I know no more physics than philately, but I do know that physicists treat simultaneity as relative: two events are simultaneous only relative to specified observers. Two accurate observers who are differently situated may differ in their judgments of simultaneity; no sense attaches to the claim that one is right and the other wrong. They are both right.
Nevertheless, simultaneous orgasms happen. The clearest cases are with women who are multiply orgasmic - women such as Q, B, D. Each of these women can come many times; each can come two or three times in the space of a minute. The level of arousal to which each returns after one peak leaves them ready to rise to the next peak with ease. With D, for example, it is often enough to trigger another orgasm merely to pinch a nipple, or go down on an armpit, sniffing and licking and biting. Q can supply the trigger entirely from within, I believe by the sheer power of desire itself. B typically needs to clamp down on my cock for a short while, hauling herself the last few feet to the summit in a fury of 'Yes! Yes! Yes!'. Each of them, if I announce that I shall come too, and propose that we come together, falls in step with me, so that we climb alongside each other, and arrive at the top together. When that happens there is no room for doubt, or disagreement: observers who denied that these orgasms are simultaneous would be wrong, no matter where they were situated. This judgment of simultaneity is not relative but absolute.
Sexual union does not erase the boundaries between one person and another, but with simultaneous orgasm it is odd, and misleading, to speak of two events at all. There is one, joint orgasm experienced by two people. 'Coming together', with all that is packed into that phrase, is a better expression than 'simultaneous orgasm'. For even if we separate 'my orgasm' from 'D's orgasm', still the orgasm that D experiences is not one that she could have experienced without my orgasm occurring alongside: the cock D comes around is my cock, and my cock is coming inside D's cunt; the cunt I am coming in is D's cunt, and that cunt is coming around my cock. We do not here have two events that might occur at the same time but might not. Each has to occur for the other to occur, so they cannot come apart.
An obvious point, once thought about: two people who come at the same time do not thereby come together (and may not even be together, if they come at the same time during 'phone sex) but those who come together do thereby come at the same time.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Paying for it, paying a lot for it
Governor Spitzer, a rich man, can afford to pay a lot of money for sex. I am not rich, but even if I were, I would not pay a lot of money for sex. Paying for sex interests me only because of what the money cannot buy. If you are interested in what money cannot buy, it helps not to have very much of it. I am glad I am not rich.
Expensive whores are necessary for men like Spitzer, for whom the greatest risk is being recognized and then exposed when the story is sold to the tabloids. Paying $4,300 for under three hours with Kristen is really just making the blackmail payments in advance of the sex, rather than afterwards. Because of the large sums involved, Spitzer was forced into a complicated series of financial transactions, and it was those that tripped him up. Unlucky for him - but lucky for us, as we get to meditate on his predicament, and on the fascinating topic of paying for sex.
What do you get for $4,300? I have no idea. But less than I get for nothing with, say, D. D longs to be fucked by me, just as I long to be fucked by her; when she grabs at my ass to get me in a little deeper, there is no part of her mind that is watching the clock, or weighing the merits of getting it over with sooner rather than later. Many whores enjoy their work, at least when the client is somehow pleasing, not a brute or a jerk. It is still work, but perhaps sex is always work for some women - always something traded for something non-sexual, whether money or security or tenderness. Whores who enjoy their work seem to me no odder than other sorts of worker; I suppose that chefs who enjoy cooking do not enjoy all the cooking that they do, and may resent being asked to boil an egg at home. But for insight on providers in the sex-industry, I suggest reading College Callgirl's excellent blog, which is linked to here.
Whether $4,300 or $430, money paid for sex gets you so much and no more. I assume $4,300 gets you a lot, but the difference between limits and no limits is the big difference. B, for example, I have not fucked in the ass. She has been fucked in the ass before, years ago. She wants it again. We will get round to it, probably, if it feels right to do so. But if we do, or if we don't, it will not be because I was unwilling or unable to stump up the cash.
Not very long ago, I revisited S, the sensual provider whose delightful work on my body I recorded in an earlier post (Beautiful Sensual Masseuse). This time, I paid to be touched, but not to touch her at all. It was a very interesting, involved experience. Not touching S was exciting, at times almost overwhelmingly so. I realize that this experience can be replicated in some measure with ropes, but then it is a different sort of restraint that is at issue. By not touching S I could experience my desire to touch her more fully and more intensively. But the money clouded the issue that it created, for when one pays to be touched but not to touch, touching is only out of reach contingently: a few more bills, and then I can touch. Negotiating this boundary is fascinating, but like any boundary, it is easily crossed by accident, or bumped into. On this occasion, I was interested in the distinction between looking and touching - a distinction that seems to me as robust as any in the metaphysics of sex (and one that porn blurs irremediably). S, though, wanted to distinguish between looking at some parts and looking at others, attaching a price to removing her panties. This held no interest for me; money was here used to attach significance to a distinction that was, for me, insignificant. I suspect that this goes on at any level of the market - whether at Governor Spitzer's elevated prices or my own. S does not long to touch me, as I long to touch her; I pay her to touch me, but more importantly, I pay not to touch her. I hope that, for his $4,300 dollars, Governor Spitzer bought an experience as interesting and complicated and delightful as I bought more cheaply just the other day.
Expensive whores are necessary for men like Spitzer, for whom the greatest risk is being recognized and then exposed when the story is sold to the tabloids. Paying $4,300 for under three hours with Kristen is really just making the blackmail payments in advance of the sex, rather than afterwards. Because of the large sums involved, Spitzer was forced into a complicated series of financial transactions, and it was those that tripped him up. Unlucky for him - but lucky for us, as we get to meditate on his predicament, and on the fascinating topic of paying for sex.
What do you get for $4,300? I have no idea. But less than I get for nothing with, say, D. D longs to be fucked by me, just as I long to be fucked by her; when she grabs at my ass to get me in a little deeper, there is no part of her mind that is watching the clock, or weighing the merits of getting it over with sooner rather than later. Many whores enjoy their work, at least when the client is somehow pleasing, not a brute or a jerk. It is still work, but perhaps sex is always work for some women - always something traded for something non-sexual, whether money or security or tenderness. Whores who enjoy their work seem to me no odder than other sorts of worker; I suppose that chefs who enjoy cooking do not enjoy all the cooking that they do, and may resent being asked to boil an egg at home. But for insight on providers in the sex-industry, I suggest reading College Callgirl's excellent blog, which is linked to here.
Whether $4,300 or $430, money paid for sex gets you so much and no more. I assume $4,300 gets you a lot, but the difference between limits and no limits is the big difference. B, for example, I have not fucked in the ass. She has been fucked in the ass before, years ago. She wants it again. We will get round to it, probably, if it feels right to do so. But if we do, or if we don't, it will not be because I was unwilling or unable to stump up the cash.
Not very long ago, I revisited S, the sensual provider whose delightful work on my body I recorded in an earlier post (Beautiful Sensual Masseuse). This time, I paid to be touched, but not to touch her at all. It was a very interesting, involved experience. Not touching S was exciting, at times almost overwhelmingly so. I realize that this experience can be replicated in some measure with ropes, but then it is a different sort of restraint that is at issue. By not touching S I could experience my desire to touch her more fully and more intensively. But the money clouded the issue that it created, for when one pays to be touched but not to touch, touching is only out of reach contingently: a few more bills, and then I can touch. Negotiating this boundary is fascinating, but like any boundary, it is easily crossed by accident, or bumped into. On this occasion, I was interested in the distinction between looking and touching - a distinction that seems to me as robust as any in the metaphysics of sex (and one that porn blurs irremediably). S, though, wanted to distinguish between looking at some parts and looking at others, attaching a price to removing her panties. This held no interest for me; money was here used to attach significance to a distinction that was, for me, insignificant. I suspect that this goes on at any level of the market - whether at Governor Spitzer's elevated prices or my own. S does not long to touch me, as I long to touch her; I pay her to touch me, but more importantly, I pay not to touch her. I hope that, for his $4,300 dollars, Governor Spitzer bought an experience as interesting and complicated and delightful as I bought more cheaply just the other day.
Hard and fast
D called me while I was in my office, telling me she could pick me up in ten minutes, drive us to our local car-sex spot, fuck for fifteen or twenty minutes, and then drive me back. Was I game? I was.
I have been fucking D for more than two years. Back near the beginning, twenty minutes of car sex would have meant an orgasm or perhaps two for her, from oral sex, and some fucking leading to an orgasm for me too. Or perhaps a blowjob for me, oral for her, some fucking as well.
By now, however, D is multi-orgasmic to an extraordinary degree, and loves to come while fucking, so once she had sucked me hard, she told me to lie back so she could ride my cock. By the time she lifted herself off my cock to sit on my face perhaps ten minutes later, I think she had come six or seven times, including three orgasms that could not have been more than twenty or thirty seconds apart. She came again on my face, and then I got on top and fucked her, eventually banging her into the corner of the tight space. I thought that our monumental joint orgasm, where I felt like I was pissing seed into her in long spouts while her cunt convulsed and clenched around me, was the end of it, but after I pulled out of her and sat back, frothy white seed dripped out of her. I caught some on my finger and gave it to her to taste, and tasted some more myself. From there, it seemed necessary for her to sit on my face once again, and she came for the last time grinding her clit into my mouth.
This counts, I suppose, as a quickie. But D and I know each other so well sexually, and are so good at fucking each other, that we can do more in twenty minutes than we used to do in an hour or two.
I have been fucking D for more than two years. Back near the beginning, twenty minutes of car sex would have meant an orgasm or perhaps two for her, from oral sex, and some fucking leading to an orgasm for me too. Or perhaps a blowjob for me, oral for her, some fucking as well.
By now, however, D is multi-orgasmic to an extraordinary degree, and loves to come while fucking, so once she had sucked me hard, she told me to lie back so she could ride my cock. By the time she lifted herself off my cock to sit on my face perhaps ten minutes later, I think she had come six or seven times, including three orgasms that could not have been more than twenty or thirty seconds apart. She came again on my face, and then I got on top and fucked her, eventually banging her into the corner of the tight space. I thought that our monumental joint orgasm, where I felt like I was pissing seed into her in long spouts while her cunt convulsed and clenched around me, was the end of it, but after I pulled out of her and sat back, frothy white seed dripped out of her. I caught some on my finger and gave it to her to taste, and tasted some more myself. From there, it seemed necessary for her to sit on my face once again, and she came for the last time grinding her clit into my mouth.
This counts, I suppose, as a quickie. But D and I know each other so well sexually, and are so good at fucking each other, that we can do more in twenty minutes than we used to do in an hour or two.
Sound
Sex has a soundtrack: noise from outside the sexual space; noises from within.
At the Liberty Inn, traffic on the West Side highway starts, streams past, stops, starts again. Inhuman noise, in the distance, nothing more than a buzz track. The sounds of cleaning in other rooms and in the hallways comes nearer, but still stays outside the door of the room. Only the shock of the call from the desk-clerk penetrates - and usually I am in the shower or dressing by then.
At the Kew, it is common to hear loud fucking from other rooms, as well as the industrial-strength vacuum-cleaners, carpet-scrubbers, and air-circulators that are part of operations there. Listening to others fucking is an uneasy experience; it is hard to know what it is that is being overheard. Real people fucking or a porno-movie on the television? If the fucking is real, are the shrieks and moans nevertheless staged, as in porn? Is she a pro, or someone fucking for pleasure? Over time, both D and I have become noisier, and by now I suspect that others forced to listen to us assume that we are porn actors or faking.
Rooms away from the street at the Seton - I was there fairly recently with D - are quiet, as are off-street rooms at the Herald Square, the Grand Union. These rooms may have clanking or hissing steam-heat, or in summer noisy window a/c units. Overheated rooms at the Herald Square have sometimes to be cooled with a/c if the windows will not open. But still these rooms are typically quiet.
J's apartment: at some times of day the noise of children in the playground of a nearby school drifts in, and it is slightly odd to overhear the play of children while engaged in strenuous adult play. The walls are thin, so we can hear her neighbor's television, and the footsteps of the woman who lives upstairs.
F: the street is quiet, but there is plenty of distant city noise. Here too the walls are thin.
Offices are quiet, but also enforce quiet. Quiet - being quiet, staying quiet - is a deep and complicated topic that I cannot face here; here I am dealing with sound, not its absence.
The soundtrack of car-sex depends a lot on the season. In winter, the engine and heater running, the windows sealed, not much sound penetrates. In mild weather, with the windows cracked, noises of traffic or birds enters. In summer, with the engine and the a/c running, the quiet of winter returns.
What about noise from within the sexual space? At F's, the radio is typically on, tuned usually to WFUV, Fordham's station. The music is nearly always tolerable, and very often good or even great, but we do not listen to it much, and the talk is an intrusion (though a useful time-keeper). With Q at her house, the radio has also been on - again some version of PBS, I think. With F and Q, part of the point of the music is to mask the sounds of fucking. To F, who has a roommate, and neighbors through the thin walls, ceiling, floor, this is a courtesy as well as a precaution, like those white-noise machines that populate therapists' suites, ensuring that everyone can talk with no fear of being overheard. Q's radio serves a similar function if there is someone else in the house who would be puzzled by overhearing sounds of sex. Music as background, not chosen, not listened to, but sometimes noticed, usually with pleasure.
With D (and this was true sometimes with A, back in the days when she and I were still fucking) music is not white noise but integrated into sex itself. This is so especially during MBJs (musical blowjobs) and their close equivalents. The music is not listened to so much as felt; dancing is an obvious comparison. It dictates the rhythm, the tone, the temper of sex. Aggressive, pounding anal sex requires a different soundtrack from slow, feathery lip-and-tongue cunt-teasing.
Beds squeak, creak, bang against walls, often in time with fucking. Desks are sturdy and silent surfaces, as are floors. There are noises from sex itself: the slap of bodies against each other, the liquid slosh of a cock in a wet cunt; grunts, moans, retching. And on top of that, the repertoire of calls and cries that shade over into the full-blown and articulate language of sex-talk, which is not noise at all.
Some women are louder than others. I am very quiet, though when stoned and frenzied I have been known to bellow. D claims that I am loudest in the car, but I think this is partly an effect of the small space. She is at her loudest when sitting on my face. B is a classic 'Yes-woman', punctuating her ascent to orgasm with a series of 'Yes' calls that rise in pitch and volume until she hits the top. Without this feedback it might be hard to track exactly how close to coming she is, though there could be little doubt about the climax itself. It is a sexual response, like the tightening of her cunt around my cock as she approaches the peak - again, not noise at all.
At the Liberty Inn, traffic on the West Side highway starts, streams past, stops, starts again. Inhuman noise, in the distance, nothing more than a buzz track. The sounds of cleaning in other rooms and in the hallways comes nearer, but still stays outside the door of the room. Only the shock of the call from the desk-clerk penetrates - and usually I am in the shower or dressing by then.
At the Kew, it is common to hear loud fucking from other rooms, as well as the industrial-strength vacuum-cleaners, carpet-scrubbers, and air-circulators that are part of operations there. Listening to others fucking is an uneasy experience; it is hard to know what it is that is being overheard. Real people fucking or a porno-movie on the television? If the fucking is real, are the shrieks and moans nevertheless staged, as in porn? Is she a pro, or someone fucking for pleasure? Over time, both D and I have become noisier, and by now I suspect that others forced to listen to us assume that we are porn actors or faking.
Rooms away from the street at the Seton - I was there fairly recently with D - are quiet, as are off-street rooms at the Herald Square, the Grand Union. These rooms may have clanking or hissing steam-heat, or in summer noisy window a/c units. Overheated rooms at the Herald Square have sometimes to be cooled with a/c if the windows will not open. But still these rooms are typically quiet.
J's apartment: at some times of day the noise of children in the playground of a nearby school drifts in, and it is slightly odd to overhear the play of children while engaged in strenuous adult play. The walls are thin, so we can hear her neighbor's television, and the footsteps of the woman who lives upstairs.
F: the street is quiet, but there is plenty of distant city noise. Here too the walls are thin.
Offices are quiet, but also enforce quiet. Quiet - being quiet, staying quiet - is a deep and complicated topic that I cannot face here; here I am dealing with sound, not its absence.
The soundtrack of car-sex depends a lot on the season. In winter, the engine and heater running, the windows sealed, not much sound penetrates. In mild weather, with the windows cracked, noises of traffic or birds enters. In summer, with the engine and the a/c running, the quiet of winter returns.
What about noise from within the sexual space? At F's, the radio is typically on, tuned usually to WFUV, Fordham's station. The music is nearly always tolerable, and very often good or even great, but we do not listen to it much, and the talk is an intrusion (though a useful time-keeper). With Q at her house, the radio has also been on - again some version of PBS, I think. With F and Q, part of the point of the music is to mask the sounds of fucking. To F, who has a roommate, and neighbors through the thin walls, ceiling, floor, this is a courtesy as well as a precaution, like those white-noise machines that populate therapists' suites, ensuring that everyone can talk with no fear of being overheard. Q's radio serves a similar function if there is someone else in the house who would be puzzled by overhearing sounds of sex. Music as background, not chosen, not listened to, but sometimes noticed, usually with pleasure.With D (and this was true sometimes with A, back in the days when she and I were still fucking) music is not white noise but integrated into sex itself. This is so especially during MBJs (musical blowjobs) and their close equivalents. The music is not listened to so much as felt; dancing is an obvious comparison. It dictates the rhythm, the tone, the temper of sex. Aggressive, pounding anal sex requires a different soundtrack from slow, feathery lip-and-tongue cunt-teasing.
Beds squeak, creak, bang against walls, often in time with fucking. Desks are sturdy and silent surfaces, as are floors. There are noises from sex itself: the slap of bodies against each other, the liquid slosh of a cock in a wet cunt; grunts, moans, retching. And on top of that, the repertoire of calls and cries that shade over into the full-blown and articulate language of sex-talk, which is not noise at all.
Some women are louder than others. I am very quiet, though when stoned and frenzied I have been known to bellow. D claims that I am loudest in the car, but I think this is partly an effect of the small space. She is at her loudest when sitting on my face. B is a classic 'Yes-woman', punctuating her ascent to orgasm with a series of 'Yes' calls that rise in pitch and volume until she hits the top. Without this feedback it might be hard to track exactly how close to coming she is, though there could be little doubt about the climax itself. It is a sexual response, like the tightening of her cunt around my cock as she approaches the peak - again, not noise at all.
Friday, March 07, 2008
At home with D
Here is a recap e-mail that I sent to D after an afternoon at her house in the suburbs. I had not been there for well over a year. Apart from anonymizing, I have changed nothing, so this is a sample of how I write to D - but of course, I was always, at some level, aware that this recap might make it onto the blog. So that awareness must also be taken into account.
Dear D,
A recap of today will leave everything that is magical out. But what is magical between us is not something that can be expressed in any other way: sex is how that is expressed. To describe what happened today we would have to re-enact each moment, in the same place, the same way, with the same feelings - and that, of course, is impossible. For whatever we do again we do with the first time behind us. Today was special for many reasons, but principally because this was the first time that we had been together in your house since you began coming while fucking. So that was the main theme of the afternoon - for you to come while fucking all over your house; to bring the person you are so often with me at the Kew, or in your car, or in my office, back home for you.
We got a little stoned on your deck, and then I asked you to take me upstairs to your bedroom. Once we were up there, we both knew that this was an important time, and one that mattered not just for what happened between us, but for what you would remember afterwards. We spent a little time clothed, but fairly soon we were undressed and ready to be in your bed.
You looked so beautiful against the crisp white linens. You looked so happy to be in your own bed, with me above you. I went down on you and you came that way, and then you asked to be fucked, and I reminded you that you should ride my cock. And that is what you did: D in all her magnificence riding my cock, picking up the waves of pleasure and surfing them until they broke. I do not know exactly how many times you came, or how, but there was a calm about your fucking even when we became passionate and frantic. You fucked me sitting up straight, working my cock as deep as you could. You fucked me close, lying on top of me and grinding at the base of my cock. I tweaked and pinched your nipples, grabbed your hips and forced you down on me, fingered your asshole.
I fucked you - a lot of very serious fucking, in which I grabbed at the edge of the mattress for purchase, tried to split you in two, aimed to push you through each orgasm and on to the next, always wanting you to have more, and then more again. I told you to look around, to register what was happening to you, and how, and where. Very lovely, very hot and sexy, very special.
I came, pulling out of you when your cunt was clenching and clutching at my cock in your own orgasm, jerking myself off so that I pumped seed onto you. Then you played a little with my cock, and I fucked you again, smearing the seed between our bodies. At some point, I remember, I rubbed my chest against yours, trying to tease your nipples with mine. But maybe that was before I had come all over you.
From your bedroom to the bathroom, where I ate you out and then fucked you on the vanity - amazing orgasms from you when I was licking your clit and when I had your ass in my hands and was driving you down onto my upthrusting cock. I think it was there that I decided you should come from fucking everywhere. D, I want you whenever you use that bathroom to think, briefly, of that amazing fuck. Deal?
The other bathroom - an abortive attempt at ass-fucking, and then hand-fucking in the shower. You came, but not with my cock inside you. Then downstairs to the living room and on to the cucumber suede couch, and a lovely close hugging fuck, with your skin and the suede of the couch on my body, your cunt close around my cock, feeling my way up to your climax, your cunt tightening as you rise to the peak. I love how well, how precisely, I feel you approaching orgasm now, for I can rise to the top with you, feel you leap out into space, ride the tides of sensation that run through you - all just as if I were coming myself (which, in truth, I am, because we are coming together whenever you come). After we fucked on that couch, I ate you out.
Down to the basement, where I lay flat on the floor, on the rug, and you stood above me, legs astride, and lowered your fucked-up, juicy, swollen, cunt on to my face. D, you must do that again, more slowly, more deliberately! I ate you out, my arms half-pinned in place by your legs, so it was difficult for me to reach your nipples and pinch and pull them. But you came two or three times before I slithered out from underneath you and began my assault on your ass.
I had fucked your ass in the car earlier, and dressing afterwards I had stuffed my shit-smeared cock in my shorts. Call me a pervert, but I was pleased to be messed up like that throughout my meeting. I had a change of underwear with me. So I was happy to have another go at your ass, and happy to get messed up again. But first I had to get hard, and you had to be opened up, so while you knelt with your head on the couch I stuck my thumb in your ass and jerked myself hard, spitting on your ass to get you lubed up and ready. Then I worked my cock - just stiff enough - into your ass and fucked you, until you came from the ball-slapping, the thrusting, the sheer sexiness of being comprehensively ass-fucked in your basement. Sure enough, my cock ended up shit-smeared again; I washed it off at the wet-bar sink.
After that, the brief blowjob in the collapsing chair, and then we moved to the barstool for the re-enactment of my last visit to your basement. But of course things are different now, and we never work to a fixed agenda anyway. You, doubled up with your legs over my arms, my hands grasping the back of the stool, made with me a tight little system: you, open and easily fucked; me, relaxed and free to work my cock in you as I pleased. You had come plenty of times already, but from this point on almost all your orgasms were hard and deep, and very intense. On the barstool, I could fuck you very exactly - moving my hips, moving the stool, with you pinned between. Your cunt was open but tight, wet but still resistant, so each thrust registered on its own and also counted towards the whole. When you came, I felt completely gripped by your cunt, and you were adrift in ecstasy for a long while, bearing down hard. A lot of fucking is penetrative - me sticking myself inside you; you spearing yourself on me. This was very like that until you came, when it felt much more as if I was enveloped, encompassed, surrounded; you were planted, affixed, attached.
Then we went upstairs, and you made me a cup of crappy coffee while I fucked your ass in the kitchen, and I made feeble attempts to fuck you on the island before eating you out there instead. And that was the end of the tour, and we went back to your bedroom. There we had a session that, were it the only thing we had done, would have made the day one of the most remarkable sexual experiences I have ever had. On top of everything that came before, it was just ridiculous.
Throughout the afternoon, as you know, I cared most of all about giving you sexual pleasure in ways that would infuse your life in that house with pleasure when I was not there. D, we fuck a huge amount, for a long time - but still nearly all our time is spent apart. You spend almost every night in that bed, and much of the rest of your days in the kitchen, the den, the basement. I wanted, today, to make each one of those places ours in some way or another. I know how that works for me, in my own home, and I wanted today to make it true for you. So I was very pleased, very happy, about my idea to watch you masturbate, so that from now on that would be always something that included me somehow. But, as I explained, I was nervous and concerned, for there is a kind of colonization of your own private sexuality that is a little disturbing, I want you to be able to fantasize about other men if you choose to, and I don't want to be an obstacle to that. On the other hand, it is lovely for me to think that I can be with you in some more concrete way when you jerk off, when you come.
I loved watching you, being close to you, feeling your breath on me, looking into your eyes, as you brought yourself off. And after that, I felt honored to join in, pinching your nipples. After that, more fucking, and a huge, deep, long joint orgasm - remember my pulsing cock in your cunt, when it seemed as if we were locked together in ecstasy? And you pushed me off you almost as soon as I was done coming, shoving me aside because you wanted to be freed of the weight of me. That, too, made me very happy.
I fished around in your cunt with my fingers for all that come and cunt-juice - it tasted so good, looked so good making a film between my fingers, and I was pleased to wipe it on your sheets, pillowcases.
I ate you out after that, didn't I? And this account misses some ass-fucking, I think, and then I jerked off and came all over myself too - so that was the third time I came during the afternoon. You had the lipstick vibrator on my ass while that went on.
Downstairs, dressed, I ate a slice of pizza, we went out on the deck, and then I fucked you a little more, and insisted you clean my cock with your mouth. Then we left - or didn't, because of the panic over your neighbour.
Dear D,
A recap of today will leave everything that is magical out. But what is magical between us is not something that can be expressed in any other way: sex is how that is expressed. To describe what happened today we would have to re-enact each moment, in the same place, the same way, with the same feelings - and that, of course, is impossible. For whatever we do again we do with the first time behind us. Today was special for many reasons, but principally because this was the first time that we had been together in your house since you began coming while fucking. So that was the main theme of the afternoon - for you to come while fucking all over your house; to bring the person you are so often with me at the Kew, or in your car, or in my office, back home for you.
We got a little stoned on your deck, and then I asked you to take me upstairs to your bedroom. Once we were up there, we both knew that this was an important time, and one that mattered not just for what happened between us, but for what you would remember afterwards. We spent a little time clothed, but fairly soon we were undressed and ready to be in your bed.
You looked so beautiful against the crisp white linens. You looked so happy to be in your own bed, with me above you. I went down on you and you came that way, and then you asked to be fucked, and I reminded you that you should ride my cock. And that is what you did: D in all her magnificence riding my cock, picking up the waves of pleasure and surfing them until they broke. I do not know exactly how many times you came, or how, but there was a calm about your fucking even when we became passionate and frantic. You fucked me sitting up straight, working my cock as deep as you could. You fucked me close, lying on top of me and grinding at the base of my cock. I tweaked and pinched your nipples, grabbed your hips and forced you down on me, fingered your asshole.
I fucked you - a lot of very serious fucking, in which I grabbed at the edge of the mattress for purchase, tried to split you in two, aimed to push you through each orgasm and on to the next, always wanting you to have more, and then more again. I told you to look around, to register what was happening to you, and how, and where. Very lovely, very hot and sexy, very special.
I came, pulling out of you when your cunt was clenching and clutching at my cock in your own orgasm, jerking myself off so that I pumped seed onto you. Then you played a little with my cock, and I fucked you again, smearing the seed between our bodies. At some point, I remember, I rubbed my chest against yours, trying to tease your nipples with mine. But maybe that was before I had come all over you.
From your bedroom to the bathroom, where I ate you out and then fucked you on the vanity - amazing orgasms from you when I was licking your clit and when I had your ass in my hands and was driving you down onto my upthrusting cock. I think it was there that I decided you should come from fucking everywhere. D, I want you whenever you use that bathroom to think, briefly, of that amazing fuck. Deal?
The other bathroom - an abortive attempt at ass-fucking, and then hand-fucking in the shower. You came, but not with my cock inside you. Then downstairs to the living room and on to the cucumber suede couch, and a lovely close hugging fuck, with your skin and the suede of the couch on my body, your cunt close around my cock, feeling my way up to your climax, your cunt tightening as you rise to the peak. I love how well, how precisely, I feel you approaching orgasm now, for I can rise to the top with you, feel you leap out into space, ride the tides of sensation that run through you - all just as if I were coming myself (which, in truth, I am, because we are coming together whenever you come). After we fucked on that couch, I ate you out.
Down to the basement, where I lay flat on the floor, on the rug, and you stood above me, legs astride, and lowered your fucked-up, juicy, swollen, cunt on to my face. D, you must do that again, more slowly, more deliberately! I ate you out, my arms half-pinned in place by your legs, so it was difficult for me to reach your nipples and pinch and pull them. But you came two or three times before I slithered out from underneath you and began my assault on your ass.
I had fucked your ass in the car earlier, and dressing afterwards I had stuffed my shit-smeared cock in my shorts. Call me a pervert, but I was pleased to be messed up like that throughout my meeting. I had a change of underwear with me. So I was happy to have another go at your ass, and happy to get messed up again. But first I had to get hard, and you had to be opened up, so while you knelt with your head on the couch I stuck my thumb in your ass and jerked myself hard, spitting on your ass to get you lubed up and ready. Then I worked my cock - just stiff enough - into your ass and fucked you, until you came from the ball-slapping, the thrusting, the sheer sexiness of being comprehensively ass-fucked in your basement. Sure enough, my cock ended up shit-smeared again; I washed it off at the wet-bar sink.
After that, the brief blowjob in the collapsing chair, and then we moved to the barstool for the re-enactment of my last visit to your basement. But of course things are different now, and we never work to a fixed agenda anyway. You, doubled up with your legs over my arms, my hands grasping the back of the stool, made with me a tight little system: you, open and easily fucked; me, relaxed and free to work my cock in you as I pleased. You had come plenty of times already, but from this point on almost all your orgasms were hard and deep, and very intense. On the barstool, I could fuck you very exactly - moving my hips, moving the stool, with you pinned between. Your cunt was open but tight, wet but still resistant, so each thrust registered on its own and also counted towards the whole. When you came, I felt completely gripped by your cunt, and you were adrift in ecstasy for a long while, bearing down hard. A lot of fucking is penetrative - me sticking myself inside you; you spearing yourself on me. This was very like that until you came, when it felt much more as if I was enveloped, encompassed, surrounded; you were planted, affixed, attached.
Then we went upstairs, and you made me a cup of crappy coffee while I fucked your ass in the kitchen, and I made feeble attempts to fuck you on the island before eating you out there instead. And that was the end of the tour, and we went back to your bedroom. There we had a session that, were it the only thing we had done, would have made the day one of the most remarkable sexual experiences I have ever had. On top of everything that came before, it was just ridiculous.
Throughout the afternoon, as you know, I cared most of all about giving you sexual pleasure in ways that would infuse your life in that house with pleasure when I was not there. D, we fuck a huge amount, for a long time - but still nearly all our time is spent apart. You spend almost every night in that bed, and much of the rest of your days in the kitchen, the den, the basement. I wanted, today, to make each one of those places ours in some way or another. I know how that works for me, in my own home, and I wanted today to make it true for you. So I was very pleased, very happy, about my idea to watch you masturbate, so that from now on that would be always something that included me somehow. But, as I explained, I was nervous and concerned, for there is a kind of colonization of your own private sexuality that is a little disturbing, I want you to be able to fantasize about other men if you choose to, and I don't want to be an obstacle to that. On the other hand, it is lovely for me to think that I can be with you in some more concrete way when you jerk off, when you come.
I loved watching you, being close to you, feeling your breath on me, looking into your eyes, as you brought yourself off. And after that, I felt honored to join in, pinching your nipples. After that, more fucking, and a huge, deep, long joint orgasm - remember my pulsing cock in your cunt, when it seemed as if we were locked together in ecstasy? And you pushed me off you almost as soon as I was done coming, shoving me aside because you wanted to be freed of the weight of me. That, too, made me very happy.
I fished around in your cunt with my fingers for all that come and cunt-juice - it tasted so good, looked so good making a film between my fingers, and I was pleased to wipe it on your sheets, pillowcases.
I ate you out after that, didn't I? And this account misses some ass-fucking, I think, and then I jerked off and came all over myself too - so that was the third time I came during the afternoon. You had the lipstick vibrator on my ass while that went on.
Downstairs, dressed, I ate a slice of pizza, we went out on the deck, and then I fucked you a little more, and insisted you clean my cock with your mouth. Then we left - or didn't, because of the panic over your neighbour.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Full-time II
Though I sometimes call myself lazy, I am really a recovering workaholic. There are people who can work in moderation, as there are people who can drink in moderation; I am not one of them. I can do nothing in moderation. It is impossible to avoid work entirely, so the recovering workaholic has no equivalent to the recovering alcoholic's refusal to take that first drink. All I can do is to try never to work more than is strictly necessary; for once I start working beyond the minimum, I am at risk of falling into the deep pit of workaholism again. I might end up working full-time.
Working at the minimum, I have a lot of time left over. Much of this leftover time is devoted to sex. I devote a lot of time to sex mainly because sex is more fun than anything else. But it is also true that there are very few other ways of wasting time that are any fun at all.
Museums? Plays? Music? New York provides innumerable things to do besides work, but whenever I do these things in order to waste some time, I find myself surrounded by people doing the same things, but not to waste time. They are gallery-hopping or opera-going or bird-watching, and so filling the hours not taken up by work or sleep or any of the other things that just have to be done. But they do not do these things in order to waste time in pointless pleasure, and so it is hard to do just the same things alongside them, glorying in the pointlessness. Nor do the museums or galleries or opera-houses or theatres or nature preserves make pointless, pleasurable time-wasting at all easy; they thrust their earnestness and sense of purpose, their self-importance, down my throat, and that makes me gag. Sex is not like that. I play with you, you play with me, our play has no point or purpose, and the world is just the same when we are done playing as it was before we began. No growth has taken place, nothing is learned, no project is advanced, no goal brought any nearer to fulfillment. We have just had a jolly good time. Nothing worthwhile, of course - but then nothing is worthwhile.
On the subway, people fill dead time in different ways: reading, Sodoku, Blackberry solitaire, sleeping. It would be absurd to think that some of these ways of filling time are better than others (except, perhaps, because some fill more time, or do so more effectively). Time spent on the subway is time that has to be filled somehow, and it does not matter how. Life as a whole is like dead time on the subway; it is absurd to think that some ways of filling the time between birth and death are better than others (except, perhaps, that some fill it more easily or efficiently).
In order to waste a lot of time having sex, you have to have a lot of sex, and have it for a long time. Five-minute fucks are almost useless - twenty-four such fucks wastes only as much time as a two-hour movie. Couples who fuck four times a week are, according to sex-surveys, far more active than most, and yet if each fuck lasts fifteen minutes - and a fifteen minute fuck is a decently long fuck, by most standards - they waste only an hour.
What counts as a lot of time spent on sex? According to the Department of Labor’s 2006 daily leisure time survey, "Americans age 15 and over, regardless of gender, spend an average 2.6 hours per day watching television, as opposed to 17 minutes spent on sports, exercise or physical recreation. The second most popular leisure activity, at 45 minutes per day, was socializing, including visits with friends or participating in or hosting social events." I do not spend an average of 2.6 hours a day fucking, but even if I did, who could plausibly argue that this was excessive? I hardly ever watch television; lots of people never, or hardly ever, have sex. We are free to waste time as we choose (so I choose sex in the city over Sex in the City).
Some days, I spend more than 2.6 hours fucking. A recent Thursday, for example: in the morning I went to visit B, arriving a little before 10.00 am and leaving a little after 1.00 pm. How much of this time was spent in sexual activity? I don't really know, but undressing and dressing, showering, having a little snack, and any non-sexual talking cannot have occupied more than forty minutes in total. The rest of the time we were fucking, or I was eating her out, or she was sucking my cock, or I was fingering her and sucking on her magnificent breasts, or licking her armpit, or tonguing her asshole. Whenever I was hard enough to fuck, we fucked, and whenever I wasn't, we did something else. She came again and again and again; I came once or maybe twice. Say I was with her for 3.3 hours, but not sexually engaged for 0.7 hours: that means 2.6 hours of sex, or as much time as Americans 15 and over spend, on average, watching television each day. From this session with B, I went to visit F, arriving a little before 2.00 pm and staying until around 4.20 pm - call it 2.4 hours. I was weary but not exhausted, and with the help of a few crumbs of Viagra, and facing F's indefatigable enthusiasm for sex, I kept my end up for most of that time, so besides all the acts that don't require a hard cock, we also did some serious cunt- and ass-fucking. Say another 2.1 hours of sex. Total for that Thursday: 4.7 hours.
Friday: I fucked C quickly from behind in the kitchen in the morning. I was already dressed and she was still in her nightgown, so she bent over and braced herself against the edge of the counter, and I lifted up her nightgown and worked my cock into her cunt. It took a while to achieve full penetration, and in this position C rarely comes; by the time I was in right up to my balls, I was close to coming myself, with no reason to delay. Time spent fucking: 0.1 hours (I'll treat this - six minutes - as the smallest possible duration for sex). A little later, I was with D, in the back of her car, for an intense but necessarily brief session: say, 0.5 hours. And in the afternoon, a more leisurely time with D, from 3.00 pm to 5.30 pm; we did some talking, but roughly 2.0 hours were spent in sexual activity. Total for Friday: 2.6 hours.
Thursday and Friday: 7.3 hours. A lot of time wasted. But Saturday and Sunday added nothing to the total, and Monday added only another 1.0 or so (C - 0.2; D - 0.8). Tuesday: 2.1 (B - 1.1; D - 1.0). Wednesday: 1.8 with F. Grand total for these seven days: 12.2
Though presumably quite exceptional by most people's standards, the average number of hours per day spent by me in sexual activity over these seven days is below two (1.75, near enough). I spend less time fucking than most adults in America spend watching television. They like television a lot more than sex, I assume. I like sex a lot more than I like watching television.
I don't think anyone who watched television for 1.75 hours per day would be accused of addiction. Why, then, is it thought pathological to spend that much time pleasing and being pleased, pointlessly? I agree it is immoderate - but I can do nothing in moderation. But 1.75 hours of television is immoderate too. Turn the damn thing off and fuck!
Working at the minimum, I have a lot of time left over. Much of this leftover time is devoted to sex. I devote a lot of time to sex mainly because sex is more fun than anything else. But it is also true that there are very few other ways of wasting time that are any fun at all.
Museums? Plays? Music? New York provides innumerable things to do besides work, but whenever I do these things in order to waste some time, I find myself surrounded by people doing the same things, but not to waste time. They are gallery-hopping or opera-going or bird-watching, and so filling the hours not taken up by work or sleep or any of the other things that just have to be done. But they do not do these things in order to waste time in pointless pleasure, and so it is hard to do just the same things alongside them, glorying in the pointlessness. Nor do the museums or galleries or opera-houses or theatres or nature preserves make pointless, pleasurable time-wasting at all easy; they thrust their earnestness and sense of purpose, their self-importance, down my throat, and that makes me gag. Sex is not like that. I play with you, you play with me, our play has no point or purpose, and the world is just the same when we are done playing as it was before we began. No growth has taken place, nothing is learned, no project is advanced, no goal brought any nearer to fulfillment. We have just had a jolly good time. Nothing worthwhile, of course - but then nothing is worthwhile.
On the subway, people fill dead time in different ways: reading, Sodoku, Blackberry solitaire, sleeping. It would be absurd to think that some of these ways of filling time are better than others (except, perhaps, because some fill more time, or do so more effectively). Time spent on the subway is time that has to be filled somehow, and it does not matter how. Life as a whole is like dead time on the subway; it is absurd to think that some ways of filling the time between birth and death are better than others (except, perhaps, that some fill it more easily or efficiently).
In order to waste a lot of time having sex, you have to have a lot of sex, and have it for a long time. Five-minute fucks are almost useless - twenty-four such fucks wastes only as much time as a two-hour movie. Couples who fuck four times a week are, according to sex-surveys, far more active than most, and yet if each fuck lasts fifteen minutes - and a fifteen minute fuck is a decently long fuck, by most standards - they waste only an hour.
What counts as a lot of time spent on sex? According to the Department of Labor’s 2006 daily leisure time survey, "Americans age 15 and over, regardless of gender, spend an average 2.6 hours per day watching television, as opposed to 17 minutes spent on sports, exercise or physical recreation. The second most popular leisure activity, at 45 minutes per day, was socializing, including visits with friends or participating in or hosting social events." I do not spend an average of 2.6 hours a day fucking, but even if I did, who could plausibly argue that this was excessive? I hardly ever watch television; lots of people never, or hardly ever, have sex. We are free to waste time as we choose (so I choose sex in the city over Sex in the City).
Some days, I spend more than 2.6 hours fucking. A recent Thursday, for example: in the morning I went to visit B, arriving a little before 10.00 am and leaving a little after 1.00 pm. How much of this time was spent in sexual activity? I don't really know, but undressing and dressing, showering, having a little snack, and any non-sexual talking cannot have occupied more than forty minutes in total. The rest of the time we were fucking, or I was eating her out, or she was sucking my cock, or I was fingering her and sucking on her magnificent breasts, or licking her armpit, or tonguing her asshole. Whenever I was hard enough to fuck, we fucked, and whenever I wasn't, we did something else. She came again and again and again; I came once or maybe twice. Say I was with her for 3.3 hours, but not sexually engaged for 0.7 hours: that means 2.6 hours of sex, or as much time as Americans 15 and over spend, on average, watching television each day. From this session with B, I went to visit F, arriving a little before 2.00 pm and staying until around 4.20 pm - call it 2.4 hours. I was weary but not exhausted, and with the help of a few crumbs of Viagra, and facing F's indefatigable enthusiasm for sex, I kept my end up for most of that time, so besides all the acts that don't require a hard cock, we also did some serious cunt- and ass-fucking. Say another 2.1 hours of sex. Total for that Thursday: 4.7 hours.
Friday: I fucked C quickly from behind in the kitchen in the morning. I was already dressed and she was still in her nightgown, so she bent over and braced herself against the edge of the counter, and I lifted up her nightgown and worked my cock into her cunt. It took a while to achieve full penetration, and in this position C rarely comes; by the time I was in right up to my balls, I was close to coming myself, with no reason to delay. Time spent fucking: 0.1 hours (I'll treat this - six minutes - as the smallest possible duration for sex). A little later, I was with D, in the back of her car, for an intense but necessarily brief session: say, 0.5 hours. And in the afternoon, a more leisurely time with D, from 3.00 pm to 5.30 pm; we did some talking, but roughly 2.0 hours were spent in sexual activity. Total for Friday: 2.6 hours.
Thursday and Friday: 7.3 hours. A lot of time wasted. But Saturday and Sunday added nothing to the total, and Monday added only another 1.0 or so (C - 0.2; D - 0.8). Tuesday: 2.1 (B - 1.1; D - 1.0). Wednesday: 1.8 with F. Grand total for these seven days: 12.2
Though presumably quite exceptional by most people's standards, the average number of hours per day spent by me in sexual activity over these seven days is below two (1.75, near enough). I spend less time fucking than most adults in America spend watching television. They like television a lot more than sex, I assume. I like sex a lot more than I like watching television.
I don't think anyone who watched television for 1.75 hours per day would be accused of addiction. Why, then, is it thought pathological to spend that much time pleasing and being pleased, pointlessly? I agree it is immoderate - but I can do nothing in moderation. But 1.75 hours of television is immoderate too. Turn the damn thing off and fuck!
Monday, February 18, 2008
J
In the late afternoon, I strolled over to J's, getting just a little stoned on the way. She greeted me in her robe, and once I had my own clothes off I climbed in bed, climbed on top, and so began almost two hours of delightful sex and talk.
J, as I have mentioned before in this blog, is a vast woman. I neither know nor care what her weight is; I am sure that she qualifies as 'clinically obese'. Do I get stoned in order to mask this fact from myself, or to make it more bearable? Not at all. I can see and feel how magnificent J is when unstoned, but being stoned makes her even more real, even more monumental and superb. Just as my appreciation of music is in certain ways enhanced when stoned, so too is my appreciation of a woman like J. Doubled up, as she is when I have her legs hiked over my shoulders, she is solid and liquid: slamming into her she is the immovable object to my attempt at irresistible force, yet the impact of each long, heavy thrust ripples through her in waves. J loves to be fucked hard, and it is a great pleasure to give her what she wants, and to see her getting it. She is not very active in fucking me back, but that too is a pleasure - I get to show off, to work the angles, to sweat and strain over her, to see my effort reflected in her face, registered in her body.
It is not all hard pounding. During a period of rhythmic shafting, we talked, and she told me about some guy who had recently balked at fucking her, opting instead for a handjob. I am a great fan of handjobs, so I have no quibble with that, but she thought that he was deterred by her size. If so, the man was a fool, for J is a truly great fuck, a woman whose cunt is perpetually reinventing itself around my cock as I play around inside her. Over the course of a couple of hours, J's cunt tightens up again and again. It is delightful when this happens during a fuck, as both she and I can feel the steady intensification of her grip on my cock, and that sometimes encourages my cock to harden and grow, which makes the effect even more noticeable. If it happens between bouts of fucking, it makes re-entry deliciously difficult, which is a problem only if I am not quite up to the task of forcing my way in.
First times are never the best times. My first time with J, I had some difficulties staying hard, and we were both a little tense. I had never been with a woman of her size. It was hard to enter the sexual space and remain there because of unfamiliarity. But at some point things began to work properly, and it was obvious that we were capable of having a lot of fun together. So it has proved. We know what positions work given the geometry of our bodies. We know how to fuck. We like each other. Her size is now, to me, extremely sexy, and it is even sexier to reflect that sexiness back to her, to tell her how superb she looks and feels. I would not, for my sake anyway, wish away an ounce of her.
The bile directed at fat women by men is cruel. Comments on this blog that express contempt for fat women are deleted as soon as I see them. But men who are cut off from the possibility of sex with fat women because they cannot see how sexy they can be are sad cases. Sex is always a challenge to the dualism of mind and body. Fat women, driven to distance themselves from their own bodies, to deny that they are properly judged by them, endure the consequences of that dualism in an extreme form. It is an amazing experience to dismiss all of that, to climb on top of J and fuck her, to meet her in her body. I have no idea what it is like to go about the world as J does, dealing with all those who fail to see her; I do know that seeing her as I do when fucking her, I do not look past her body, or look away from it, or look beyond it. I look right at it, for I look right at her.
J, as I have mentioned before in this blog, is a vast woman. I neither know nor care what her weight is; I am sure that she qualifies as 'clinically obese'. Do I get stoned in order to mask this fact from myself, or to make it more bearable? Not at all. I can see and feel how magnificent J is when unstoned, but being stoned makes her even more real, even more monumental and superb. Just as my appreciation of music is in certain ways enhanced when stoned, so too is my appreciation of a woman like J. Doubled up, as she is when I have her legs hiked over my shoulders, she is solid and liquid: slamming into her she is the immovable object to my attempt at irresistible force, yet the impact of each long, heavy thrust ripples through her in waves. J loves to be fucked hard, and it is a great pleasure to give her what she wants, and to see her getting it. She is not very active in fucking me back, but that too is a pleasure - I get to show off, to work the angles, to sweat and strain over her, to see my effort reflected in her face, registered in her body.It is not all hard pounding. During a period of rhythmic shafting, we talked, and she told me about some guy who had recently balked at fucking her, opting instead for a handjob. I am a great fan of handjobs, so I have no quibble with that, but she thought that he was deterred by her size. If so, the man was a fool, for J is a truly great fuck, a woman whose cunt is perpetually reinventing itself around my cock as I play around inside her. Over the course of a couple of hours, J's cunt tightens up again and again. It is delightful when this happens during a fuck, as both she and I can feel the steady intensification of her grip on my cock, and that sometimes encourages my cock to harden and grow, which makes the effect even more noticeable. If it happens between bouts of fucking, it makes re-entry deliciously difficult, which is a problem only if I am not quite up to the task of forcing my way in.
First times are never the best times. My first time with J, I had some difficulties staying hard, and we were both a little tense. I had never been with a woman of her size. It was hard to enter the sexual space and remain there because of unfamiliarity. But at some point things began to work properly, and it was obvious that we were capable of having a lot of fun together. So it has proved. We know what positions work given the geometry of our bodies. We know how to fuck. We like each other. Her size is now, to me, extremely sexy, and it is even sexier to reflect that sexiness back to her, to tell her how superb she looks and feels. I would not, for my sake anyway, wish away an ounce of her.
The bile directed at fat women by men is cruel. Comments on this blog that express contempt for fat women are deleted as soon as I see them. But men who are cut off from the possibility of sex with fat women because they cannot see how sexy they can be are sad cases. Sex is always a challenge to the dualism of mind and body. Fat women, driven to distance themselves from their own bodies, to deny that they are properly judged by them, endure the consequences of that dualism in an extreme form. It is an amazing experience to dismiss all of that, to climb on top of J and fuck her, to meet her in her body. I have no idea what it is like to go about the world as J does, dealing with all those who fail to see her; I do know that seeing her as I do when fucking her, I do not look past her body, or look away from it, or look beyond it. I look right at it, for I look right at her.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
V-day
Other blogs (the ones that used to link to me but do so no longer) blog V-day, so perhaps I should blog mine.
First, a pleasant little marital fuck with C, in the morning. She worse the jaunty and slightly boyish red lingerie that I bought for her a few years ago at Calvin Klein. Then I made my way - unshowered - out to Brooklyn to spend ninety minutes or so at the Brooklyn Motor Inn with Q. A new place for me, but a famililar one for her. She was as delightful as ever, and it was fun to feel again the heat of her come drenching my cock and my balls. We had a good time fucking and talking, and I do like the fact that with Q nothing is hidden. Just for bad form's sake, I offered her my cock to suck before we began fucking, so that she could taste whatever residue remained from fucking C. Afterwards, though, I cleaned up: I had an appointment with F later in the afternoon.
By the time I reached F, my left arm was bothering me. I injured it originally during a very strenuous hand-fuck with B a couple of weeks ago - I had a couple of fingers in her, and she was bearing down with all her strength on my hand, fucking her way to orgasm; by the time she came, the muscles in my arm were screaming; a couple of days later, persistent pain set in at the elbow and between my shoulder and neck. So with F I was a little hampered, and in considerable pain. But we had a good time nevertheless, nibbling on truffles and each other.
V-Day + 1: I had a quickie with B in the early morning, on my way to work. And a longer, intense time with D at the Kew in the afternoon.
First, a pleasant little marital fuck with C, in the morning. She worse the jaunty and slightly boyish red lingerie that I bought for her a few years ago at Calvin Klein. Then I made my way - unshowered - out to Brooklyn to spend ninety minutes or so at the Brooklyn Motor Inn with Q. A new place for me, but a famililar one for her. She was as delightful as ever, and it was fun to feel again the heat of her come drenching my cock and my balls. We had a good time fucking and talking, and I do like the fact that with Q nothing is hidden. Just for bad form's sake, I offered her my cock to suck before we began fucking, so that she could taste whatever residue remained from fucking C. Afterwards, though, I cleaned up: I had an appointment with F later in the afternoon.
By the time I reached F, my left arm was bothering me. I injured it originally during a very strenuous hand-fuck with B a couple of weeks ago - I had a couple of fingers in her, and she was bearing down with all her strength on my hand, fucking her way to orgasm; by the time she came, the muscles in my arm were screaming; a couple of days later, persistent pain set in at the elbow and between my shoulder and neck. So with F I was a little hampered, and in considerable pain. But we had a good time nevertheless, nibbling on truffles and each other.
V-Day + 1: I had a quickie with B in the early morning, on my way to work. And a longer, intense time with D at the Kew in the afternoon.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Wachet auf
I know no more perfect artistic representation of male orgasm than the soprano-bass duet, "Wenn kommst du?" from Bach's famous cantata, "Wachet auf" (BWV 140). Here is the German (no umlauts, though, as I don't know how to do them) with the male line in italics, and a typical translation.
Wenn kommst du, mein Heil?
------Ich komme, dein Teil.
Ich warte mit brennenden Ole.
------Ich offne den Saal,
Eroffne den Saal.
------zum himmlischen Mahl.
Komm, Jesu.
------Ich komme, komm liebliche Seele.
When are you coming, my savior?
------I am coming, your share.
I wait with oil-lamp burning.
------I open the chamber,
The chamber is open.
------for the heavenly feast.
Come, Jesus.
------I'm coming; come, dearest soul.
'Heil', translated here as 'savior', also means safety, well-being, goodness, satisfaction, fufilment; it is cognate with the English word 'whole'. The core meaning of 'Teil' is 'part'. No pair of English words can do just the work that 'Heil' and 'Teil' do - certainly no pair of words that rhyme. The woman longs to be whole. She will be whole when the part she is missing comes to her, enters the chamber, feeds her heavenly food. He announces he is coming to fulfil her, to make her whole, to open up and feed her. The music rings with the words 'come', 'coming', 'whole', 'part'. To me, it is straightforwardly pre-orgasmic and orgasmic. And clearly some translators agree. One, for example, has this for the sung English:
Come quickly, now come!
------Yes, quickly I come!
I wait thee with lamps all alighted.
------The doors open wide,
The doors open wide.
------I come for my bride.
Come claim thou thy bride! Come quickly!
------Forever in rapture united.
'Come, Jesus!' has here become 'Come quickly!'; the duet is entirely secularized and sexualised. I assume that Bach intended and enjoyed the parallel between the impatience of the woman waiting for her lover to come and the impatience of the Christian awaiting Christ. Of course, many women want the man fucking them to come quickly just to get it over with, and perhaps this was true of Bach's own wife. But the impatience in the duet is not that of a woman who wants to get sex over with in order to get back to the business of life - not, therefore, at all like C's politely expressed desire, once she has come, for my own orgasm. To me, it reads rather as the longing for simultaneous orgasm - she cries 'Come quickly! Come now!' as her climax approaches, and the man adds his own imperative - 'Come, dearest!' - as he himself comes.
Still, it would be quite reasonable to interpret the duet as involving only male orgasm. Most fucks involve only male orgasm, according to the data. For a perfect representation of female orgasm I would choose the final chapter of Joyce's Ulysses - surely the most amazing masturbatory episode ever committed to paper, and one of the most affecting.
Wenn kommst du, mein Heil?
------Ich komme, dein Teil.
Ich warte mit brennenden Ole.
------Ich offne den Saal,
Eroffne den Saal.
------zum himmlischen Mahl.
Komm, Jesu.
------Ich komme, komm liebliche Seele.
When are you coming, my savior?
------I am coming, your share.
I wait with oil-lamp burning.
------I open the chamber,
The chamber is open.
------for the heavenly feast.
Come, Jesus.
------I'm coming; come, dearest soul.
'Heil', translated here as 'savior', also means safety, well-being, goodness, satisfaction, fufilment; it is cognate with the English word 'whole'. The core meaning of 'Teil' is 'part'. No pair of English words can do just the work that 'Heil' and 'Teil' do - certainly no pair of words that rhyme. The woman longs to be whole. She will be whole when the part she is missing comes to her, enters the chamber, feeds her heavenly food. He announces he is coming to fulfil her, to make her whole, to open up and feed her. The music rings with the words 'come', 'coming', 'whole', 'part'. To me, it is straightforwardly pre-orgasmic and orgasmic. And clearly some translators agree. One, for example, has this for the sung English:
Come quickly, now come!
------Yes, quickly I come!
I wait thee with lamps all alighted.
------The doors open wide,
The doors open wide.
------I come for my bride.
Come claim thou thy bride! Come quickly!
------Forever in rapture united.
'Come, Jesus!' has here become 'Come quickly!'; the duet is entirely secularized and sexualised. I assume that Bach intended and enjoyed the parallel between the impatience of the woman waiting for her lover to come and the impatience of the Christian awaiting Christ. Of course, many women want the man fucking them to come quickly just to get it over with, and perhaps this was true of Bach's own wife. But the impatience in the duet is not that of a woman who wants to get sex over with in order to get back to the business of life - not, therefore, at all like C's politely expressed desire, once she has come, for my own orgasm. To me, it reads rather as the longing for simultaneous orgasm - she cries 'Come quickly! Come now!' as her climax approaches, and the man adds his own imperative - 'Come, dearest!' - as he himself comes.Still, it would be quite reasonable to interpret the duet as involving only male orgasm. Most fucks involve only male orgasm, according to the data. For a perfect representation of female orgasm I would choose the final chapter of Joyce's Ulysses - surely the most amazing masturbatory episode ever committed to paper, and one of the most affecting.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
A bit of the other
A common reaction to this blog is that the sex-scenes are boring, the other elements - the lazy musings of a philosophical philanderer - mildly interesting. I am encouraged to write about my feelings, and those of the people with whom I have sex; I should personalize. These responses reinforce my confidence that the blog is right just as it is, that it functions as I want. It is a journal of my sexual adventures, rich enough to jog my memory but not so rich as to let anyone else get off on it. It affords me a frisson of excitement, akin to public sex. It gives me a place in which to think out loud, in a disorganized way, about things I find extremely interesting because closely connected with me. My feelings I do not find interesting, nor those of others, except in so far as they can be examined in a detached fashion - and then the fact that they happen to be my feelings or those of the people I have sex with drops out as irrelevant.
The blog is not meant to give anyone a sense of what sex is like for me. I dispute the idea that there is anything that sex is like (though of course I also regularly suggest analogies for it as well). Whatever sex is like for me, I cannot capture it in words. I cannot explain it even to someone I am fucking, even while I am fucking them. Nor can I know what sex is like for the person I fuck, not even when every experience is the result of what I am doing with my cock, my arms, my mouth.
The privacy of sexual experience, a half-brained (though fully-trained) philosopher will tell you, is not unique. All experience, sexual or otherwise is private. I cannot know how orgasm feels for you, but I can't know how bacon smells to you either. But this is, precisely, half-brained. I can't smell with your nose, or see with your eyes, or feel with your hand or your lips or your cunt. I can't taste with your tongue. But still, you and I recognize the smell of bacon - we know what bacon smells like, the both of us. We know the same thing. What more is there to be shared than that, in the case of bacon? The privacy of sexual experience is special just because all the barriers to joint experience are down, union is as complete as it can be, the loops of response and reaction are drawn as tightly as possible - and yet the other still remains obstinately other.
Other, but not necessarily separate. Fucking can be extremely companionable, friendly, close - like working alongside each other on a shared task, with shared tools. It can also be intense, driven, ecstatic - like a physical struggle. Yet no matter how close and tangled we get, I cannot feel what you feel. I can feel from my side of the divide whatever it is that you are feeling from yours. But we cannot feel the same thing. There is nothing I can feel before or after you, or that we can feel together, for there is nothing to be felt by me but you, nothing to be felt by you but me.
The blog is not meant to give anyone a sense of what sex is like for me. I dispute the idea that there is anything that sex is like (though of course I also regularly suggest analogies for it as well). Whatever sex is like for me, I cannot capture it in words. I cannot explain it even to someone I am fucking, even while I am fucking them. Nor can I know what sex is like for the person I fuck, not even when every experience is the result of what I am doing with my cock, my arms, my mouth.
The privacy of sexual experience, a half-brained (though fully-trained) philosopher will tell you, is not unique. All experience, sexual or otherwise is private. I cannot know how orgasm feels for you, but I can't know how bacon smells to you either. But this is, precisely, half-brained. I can't smell with your nose, or see with your eyes, or feel with your hand or your lips or your cunt. I can't taste with your tongue. But still, you and I recognize the smell of bacon - we know what bacon smells like, the both of us. We know the same thing. What more is there to be shared than that, in the case of bacon? The privacy of sexual experience is special just because all the barriers to joint experience are down, union is as complete as it can be, the loops of response and reaction are drawn as tightly as possible - and yet the other still remains obstinately other.
Other, but not necessarily separate. Fucking can be extremely companionable, friendly, close - like working alongside each other on a shared task, with shared tools. It can also be intense, driven, ecstatic - like a physical struggle. Yet no matter how close and tangled we get, I cannot feel what you feel. I can feel from my side of the divide whatever it is that you are feeling from yours. But we cannot feel the same thing. There is nothing I can feel before or after you, or that we can feel together, for there is nothing to be felt by me but you, nothing to be felt by you but me.
Friday, February 01, 2008
Pointlessness
The founder of Wham-O died. Anyone responsible for both the Hula Hoop and the Frisbee should be canonised. But the Frisbee has by now spawned the competitive sport of Ultimate Frisbee, which we can expect to be an Olympic event within a generation, and I am sure that Hula Hoops are already part of some integrated fitness and weight-loss program. Play gets professionalized, or turned into work, or made subservient to some goal other than the sheer joy of play itself.
The caption to a photograph of a girl with a Hula Hoop in the NY Times: 'Sometimes, pointlessness is the point.' No. Pointlessness is always the point. What other point could there be? To spend a life doing pointless things, all the while knowing that they are pointless: that is what it is to be human. People who believe that what they do has a point and a purpose - I regard them as dumber than the brutes. The meerkats of Meerkat Manor don't have any convictions about the point and purpose of their lives; they merely live them. Their lives are pointless, just as ours are (and interesting, just as ours are). But we have been given the gift of knowing that our lives are pointless, and should live with that pointlessness always in the foreground. For what would be the point of living otherwise?
Bobby Fischer died too. A perfect life. Would I wish one moment to have been different? No. I assume the mad ravings against the international Jewish conspiracy, the ludicrous self-importance, the paranoia, the uber-kvetching could have been excised from his character only by damaging some other internal system. Who knows what the effect on his play would have been? Obituaries express sadness at the 'lost games' - all the play that Fischer might have engaged in had he not run off the rails so early and so spectacularly. I am just glad for what we have; most likely, we would not have even the games that we do have had he not been the sort to go bonkers.
It is hard to do anything well while believing it to be pointless, but prowess at the chessboard or with the Hula Hoop are exceptions. Music and fucking are others. Fucking is gloriously pointless, combining something of the Hula Hoop, something of the chessboard, and much from music. Bumping, grinding, plotting, predicting, singing, dancing, losing, winning.
The caption to a photograph of a girl with a Hula Hoop in the NY Times: 'Sometimes, pointlessness is the point.' No. Pointlessness is always the point. What other point could there be? To spend a life doing pointless things, all the while knowing that they are pointless: that is what it is to be human. People who believe that what they do has a point and a purpose - I regard them as dumber than the brutes. The meerkats of Meerkat Manor don't have any convictions about the point and purpose of their lives; they merely live them. Their lives are pointless, just as ours are (and interesting, just as ours are). But we have been given the gift of knowing that our lives are pointless, and should live with that pointlessness always in the foreground. For what would be the point of living otherwise?
Bobby Fischer died too. A perfect life. Would I wish one moment to have been different? No. I assume the mad ravings against the international Jewish conspiracy, the ludicrous self-importance, the paranoia, the uber-kvetching could have been excised from his character only by damaging some other internal system. Who knows what the effect on his play would have been? Obituaries express sadness at the 'lost games' - all the play that Fischer might have engaged in had he not run off the rails so early and so spectacularly. I am just glad for what we have; most likely, we would not have even the games that we do have had he not been the sort to go bonkers.
It is hard to do anything well while believing it to be pointless, but prowess at the chessboard or with the Hula Hoop are exceptions. Music and fucking are others. Fucking is gloriously pointless, combining something of the Hula Hoop, something of the chessboard, and much from music. Bumping, grinding, plotting, predicting, singing, dancing, losing, winning.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Weekdays
Monday: sex with C in the morning; three hours at the Liberty Inn with B in the middle of the day.
Tuesday: nothing but a quickie with D - fifteen minutes in the back of her car.
Wednesday: sex with C in the morning; two hours with F.
Thursday: two-and-a-half hours with F.
Friday: sex with C in the morning; three hours with D.
Serious scientific research into sexual behavior has been starved of funding in the United States for many, many years. It is therefore difficult to know whether my own behavior is atypical. My hunch is that there are few men, or women, in their late-forties who are still having intra-marital sex twice a week or so, and also having extra-marital sex three or four or five times a week, with several different partners. Yet this is what the conventional wisdom (and conventional wisdom's lab-coated mouthpiece, evolutionary psychology) says that every man wants. If every man wants to be doing this sort of thing, and if this sort of thing is possible, why aren't lots more men doing it?
I assume that a large part of the answer has to do with the fact that it is wrong to do it. What makes me unusual, on this reading, is that I am peculiarly morally deficient. This is the view taken by The Ethical Slut in her post Doing Marrieds. [By now, The Ethical Slut really does need to abandon the 'slut' soubriquet and redub herself 'The Moralizing Monogamist'. For though she objects to cheating and blogging about it (Slut does not equal amoral), her objection is to the cheating, not the blogging.] But I don't think an appeal to moral depravity is interestingly explanatory. I am morally deficient, to be sure, but so are lots of other people: they pad their bills, take home supplies from the workplace, pocket money to which they are not entitled, cheat on their taxes, gouge their clients, conspire against others for their own advantage, and so on. Some of this behavior is illegal, some merely immoral. These people are liars, cheats, and extortionists; or liars, cheats, and thieves; or liars, cheats, and frauds; or liars, cheats, and self-centred, self-aggrandizing bastards. On top of their lying and cheating, they take what rightly belongs to another. I don't do any such thing. All I do is please myself, and please others in the process, as often as I can. I don't claim it isn't wrong to do so. But I don't see how the fact that it is wrong explains why so few people do it. For many people do wrong things. And of the wrong things that there are to do, adultery seems one of the least harmful - wrongdoing that results only in pleasure, ecstasy, joy, delight.
Tuesday: nothing but a quickie with D - fifteen minutes in the back of her car.
Wednesday: sex with C in the morning; two hours with F.
Thursday: two-and-a-half hours with F.
Friday: sex with C in the morning; three hours with D.
Serious scientific research into sexual behavior has been starved of funding in the United States for many, many years. It is therefore difficult to know whether my own behavior is atypical. My hunch is that there are few men, or women, in their late-forties who are still having intra-marital sex twice a week or so, and also having extra-marital sex three or four or five times a week, with several different partners. Yet this is what the conventional wisdom (and conventional wisdom's lab-coated mouthpiece, evolutionary psychology) says that every man wants. If every man wants to be doing this sort of thing, and if this sort of thing is possible, why aren't lots more men doing it?
I assume that a large part of the answer has to do with the fact that it is wrong to do it. What makes me unusual, on this reading, is that I am peculiarly morally deficient. This is the view taken by The Ethical Slut in her post Doing Marrieds. [By now, The Ethical Slut really does need to abandon the 'slut' soubriquet and redub herself 'The Moralizing Monogamist'. For though she objects to cheating and blogging about it (Slut does not equal amoral), her objection is to the cheating, not the blogging.] But I don't think an appeal to moral depravity is interestingly explanatory. I am morally deficient, to be sure, but so are lots of other people: they pad their bills, take home supplies from the workplace, pocket money to which they are not entitled, cheat on their taxes, gouge their clients, conspire against others for their own advantage, and so on. Some of this behavior is illegal, some merely immoral. These people are liars, cheats, and extortionists; or liars, cheats, and thieves; or liars, cheats, and frauds; or liars, cheats, and self-centred, self-aggrandizing bastards. On top of their lying and cheating, they take what rightly belongs to another. I don't do any such thing. All I do is please myself, and please others in the process, as often as I can. I don't claim it isn't wrong to do so. But I don't see how the fact that it is wrong explains why so few people do it. For many people do wrong things. And of the wrong things that there are to do, adultery seems one of the least harmful - wrongdoing that results only in pleasure, ecstasy, joy, delight.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Cashmere Bouquet
Sometimes I feel as if I spend half my life unwrapping bars of cheap soap. Because I bite my fingernails, the unwrapping is an ordeal, and drives me half-mad. But what I object to is the cleaning-up itself. At the Liberty Inn, or the Kew Motor Inn, or at the Herald Square, the last few minutes of any encounter must be given over to washing away the residues of sex. I hate this soaping and rinsing. I wish I could carry away the smell and the sweat, the film of cunt-juice on my face, the seed smeared on my body, the blood under my (bitten-down) fingernals. Instead, I leave with Cashmere Bouquet clinging to me. Oddly, I feel this as an outrage committed on what should be, an outrage far more grotesque than any other I commit - a lie I cannot excuse, if you like. Perhaps some shame lies at the back of this that I do not comprehend, but the surface shame I appreciate entirely - something is deeply wrong if I can glory in sex and yet not glory in its traces.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
For the record
Yesterday, C and I had a brief intra-marital fuck in the morning before I left for work. In the afternoon I had nearly three hours with D at the Kew Motor Inn, with just about all that time spent in one sexual act or another.
The week had begun on Monday with a similar, and similarly relentless, session with B, at the Liberty Inn. This was the most intense time I have yet spent with B, and as I get used to her and she to me, the fucking gets better. Like D, B can come repeatedly while fucking, so I can fuck her through each orgasm and onto the next. A distant analogy might be negotiating white water: dramatic, frenzied passages which, when they are over, yield to calmer stretches; but these calm stretches last only for a while, as the water gathers speed again. I am not sure why this seems a more natural analogy than the one that springs to mind fucking Q - that of riding out across country, with her frequent and successive climaxes like hedges or fences that need to be leapt in order to keep going. Perhaps it is just that fucking Q is somehow more collegial and friendly, less infused with the conventional sensibilities of the passionate, secret affair.
On Tuesday I spent the afternoon with D. On Wednesday I spent the afternoon with Q. On Thursday I spent two-and-a-half hours with F, and much later in the day met D for a drink and then a quick, unplanned fuck in a fitting room at Lord & Taylor. When necessary, as on this occasion, I can come very quickly: D yanked her hose and panties down to her knees, I unzipped my fly and took my cock out, she bent over and leaned against the wall, and I fucked her from behind. We watched ourselves in the mirrors on either side. After I came inside her, I pulled out and zipped up. She turned around and opened her legs while I kneeled down so that I could lick her clit until she came. I doubt we took longer than two minutes start to finish.
The week had begun on Monday with a similar, and similarly relentless, session with B, at the Liberty Inn. This was the most intense time I have yet spent with B, and as I get used to her and she to me, the fucking gets better. Like D, B can come repeatedly while fucking, so I can fuck her through each orgasm and onto the next. A distant analogy might be negotiating white water: dramatic, frenzied passages which, when they are over, yield to calmer stretches; but these calm stretches last only for a while, as the water gathers speed again. I am not sure why this seems a more natural analogy than the one that springs to mind fucking Q - that of riding out across country, with her frequent and successive climaxes like hedges or fences that need to be leapt in order to keep going. Perhaps it is just that fucking Q is somehow more collegial and friendly, less infused with the conventional sensibilities of the passionate, secret affair.
On Tuesday I spent the afternoon with D. On Wednesday I spent the afternoon with Q. On Thursday I spent two-and-a-half hours with F, and much later in the day met D for a drink and then a quick, unplanned fuck in a fitting room at Lord & Taylor. When necessary, as on this occasion, I can come very quickly: D yanked her hose and panties down to her knees, I unzipped my fly and took my cock out, she bent over and leaned against the wall, and I fucked her from behind. We watched ourselves in the mirrors on either side. After I came inside her, I pulled out and zipped up. She turned around and opened her legs while I kneeled down so that I could lick her clit until she came. I doubt we took longer than two minutes start to finish.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Too obvious to even mention
The most obvious truth about fucking is that it takes two. The word 'intercourse' gets that right, for fucking is like talking. It takes two to talk, it takes two to fuck. Talking to oneself is not talking at all.
Bad talk is very common. She lectures; he hectors; he tunes out; she nods encouragingly without attending; neither have anything much to to say to each other, nor much desire to hear. Marriages die from bad talk much more often than from bad sex, though the two are ultimately linked. C loves me, but doesn't want to hear from me; I love her, but she has nothing interesting to say me. Without the intercourse of talking, the intercourse of fucking is forced to survive on its own merits, and there are few sexual connections tight and tensile enough to do that for years on end.
Bad sex is also very common. He bangs away mindlessly the way the guy does in porn; she takes over clit-rubbing because who knows better than she does what works for her? He drifts into reverie while lapping away; she keeps up a stream of 'Yes' and 'Give it to me!' while going nowhere; neither really engage the other at all. C loves me, but cannot devote herself sexually; I love her, but get nothing back from my devotion but gratitude for scratching her itch (and, she presumes, my own as well). Fucking of this sort, in the absence of the other intercourse of talking, is thin gruel to live on.
Engage the other: good advice in debate, on the battlefield, in an adversarial court, or a philosophical dialogue; good advice also when fucking.
How precise is the fucking/talking parallel? Not very. D - metaphors jump the tracks here - cuts across the grain. Fucking D is amazing, talking to her not at all. Good talking, like good fucking, requires counter-pressure. D's mind and attention interacts oddly, if at all, with mine, and the cheapest way to generate counter-pressure - a solution I avail myself of too often, sadly - is to bypass thought and summon up resistance by frustrating her emotions. But this cheap shot tells only against me. The truth is that D is an amazing fuck, simpliciter. She is not, and is not required to be, anything more. Yet she is much more, in ways that I register but do not and cannot appreciate.
Fucking cannot be entirely like talking if I can fuck with D so well, and talk with her so feebly. But I know which, of fucking and talking, I would go without if I had to.
Bad talk is very common. She lectures; he hectors; he tunes out; she nods encouragingly without attending; neither have anything much to to say to each other, nor much desire to hear. Marriages die from bad talk much more often than from bad sex, though the two are ultimately linked. C loves me, but doesn't want to hear from me; I love her, but she has nothing interesting to say me. Without the intercourse of talking, the intercourse of fucking is forced to survive on its own merits, and there are few sexual connections tight and tensile enough to do that for years on end.
Bad sex is also very common. He bangs away mindlessly the way the guy does in porn; she takes over clit-rubbing because who knows better than she does what works for her? He drifts into reverie while lapping away; she keeps up a stream of 'Yes' and 'Give it to me!' while going nowhere; neither really engage the other at all. C loves me, but cannot devote herself sexually; I love her, but get nothing back from my devotion but gratitude for scratching her itch (and, she presumes, my own as well). Fucking of this sort, in the absence of the other intercourse of talking, is thin gruel to live on.
Engage the other: good advice in debate, on the battlefield, in an adversarial court, or a philosophical dialogue; good advice also when fucking.
How precise is the fucking/talking parallel? Not very. D - metaphors jump the tracks here - cuts across the grain. Fucking D is amazing, talking to her not at all. Good talking, like good fucking, requires counter-pressure. D's mind and attention interacts oddly, if at all, with mine, and the cheapest way to generate counter-pressure - a solution I avail myself of too often, sadly - is to bypass thought and summon up resistance by frustrating her emotions. But this cheap shot tells only against me. The truth is that D is an amazing fuck, simpliciter. She is not, and is not required to be, anything more. Yet she is much more, in ways that I register but do not and cannot appreciate.
Fucking cannot be entirely like talking if I can fuck with D so well, and talk with her so feebly. But I know which, of fucking and talking, I would go without if I had to.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Van Wyck
D and I have had car-sex in many places around the city by now, but there are a couple of regular spots. One of these is a side-road next to the Van Wyck Expressway. Parked there in winter, as we were yesterday, the surroundings are urban. The thin scrim of trees separating us from the stream of traffic is leafless. It is cold. Trash is the dominant ground-cover. But once we are in the back of the Pacifica, with the middle row of seats folded down, the heat running, our clothes stripped off and shoved anywhere to get them out of the way, everything outside the car drops out of consciousness.D was just about to get her period, and tasted delicious. We began with her lying back while I ate her cunt, and ended with her sitting on my face while my seed leaked out of her cunt and into my mouth. In between, a lot of excellent fucking.
The same spot in summer is very different. The trees in leaf obscure the highway and muffle the sounds. Looking around while fucking, we could almost be parked in a woodland, far from the city. Sunshine washes into the car. It is not quite outdoor sex, but it has something of that character, and with the windows a little open, the whine and rumble of the traffic underscores birdsong. In that light, D's freckled body against the car-cloth on the backs of the seats looks startlingly natural. I suppose that my body does too. Two primates copulating in their habitat - trees, trash, traffic.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Provokes, unprovokes
Besides being a liar, a cheat, and an adulterer, I am also a drunkard. I do not think of myself as an alcoholic, though I am sure that other people do. But I do self-identify as a drunkard, just like Rick in Casablanca.
Alcohol is not much of a sex-drug, but a little buzz from wine or tequila is good, especially if I am also a little stoned. I do not think alcohol enhances sensation, and I think it does make it harder to pay exact attention when going down on a cunt or when fucking precisely. But wine gladdens the heart, as the Psalmist says (Psalms 104: 15).
Oil to make the face shine? Well, I am not sure about the face, but there is definitely something erotic about oil, about the sheen of an oiled body, about the slipping and sliding. Bread to sustain strength, yes; food as a sex-toy, on the whole is a mistake. But I have had a few good times playing with my food with D.
Most cocktails are, to my taste, too sweet. My own margaritas, my own cosmopolitans, sourer than any others I have tasted, I enjoy. Wine I am less interested in than I used to be. Good beer - well, that is hard to find, and harder to resist when found. My lunches with M tend to be two pint lunches, which is just the right amount to carry me through the afternoon. Being a little drunk does encourage risk-taking, which is important in sex. Anything that aids the work of disinhibition is good.
It takes away the performance? Well, it does if you are too drunk. But so long as you are just drunk enough, it is, like sex itself, a good thing. I drink more since I gave up smoking, but alcohol is not a performance-enhancer in the way that nicotine is; it does the good it does by removing restraints. It also tastes good.
Alcohol is not much of a sex-drug, but a little buzz from wine or tequila is good, especially if I am also a little stoned. I do not think alcohol enhances sensation, and I think it does make it harder to pay exact attention when going down on a cunt or when fucking precisely. But wine gladdens the heart, as the Psalmist says (Psalms 104: 15).
Oil to make the face shine? Well, I am not sure about the face, but there is definitely something erotic about oil, about the sheen of an oiled body, about the slipping and sliding. Bread to sustain strength, yes; food as a sex-toy, on the whole is a mistake. But I have had a few good times playing with my food with D.
Most cocktails are, to my taste, too sweet. My own margaritas, my own cosmopolitans, sourer than any others I have tasted, I enjoy. Wine I am less interested in than I used to be. Good beer - well, that is hard to find, and harder to resist when found. My lunches with M tend to be two pint lunches, which is just the right amount to carry me through the afternoon. Being a little drunk does encourage risk-taking, which is important in sex. Anything that aids the work of disinhibition is good.
It takes away the performance? Well, it does if you are too drunk. But so long as you are just drunk enough, it is, like sex itself, a good thing. I drink more since I gave up smoking, but alcohol is not a performance-enhancer in the way that nicotine is; it does the good it does by removing restraints. It also tastes good.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Serendipity
Set-piece sexual marathons (Credulity) are one thing; serendipitous concatenations of circumstances another. Yet the results of one can resemble the results of the other.
A Sunday, beginning with what, for intra-marital sex, was a pretty good start. Because C uses suppositories to improve vaginal lubrication and supplements this with a good dollop of Astroglide beforehand, there is little need for foreplay in order to ready her for penetration. A bit of fingering, some kissing, and it's "Shall we fuck?". Today, as usual, C came quickly, probably within a minute. Q comes even more quickly, but with her, the first orgasm is separated from the last by unnumbered orgasms in between; with C, the first is last, the last first (Mark 10: 31 - last verse of a very interesting chapter). So I indulged myself for a little longer and then came inside her.
Dozing afterwards, while C went for a run, I was still aroused, so I jerked off.
Later in the day, walking home from an errand, I called J and found her at home. So I went by for half an hour, or a little more, of vigorous fucking.
In the evening, thanks to the cancellation of an obligation kept to myself, I had a couple of hours with a solid alibi, so I visited Faith. In preparation I got a little stoned and nibbled on the little blue diamond, and was rewarded with a wonderful session of fucking, ass-fucking, oral. With time up, I jerked off in to F's mouth, and she generously did not swallow so that we could share. The first ejaculation felt partial to me, so I carried on and soon - within thirty seconds, perhaps - produced another decent gob of come for F to receive and transmit. Yet this still felt like it was not the end, so I set out after the last load, which, when it arrived, was more copious than the first or second.
The 'multiple orgasm' has happened quite a few times before, mostly with D, but a couple of times with F and very memorably with M (memorable especially because that was while fucking rather than during a handjob or blowjob). My hunch is that it happens only with some pharmaceutical help, but I don't keep records detailed enough to know if that is so. Anyway, it is a lot of fun, and that is magnified by snowballing. Coming in F's mouth, and then sharing all that in a kiss - well, what is there to do after than but the same thing again? And then again, again. And sharper, stronger each time, with the gathering mass and speed of a cartoon snowball heading downhill.
None of this was planned or in place when I woke up this morning. All of it was happenstance, and might not have happened at all. Candy, fond of Hamlet, would surely quote, here: "There's a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will."
A Sunday, beginning with what, for intra-marital sex, was a pretty good start. Because C uses suppositories to improve vaginal lubrication and supplements this with a good dollop of Astroglide beforehand, there is little need for foreplay in order to ready her for penetration. A bit of fingering, some kissing, and it's "Shall we fuck?". Today, as usual, C came quickly, probably within a minute. Q comes even more quickly, but with her, the first orgasm is separated from the last by unnumbered orgasms in between; with C, the first is last, the last first (Mark 10: 31 - last verse of a very interesting chapter). So I indulged myself for a little longer and then came inside her.
Dozing afterwards, while C went for a run, I was still aroused, so I jerked off.
Later in the day, walking home from an errand, I called J and found her at home. So I went by for half an hour, or a little more, of vigorous fucking.
In the evening, thanks to the cancellation of an obligation kept to myself, I had a couple of hours with a solid alibi, so I visited Faith. In preparation I got a little stoned and nibbled on the little blue diamond, and was rewarded with a wonderful session of fucking, ass-fucking, oral. With time up, I jerked off in to F's mouth, and she generously did not swallow so that we could share. The first ejaculation felt partial to me, so I carried on and soon - within thirty seconds, perhaps - produced another decent gob of come for F to receive and transmit. Yet this still felt like it was not the end, so I set out after the last load, which, when it arrived, was more copious than the first or second.The 'multiple orgasm' has happened quite a few times before, mostly with D, but a couple of times with F and very memorably with M (memorable especially because that was while fucking rather than during a handjob or blowjob). My hunch is that it happens only with some pharmaceutical help, but I don't keep records detailed enough to know if that is so. Anyway, it is a lot of fun, and that is magnified by snowballing. Coming in F's mouth, and then sharing all that in a kiss - well, what is there to do after than but the same thing again? And then again, again. And sharper, stronger each time, with the gathering mass and speed of a cartoon snowball heading downhill.
None of this was planned or in place when I woke up this morning. All of it was happenstance, and might not have happened at all. Candy, fond of Hamlet, would surely quote, here: "There's a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will."
Friday, January 11, 2008
Credulity
Several people who read the blog have told me that, while they believe that I have as much sex with as many different people as I claim, none of my other readers can possibly believe. I do not know how I can render these accounts more credible, given the need for anonymity. So I have no choice but to carry on regardless.
As a case-in-point, I spent much of a recent Saturday having sex with four different people. Around 10.00 am I visited F and spent two delightful hours with her. Then I went to my office, did a bit of paperwork, and hosted D for another hour-and-a-half. Later than afternoon, B came by my house for a quickie, about forty-five minutes in all. And then later than night, I brought home a new sex-partner, and spent a couple of hours playing.
That was an altogether fascinating end to a busy day, and the most memorable part of it. But the sex that I had earlier, with F, with D, with B, was also excellent. Any one of these encounters would have made the day; together, I suppose they render it incredible. It happened, all the same.
As a case-in-point, I spent much of a recent Saturday having sex with four different people. Around 10.00 am I visited F and spent two delightful hours with her. Then I went to my office, did a bit of paperwork, and hosted D for another hour-and-a-half. Later than afternoon, B came by my house for a quickie, about forty-five minutes in all. And then later than night, I brought home a new sex-partner, and spent a couple of hours playing.
That was an altogether fascinating end to a busy day, and the most memorable part of it. But the sex that I had earlier, with F, with D, with B, was also excellent. Any one of these encounters would have made the day; together, I suppose they render it incredible. It happened, all the same.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Needs, wants
This, from the current New Yorker, gets the proportion of sexual wants to sexual needs roughly right. You can't always get what you want - or not all that you want. But that is no reason to set your sights so low as to try only to get what you need.
Saturday, January 05, 2008
B
I responded to this post on CL:
YOU ARE: Tall (5'8" or taller), Age 35-55, but look fantastic for whatever age you are. You take care of both your body and your mind. I AM NOT INTERESTED IN A PHOTO OF YOUR DICK. I'm more interested in why you want to meet me, how you plan to court me, and how you plan to please me. Please be well educated and well spoken. Nothing turns me off faster than stupidity. THIS IS NOT A FANTASY ABOUT HOW TO PLEASE A MAN. I am curious about how you would choose to serve and please me. If you DO NOT UNDERSTAND this concept, then leave now. If you don't know where or what the clitoris is, please click out of this e-post immediately.
Please realize that I am an educated, very attractive, classy, professional woman. I am not interested in boring "hook-ups" with tawdry, common, uneducated men. And If YoU WrItE LiKe ThIs, you are retarded and should stay WELL away from me. I want remarkable. I want someone seductive. I want someone with an education and a vocabulary. I kiss fantastically, and I am very sensual. I love my lips, my hands, my mouth, my body, and I know how to use them. I want a lover who is a sensualist...competent in many areas of lovemaking. My body is a temple. Do you know how to worship? Do you deserve to? Education, cunning, attraction, good manners and depravity will always beat youth, good intentions and ignorance.
My mind is my most fertile sex organ. Entice me and you'll go far....bore me and you won't get a response.
A promising photo and e-mail from you. I'll reply in kind if I like what I see and read.
More than any other sentiment in the post, it was "Education, cunning, attraction, good manners and depravity will always beat youth, good intentions and ignorance" that sold me on its author, so I wrote back, and a correspondence ensued. We then met a couple of times (a drink, breakfast) before setting a date to meet at the Liberty Inn.
B was late. On a first fuckdate, it is inevitable that thoughts of being stood up loom large. People get cold feet. So I spent almost forty-five minutes, a little stoned and sexed up, enjoying the wait, the uncertainty, the anticipation. Meanwhile, couples came in and went out, and I felt extremely happy that other people were doing what I was hoping to do. Sex is good.
B finally arrived, and over the next two hours we had a delightful time. B is a voluptuary - the word could have been invented for her. Her sensuality and sexuality is redolent of burlesque: corsets, stockings, elbow-length gloves and cigarette holders, and the throaty, ripe eroticism all that evokes. She is mired in a marriage that does little for her sexually, and so her appetite has gone unsatisfied. First times are exciting, but also challenging; I quickly gathered that, at least this time, B wanted to be pleased through being taken. So I went at her forcefully, first of all going down on her, to demonstrate that I was intent on devoting myself to her pleasure. Though each cunt is different, and each woman has her own preferences, her own thresholds of discomfort, her own patterns of stimulus and response, I was able to find my way into B's sexual response, bringing her to a good, solid orgasm.
Then I put on a condom and we fucked. B fucked me back energetically, and it was immediately obvious to both of us that we were going to have a lot of fun together. I do not have any good explanation as to how this happens, and I suppose it is part of what is often labelled 'chemistry'; whatever its etiology, it is wonderful - the joint recognition of a joint capacity for joint pleasure. Nothing else is much like this kind of union, though dancing, making music together, working alongside others all have some affinities.
B fills a gap between A, whom I no longer fuck, and C. With D covered, the next vacant letter is E. Any takers?
YOU ARE: Tall (5'8" or taller), Age 35-55, but look fantastic for whatever age you are. You take care of both your body and your mind. I AM NOT INTERESTED IN A PHOTO OF YOUR DICK. I'm more interested in why you want to meet me, how you plan to court me, and how you plan to please me. Please be well educated and well spoken. Nothing turns me off faster than stupidity. THIS IS NOT A FANTASY ABOUT HOW TO PLEASE A MAN. I am curious about how you would choose to serve and please me. If you DO NOT UNDERSTAND this concept, then leave now. If you don't know where or what the clitoris is, please click out of this e-post immediately.
Please realize that I am an educated, very attractive, classy, professional woman. I am not interested in boring "hook-ups" with tawdry, common, uneducated men. And If YoU WrItE LiKe ThIs, you are retarded and should stay WELL away from me. I want remarkable. I want someone seductive. I want someone with an education and a vocabulary. I kiss fantastically, and I am very sensual. I love my lips, my hands, my mouth, my body, and I know how to use them. I want a lover who is a sensualist...competent in many areas of lovemaking. My body is a temple. Do you know how to worship? Do you deserve to? Education, cunning, attraction, good manners and depravity will always beat youth, good intentions and ignorance.
My mind is my most fertile sex organ. Entice me and you'll go far....bore me and you won't get a response.
A promising photo and e-mail from you. I'll reply in kind if I like what I see and read.
More than any other sentiment in the post, it was "Education, cunning, attraction, good manners and depravity will always beat youth, good intentions and ignorance" that sold me on its author, so I wrote back, and a correspondence ensued. We then met a couple of times (a drink, breakfast) before setting a date to meet at the Liberty Inn.
B was late. On a first fuckdate, it is inevitable that thoughts of being stood up loom large. People get cold feet. So I spent almost forty-five minutes, a little stoned and sexed up, enjoying the wait, the uncertainty, the anticipation. Meanwhile, couples came in and went out, and I felt extremely happy that other people were doing what I was hoping to do. Sex is good.
B finally arrived, and over the next two hours we had a delightful time. B is a voluptuary - the word could have been invented for her. Her sensuality and sexuality is redolent of burlesque: corsets, stockings, elbow-length gloves and cigarette holders, and the throaty, ripe eroticism all that evokes. She is mired in a marriage that does little for her sexually, and so her appetite has gone unsatisfied. First times are exciting, but also challenging; I quickly gathered that, at least this time, B wanted to be pleased through being taken. So I went at her forcefully, first of all going down on her, to demonstrate that I was intent on devoting myself to her pleasure. Though each cunt is different, and each woman has her own preferences, her own thresholds of discomfort, her own patterns of stimulus and response, I was able to find my way into B's sexual response, bringing her to a good, solid orgasm.
Then I put on a condom and we fucked. B fucked me back energetically, and it was immediately obvious to both of us that we were going to have a lot of fun together. I do not have any good explanation as to how this happens, and I suppose it is part of what is often labelled 'chemistry'; whatever its etiology, it is wonderful - the joint recognition of a joint capacity for joint pleasure. Nothing else is much like this kind of union, though dancing, making music together, working alongside others all have some affinities.
B fills a gap between A, whom I no longer fuck, and C. With D covered, the next vacant letter is E. Any takers?
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Conventions
I had to attend a large convention, in a large convention hotel. D came with me. On the drive down we stopped and fucked three times in rest-stop parking lots, so the whole journey there was punctuated with sex, and it was at least as much fun to travel as to arrive. D was wearing a short skirt, thigh-high stockings and no underwear, so I could finger her whenever I liked, and it was exciting and educational to note how her cunt ripened as the hours went by. I came inside her the first time that we fucked, at the Thomas Edison rest-stop on the New Jersey Turnpike. That fuck was, as much as anything, just fucking in order to break the sexual tension. I am not sure whether I cam in her at the second stop, which I think was Walt Whitman. The third stop - Clara Barton, in Delaware - was more extensive, with all clothes off, and by that point D's cunt was swollen, pungent, and utterly delicious.
I was able to check in at the hotel early, so we could have an hour and a bit to go at each other before I had to leave to work. That was the first ass-fuck. There is something extremely pleasing about sitting through tiresome meetings with tedious colleagues just minutes after a vigorous, vocal ass-fuck. Later, we had a quick session around dinner-time, and then met again at midnight and fucked as far into the night as we could, fuelled with pot, wine, music, and a 3.00 am stroll around the empty city.
D's capacity for pleasure, as I have so often noted, is almost limitless. Sometimes, starting to fuck again, we are both so sensitive as to be sore - I have to go slow in entering, she is a little dry at first. But neither of us have any reluctance about forging ahead, for once she opens up she will also become wet, and from then until we are done the sensitivity is all in the service of pleasure rather than in the way of it.
We had two nights together, sleeping very little, and odd times grabbed throughout the day. So a huge amount of sex, all of standard sorts, though I did have D's thigh-highs on at one point. After such marathons I can recall few details, and certainly cannot log the various acts and emissions. But I am confident that I have never had so much fun at a professional convention before.
I was able to check in at the hotel early, so we could have an hour and a bit to go at each other before I had to leave to work. That was the first ass-fuck. There is something extremely pleasing about sitting through tiresome meetings with tedious colleagues just minutes after a vigorous, vocal ass-fuck. Later, we had a quick session around dinner-time, and then met again at midnight and fucked as far into the night as we could, fuelled with pot, wine, music, and a 3.00 am stroll around the empty city.
D's capacity for pleasure, as I have so often noted, is almost limitless. Sometimes, starting to fuck again, we are both so sensitive as to be sore - I have to go slow in entering, she is a little dry at first. But neither of us have any reluctance about forging ahead, for once she opens up she will also become wet, and from then until we are done the sensitivity is all in the service of pleasure rather than in the way of it.
We had two nights together, sleeping very little, and odd times grabbed throughout the day. So a huge amount of sex, all of standard sorts, though I did have D's thigh-highs on at one point. After such marathons I can recall few details, and certainly cannot log the various acts and emissions. But I am confident that I have never had so much fun at a professional convention before.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Mirroring
D and I always mean to compile a catalogue of the rooms at the Kew Motor Inn, with room-numbers paired to brief descriptions; but we always mean to do this only when we are leaving, and then it is too late to start. The next time we arrive there we are intent only on fucking, and so forget all about the project. The Kew differentiates Mirror Rooms from Deluxe Rooms, and the former always have a ceiling-mirror above the bed, and a wall-mirror along one side of the bed. Most have also a mirror on the wall facing the foot of the bed. Many Deluxe Rooms also have wall-mirrors. There are occasional rooms that have mirrors placed on opposing walls in such a way as to generate those multiple, receding images that so fascinate children. Gently curving away into the distance are multiple couplings, perfectly synchronized - as if an infinite number of sexual acts were occurring simultaneously. But without the catalogue, I cannot tell you which rooms those are.
Metaphors of mirroring and reflection are among the most fertile for thinking, talking, and writing about sex. I find the sight of myself vigorously fucking D slightly unsettling, for she looks quite a few years younger than her age, and I look quite a few years older than mine (I can, for example, ride Amtrak as a senior without raising any suspicions, though I am in fact fourteen years shy of the qualifying age). A clip featuring D and I sent in to a free porn site would probably be labelled 'tasty MILF gets banged hard by old guy', even though we were born just six months or so apart. But apart from that unease, I like mirrors a lot, and with D in particular I enjoy seeing her being well fucked, and like to watch her watch herself being well fucked. I like to see her seeing how good she looks being fucked. But already, the reflection here is intellectual and emotional as well as visual, a matter of feelings, desires, thoughts, intentions as well as of light-rays, shapes, hues.
There are mirrors on some of the ceilings at the Liberty Inn, and I was in one such room with a new partner in pleasure just before the holidays. B is a lot of fun, with a complicated and interesting sexuality that hardly overlaps at all with D, Q, or F. We had met for a drink one evening, and for an almost entirely innocent breakfast, and then set up an assignation at the Liberty Inn. I will try to post about that in the next few days.
Back, though, to mirrors. Mirror-sex mirrors the kind of mirroring that goes on anyway in sex that is any good, for sex aims at the pleasure that happens between two people, not the pleasure that a person can have on their own but prefers to have in company. I use a mirror to shave, and it helps to shave with a mirror, though I can also manage without if I have to. Sex is often like that. I used to have sex like that. It is definitely better to have sex of this self-pleasing sort with another than with oneself, but it is not radically distinct. If the feedback loops tighten around me when I am fucking a woman who fucks me back - when we are truly fucking each other - sex is not self-pleasing at all, though I do of course get a huge amount of pleasure from it, and that is presumably a large part (or all) of my motivation. The difference is not visible. It cannot be seen in pornography. It does not show up in the mirror. Nevertheless, when I look at the reflection of, say, D and I fucking, I am in some way both inside and outside the sexual act, feeling what cannot be seen and super-adding it to the image in the mirror. What I feel is not my pleasure but our pleasure, the pleasure we get from pleasing each other and being pleased by the other, the giving and taking of pleasure that is reflected back and forth between us.
It is very unusual for me to have sex in the dark these days. Intra-marital is mostly in the mornings, extra-marital mostly in the daytime. I like to see the person I am fucking. I like to look her in the eye. This has many of the features of mirroring, for as I drive my cock deep I can also see that depth register. Q, who thinks a lot about sex, is very interesting to fuck in this lights on, eyes wide-open manner, and there is something very pleasing about the way that we can communicate through our glance as well as through the fusion of cock and cunt. It is also fun to watch her repeatedly climb to the tipping-point of orgasm, when her eyes roll up and her steady gaze - visual, intellectual, emotional - is broken. If I am not coming myself, I can ride out her orgasms while my gaze holds steady, and that kind of watching is very like watching in a mirror: I see, I feel, I notice, I attend, but with a kind of detachment or distance that is an analogue of the distant image in the mirror.
The metaphor or mirroring has its limits. Mirrors facing each other can generate the appearance of infinity, as the image bounces back and forth, and sometimes sex seems just like that. But in order for there to be an image at all, there must be something placed between the mirrors - the thing whose image is to be multiplied indefinitely. And this thing, whatever it is, blocks the light-rays, preventing multiple reflection. If sex is relentlessly and exclusively other-pleasing, there is no reflection, just as if it is entirely self-pleasing. But between people who delight in both the other's pleasure and their own, sex really can generate something multiple, joint, and inexhaustible. Of course, with the mirrors, you can angle one slightly, and then repeated reflection takes place. But fucking does this even when the mirrors are precisely square on. That, anyway, is how it often seems.
Metaphors of mirroring and reflection are among the most fertile for thinking, talking, and writing about sex. I find the sight of myself vigorously fucking D slightly unsettling, for she looks quite a few years younger than her age, and I look quite a few years older than mine (I can, for example, ride Amtrak as a senior without raising any suspicions, though I am in fact fourteen years shy of the qualifying age). A clip featuring D and I sent in to a free porn site would probably be labelled 'tasty MILF gets banged hard by old guy', even though we were born just six months or so apart. But apart from that unease, I like mirrors a lot, and with D in particular I enjoy seeing her being well fucked, and like to watch her watch herself being well fucked. I like to see her seeing how good she looks being fucked. But already, the reflection here is intellectual and emotional as well as visual, a matter of feelings, desires, thoughts, intentions as well as of light-rays, shapes, hues.
There are mirrors on some of the ceilings at the Liberty Inn, and I was in one such room with a new partner in pleasure just before the holidays. B is a lot of fun, with a complicated and interesting sexuality that hardly overlaps at all with D, Q, or F. We had met for a drink one evening, and for an almost entirely innocent breakfast, and then set up an assignation at the Liberty Inn. I will try to post about that in the next few days.
Back, though, to mirrors. Mirror-sex mirrors the kind of mirroring that goes on anyway in sex that is any good, for sex aims at the pleasure that happens between two people, not the pleasure that a person can have on their own but prefers to have in company. I use a mirror to shave, and it helps to shave with a mirror, though I can also manage without if I have to. Sex is often like that. I used to have sex like that. It is definitely better to have sex of this self-pleasing sort with another than with oneself, but it is not radically distinct. If the feedback loops tighten around me when I am fucking a woman who fucks me back - when we are truly fucking each other - sex is not self-pleasing at all, though I do of course get a huge amount of pleasure from it, and that is presumably a large part (or all) of my motivation. The difference is not visible. It cannot be seen in pornography. It does not show up in the mirror. Nevertheless, when I look at the reflection of, say, D and I fucking, I am in some way both inside and outside the sexual act, feeling what cannot be seen and super-adding it to the image in the mirror. What I feel is not my pleasure but our pleasure, the pleasure we get from pleasing each other and being pleased by the other, the giving and taking of pleasure that is reflected back and forth between us.
It is very unusual for me to have sex in the dark these days. Intra-marital is mostly in the mornings, extra-marital mostly in the daytime. I like to see the person I am fucking. I like to look her in the eye. This has many of the features of mirroring, for as I drive my cock deep I can also see that depth register. Q, who thinks a lot about sex, is very interesting to fuck in this lights on, eyes wide-open manner, and there is something very pleasing about the way that we can communicate through our glance as well as through the fusion of cock and cunt. It is also fun to watch her repeatedly climb to the tipping-point of orgasm, when her eyes roll up and her steady gaze - visual, intellectual, emotional - is broken. If I am not coming myself, I can ride out her orgasms while my gaze holds steady, and that kind of watching is very like watching in a mirror: I see, I feel, I notice, I attend, but with a kind of detachment or distance that is an analogue of the distant image in the mirror.
The metaphor or mirroring has its limits. Mirrors facing each other can generate the appearance of infinity, as the image bounces back and forth, and sometimes sex seems just like that. But in order for there to be an image at all, there must be something placed between the mirrors - the thing whose image is to be multiplied indefinitely. And this thing, whatever it is, blocks the light-rays, preventing multiple reflection. If sex is relentlessly and exclusively other-pleasing, there is no reflection, just as if it is entirely self-pleasing. But between people who delight in both the other's pleasure and their own, sex really can generate something multiple, joint, and inexhaustible. Of course, with the mirrors, you can angle one slightly, and then repeated reflection takes place. But fucking does this even when the mirrors are precisely square on. That, anyway, is how it often seems.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Unblog
It has been ten days since I last posted, and that post hardly logged any activity. So I am seriously behind.
Off the top of my head, what do I remember? A night at the Astor with D, preceded by some activity in the afternoon and evening, and succeeded by a morning's worth of fucking too. A Thursday morning in my apartment with Q - thoroughly delightful. Some more time with D at the Kew. I have seen F a few times, Q once more, D even more than usual thanks to her need to use up accumulated off days before the year expires. J I visited just once. So plenty of sex, and all of it good. All of it excellent, in fact. Yet each woman is distinct, peculiar, discrete, particular.
At some crude and cursory level of description, fucking D is like fucking Q - a cock, a cunt, penetration, thrusting, grinding, orgasms, sweat. Sex that is going on only at this level of attention and awareness - porn sex - is barely worth getting out of bed for, and whether you have this kind of sex with one person or many does not really seem to matter. The only reason to be discontented with a sex-life built around this kind of sex is if you don't get enough, whatever the hell 'enough' means. I don't get any sex like that at all, and don't want any. To me, fucking D is no more like fucking Q than talking to D is like talking to Q - and that they are very different to talk to anyone would agree who knew them both (though I doubt that there is in fact anyone besides me in that category). Have I had a lot of sex in the last two weeks? Yes. A fuck of a lot. But the quantitative question, and its answer, misses almost everything. So, then, does this post.
Off the top of my head, what do I remember? A night at the Astor with D, preceded by some activity in the afternoon and evening, and succeeded by a morning's worth of fucking too. A Thursday morning in my apartment with Q - thoroughly delightful. Some more time with D at the Kew. I have seen F a few times, Q once more, D even more than usual thanks to her need to use up accumulated off days before the year expires. J I visited just once. So plenty of sex, and all of it good. All of it excellent, in fact. Yet each woman is distinct, peculiar, discrete, particular.
At some crude and cursory level of description, fucking D is like fucking Q - a cock, a cunt, penetration, thrusting, grinding, orgasms, sweat. Sex that is going on only at this level of attention and awareness - porn sex - is barely worth getting out of bed for, and whether you have this kind of sex with one person or many does not really seem to matter. The only reason to be discontented with a sex-life built around this kind of sex is if you don't get enough, whatever the hell 'enough' means. I don't get any sex like that at all, and don't want any. To me, fucking D is no more like fucking Q than talking to D is like talking to Q - and that they are very different to talk to anyone would agree who knew them both (though I doubt that there is in fact anyone besides me in that category). Have I had a lot of sex in the last two weeks? Yes. A fuck of a lot. But the quantitative question, and its answer, misses almost everything. So, then, does this post.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Q with no gadgets
James Bond's boss, M - Bernard Lee in any Bond film that really counts, and Judi Dench since Lee's death - regularly sends 007 to see Q before Bond sets out on another, dangerous mission. Though someone else played Q in Dr No, and though John Cleese has taken a stab at the role recently, there is really only one Q: Desmond Llewelyn. Somewhat ironically, given Q's penchant for issuing deadly vehicles of one sort or another to Bond, Llewelyn died in a car-crash.
By Goldfinger, Q had arrived at his mature form: the tetchy, long-suffering quartermaster fed up with seeing his amazing inventions reduced to wreckage by the irrepressible Bond, and who thinks he may prevent this by a combination of tedious over-instruction and chits signed in triplicate. I am told that Q was later coerced into other, action-driven roles, but if that happened it must have been in movies that I have not seen, with Bonds that I do not care to think about.
Q's gadgets were not in evidence when she visited me at home, for the second time in a week. We fucked, I went down on her, we fucked some more, she went down on me, we fucked some more again. All the stuff that can be done with no more equipment than two bodies and a bed. I came when Q, riding my cock with utter abandon, took herself into a drenching orgasm, and in the middle of that downpour, I made my own modest contribution to the general damp. That I came when she did is unsurprising; she comes so often that simultaneous orgasm is probable on mere statistical grounds. The clutching and clenching of her cunt on my cock ensures that I am completely taken up into her orgasms, and after staying with her through a number of these climaxes, enjoying them in spectator mode, it was wonderful to join in.
Fucking Q through her orgasms, it is sometimes hard to stay in place. I have never fucked a woman whose cunt seemed so obviously designed to function expulsively. I know that she has given birth to several children, and feeling her bear down on my cock, I am made aware of sex as procreative as well as recreative. Q is a woman good for fucking and making babies, and a lot of her sexual power resides in that. She is not a woman good only for fucking and making babies, however. So we also had a very good time talking - a lot of it talk about fucking, not much of it about making babies.
Since that day, we have met only once, for a couple of hours at La Semana, in one of the most dismal rooms I have been in there. But the surroundings disappear with Q when they have no role to play, and we went at each other almost continuously. I was very pleased that meeting came off, as my schedule has been cramped by work. And now, the holidays, which means home and family, no alibis, and so not much scope for lying, cheating and adultery. I hope, nevertheless, to have a new letter of the alphabet to introduce to the blog very soon.
By Goldfinger, Q had arrived at his mature form: the tetchy, long-suffering quartermaster fed up with seeing his amazing inventions reduced to wreckage by the irrepressible Bond, and who thinks he may prevent this by a combination of tedious over-instruction and chits signed in triplicate. I am told that Q was later coerced into other, action-driven roles, but if that happened it must have been in movies that I have not seen, with Bonds that I do not care to think about.
Q's gadgets were not in evidence when she visited me at home, for the second time in a week. We fucked, I went down on her, we fucked some more, she went down on me, we fucked some more again. All the stuff that can be done with no more equipment than two bodies and a bed. I came when Q, riding my cock with utter abandon, took herself into a drenching orgasm, and in the middle of that downpour, I made my own modest contribution to the general damp. That I came when she did is unsurprising; she comes so often that simultaneous orgasm is probable on mere statistical grounds. The clutching and clenching of her cunt on my cock ensures that I am completely taken up into her orgasms, and after staying with her through a number of these climaxes, enjoying them in spectator mode, it was wonderful to join in.
Fucking Q through her orgasms, it is sometimes hard to stay in place. I have never fucked a woman whose cunt seemed so obviously designed to function expulsively. I know that she has given birth to several children, and feeling her bear down on my cock, I am made aware of sex as procreative as well as recreative. Q is a woman good for fucking and making babies, and a lot of her sexual power resides in that. She is not a woman good only for fucking and making babies, however. So we also had a very good time talking - a lot of it talk about fucking, not much of it about making babies.
Since that day, we have met only once, for a couple of hours at La Semana, in one of the most dismal rooms I have been in there. But the surroundings disappear with Q when they have no role to play, and we went at each other almost continuously. I was very pleased that meeting came off, as my schedule has been cramped by work. And now, the holidays, which means home and family, no alibis, and so not much scope for lying, cheating and adultery. I hope, nevertheless, to have a new letter of the alphabet to introduce to the blog very soon.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
The poorest things
I have complained before - several times at least - about the use of the language of 'need' in relation to sex. Nobody ever needs to have sex as they need to eat or drink or stay warm in order to survive, or need treatment in order to overcome illness. Occasional, brief acts of vaginal intercourse between fertile men and women are enough to keep the species going, if that is thought to be something we need to do - though I don't really see how anyone could believe it is. But beyond that, the language of need is quite out of place. I am not a needy person simply because I want to spend all my time fucking. That makes me greedy, perhaps seedy, requires me to be speedy, and may end up making me feel weedy, but says nothing about whether or not I am needy.
Lear, raging at his daughters' meanness of spirit, has it just right:
O, reason not the need: our basest beggars
Are in the poorest thing superfluous:
Allow not nature more than nature needs,
Man's life's as cheap as beast's:
Goneril and Regan had selfish reasons to haggle with their father over the size of his retinue, but it is true that the larger his company, the more they would be out of pocket. In the sexual case, I cannot see who bears any cost. If I have far more sex than I am said to need, who bears any cost at all? What could possibly be wrong with having more than I need?
The sexual liberation that characterized much of the second half of the 20th century achieved a good deal, but there has by now been a very powerful backlash. If I could get my hands on the people responsible for that backlash,
. . . I will do such things,--
What they are, yet I know not: but they shall be
The terrors of the earth.
Lear, raging at his daughters' meanness of spirit, has it just right:
O, reason not the need: our basest beggars
Are in the poorest thing superfluous:
Allow not nature more than nature needs,
Man's life's as cheap as beast's:
Goneril and Regan had selfish reasons to haggle with their father over the size of his retinue, but it is true that the larger his company, the more they would be out of pocket. In the sexual case, I cannot see who bears any cost. If I have far more sex than I am said to need, who bears any cost at all? What could possibly be wrong with having more than I need?
The sexual liberation that characterized much of the second half of the 20th century achieved a good deal, but there has by now been a very powerful backlash. If I could get my hands on the people responsible for that backlash,
. . . I will do such things,--
What they are, yet I know not: but they shall be
The terrors of the earth.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Endurance
In line with the masochism of American culture, which measures accomplishment mainly in terms of the amount of suffering that accomplishment requires, I am currently in the middle of an endurance trial: how much sex can I fit into six days, while still carrying out all, or at least most, of the normal functions of life?
C left town on Saturday evening, after a friendly, farewell fuck - half the bed taken up with her suitcase and her clothes laid out to be folded and packed, the other half giving us just enough room for a quickie. C returns next Friday. So right now - Monday midnight - I am barely two days into the trial.
I have no idea how to prepare for a marathon, and think running further than the nearest bus-stop is stupid. But several people I admire run marathons, so I could be wrong about that. Anyway, I do not know whether the best preparation is running, or not running. Either would make sense: running, to practice running; not running, to conserve resources for running. For a week-long sexual marathon, though, there is no question how to prepare: fuck as much as you can. So on Thursday and Friday I spent a lot of time with D at the Kew Motor Inn - four and a half hours on Thursday, and another three on Friday. Pot, music, a leather skirt for her and me, the ILY sex toy deployed judiciously, and so on.
After the intramarital, farewell fuck on Saturday evening came five hours with F, starting a little after midnight. That was a lot of fun, and rather special; only the third night I have ever spent with F. A couple of hours in, I lost all semblance of an erection for a while, but later recovered. Then I walked home in light, cold rain.
On Sunday afternoon, I spent about an hour-and-a-half with J, who since I last visited has got the all-clear from the gynecologist, and put a mirror up on the wall above the head of her bed. Our last fuck was from behind, with her kneeling on the edge of the bed, me standing on the floor, and I enjoyed watching us in the mirror.
Sunday evening: forty minutes in the back of the car with D, the rain drumming on the roof.
Sunday night I slept alone, conserving resources for Monday morning, when Q came by for three hours, of which two were spent in sex, and the other in the bath. The sex was mostly fucking, but at one point I shackled Q's wrists to her ankles and fisted her, licking her clit at the same time. Restrained, and unable to back away, she gave herself up, becoming very vocal. I will not forget that in a while: my right hand in her cunt up to the wrist, my left hand pulling back the hood of her clit so I could play with it with my tongue, and Q bellowing her way through one orgasm after another, flooding her crotch, my face, and the bed with liquid. By the time we were done, she had soaked the towel underneath her, the sheet below that, another layer of towels, and a mattress cover. The mattress itself was damp. She is due to visit again later in the week, and expects - hopes, anyway - to be bleeding by then. The clean-up issues will be daunting.
I have never fisted anyone. It is strange and powerful, and I am not sure I will get the chance to do it enough to get used to it and good at it. I hope so. But I do not think any of the other women I fuck are capable of taking my whole hand. D, perhaps.
By the time I reached F in middle of Monday afternoon, I was strung out, and also dozy from two beers at lunchtime, so I nibbled at some Viagra as a precaution. But obviously not enough, for I was only erratically hard enough to fuck.
C left town on Saturday evening, after a friendly, farewell fuck - half the bed taken up with her suitcase and her clothes laid out to be folded and packed, the other half giving us just enough room for a quickie. C returns next Friday. So right now - Monday midnight - I am barely two days into the trial.
I have no idea how to prepare for a marathon, and think running further than the nearest bus-stop is stupid. But several people I admire run marathons, so I could be wrong about that. Anyway, I do not know whether the best preparation is running, or not running. Either would make sense: running, to practice running; not running, to conserve resources for running. For a week-long sexual marathon, though, there is no question how to prepare: fuck as much as you can. So on Thursday and Friday I spent a lot of time with D at the Kew Motor Inn - four and a half hours on Thursday, and another three on Friday. Pot, music, a leather skirt for her and me, the ILY sex toy deployed judiciously, and so on.
After the intramarital, farewell fuck on Saturday evening came five hours with F, starting a little after midnight. That was a lot of fun, and rather special; only the third night I have ever spent with F. A couple of hours in, I lost all semblance of an erection for a while, but later recovered. Then I walked home in light, cold rain.
On Sunday afternoon, I spent about an hour-and-a-half with J, who since I last visited has got the all-clear from the gynecologist, and put a mirror up on the wall above the head of her bed. Our last fuck was from behind, with her kneeling on the edge of the bed, me standing on the floor, and I enjoyed watching us in the mirror.
Sunday evening: forty minutes in the back of the car with D, the rain drumming on the roof.
Sunday night I slept alone, conserving resources for Monday morning, when Q came by for three hours, of which two were spent in sex, and the other in the bath. The sex was mostly fucking, but at one point I shackled Q's wrists to her ankles and fisted her, licking her clit at the same time. Restrained, and unable to back away, she gave herself up, becoming very vocal. I will not forget that in a while: my right hand in her cunt up to the wrist, my left hand pulling back the hood of her clit so I could play with it with my tongue, and Q bellowing her way through one orgasm after another, flooding her crotch, my face, and the bed with liquid. By the time we were done, she had soaked the towel underneath her, the sheet below that, another layer of towels, and a mattress cover. The mattress itself was damp. She is due to visit again later in the week, and expects - hopes, anyway - to be bleeding by then. The clean-up issues will be daunting.
I have never fisted anyone. It is strange and powerful, and I am not sure I will get the chance to do it enough to get used to it and good at it. I hope so. But I do not think any of the other women I fuck are capable of taking my whole hand. D, perhaps.
By the time I reached F in middle of Monday afternoon, I was strung out, and also dozy from two beers at lunchtime, so I nibbled at some Viagra as a precaution. But obviously not enough, for I was only erratically hard enough to fuck.
Friday, December 07, 2007
Blog=log
A blog is a log, before it is anything else. Into the log goes everything: the tides, the wind, the weather; condition of the sea; the status of the standing and running rigging, of the sails; the mood of the crew; any and all untoward incidents that migh subsequently have significance.
As a log, this blog fails. It ought, if it is a log, to be possible to reconstruct from it where I was and when, what I did, in broad terms at least, while I was there, what my direction was as I set out towards new destinations. I fail in this simple task because it seems dull, and mechanical - but a moment's thought suggests that, as far as any usefulness in concerned, it is the dull and mechanical stuff that counts.
Thursday and Friday were D-days. D repays every effort; the more I pour into her, the more I get back. It feels, sometimes, rather like betting, and so as if the ruck will run out some time. But most of the time, I am sure that she has in her hand something that is at least a match for what I have in mine.
A good record would list what she had, and what I had, and how we played the hand. But that kind of detailed direction and recording appeals to me no more (no less, either) than than any other, and I cannot do it anyway.
As a log, this blog fails. It ought, if it is a log, to be possible to reconstruct from it where I was and when, what I did, in broad terms at least, while I was there, what my direction was as I set out towards new destinations. I fail in this simple task because it seems dull, and mechanical - but a moment's thought suggests that, as far as any usefulness in concerned, it is the dull and mechanical stuff that counts.
Thursday and Friday were D-days. D repays every effort; the more I pour into her, the more I get back. It feels, sometimes, rather like betting, and so as if the ruck will run out some time. But most of the time, I am sure that she has in her hand something that is at least a match for what I have in mine.
A good record would list what she had, and what I had, and how we played the hand. But that kind of detailed direction and recording appeals to me no more (no less, either) than than any other, and I cannot do it anyway.
Faster, softer, harder, slower
I am quite happy to demonstrate how I jerk off. Z and I first met when she came to my office to watch me please myself. Like those pesky photons that behave differently when observed, and so cannot ever be seen doing what it is that they do when no-one is watching, the way I jerk off when asked to demonstrate how I jerk off is different from the way that I actually jerk off when alone. But I think I can give a good approximation, and it is fun to do so occasionally. I love a good handjob, and over the decades have become very good at administering them to myself. I am, of course, in the ideal position to do well: I have continuous access to my own cock, and so have plenty of opportunity to practice; I sit in the middle of the feedback loop that includes my cock and the hand jerking it off; I have no-one but myself to blame if the experience is in any way disappointing.
But though I give myself great handjobs, I have no desire to be given a handjob by another of the kind that I give myself - for, quite frankly, I can do that better than anyone. If I want you to give me a handjob, it is because I want the handjob that you would give me, rather than the handjob that I would give myself. So I am happy to show you what I do when on my own, even though, inevitably, the fact that I am not on my own makes this strictly impossible. But I am not happy to talk you through the handjob that you are giving me, like some veteran.jpg)
pilot in the control-tower talking a neophyte in the cockpit through her first landing in a 1970s airplane disaster-movie. "A little more pressure with the third and fourth fingers, especially with the middle joint, but ease up on the second finger, and shift the thumb to make a slightly more elliptical ring, will you? Pick up the pace just slightly, but don't shorten the strokes quite yet. Keep it just there for a while, and await further instructions."
There is a deeper point, though. Sitting in the middle of the feedback loop that runs through my cock, my head, my hand, there are certain things that I cannot do, precisely because it is the same person who pleases and is pleased. The obvious comparison here is with tickling: I can do exactly what you would do to the sole of my foot when tickling me, but it can never tickle in the same way (I am very ticklish, and find it almost unbearable). Because the finger that attempts to tickle is my own, it does not tickle. You can tickle me not because of anything you can do with your finger that I cannot, or because you can reach some spot that I can't, but because you are not me - there is no feedback loop of the relevant sort. (Here is one answer to the question, Why can't you tickle yourself?)
A complaint that I sometimes hear from women is that men ask for too many directions, are constantly checking on how well they are doing, need continual reassurance that they are on target, want to know that they are not being too rough or too gentle, too quick or too slow, and so on. I hardly ever ask for directions, but not because I know what I am doing without them. I assume that, just as I want the handjob that you would give me, rather than the one that I would give myself, you want the same kind of thing from me. I will do whatever seems right to me, and you will tell me if I am way off target or entirely out of synch if you wish to. If I am fingering or fucking you, or eating you out, I will work to please you in all the ways that I can, reading and responding as best I can. You want me to finger you the way that I would finger you, not the way that you would. You want to be surprised, just as I do. You want to get what you didn't know you wanted. If all I could give you was what you could give yourself anyway, I would lose heart. And so - turn and turn about - I do not want you to give me anything but the handjob that you find it in yourself to give. Don't ask me for directions.
You need my responses, of course, and so I must embody them somehow - vocally, in the pattern of my breathing, or in the tension in my thighs, the pulsing of my cock, spasms in my ass (so yes, put a finger down there somewhere so you can pick up on that data stream). You need feedback, and as you respond to my responses, registering my pleasure and what heightens it, acting to intensify it, my responses alter, for I am responding to you responding to me. There is a feedback loop formed here, and it is in one way just like the feedback loop that forms when I please myself, for the goal is the same - my pleasure - and the process of registering sexual response and responding to it is also the same. But this loop runs through you. When you please me, and are pleased by the pleasure you give me, my pleasure is magnified by the pleasure that you take in pleasing me; here it makes sense to speak of sexual union. I think this is the deep and miraculous core of sex, and it can be present even in a handjob. But probably not in one in which I am required to give directions.
The loop is drawn tighter and smaller, and the union is correspondingly more intense and complete, when I am pleasing you while you are pleasing me, when we are each of us feeding our own pleasure by pleasing the other, when we are both taking pleasure in each other's pleasure at pleasing. Fucking makes one out of two by drawing the loop so tight that it shrinks to a point, and it is no longer easy, no longer even possible, to distinguish which sensation belongs to whom (or, better expressed - when the notion of a possessor of sensation loses all traction).
As a young man, I found the cult of 'wisdom' absurd. What could the old know that I could not, except how much life sucks - a fact that, from my earliest years, I could easily assimilate intellectually anyway? What I have learned in the last few years about sex, I do not think I could have learned as a young man. If I could have learned it earlier, I did not. But I do wish that I had. And perhaps the core of wisdom is exactly that - wishing that one could have learned earlier what one has learned a little too late, but recognising that one could not have learned it earlier anyway.
But though I give myself great handjobs, I have no desire to be given a handjob by another of the kind that I give myself - for, quite frankly, I can do that better than anyone. If I want you to give me a handjob, it is because I want the handjob that you would give me, rather than the handjob that I would give myself. So I am happy to show you what I do when on my own, even though, inevitably, the fact that I am not on my own makes this strictly impossible. But I am not happy to talk you through the handjob that you are giving me, like some veteran
.jpg)
pilot in the control-tower talking a neophyte in the cockpit through her first landing in a 1970s airplane disaster-movie. "A little more pressure with the third and fourth fingers, especially with the middle joint, but ease up on the second finger, and shift the thumb to make a slightly more elliptical ring, will you? Pick up the pace just slightly, but don't shorten the strokes quite yet. Keep it just there for a while, and await further instructions."There is a deeper point, though. Sitting in the middle of the feedback loop that runs through my cock, my head, my hand, there are certain things that I cannot do, precisely because it is the same person who pleases and is pleased. The obvious comparison here is with tickling: I can do exactly what you would do to the sole of my foot when tickling me, but it can never tickle in the same way (I am very ticklish, and find it almost unbearable). Because the finger that attempts to tickle is my own, it does not tickle. You can tickle me not because of anything you can do with your finger that I cannot, or because you can reach some spot that I can't, but because you are not me - there is no feedback loop of the relevant sort. (Here is one answer to the question, Why can't you tickle yourself?)
A complaint that I sometimes hear from women is that men ask for too many directions, are constantly checking on how well they are doing, need continual reassurance that they are on target, want to know that they are not being too rough or too gentle, too quick or too slow, and so on. I hardly ever ask for directions, but not because I know what I am doing without them. I assume that, just as I want the handjob that you would give me, rather than the one that I would give myself, you want the same kind of thing from me. I will do whatever seems right to me, and you will tell me if I am way off target or entirely out of synch if you wish to. If I am fingering or fucking you, or eating you out, I will work to please you in all the ways that I can, reading and responding as best I can. You want me to finger you the way that I would finger you, not the way that you would. You want to be surprised, just as I do. You want to get what you didn't know you wanted. If all I could give you was what you could give yourself anyway, I would lose heart. And so - turn and turn about - I do not want you to give me anything but the handjob that you find it in yourself to give. Don't ask me for directions.
You need my responses, of course, and so I must embody them somehow - vocally, in the pattern of my breathing, or in the tension in my thighs, the pulsing of my cock, spasms in my ass (so yes, put a finger down there somewhere so you can pick up on that data stream). You need feedback, and as you respond to my responses, registering my pleasure and what heightens it, acting to intensify it, my responses alter, for I am responding to you responding to me. There is a feedback loop formed here, and it is in one way just like the feedback loop that forms when I please myself, for the goal is the same - my pleasure - and the process of registering sexual response and responding to it is also the same. But this loop runs through you. When you please me, and are pleased by the pleasure you give me, my pleasure is magnified by the pleasure that you take in pleasing me; here it makes sense to speak of sexual union. I think this is the deep and miraculous core of sex, and it can be present even in a handjob. But probably not in one in which I am required to give directions.
The loop is drawn tighter and smaller, and the union is correspondingly more intense and complete, when I am pleasing you while you are pleasing me, when we are each of us feeding our own pleasure by pleasing the other, when we are both taking pleasure in each other's pleasure at pleasing. Fucking makes one out of two by drawing the loop so tight that it shrinks to a point, and it is no longer easy, no longer even possible, to distinguish which sensation belongs to whom (or, better expressed - when the notion of a possessor of sensation loses all traction).
As a young man, I found the cult of 'wisdom' absurd. What could the old know that I could not, except how much life sucks - a fact that, from my earliest years, I could easily assimilate intellectually anyway? What I have learned in the last few years about sex, I do not think I could have learned as a young man. If I could have learned it earlier, I did not. But I do wish that I had. And perhaps the core of wisdom is exactly that - wishing that one could have learned earlier what one has learned a little too late, but recognising that one could not have learned it earlier anyway.
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