I’d rather find out now than in three months.

I was so tired of relationships where we were MADLY IN LOVE then FOUGHT then MADLY IN LOVE then FOUGHT then FOUGHT then BROKE UP then GOT BACK TOGETHER then BROKE UP then I found a new guy to fall MADLY IN LOVE.

I wanted a normal LIKE to LOVE to REALLY IN LOVE with minimal fighting.  And being the least normal person I know, I had to do things very different to get there.

Scott and I took “breaking up” off the table.  It just wasn’t a fair fighting tactic.  Did it mean we could never break up? No.  It meant we couldn’t use it to up the drama.

Scott and I took sex off the table.  It just made things more complicated.  And we were already complicated people trying to be in a relationship TOGETHER.  We didn’t need help.

We took spending every second together off the the table.  It just made us boring.  And I liked having friends.  So did Scott.

Seven months later we got engaged and seven months after that we got married. 

And that was over seven years ago.

Of course, the pressure on our wedding night was extraordinary.  We even discussed NOT having sex so we didn’t set up a failure.

But COME ON.  Fourteen months was long enough.  And now, when we pass the hotel, we point and giggle like teenagers.

Hands down, I have never had better sex than I do right now with my husband.

Do I think that our sex life is awesome because we waited until marriage?  No. 

But maybe because we took the time to explore our bodies, minds and hearts without sex, we were able to use sex to make our relationship better instead of more complicated?

Or I’m still making up for those fourteen long dry months.

Sexy Saturdays: Ask and you shall receive.

 

Happy Sexy Saturday, kiddos! I could not be more happy that my pal The Suniverse agreed to post today. This is long overdue. If you read my post about how the Raw Photos Contest began, you know how Sun and I met and became friends. Since, she and I have become close and I consider her one of my greatest friends.

She's like a big sister and I'd go to her for advice on just about anything. She's like me in that she's quirky and goofy and complicated and OCD. Plus she's a great writer with a rapier wit. If I could change anything about Sun, it would be to get her to post on her blog more. Maybe you all can help me shame this busy woman into making her blog a bigger priority in her very full life. Just kidding. But not really.

I think you'll really love this post. I love hearing her honest perspective. Oh wait, first go follow her on the twitter and subscribe to her blog.

Enjoy!

I like sex.  Really, really like it.  A lot.

It's fun and nasty and silly and dirty and serious and passionate and a great way for me to release tension.  It's also a fun way to get to know people.  You know, like an ice breaker.

I wanted sex, or at least the idea of sex, from about high school age and on.  I was, however, so sheltered, that I wasn't sure what happened where. 

True story:  I was 16 when I saw a Playgirl magazine and realized that men had pubic hair, too.  Seriously.

Unfortunately, I didn't like sex so much when I started.  When I was 19.

What?

Did I mention the sheltered thing?  I was raised in a VERY STRICT household, where being a virgin was far more important than, say, being a nice person.

It wasn't easy getting over the idea that sex was evil, and particularly the idea that sex outside of marriage meant you were going straight to hell, and that actually enjoying sex meant you were a whore and should be taken out back and shot.  Or at least beaten.

Yeah.  That'll give you some conflicting feelings.

Anyway, I had sex a few times with a few people before I realized it was not only ok to have fun, but perfectly acceptable to ask for particular things.  In fact, people REALLY LIKED IT when I would ask for something, when I was involved in making decisions and not just kind of going along and [maybe] quietly seething because oh, my god, why aren't you moving this way, you idiot?

Being vocal, being strong enough to ask for what I wanted took some time.  Actually, it took some time to ask one night stands.  It took FOREVER to ask someone I was in a relationship with.  Because I figured I'd be judged as, you know, a whore.

But when I was finally comfortable to do that, to say, "Listen, I'd like it if you did this," it was amazing. 

That, my friends, was a revelation. 

I could ask for something, willingly get it [boy, people will give up pretty much anything when asked while they're having sex, won't they?], and not be ashamed about it.

That last thing?  That's the best part.

Not being ashamed with a lover, or a one night stand or with your mate.  That feeling of freedom, of knowing it's o.k. to ask for what you want, and even if it's a little out there, there will be no judgment.

Sexy Saturdays: Sexy Underthings

 

Guess what day it is kiddos! That's right. Sexy Saturday. Awwwwwwwyeah! 

I am so tickled to bring you this week's poster. Jen from Outside Looking In is quite possibly one of the sweetest, funniest, talentedest (not a word, but I was going with the "est" theme) gals I've had the pleasure of meeting. She and I haven't known each other for long though. I'm not even sure how she found me on the twitter, maybe at #wineparty(?), but at any rate, I liked her immediately. 

She's kind while not holding back with a rapier wit, mucho talented without being vain in the slightest, which we'll have to work on. Let's all boost her ego mmmk? when she finally pointed out her blo to my unobservant brain, I subscribed at once because I knew I couldn't get enough. Plus? Love her photos! You all know how much a love a talented fellow photog!

Make sure you check out her blog and follow her on the twitter. Then? Enjoy!

Andy asked me to write an article about the sex?  For her blog? 

::blink….blinkblink:: 

Am *I* even qualified to talk about the sex?  Especially since I call it “the sex”.  Should I tell her how long it’s been since the lady bits have seen any genital to genital interaction?  This single parenting, it’s a rough gig y’all.

I was going to tell you a story about my post divorce crazy sex phase.  That time right after my divorce when I would probably have humped anything that walked, but stuck to those with man genitals.  That girl that got married having only done the sex with her now husband then got divorced and HOLY SHIT IS IT SUPPOSED TO FEEL THIS GOOD period.  But, I think many of us have those right?  That time when you discover lots of new things about the sex and realize that OMG I *CAN* ORGASM DURING SEX…….frequently.  ::hallelujah::  And did y’all know that THERE ARE people that ENJOY having their face sat on?  I like those people…..a lot.

But, instead I will tell you that tonight I went on a date.  With a REALLY cute guy.  Who was seemingly normal.  Also?  There.was.LOTS.of.tension.  Sexual tension.  The way he put his hand on the small of my back as we walked inside the restaurant.  His hot breath on my neck when he whispered in my ear during the movie.  His hand on my thigh.  The way he grabbed me and kissed me.  Oh.em.gee.  ::shiver::  The witty banter, the great conversation.  It was a phenomenal date.

But, here I sit telling you folks about it instead of STILL ON THE DATE!  It’s only 1:00am, I could easily be 3 to 4 orgasms in by now.  Don’t think I wasn’t 0.00002 seconds from blurting out “do you wanna come over?”  Tonight?  I wore unsexy underthings.  On purpose.  I knew if I wore the old, trusted hipsters that I would not be having the sex tonight.  And why on earth would I do that?  Because y’all, this guy was so nice and so sweet.  I don’t want to mess this up from the start.  The post-divorce, sex crazed Jen would have said “screw the date, just come over so we can fuck”.

But sweet, tiny baby Jesus I would have ravaged him in the back seat of that fancy car of his.  I would have asked him to come over and teased him the entire way home.  Until we busted in the door and he pinned me against the wall.  Pulled the buttons right off that cute button down of his and dug my nails into the skin on his back.  My bet?  He’s just as fantastic without his clothes on as he is with them on.

Date number two is tomorrow night.  Date number two is a good night to wear the sexy panties right?

Sexy Saturdays: The Problem with Chemistry

 

Today is a very unique post that I fear was too far long in coming. I met DJ of Dysfunction Junction forever ago on the Twitter and loved her instantly. She's sweet and sassy yet not afraid to use that quick wit for evil. Which makes me cream. But it never occurred to me to check if she blogged until like a month ago. Kiddos? She is a kickass blogger! Mark that as a huge fail for me.

You can count her as one of the many friends I've made that live in the one major US city to which I've (shamefully) never been: Chicago. Whenever I remedy that, she'll need to be there to make me laugh. As she says on her "about" page, "I blog because I’m hoping you’ll laugh so hard that milk (or whatever you’re drinking) comes out of your nose." I'm counting on that. 

I think you're really gonna love this post. It's different than anything we've had on Sexy Saturdays thus far, both poetic and incredibly dirty while short enough to leave you wanting more. Really, really wanting more. So you people will just have to go read her blog to get even more Dysfunction Junction or follow her on the Twitter. Or both!  

Enjoy!

I let out a small whimper as he grabs and winds his hands into my hair and pulls my lips to him.  He grabs my face harder than he probably should.  He knows he can do these things because I trust him implicitly.

There’s something between us that I’ve never had with any other man.  I’m not saying I haven’t had connections with men; but he knows my ins and my outs, all my very darkest secrets.  And I know his.

There was something immediately between us.  From the first words exchanged, we knew there was something about each other.  We have similar “selves”, an outward appearance that belies many of the fantasies we share.  I’m never afraid with him; never timid to say something and worry that he may be turned off or worse, disgusted by me.

He’s asked me to do things that if it were anyone other than him, I’d steer the conversation onto other matters.  Not with him.  With him, I plunge headfirst into my desires and his.

He whispers into my ear and I agree to anything.  The ebbs & flows of dominance between us change with almost every heartbeat.

He’s the closest thing I’ve ever come to an addiction.  Sometimes our relationship is awful for me.  I’ve called him a bastard and he’s had choice words for me.  He and I both know that we say those words because we’re wrapped up in each other.  We’re linked in ways I can’t fully put into words.  He’s said it’s like being drunk on me, that I’m the only one who knows him.  It’s true; we’re the only people who know these parts of each other.

That’s the problem with chemistry.  You click.  It’s instantaneous.  Intoxicating & maddening.

I couldn’t give him up.  Even if I wanted to.

Sexy Saturdays: Love Shack

Kiddos, I am so excited to host today's guest blogger on Sexy Saturdays. Michele of Papoe is one of my fave ladies. We met on Studio 30+ and she jumped on me to interview for "Questions for a Blogger." We've been friends ever since.

Michele is like the cool older sister of the blogger world. Or maybe just my blogger world. Like, she's the gal I simultaneously want to be when I grow up *and* want to go party with. She's very cool. And very sweet and supportive. And she's brilliant AND a great writer. You should read her latest letter to her daughters. So awesome! Also? her two girls are 50 kinds of adorable. So much cute should really just be illegal, if you ask me. Plus she's a Bay area gal and we all know how much I loves the Bay area.

Am I forgetting anything? Probably. Well, enough from me. Wait. Yes I am. First, go find her blog and her twitter. Now...enjoy!

I've known my husband for over ten years. He likes to tell me that if I had dated him when we first met (like he had wanted) then we would have already been married for seven years with three kids in tow. Instead, I dated, and dated some more before we got together. We got married in 2007 and quickly got pregnant. And then pregnant again. It was a long twisty-windy-lovely road from there to here. Here is amazing. There was pretty damn good too. There, I was single, and it was my birthday.

It was just like any other night. My friends and I were riding on a Mexican Bus, sipping Jack and Coke from a can, and dancing between the seats to Love Shack by The B-52’s. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly like any other night. It was my 26th birthday and we were flying down Geary Street in San Francisco, heading to our first stop for the evening.

Exiting the bus, we mingled with the other group that had purchased seats for the evening. That was when I made eye contact with one of the boys. Once inside, he bought me a drink at the bar. I don’t remember his name. Ryan? Brian? Troy? It doesn’t matter. By the time we got to our last stop, we were struggling to learn the Salsa, and I decided that I wanted to get laid that night. I didn’t care if I ever saw this Ryan, Brian, or Troy again.

He played the nice guy and asked me if I wanted to go out with him sometime. I said sure. We sat next to each other on the bus, which was headed to drop everyone off for the night. There were two planned stops: 1) The Mission, where my friends and I were picked up; and, 2) Russian Hill. My friends got up to leave and he squeezed my hand. I stayed put and waved goodbye to my friends.

The first time we had sex we were both still a little drunk. He brought me water and we shared a glass before switching positions. In the morning, we stretched out on top of the covers like we had known each other for years. I was relaxed and we were both still willing. We proved that the alcohol hadn’t sweetened the deal the night before. We proved it twice.

Driving me back to my car, he once again mentioned a night out—a proper date. He didn’t have a pen and paper, so he put my number directly in his phone.

He never called. But I didn’t cry about it. I didn’t obsess over why I hadn’t heard from him. I was satisfied, and ready to ride the bus again.

Sexy Saturdays: Naked Mel Sexy Funtime

 

Happy New Year and happy Sexy Saturday! I am so stoked to start this new year off with a guest post from one of the coolest chicks I've met in a long time and who has become a fast friend. Satan (Mel) of satan goes to sing-sing found my blog first. I forget exactly how. And soon I was reading her blog. Then we were friends on flickr and then redbubble and then twitter. It seems we can't get enough of eachother.

And I swear, every day I discover something else we have in common. She used to live in the Portland and now lives in New Orleans (which you should know has a very special place in my heart). Plus she's a fabulous writer and dancer and loves leg warmers! She's a stripper (which I find super cool), and, I'll be honest, out of the few strippers I've known, she is by far the most down to earth and cool. But I also love that she's open about The Sex and loves both the boys and the girls as I do. Plus? She's kind of a nerd (in the best way of course.) and loves photography! 

Anyway, I think you'll love her post. You should read her blog and find her on the twitter. Check out her work on flickr and redbubble too.

Enjoy!

Once upon a time, there was this lovely lady – oh, who the fuck am I kidding!

Nah, this is a tale of how I, Satan, came to be dating the current Boy, Matt.  It has a bearing on our relationship to this day, mostly because we still can’t figure out when the hell our anniversary is, and we’ve been together for 2 years, come Februaryish.  We have somewhat arbitrarily decided on a date now, just to tell people, but really – we have no fucking clue.  (For the record, yes, he does know I’m writing this – I’m pretty sure he’s resigned to all the blogging-related oversharing that I inflict regularly…)

I used to live in Portland, Oregon, like Andy does now, and it was a lonely time for me.  I had a fantastic time because it’s Portland, but I was lonely.  Perhaps it was because I was poor and hardly ever went out, but I was tired of being alone.  I eventually turned to the Craigslist personals ads, to find companionship other than my misanthropic roommate.

First, I scoured the women for women section, extensively (for months).  Not that I don’t like The Menz, but it just seemed a lot more daunting to talk to them on the internet, especially on Craigslist, and who doesn’t like a girlfriend?  ; ]

I had a lot of interesting encounters, some of which ended in sex, and some of which ended in friendship.    And although it was great to make new friends, I was specifically looking for someone to fuck on the regular, and so far, nothing had worked out.  I didn’t want someone to date, as that seemed completely impossible to me at the time – I was still terribly, painfully in love with my ex (and sometimes, still having ex sex, so… yeah).  And I didn’t want to inflict my melancholic rebounding on any relationship.

So as I sat at my terribly boring office job, perusing the women for women section the day after Valentine’s day, I finally began to feel a bit fed up with that whole scene, and clicked on the men for women section – you know, “just to check it out.”

I perused a few posts, none of which were in any way attractive, and then came upon this post, or rather, this picture:

Truthfully, I read the words after perusing the photo.  Redheaded musician-type boy?  Yes, sign me up for that date.  I believe the ad mentioned something about liking beer?  I have no clue.

So I emailed him (through my work email account, natch) and we ended up setting up a meeting at an Irish pub.  Fitting, for the two redheads.   We got along well, had a couple of beers, and then Matt bugged out rather quickly.  I invited him back to my place, probably insinuating something about having “Naked Mel Sexy Funtime,” as Matt put it just last night, but he was NOT biting my bait.  Instead he told me he had a fun time, and to call him if I wanted to hang out.

In my head I might have been a bit miffed.  “Hang out,” he says?  My ass, even if it was apparent that we would get along well while hanging out.

It took two days for me to call him back, because frankly, I’m used to people calling me.  It’s not that I think I’m above calling someone, but I’m just not as used to it.  But he seemed happy to hear from me, so I headed over to his house to “watch a movie.”  Of course, I had no such thing in mind.

I remember meeting Matt’s cat Roxy (who couldn’t stand me at first, jealousy, maybe?  Haha, I got all the attention, Fuzzbutt), and I remember us smoking hookah, and watching some movie.  I don’t remember what the hell the movie was.  To be fair, Matt doesn’t either.  In his words, “To me it seemed like you were intentionally brushing up against me, and sticking your boobs against my arm – it seemed very intentional.”

Well.  I don’t remember any intentional tit-rubbing, but he wasn’t exactly wrong about the former.  So of course our hookah-smoking and movie time devolved into a very long makeout session on the couch.

Eventually it became obvious that we either needed to move onto a bed, or fuck on the couch – and seeing how he did have a roommate, and his house had a large picture window in the living room, we opted for the bed.  And we fucked.  It was that kind of explosive, first time sex that rarely happens, but is great when it does.

I got up to piss afterwards, and started laughing a lot when I saw myself in the mirror.  I might as well explain now that I am fairly fucking allergic to cats (UNFAIR, I love cats), and Roxy did get on Matt’s bed.  So cat dander + Matt’s beard + rough sex definitely equaled me breaking out into very small hives all over my neck and shoulders and tits.

Matt came to see what I was laughing at, and got a very horrified expression on his face.  “What the fuck is that?!?!?”  he said.   I just brushed it off.  “Oh, I’m allergic to cats.  It’s just a rash, I’ll take some Benadryl, and it’ll go away.”

I asked, and he says he remembered being kinda scared for me because of the allergy, but not much else about that night.  This doesn’t surprise me, because he was starting to doze, immediately after he came.  I told him I couldn’t sleep there, because of the cat, and he was like, “Well, then we better go to your place.”

I had expected him to drop me off, or say, make me walk home (to be fair, it wasn’t all that far to my house…) but instead he came in to my house with me, and stayed the night, which was fantastic –  I will freely admit to being a snuggler of very large proportion.

And then we all lived happily ever after…

Yeah, right.  Actually, we were fuck buddies for most of a year, with interruptions (when for reasons that still boggle my mind, he decided to date a lady who was even crazier than I am…) here and there, while life happened.  I hadn’t wanted a relationship out of him, and it wasn’t one, for quite a while.  We both saw other people.

But shit happens, and sometimes life blindsides you, and at one point we decided we were dating – and we’ve been in an open relationship, ever since.

All’s well that ends well, in my book!

Sexy Saturdays: The Boys in the Band

Happy Sexy Saturday! Today happens to be Christmas, so as an extra special present to you, I'll be posting this week.

WHA? Oh yes. You lucky ducks.

Back in the day, I had a weakness for the boys in the band. Oh who am I kidding? I still am. So I thought I'd impart my extensive knowledge and tell you just who in the band you should sleep with if you want a good time.

I'm nothing if not magnanimous. Look at me passing on my knowledge and helping you guys out!

I think we should start with the worst and work our way up, yes? Okay.

Also: I'm going with the 3 person band format. I realize there are all sorts of other musicians out there. For those guys? Judge for yourself. 

The lead singer: he has a tiny penis. He does. Trust me. Watch him the next time you're at a concert. Look at how he holds the mic. There's a reason he's deep throating it.

He needs to be in the front of the band, to feel like he's the most important one there (but he's really not. we'll get to that in a second.). That way he gets laid even though his penis is wee. And he feels like a big man.

But not only is his penis minuscule, he is so stuck on himself that he won't even try to pleasure you in any way or make the experience memorable for you. He may even want you to blow him even though that will be confusing because it will seem like sucking on a mini-hotdog. He might be pretty (and he most definitely is), but he knows it and that means a boring time for you in the sack.

The only exception to this rule is the acoustic singer sans band. This guy is hot and soulful and writes his own music. He's still not the best in bed, but he'll be romantic and passionate and dote on you and maybe even write you a poem after.

The bass guitarist: this guy is hit or miss.

You either get the guy who is overlooked because the lead singer is such a showboating douchenozzle and so makes up for it in the sack (and there's something to be said for the guy who is overlooked.). Or you get the guy who thinks the bass is more important than it is and the same goes for his penis.

Or you get the bassist who is the best of both worlds. He rocks and he's the quiet type. Sexy. Oh so sexy. But you take a risk when going for the bassist. Just be aware you don't know what you're going to get. My advice? When he's on stage, go for the quieter type.

The drummer: I admit. I've always had a weakness for drummers.

For good reason too. The drummer is the heartbeat of the band. It falls apart without him. It's an interesting personality that sits in the back but holds everything together. Watch the drummer the next time you're at a concert. He's not always the best looking but he is definitely the hottest. Without a doubt the hottest.

I dated my share of drummers, starting in high school. But the best I sex I have ever had ever was with Tony. My friends who've known me a long time are laughing right now because he was kind of an oaf, kind of a loser when it came to real life. But friends? Let me tell you, that man could do things with his pelvis that you didn't know were possible.

Because drummers know all about rhythm. I think you know what I mean.

Now I am a girl who likes the foreplay. I am queer after all, so oral is usually my favorite part of The Sex (write that down). But with Tony? We didn't even need foreplay. Never mind that watching him play was pretty much all the foreplay I needed, we jump right in and I'd reach enlightenment. Several times. Best. Sex. Ever.

I realize I may have just broken the cardinal rule of womanhood in actually admitting who gave me the best sex ever. I feel like I must make a disclaimer to my past lovers and boyfriends who I know read this bloggy blog. You guys rocked my socks off. Your techniques and hands and tongues were all delightful. Believe me! I'm just talking about a particular skill that I'd never experienced before and haven't since.

So ladies? The best is the drummer. Mark my words.

Sexy Saturdays: Things I’ve Learned From Writing Clit Lit

I have a special treat for you this fine Sexy Saturday, a repeat guest poster, because I love this girl THAT much. Ali from Made of Words has graciously agreed to post a second time during this busy, manic month and I'm so glad she did. I am truly in love with this lady's writing, her clit lit (which you'll hear more about), her stories of her life with her love Jae, and her take on gender and queer life (which, you guys, she's so damn smart!).

Ali has truly become a great friend to me and I treasure that so much. She's generous and warm and kind and open-minded in a way only a queer clit-lit writer can be. Okay, I won't blather on anymore. Here is what you came for. Enjoy!

While it is most certainly not the only thing I do, a good portion of my website is dedicated to the one-handed read.  That’s right, possums-from-another-mother (aka, followers of Crazy With A Side of Awesomesauce.)  I write porn.  Literary porn, but porn nonetheless.  Stories or poems that are meant to get you wet and make you touch yourself.  And a good deal of it is based on my sex life with my girlfriend.  Oh yes, darlings.  I not only write porn.  But I write queer porn.  I’m the blackest of black sheep.

As you might imagine, outside of that world it’s not really a marketable skill.  Imagine your resumé full of stories about fisting, anal sex, going down on women.  Not exactly going to get you very many gigs.  And it’s certainly not something I generally get paid for (I got a sex toy, once.  I’ll gladly take additions to my toy chest as payment.)  A couple of times I’ve asked myself why I do it.  There are lofty answers, like that people need to demystify lesbian sex, to know it’s okay for women to pleasure themselves and other women (man or no man!  Burn your bras!)  But there are other things.  Better things.

I’ve learned a lot about sex while trying to write it down.

I’ve learned that my girlfriend is a buffet of tastes to be savored and appreciated.  (Especially when we eat lunch at Jamba Juice.)  And I’ve gained the vocabulary to be able to fully treasure that fact.  On any given day, Jae could burst in my mouth with the flavor of sun-warmed blackberries, shower me with snowflakes and rain, roll in with waves of beach, and be a fistful of pennies.  She can taste salty, sweet, bitter, like things I have never tasted before that I’d be hard put to name.  Did you know a person can taste like pure desire?  Sweaty passion?  Like new skin that never sees the sun?  (Still gotta say, my favorite day is still Jamba Juice Day.  It was like eating a fruit salad that comes when you lick it.)

The lesson that I’ve taken from all that?  Girls taste great.  You need not interfere with them.  They smell great too.  So whenever I see a product to clean you up, make you smell better, I mentally tell the company to go fuck themselves.  And you should not worry, ladies and gents with vaginas, about eating the right foods in order to taste better for your lover.  Everything tastes wonderful when you’re going down on someone.  Pennies or fruit, it’s all amazing.  And if every day were Jamba Juice Day I’d get bored.  Sex is beautiful with the complex tapestry of flavors and perfumes she gives me to experience.

I’ve learned to recall sounds:  the crack of a well-placed slap on a well-fed thigh; the steady drum of clenching fists on a headboard; the groan of kitchen cabinets holding my  weight as I’m bent over the counter; the airy sighs, chuckles, gasps that turn my queer-boy girlfriend into a (very sexual) pixie; my screams, the obscenities ripped from my throat; whispered dirty talk.

Never be too worried that you’re making too much noise.  My neighbors have never complained that I’m fucking too loudly.  So what if they can hear you?  Sex is a sacred space where everything instantly becomes soundproof.  As long as you are the privacy of your own territory and doing nothing illegal, no one will ever tell you they can hear you flogging your partner.  Take advantage of this: flog your partner.  Curse.  Moan. Tell her you want your pretty ass in the air while she fucks you.  Scream it, go ahead.

I’ve written the ridiculous.  About landing in the hospital, burning myself, breaking glass.  Accidentally getting dick-whipped by the largest dildo in all the land.  Cold lube.  Lube I’m allergic to.  Over-lube.  Kicking, punching, bruising (intentional or not, but all resulting in disaster.)  Cocks that won’t stay put.  Diarrhea.  Magically appearing roommates.  Magically appearing parents.  Magically appearing dogs.  Magically disappearing libidos.  Cats that bite my ass.  Near-drownings.

Shit is not always going to go how you plan.  Just accept it right now.  James Bond is the only person that can fuck with a 100-percent success rate and be suave while doing so.  You are not James Bond.  He doesn’t exist.  But that’s the beauty of it.  The lesson I’ve learned here is have a sense of humor.  Unless you are a fictional character, develop the ability to laugh and keep screwing.  Do not let hiccups ruin your night (or morning or afternoon.)

Perhaps writing the naughty moments is more valuable than the ability to sell your stories.  Recording how you perceive sex teaches you not only to write with five senses but to enjoy those moments for the reality that they are.  The truer the experience, the sweeter the memory and the deeper the understanding you have for yourself.

Sexy Saturdays: When I get that feeling, I want Sextual Healing…

Today's guest poster is proof that you never know where you'll find a great story. Shhhmegs is one of my loverly gal pal Twitter friends. I love this chick. She's funny and sassy and always has sweet things to say. She never fails to brighten my day. 

So when I was thinking of who'd I ask to post this week, she just popped in my head. No idea why, except that I know from her tweets that she must have some great stories and that The Sex isn't a subject that would scare her. But she's not a blogger so I had no idea if she could write. 

So I asked her if she was a writer, if she was interested in posting here. She giggled and jumped at the chance, all the while assuring me she isn't a writer. Well guess what, people? She is. Girlfriend can tell a story. Boy can she. After this, I'll bet people start bugging her to write or to blog. Because this is a great story.

Go follow her on the Twitter. And make sure you tell her what a delicious post she wrote, k?

Enjoy!

It wasn’t until relatively recently that I had my first experience with sexting. No, I’m not an insecure 15 year old trying to get boys to like me by sending naked pictures. The whole thing evolved over a long period of time. Apparently I’m one of the last people who got into this. Sorry, folks, I didn’t even have unlimited text messaging until about April of this year. So yeah, they were precious. Plus, up until Feb of this year I had been in a relationship for almost 4 years, 3 of which we lived together. So if I wanted to show some boobs I’d just pull up my shirt.

Enter Single Me. I decided to celebrate my independence with a trip to Mexico this spring & ended up meeting my future sexting buddy there. His & my “relationship” could be a bliggity blog all in itself, so I’ll keep it brief here. Hot. Man. I met him and decided pretty quickly that I was going to have sex with him and never see him again. Judge me if you’d like, I’m just being honest. I’m a 28 year old woman. I am allowed my sexual freedom. I’m not slutting it up every weekend (or even every month) but even if I were I don’t really see what the problem is. I choose not to because that doesn’t make me happy (romantic sap at heart). Anyhow, I digress. We stayed up all night talking and drinking and kissing the first night. The second night it was on. I had several jack & diet cokes (my go-to) and threw caution to the wind. For drunken stranger sex, it was remarkably good. Like I said, he’s hot, he’s got a great body, he’s funny, a great kisser, blah blah blah.

So we parted ways to our respective states, but not before he asked me for my number. I gave it to him without much thought, but to my surprise he texted me the very next morning saying he missed me already. Cute. Funny thing was I wasn’t even that into him for about another month. We started a friendship which involved long, long emails and text message conversations that lasted hours at a time. Then one day I realized I was totally sprung on him. After that it started getting a little saucy. We had been flirting all along, but it shifted to another level.

I’m a nice girl, honest I am. But I also have a very naughty side. I don’t share it openly with very many people, but with someone like him who I’d become so close to it just felt natural. So I just let my inhibitions go. I let my dirty mouth find its voice in the safety of a text message. It gave me bravery. It was oddly creative. And very, very sexy. The first time I sent him a picture was a huge deal to me. Looking back it was so tame too! I was lying in bed, under the covers but only in panties. I was on my side and sheets were barely covering my breasts. Like I said, tame. No nudity. You could still see my tan lines from our vacation & he loved it. After that it became even more fun. He’s a boob man, so I’d find all sorts of interesting ways to pose to, um, enhance our texting experience. I would get that rush of excitement, waiting to hear what he thought of them.

This lasted for months. It was a great way to get out my sexual energy in a safe, fun way. I think it stayed so interesting because I never sent him any where I was totally naked. I think out of the many I sent, I only flashed a nipple maybe three times and just barely and never anything naked below the waist. It was more fun to send a picture of me in a tank top with no bra on or with ass-spilling panties. I think he liked it better that way too. Dudes can get porn anywhere. All sorts of naked chicks any time for free. I think subtlety can be much sexier, and it always left him wanting more. And the times I did let a little extra spill out of my bra were all the more special. Combine that with conversations that make me blush and you’ve got yourself a fun night.

Alas, my heart got in the way. After months of such an intimate friendship, I really fell for him but the feelings were not mutual. So I had to pull away. We’ll still occasionally trade friendly messages but it’s certainly not the same. I miss it sometimes. I miss him sometimes. The was-supposed-to-be-my-rebound guy who broke my heart.

Sexy Saturdays: Awkward Starts & Sleep Sex

People? You have no idea how lucky you are today. Because today's guest poster is one of my favorite people on the Internet and I've been trying to get her over here FOREVER. I feel like I've know My Little Becky of i'll go eat worms since I've been doing this blogging gig.

I think we met on the Twitter and she was instantly sweet and funny and welcoming. She pulled me into the blogging fold (doesn't that sound gross?) and I know I can always count on her hugs and hilarious tweets. She's been uber supportive of my baby Jeté too. I just love her down to my panties.

If you don't love Becky yet, just blame me and my intro that cannot do her justice. After you read her post, you surely will. Then you'll journey over to her blog and love her sweet dogs and her man Chuck. Then follow her on the Twitter and get ready for the best hashtags of your whole damn life.

But first? Enjoy yo!

as one of the most awkward people on the planet, i can make anything awkward, including but not limited to the sex. yes. i do the whole, "pew, pew, pew! i'm shooting things with your penis gun!" "here, let me squeeze your nipple because you hate that and that's what makes it funny!" "all aboard the vagina train! we're going to vagina town!" i do it all because i can't help myself. don't get me wrong, when the sex is actually happening i'm taking my job seriously but that whole awkward start thing, i got that part down. with a side of extra of awkward.

it wasn't always this way, when we were first dating, there was no time for becky to be awkward because when we were together, we were either having sex or catching our breath after having sex. that first tidal wave of infatuation was followed by less intense waves but has yet to really be rivaled in its total unsurrendering domination of our sexual relationship.

i had a lot of practice in those early days but i'm not, how you say, "very experienced" in the sex, so maybe that's part of my problem. for some unavoidable reason, i have to make it weird for chuck because it's weird for me. we're certainly very compatible and if i can shut off the part of my mind that's screaming, "aaaaa! you're having sex with somebody! please don't mess it up! or if you feel like you're gonna mess it up, please mess it up preemptively!" then we have an excellent time in the sack because really, you have to try hard to mess up sex between us.

which brings me to, sleep sex. yes, sleep sex, chuck haz it. i want to say right here that we didn't really know what was happening in the beginning, we were all, "who started that?" in the morning. when then we realized that chuck was sleep sexing and then waking up mid the sex, i gave him full permission to sleep sex me. however, he has woken up mid sex rejection as well. apparently i'm a good sleep rejector, he'll be all, "i tried to have sex with you last night" and i'll be all, "no you didn't! i would have remembered that!" it's like we're a perfect pair. *romantic sigh*

but the sleep sex? hot. there's no awkward beginning. there's no, "i have a boner!" *wiggle, wiggle* no, "look at me, i have a playoff beard vagina!" it's just sex, hot, intense, uninhibited sex and i love it. sometimes i'll work it into my dreams, is there any dream better than dream sex? for me, there is not. and when combined with sleep sex, it's a match made in heaven. there's no other way to describe it other than unrestrained and that's my idea of a good time. it reminds me of the sex we had before i was bogged down by being this man's best friend which means we share everything, before he knew i burp sometimes, before he smelled my armpits after a weekend of mutual non-showering, back when i knew he thought i had naturally soft and shaved everything all the time. we might have lost some of that glossed over, magically perfect view and although i do love with all my heart what we have achieved now and have absolutely nothing to complain about, i still do love sleep sex for it's unbridled embrace of hot sex.

Sexy Saturdays: Sexual Connoisseur

Iiiiiiit's Sexy Saturday! Wha? Again? Awyeah! I met today's guest poster, Lil Miss Butterbean of The Bee's Knees, not too long ago on the Twitter and like her instantly. She's one of those insanely sweet girls that you'd love to hate but you can't but because you love her so much. 

Then she asked me to guest post for her during her birthday week and I was like, "Awwww! Hells yes! And maybe you want to write about The Sex for meeee! We can do tradesies." And she was like, "Absolutely! I have no problem writing about sex. It's all I do."Or something like that. I might be misquoting a teensy bit. And the rest was, as they say (not knowing who they are), was history. 

I think you're really gonna love Butterbean. She's sticky sweet and funny as hell. She really is the bee's knees! After you read her fantabulous post, go follow her on Twitter and subscribe to her blog. You'll be glad you did.

Enjoy!

i've spent the last week and a half trying to figure out what i was going to write about. i mean, sex, obviously, but what part of the sex? should i write about marriage sex? pre-baby or post-baby sex? high school or college sex? wild, drunken sex or tame, sober sex?

see, i like to think of myself as a bit of a sexual connoisseur. and by that, i don't mean a slut. i mean i love sex. seriously. like looooove the sex. and i've had a lot of the sex. no, not with tons and tons of people, but i've had sex tons and tons of times with the people that i've had the sexy time with. are you picking up what i'm putting down here?

anyvajazzle, since andy asked me to guest post i've relived every sexcapade that i've had, trying to nail down the perfect story to tell you guys. and after a week and some odd days, i still have no idea which story i should tell y'all.

should i tell about the time i had sex in a hay loft? no, that's boring, everyone's done that. what about the countless nights i spent in the bed of my ex fiancées pickup? nah, most of those were accompanied by booze, so i'd probably only be able to get to the point where i got my pants down around my ankles and then everything else would be blurry. what about the wonderful parent-free weekend i spent with my date after the senior prom? you guys wanna hear about that? nah, there's nothing exciting there, besides the fact that we did it 27 times in a matter of 30 hours. i was sore for a few days after that.

let's see, what else could i tell y'all? there was my brief bad boy era right out of high school that's semi-steamy. he was at least 5 years older than me. (y'all will have to forgive my memory, i don't remember his exact age, mostly because i don't remember a lot about him. there were copious amounts of alcohol that were consumed in the short time we were together.) he had crazy tattoos and was almost 6 and a half feet tall. and he was hot. or so i thought at the time. we met one friday night in the sonic parking lot (i'm from a small town, this is how everyone met) and moved in together 3 weeks later. and we humped like rabbits. (side note: i'm seeing a pattern in every one of my relationships, after we start having sex, we have sex all the time!) we'd wake up, have sex, go to work, come home for lunch, have sex, go back to work, come home after work, have sex, go out for the night, come home, have sex, go to bed, have sex, fall asleep, wake up at 3 am, have sex. it was a vicious cycle. some days we'd call in sick to work and spend the day having sex. only stopping to eat or have a cigarette. (i smoked in those days because i thought it was cool. i was easily influenced) when we were at home i'd walk around in one of his button down shirts because he thought it was sexy. which led to us having sex. and the sex was ohmygah amazing! i'm talking body shaking, toe curling, headboard breaking awesome. the sex was so good, i decided i was going to marry this guy. despite the fact that he was a raging alcoholic and would pass out and wet the bed. sexy, huh? this went on for three very hot and heavy months. then one day, i found out he was also having body shaking, toe curling, headboard breaking great sex with someone else when we weren't doing it. where the hell they had time to do it is beyond me.

after that i went a little wild and had my first one night stand. although, i'm not sure it counts as a one night stand since it was with someone i'd known for at least 4 years, and he was so nervous he puked. sadly, that was the most memorable part of the night. the sex was not. shortly after that i had a threesome. that wasn't interesting to me in the least. too many arms and legs and not enough doing the deed. maybe we were doing it wrong.

about a year later i met the hubs. i knew he was the man i was going to marry after knowing him for 12 hours. we had sex for the first time after 48 hours. and let me tell you, what they say is true, when you're in love, sex is so much different and so much better. but, it was the same in the aspect that we did it all the time. we'd find any excuse to run off and have sex.

five and a half years later we're still having sex, just not near as much. after having our daughter our sex life dwindled down a bit. it's more of a comfortable glow than a burning flame. but, don't get me wrong, we still know how to heat things up in the boudoir, it's just that we're exhausted at the end of the day, and we end up passing out as soon our heads hit the pillows. we still experiment and try new things, we just don't do it as often.

but i have to say, after all of my sexual adventures, i'll take married, post-baby sex over wild, single girl sex any day. now, if you'll excuse me, i'm off to shower and shave, momma's gettin lucky tonight!

Sexy Saturdays: Blueberry Pancakes

You guys? You are going to die when you read today's Sexy Saturdays guest post. It is pure awesome. I am so happy to host Lori of Shnerfle today. I met this gal a while back on the Twitter and we were instant BFFs. Dirty jokes were told. Connections to similar places lived rehashed. Pictures of her very deliciously hot little brother were sent. And I was in love. With Lori. And, okay, her hot brother too. Yeesh.

Anyway, I love her wry sense of humor mixed with a humble wisdom that I am in awe of. She's not that much older than me, but I've decided I want to be her when I grow up. Would that be okay, Lori? Her blog is candid and witty and smart and her tweets are even better with a side of scathing. In other words? Completely awesome. Plus her kids? freaking funny and adorable. 

After you read her fanbloodytastic post, go subscribe to her blog and follow her on the Twitters.

Now seriously? Enjoy!

When I was 17, I met the man I would marry. He was 18 and we were freshmen in college. As that was the case, we had very little in the way of discretionary cash and didn’t go out much. In fact, as we were teenagers and had newly discovered each other, there was only one thing to do for entertainment, and that was each other.

In those heady days, we spend almost every moment together. And any moment that wasn’t occupied with class, food or basic hygiene was filled with sex. Morning sex. Afternoon sex. Evening sex. We fancied ourselves to be quite the experts in the field. Sure, there was some experimentation, but what we had in spades was enthusiasm.

We did what young lovers do, and we ignored our friends and family in favor of sex. We cut classes to have sex. We left movies early. We found creative locations. And as we spent most of out days lost in each other, it shouldn’t have been surprising in any way when we were interrupted.

Most often, it was his best friend who caused the trouble. You would THINK that he’d be happy his buddy was getting laid, but apparently, he felt that enough was enough. And he never knocked. Dude would just walk in the house and start yelling my boyfriend’s name. And we would scramble to cover ourselves before he walked into the bedroom. I wasn’t always successful, but he never seemed to mind. (Interestingly, this same guy found it pretty interesting when I nursed my babies. Gross.)
You would think that I would have become accustomed to embarrassment and no longer blushed or became flustered when I got caught en flagrante. You would think.

Until one morning, in the wee hours, as I stealthily slipped down the stairs of his house, shoes in my hand, borrowed t-shirt over yesterday’s jeans, heading for the door and my car and an equally stealthy entrance into my dad’s house. And then I heard her.

“Good morning, honey! Would you like some pancakes? I have blueberry!”

His mother was in the kitchen, making breakfast, for god’s sake, at five in the morning. She was entirely unsurprised to see me exiting her house at that hour.  I stammered my thanks and made a quick escape through the darkness to my car.

As I drove home, I had to wonder, how many times had she seen this very act before? I was humiliated. Not that his mother had caught me, but that she seemed so used to it, that she could offer me pancakes. How many girls had she caught sneaking down the stairs with their shoes in their hands? How long had she known about me? And how long would it be before I could ever look her in the face again.

It turned out that I hadn’t been the latest in a parade of sluts, as I had feared. She just wasn’t much of a sleeper, and had wanted some pancakes. The polite thing to do is to offer some to a guest, right?

These days, if I ask my mother-in-law about that early morning greeting, she says that she doesn’t remember it. But she still makes me blueberry pancakes. And now? Now I sit with her and eat them.

Sexy Saturdays: Size Does Matter

Oh Sexy Saturdays.

No guest poster today. I'll be telling my own sex story this week. What? Oh yes. Believe it.

But what story will I tell? What story could I possibly interrupt the brilliant stream of guest posters I have shared with you thus far? It is a challenge. Yes indeedy do.

Naturally, my instinct is to tell you an outrageous story. Something crazy. But if I tell you one outrageous story, I guess I have to you its bizarro counterpart right? Life is nothing if not balance.

So here we go: the biggest and the smallest.

I was maybe 22 or 23 years old. Living in Hollywood. I had just been through another nasty breakup and was rebounding hard. Then I met Adam. We'll call him Adam because I don't remember his actual name, but I recall it was something biblical.

I met Adam in a bar, of course. But not just any bar. My bar. My haunt. My cheers. Where the bartender naturally always knew my name and gave me and my friends free drinks and got me drunk on my 23rd birthday on slippery nipples. Where the doorman was constantly trying to get down my pants, but I forgave that because I never had to wait in a line. Where I knew all the regulars and they knew me and I probably dated about 4 of them at one time or another.

I had never seen Adam in my bar before. Come to think of it, I think I met him on Halloween. I was dressed as a devil and he was an angel. Perfect right? We made out. He had deliciously blond curls that I got my fingers tangled up in. And he had nice lips. I gave him my number and then forgot all about him.

When he called, I had to pretend I remembered who he was until I actually did remember. I agreed to meet him for a date.

The date was nice. Chill. He had just moved out to LA from New York and didn't know how to drive which I thought was adorable. I decided at some point during the evening that I'd take him home.

Back to my place we went and the making out was great. Very hot. Very steamy.

What happened next I can barely describe.

We were naked. He was on top of me and gyrating and groaning and obviously enjoying himself.

But I couldn't feel a thing.

He finally made his O face and collapsed on top of me leaving me to bewilderingly wonder, What just happened? Did we have sex? 'Cause you'd think I would have noticed that.

Yup, ladies and gents. He was just that small.

I did my best to be nice and say I enjoyed myself (well, the kissing was nice) and I think he went on his merry way confident that he'd sexed me up good.

Hey, don't judge me. It's not like I faked an orgasm. I would never do that (Who wins in that scenario? No one. No one.). I just couldn't bring myself to ask, Was that it?

I didn't hear from him for months. Until my phone rang on Valentine's Day. Right. Like I was gonna fall for that one.

Side note: when you get desperate on Valentine's day and start calling every girl you know, they're on to you. We know your game. Save yourself some dignity and skip the pesky little holiday altogether. 

*Ahem*

Moving on.

Rewind to July of 2002, the July before I met Adam.

I was in New York with my cousin Stacey and we were out in the Bowery having a good time in the sauna that is the evening in July in Manhattan. Stacey's friend Carrie invited one of her friends along and he brought his baby brother visiting from Texas. We'll call him Texas because I absolutely do not remember his name and he was like 6' 6" and we all know they make everything big in Texas. At least so I'd been told.

Texas and I hit it off. He was funny and engaging and smart. Turned out he used to work for Enron. Which I thought was interesting. And he thought I was pretty damn cute. Which I thought gave him points in his favor.

So we went back to his brother's studio apartment a few blocks away. I knew I'd never see him again and so this was going to be my first deliberately one night stand. A tryst with a practical stranger in another city. I was very excited.

Besides, my cousin's friend knew his brother, so I wasn't too worried.

PS? girls can rationalize anything when they're horny.

Fooling around was a challenge. Simply because the guy was so tall. I felt like I was climbing a wall just to kiss him. If I sat in his lap, I couldn't reach his lips to kiss him. Seriously, the distance between his crotch and his lips must've been several miles at least.

So it should come as no surprise that he had the largest penis I had ever seen and have yet to ever see in my life.

Huge. Frighteningly huge. Hulk huge. I felt badly for Betty Ross after that.

Or Shaq's wife.

I guess it was proportionate, given the sheer height of the guy, but dude! Seriously. Dude.

No way was I having sex with that. No way was that freakishly large manwand getting shoved in my delicate vajayjay. Nope. Not gonna happen. No way in any hell I can possibly conceive. And I'm pretty damn creative.

So no, we did not have sex. He was kind about it though. Wasn't all butthurt and, looking back, he was probably a little proud of himself. He was the guy who was so big the chick wouldn't have sex with him.

Which seems foolish, if you ask me. I'd rather have the smaller dick and get to have sex. But I guess I'm not a man and so I'll never understand how that works.

I've often wondered who Texas has had sex with since. Amazon women? Elastigirl? Betty Ross?

See, fellas, size does, in fact, matter. We just want a nice, safe size that we can actually feel and some talent behind it.  Of course, I can't speak for my gay men friends. There might be a whole 'nother standard there. But I think I speak for the girlies when I say average is just right.

In fact, the best sex I've ever had was with a very averaged sized penis. But that's a story for another day.

Sexy Saturdays: Welcome Advances

It's time again for Sexy Saturdays! Annnnd I have to tell you how ridiculously, gorgeously happy I am to have convinced Jenny of Like Swimming to guest post. On Sexy Saturdays. Where she'd be writing about sex! When I asked, she didn't even flinch. Said yes immediately. I was ecstatic. Quickly, go read her about page and you'll see why I'm bubbling with triumphant joy. 

See, I've made an effort to bring some diversity here to Sexy Saturdays. To bring funny writers whom I genuinely enjoy, yes, but also to get a variety of experiences and opinions in the mix. Jenny is no exception.

I love this lady. We met on the Twitter. Quickly bonded over acerbic humor. And soon she was one of my BTFs (best tweep forever) (I should copyright that phrase). She never fails to make me laugh and to bring a biting wit that brightens my pissyest of moods. You should absolutely follow her on the Twitter, subscribe to her blog, and like her Facebook page. That is, if you know what's good for you.

But first? Enjoy!

I didn't look twice when I was introduced to the new fill-in pharmacist. He was only going to work one day a week.

Then he started to annoy me.

Jim had a laissez-faire attitude toward most things, and that didn't mesh well with my anal-retentive work style. Even worse, there was nothing I could do about it as the pharmacist on duty was, for all intents and purposes, the shift manager.

Sure, he was a nice guy. Not too bad to look at, considering he was 18 years older than me. And yes, he was an honest-to-God cowboy, working ranch and all, who wore Wranglers and cowboy boots to dispense drugs.

But still. He was irksome.

One day, working the pick-up window, I rested my hand on the table next to Jim's mouse pad. I chatted with the customer, and then I felt something brush my pinky finger.

The edge of Jim's work-roughened hand.

Such an insignificant thing, easily written off as accidental...but he didn't move his hand. My breath caught in my throat. I glanced at Jim. His eyes were glued to the computer monitor, but a little smile played at the corners of his lips.

Oh. My. God.

Suddenly Jim was a new kind of irritation--one that left me feeling edgy and flustered.

I impatiently counted the days between Wednesdays.

I pushed the dress code boundaries and chose my clothes with Jim in mind, wearing mind-bogglingly low-cut shirts. Our verbal exchanges became increasingly bold.

"You have beautiful breasts."

Personal space was a thing of the past. Pharmacies tend to be cramped quarters from the start, and we made the most of that fact.

"Excuse me. I just need to reach that--right over--yeah. Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to..." Oh yes, I did.

And his voice. God, that voice. A smooth, deep almost drawl. He was bilingual, and when our Spanish-speaking customers visited I'd get lost in thoughts of what he could do with a tongue that rolled r's like that.

When I decided to get a Depo-Provera shot, it only made sense to have Jim give the injection. After all, why would I want to pay extra money for my doctor's office to do it? And if someone was going to see my derriere, why wouldn't I want to wear my prettiest black lace panties? Oh, and I couldn't possibly wear those panties without the matching bra, right? And...whoops! I popped a few buttons on my shirt and now he could see said sheer lacy bra...

When it comes down to it, this writes as some seriously bizarre erotica: "I slid my pants down, revealing a slip of black lace. He smoothed his hand across my back and down, sliding the lace aside to gain access. He ripped open the foil packet, revealing a moist alcohol swab..."

Really, though, I'm pretty sure that's the best shot I've ever gotten.

In a world unfettered by rules and consequences, I would know just what his tongue can do and he'd find out my tongue has talents all its own. I'd see what those Wranglers were showcasing. He'd find out my breasts aren't just beautiful--they're resplendent. We'd know what the pattern of the pharmacy carpet looks like pressed into naked flesh.

This isn't that world. In this world? I have a husband. He has a wife. We don't even work together anymore.

But sometimes? I call the pharmacy he owns and ask him to speak to me in Spanish...

I feel the electricity skitter up my spine...

and it's enough.