Hard times

I've got a crisis on my hands involving a critically ill and beloved critter, and I've been pretty focused on that. It doesn't look good right now -- we'll see. Chances are that I'll remain more or less shut down for the next few days. I'll be back -- I'm just saying I need a little time.

That's my boy. Send him a good thought.

Update: My proud, elegant companion slipped the surly bonds this afternoon. I will miss him more than I can say.

Sugasm #151

This Week’s Picks

Help, My Friend Says I Have an Ugly Vagina!
“Say no to vagina prejudice!”

“Kiss My Boots.”
“One of the more unexpected hairpin turns I navigated in my “Coming Out” into BDSM involved a series of moments that were deceptively simple, perhaps even innocent, in a way.”

Yours, Sir
“I felt and then heard a low rumble of a slightly sadistic chuckle from him.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself

Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice

Sass And The Sadist

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See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Sex and politics

My fiscally conservative friend was online this afternoon sporting a new link in his profile. I followed it to a critique of Obama's proposed economic policy. The following conversation ensued.

me: Oh, you are spoiling for a fight with that link, kiddo. I don't care how hot you are, I call foul. By the way, has anyone explained to McCain that we already "redistribute" wealth in dozens of ways?

Him: what's the logical disconnect? That our poor waiter "can't afford it?" Well, the homeless guy needs it more. Why shouldn't he get it? it's ok to stick it to certain rich folks because they can afford it is a stupid argument. when the rich already pay for around 30% of the US government.

me: The logical disconnect is that someone making a quarter of a million dollars a year is not in the same economic straits as a waiter. The disconnect is that Obama is talking about reducing taxes for a huge majority of the people, and the experiment linked to is strictly relative.

Him: a homeless guy is in worse economic straights than the waiter.

me: Nobody is saying it's "okay to stick it to rich people"

Him: sure they are.
"We want to take from those of you making mor than $250k/year and give it to people who need it" is welfare and it's at the butt of a gun. I call bullshit socialism.

me: All right, one point at a time. First, your link. Look at it like a Venn diagram or something. Do you understand my point? About how it's not strictly relative?

Him: right. you're basically saying that a waiter is too poor to be able to redistribute his wealth, but a small business owner isn't. Check.

me: So is unemployment insurance bullshit socialism? What about health insurance? Insurance in general?

Him: I'm against Hillarycare. And unemployment insurance should be opt-out for workers - if I want my cash now and to take my chances, I should be able to do so, yes.

me: (By the way, you know I adore you)
oh my god, I can't believe you're going to fall back on "Hillary" as a bogeyman

Him: I have a friend in England.
She was just diagnosed with a lump in her breast. Big big lump.
Eight weeks from now, she'll be able to see a doctor.
huzzah socialized medicine.

me: Your arguments will sway me much more if you don't resort to Republican hysteria and use terms like "socialism" and "Hillarycare"
Can your friend in England opt to pay a doctor to see her sooner?

Him: if one is available and not too tied up by required NIH (or whatever) appointments.

me: So she can pay for better care?

Him: sure. but I don't want to pay for her care at all. except for herd immunity related issues.
but healthcare isn't the issue.
Robin Hood government is.

me: Ah, then we won't ever reach any kind of understanding on this, because we basically have different philosophies. I do want to pay for health care for people not as well off as I am.

Him: it's moot anyway. Obama already had the election given to him by a despicably unbalanced and dishonest media.

me: Last I checked, the right wing had their own "news" network. It's called Fox.

[Here the argument continued for roughly half an hour, with both sides deftly holding their own. I regret to report that common political ground was not reached. However . . .]

me: Well, anyway . . . I figured that with the link up you were looking for a discussion. Hope you enjoyed it.

Him: I did. I'm all turned on. where're you when I need to throw you over something to work out my aggression?

me: Still in my jammies like the lazy liberal I am, sitting on the couch, that's where.

Him: damn lazy libruls, expecting us to work hard to pay for their cadillacs and bon bons.

me: Now I'm all turned on, too.

Him: I remember when I was dating M____, one day she was going down on me and I whispered "Trickle down economics works, you know" then paddled her ass. I've never gotten that good a blowjob outta her before.

me: Ha!

There you have it, America. Sex can bring us together.

On the shoals

Last night West Coast called out of the blue.

I was out with a group of friends when the phone rang, and I hopped over feet and bags and chair legs as I ran to find a relatively quiet spot where I could hear him.

"Sounds like you're at a party," he said. "You should get back to it."

"Not as such -- it's the people I like to try to meet on Thursday. I think I've told you about them. It's okay, we can talk a little while."

He sounded tired, down, and oddly uncomfortable, like he didn't want to be talking to me at all. I wondered why he had called in the first place.

I spent the rest of the night wondering why we weren't in the same place, occupying the same bed. The way he had originally begged me to consider. The way we had planned.

I used to be irritated by books about doomed relationships -- you know, the ones where there doesn't seem to be any real obstacle to the protagonists' being together save for their own strange inability to be together. The ones where both people insist they love each other and can't live without each other, and then . . . do. Now that I'm in one of those relationships, I can empathize. That doesn't mean I understand it any better than I ever did. I honestly don't know what is keeping us apart. It's the damnedest thing.

HNT

Indian summer in my backyard
(click to embiggen)

Someplace I've never been, part 3

Part 1

Part 2

I spy
with my little eye
my own stockinged thigh


I was at work when the email arrived. The man from New York was complimentary and told me we had begun in a promising manner. I replied in turn that I too had enjoyed the experience. Our language was stilted, formal, oblique. Twelve hours earlier we had been fondling each other in public, and then we had fucked outside, hard and hungrily, and now we might as well have been sitting in opposite boxes at the theater, peering across the hall at each other through our opera glasses. I liked it, this disconnect. Everything about the scenario had kept me off-balance to this point, and I preferred it that way. It was the opposite of prosaic. I still had no idea what to expect next.

After a few more email exchanges (in the course of which I considered and then regretfully had to decline the opportunity to meet him right away), we made arrangements to meet after midnight. He asked that I shave or wax my pussy before our meeting and that I wear something that would demonstrate my eagerness to be used. He also mentioned that he still expected me to fulfill my picture obligations.

I was excited, but in truth, I was also exhausted. By the time I had arrived home, in a state of semi-shock and giddy arousal, it had been well after two in the morning. After tossing in bed for a few restless hours, I had simply showered and left for work. So there I was, looking at another late-night meeting, and wondering whether I would have time to catch a few hours of sleep beforehand. Like I would have been able to sleep. . . .

I called a waxing studio I had been meaning to try and scheduled an appointment. As soon as I left work, I made my way there. My last waxing had been about five weeks before while I was in Australia -- the day before my meeting with the delightful Mr. PK. My antipodean aesthetician had been a marvel of efficiency and had used one of those little roller wax pistols (and christ, would I like to find someone who uses the same system in Austin). Alas, the waxing I had on this occasion proved to be a miserable experience. It was slow, painful, and my aesthetician made no effort to minimize the pain or swelling. Since it was too late to do anything but grit my teeth and bear it, that's what I did. Lying on the table and thinking about why I was going through this, I felt a grim little smile creep onto my face. I was doing it because you're not supposed to do things just because a stranger tells you to. I was doing it because I wanted to prove I could do it under precisely those circumstances.

Once I got home, I tried to lie down and close my eyes, but (and you knew this already), there was no sleep in my immediate future. For one thing, my mind was engaged with this issue of pictures. He wanted pictures. I wasn't at all comfortable with that idea -- pictures can be posted, after all, or used in other unhappy ways. And yet I hadn't refused the idea of pictures when he first requested them, and now I was reluctant to. I realized, though, lying there exhausted and sleepless and my cunt smarting from its earlier mangling, that there was a way I could pull this off. I was determined to find a way to do everything he asked in a manner I could handle emotionally. (Don't laugh -- I'm new at this. I was convinced I could eat my cake and have it too. I know a little more than that now.)

Jeff was working, editing tape, and I'm not sure he even noticed when I took a shower and prepared myself to go out. I wore black. A little black dress, a black velvet bra, and sheer black, seamed stockings held up with a black garter belt. No panties. I packed a few things in a small bag to take with me, and noted as I did so that I was back in that mode of separation from myself, as I had been the night before. Do this, do that, check the mirror, find your car keys, one foot in front of the other, looking no further down the road than the next immediate task, because if you stop to think about what you are doing, if you stop to analyze, you won't understand, and nothing is more likely to stop you than your own insistence upon answers.

My instructions were to arrive at 12:30 promptly and knock on the front door. He was there, just inside the door, and motioned me in. He wore a robe. Two large, sweet-faced dogs greeted me with friendly snuffles. We spoke very little -- he showed me directly to the bedroom. I started to set my bag on the floor and he took it from me. "What have we here?"

What we had was a bottle of water (since I was still somewhat dehydrated from the night before), my lubricant of choice, and my camera. "I thought we could take care of my picture obligations while I was here. Kill two birds with one stone," I said.

Yes, it was ridiculously risky, I know. I knew it at the time, too. But wait, listen, I had a reason. If the pictures were on my camera, I could ultimately decide whether to let him have any. I had at least that much control over the issue (assuming, of course, that he wasn't going to morph into a raving psycho cokehead who would tie me up and download everything on my camera onto his computer and threaten to blackmail me, which, haha, blood from a stone, motherfucker, but I was pretty sure that wasn't the case because I have good radar and frankly, I already believed that not only could I trust this laconic stranger but that had I met him under other circumstances I would have liked him and sought his friendship). Maybe it's not the best reason in the world, but the point is that I was functioning rationally. I did have a vestigial sense of self-preservation after all.

In any case, he was clearly pleased that I had brought the camera. But that was it for the niceties. "Undress," he told me. I kicked off my heels, pulled my dress over my head, and experienced a fleeting stab of satisfaction at the obvious approval that flashed in his eyes at the sight of my lingerie. "Take off your bra," he said, but he didn't say anything about taking off the garter belt or stockings. Mmm hmm. Thought not.

He told me to lie face down on the bed, and I did, just as I had undressed, with no reaction verbal or otherwise. For some reason it was important to me to project a sense of self-possession. I wanted to be calm and graceful and contained. Some people might say that I was fighting submission. I honestly don't know . . . I was doing what I needed to do at the time to keep going. It felt right.

Once I was on the bed he pulled my arms behind my back, crossed my wrists, and began to bind them together with . . . I tried to place the material . . . oh, it was the belt to his robe! The night before he had asked me if I'd ever been restrained. When I told him I hadn't, he had cracked a rare smile and said, "This is going to be fun." I wondered vaguely if he was having fun. I wondered if I was. I don't have a word for what I was feeling, but whatever it was, it was arousing. Jesus, was it ever.

I couldn't see what he was doing, so when the camera flash went off I jerked in alarm. I fought down a sense of panic and reminded myself that the pictures wouldn't go anywhere unless I decided they would. Still, I was starting to feel overwhelmed. I'd never had someone take suggestive pictures of me, not to mention pictures of me bound and mostly nude. Hell, I'd never been bound before, not even lightly. It was happening so quickly. In retrospect, I wish I had been able to slow things down and take in the experience. That's not to say I have any regrets -- I don't. For all I know, this rapid plunge into the experience may have been for the best, given my tendency to over-analyze.

He decided to retie my wrists together over my head, and after doing this, told me to roll over. I did, and he was standing at my feet, by the side of the bed (I was crosswise on it) with the camera. "Look at me," he said, and the camera flashed. He took several pictures, moving the lens slightly for different angles, different frames, each flash accompanied by the click of the shutter, each click like an audible mile marker ticking off the distance from who I had been before yesterday; the road that I had taken.

He knelt over me and began to tease my nipples, flicking and twisting them. Suddenly he pinched one, and I arched in pain. The camera flashed. He went on like this for a while, alternately teasing and pinching, then set the camera aside and touched my cunt with a questioning finger. I was slick. His finger slid inside with shocking ease. He smirked at this, and favored me with a little sweet talk about what a slut I was. He twisted another finger inside me and my hips undulated, my hands fluttering against each other in their bonds. Yes, he said, you like that.

His two fingers spreading and opening inside me, he began to insert a third. "Have you ever been fisted?" he wanted to know. I don't know whether my eyes widened, but my heart certainly jumped in my chest. I told him I hadn't, and after finger-fucking me a while he withdrew his hand. I was relieved; I was disappointed. I would have tried it, I think, but again, I felt a small flicker of comfort that he was being careful--that he was looking out for me. I didn't dwell on this feeling, because I found myself on my stomach, and then he was behind me, fucking me, and I swear, oral sex is great, but there is nothing in this world that feels better to me than a man sliding into my cunt when I've been aching and wet for what feels like an eternity. That fulfillment. That elemental, base, animal satisfaction. That sweet feeling--it makes me say "yes," it makes me say "there, oh there," it makes me sigh "unh." Every. single. time.

It feels so good that I want to protest when he pulls away, but he wants my ass, and he is pressing against it, the head of his cock pushing, pushing, and I'm eager, but it's hard for him to gain entry. He makes a little progress and pauses, allowing me to adjust and relax, and he asks me when was the last time I was fucked in the ass. I tell him a few weeks ago, and he resumes, and it hurts, and I don't mind, but I can't help crying out, and he pauses again, and I tell him to go on, and holy fuck, why can't I relax enough and why does it hurt so much this time, but he keeps pressing, and when he asks whether he should stop I hear myself saying no, I can do this, I can do this, and as I say it I realize that I'm daring myself to cross some line, and I feel like laughing even though I hear my own cries of pain at the same time, and I'm shocked that I can't keep myself from whimpering, and something about this is flipping that switch, like bam, I know I could get addicted to this feeling, I love this rush, and with a thrust he's inside now and fucking my ass, and what do I feel? Triumph. Triumph. I win. When he pauses, still buried in my ass, and the camera flashes, I don't jerk or shy away.

When he withdraws I catch my breath. I feel turned inside out. He moves to the side of the bed, the condom off now, his cock jutting toward my face, and I am surprised by my own eagerness. He hovers over me and I suck his balls into my mouth, lick anything I can reach, frustrated at not having my hands available and, sensing this, he unties the belt. I reach immediately for his cock, and settle into a rhythm with my mouth and hands. Once or twice the camera flashes. I don't care. When he comes, he comes on my face -- another first. I close my eyes and feel the warmth spatter my cheek. Through my eyelids I see the camera flash.

I don't know how I got from lying there with my eyes closed and his come on my face to a standing position, gathering my dress and shoes. It was almost like a movie skipping forward a few frames. One minute I was there -- the next I was there. I felt dreamy, out-of-it, divided into two women, one who was getting dressed in a daze and another observing from the corner of the room. The man from New York carefully replaced the lens cover on my camera and then handed it to me, suggesting I put it safely away, since it was a nice camera. "Yes, it's a nice camera," I heard myself say in a sing-songy voice. Get a grip, I told myself. I took a long drink of water from my bottle.

He showed me to the bathroom. "Would you like to join me for a cigarette on the patio when you're ready?" he asked. I nodded, and closed the door. I cleaned up a bit and got dressed. Once I got outside and took a seat, I was starting to feel like one person again. He offered me a cigarette (my second in two nights!) and sipped a glass of wine while I drank my water. We talked about the DNC (this was while it was being held) and politics in general. It was probably close to three in the morning. I stood up, we said good night, and I went to my car.

When I got home, I didn't want to look at the pictures. I made myself look anyway. The curse of having a good camera is that it shows everything -- every freckle, every flaw. It's a merciless eye. It was strange, beyond strange to see myself like that, too. It's one thing to picture a scene in your mind, to fantasize. It's quite another to witness the reality of it. Looking at those pictures was by far the hardest part of my entire experience with the man from New York.

I thought about simply deleting them, every single one. I thought about what that would mean. Then I chose four pictures and sent them to him with my regards.

I've looked at those pictures often since. They're still hard for me to look at. I'm very glad to have them.

Off the cuff

Of course, off-the-cuff philosophy tends to be the most ephemeral kind, and I'm already forgetting the brilliant internal dialogue I had while waiting for the light to change at the intersection of South Lamar and Ben White Boulevard as I drove home from Central Market this morning, but here goes:

I've been conversing a fair amount with a certain man lately, and it strikes me that he is a perfect example of the kind of person people mean [revision: okay, the kind of person I mean] when they talk about someone who is "naturally dominant." Something in the way he carries himself makes me want to earn his approval. It's hard for me to pin down what this quality is, exactly, but I recognize the characteristic from my relationships and encounters with other naturally dominant men. (I'll stop using scare quotes around "naturally dominant," but you can assume they are a constant. The phrase means so many things to so many people that I want to make clear this is my interpretation only.) Other naturally dominant men in my life that spring to mind: my father (I know, I know, a shocking admission, isn't it? This is my shocked face.); the man from New York; another Internet friend of mine (also in New York) who has been something of a muse for my recent sexual exploits and who is an affable but terse correspondent; my high school debate partner . . . there are others, I'm sure. I can't think of any women who spur the same reaction in me.

What do these men have in common? They tend to praise or compliment rarely. They tend to be guarded. They are extremely intelligent. They have a foundation of confidence in their own perceptions that underlies everything they say and do, even when they are questioning or disappointed in themselves. They don't demand respect because they don't have to -- they expect it. This is not to say that every confident or aggressive man appeals to me. One of my best friends dated a man for years who was handsome, arrogant, and did or said what he pleased without regard for the effects his actions had on others. In his case, however, the behavior sprang from a sort of social tone deafness. I never thought of him as an authority figure -- I thought of him as a jerk.

The naturally dominant men I've met in my adulthood have always attracted me. (I realize that I'm being somewhat circular here -- of course they attract me. That's part of being naturally dominant.) The effect they have on me is both emotional and erotic. The erotic part is easy enough to understand. The idea of sexual submission is a huge turn-on to me -- being restrained, ceding control, not knowing what will happen . . . come on. Nommy. Bring it. But the emotional part is more unsettling and sometimes embarrassing for me to deal with.

A recent example: I was talking via IM to the first man I mentioned in this post, and at one point I said something kind of smart-alecky and insensitive, to which he responded with a mildly annoyed "Whoa. Geez."

I fell apart. I mean I fell apart. I was at work, and when I realized that what I had intended as a joke had, in fact, displeased him, a wave of mortification swept over me, followed by a plunge into utter, tearful shame. I apologized repeatedly, he said it was no big deal, I tried to explain that it was a big deal, it was a very big deal, that my behavior was inexcusable, and then I signed off and had a serious honest-to-god weeping fit at my desk. Mind you, this is a man I hardly know. I don't have any sort of romantic relationship with him, either -- I like him as a friend, and I think he likes me back the same way. But he has that quality I respond to, that natural authority. From these men, praise isn't just a pleasant experience, it's ecstasy. It puts me over the moon. Disapprobation, on the other hand, isn't just a sting to the ego, it's a piercing stab to the psyche.

Does this mean I am naturally submissive, or does it simply mean that I'm responsive to a particular personality type? Is there a difference? I think there is -- I mean, it seems to me that there are people who want to please everyone, not just dominant personalities, and who want to be of service in any situation, not just ones that involve a power exchange. That isn't me. For the most part, I do what I do because the desire springs from within, and I'm not hesitant to refuse people when need be. My behavior with naturally dominant men is the exception to the rule.

But here's an interesting fact -- I've never fallen in love with one of these men. My boyfriends, my ex-husband, and the man I am currently in love with have been more passive, more open about themselves, and unstinting with their approval of me as well as the tokens of love that accompany courtship. In some cases they pursued me, in others I pursued them. There has always been a dynamic balance of power in my serious, long-term relationships. It shifts back and forth. At times I've taken advantage of and manipulated that balance of power, just as (I'm certain) my partners have. Needless to say, I felt much safer with them and more assured. My sense of self-worth was never totally dependent on them, but it received a healthy boost from the knowledge that they were crazy about me. Paradoxically, this knowledge eventually had a way of undercutting the relationship. I'm accomplished enough at the game of self-sabotage to twist anything into a criticism. When told I was beautiful or brilliant, I could not accept it as anything but a delusion born of love.

That's not to say I couldn't or wouldn't fall in love with a dominant personality. Certainly I'm erotically attracted to them, but only recently have I begun to act upon those attractions. Perhaps I simply haven't had time to fall in love with a naturally dominant person. But I have to admit that when I try to imagine what such a relationship would be like, what I see worries me. I don't know whether I have the temperament for it, and if I somehow fell short of expectations, I don't know whether I could handle it.

Tumble on

I run across various images and quotes and music and such that I would like to share but that don't seem to merit their own posts in the context of this blog. And so I created a tumblr account for that purpose -- it's right yonder on the sidebar there.

Tumbleweed

Herb Ritts

Laid low but feeling good

A Series of Unfortunate Events (migraine, fund-raising obligations for a non-profit, weltschmerz) have conspired against me this week, but there are two subjects I'm eager to write about, and I hope to devote some time to them this weekend. One is the continuation of my encounter with the man from New York, and the other is a little bit of personal backstory--specifically, what I learned from my parents about sex.

But for now, I want to say thank you in the most heartfelt way to the people who have read and commented or emailed or otherwise reached out to open that two-way street. I mentioned in the opening post of this blog that writing is something I struggle with. But it's been bearable lately, even fun, and that is due in no small part to the positive feedback I've received. As I explained to my friend C-Lo, I still can't stand my own writing, but now I'm willing to entertain the possibility that my writing doesn't necessarily suck; I'm simply incapable of assessing it rationally.

I think I just said that admitting I'm insane makes it easier for me to write. But hey--whatever works.

So! To sum up, thanks, and I'll update soon. Meanwhile, take a look at some of the fine blogs I've linked to over there on the sidebar ::pointing right-wards::, and enjoy.

Image credit: T-shirt graphic "Inspired by Nina Simone's Feeling Good" by artist Kristen Stein

Fractured

I'm wrestling with the idea of this as a "sex blog." It doesn't come naturally to me, this divorce of sex from the rest of my life. I find myself wanting to write down what I did today on a day that, at least on the surface, had very little to do with sex and a lot to do with interactions with my family (my father's health; a text message from my little brother; a conversation with my stepmother), eating like a 12-year-old all day (dinner was a Mexican Coke and some Ruffles . . . yeah, I know), college football (shut up, I can't help it that I was born and raised in Texas, don't judge me), and enjoying some nice down time with Jeff -- in other words, matters that are significant only to me and only because they take place in the larger context of my life.

"So, fine," you may be saying (and by you I mean the insufferable devil's advocate who lives in my brain), "go write about those things in your sweet little vanilla LiveJournal that you've had for so many years. This place is for teh hott sexxors! Enough of your bourgeois nattering!" Well, yes, but. Why can't I just be one person in one place? I started this blog because a lot of my friends (and most of my family) read my LiveJournal, and I know they would be uncomfortable (uh, to put it mildly) with the subject matter of sex, particularly my sex. I'm not afraid of being "outed," in theory. It wouldn't hurt me -- I don't have kids, I work at a fairly enlightened company, and frankly I haven't done much of anything to be outed for (but that could change -- a girl can dream, can't she?). But the idea is scary, because, well, just because it is. People would freak out. They would be afraid of me and for me.

At the same time, I want a place to be whole. I'm not sure why. Something about the artifice of writing about "just sex" gnaws at me. I think about the sex blogs I read, and the images I have of some of the writers. I picture sultry, sophisticated, sexually charged vessels of pure lust and glamour. They have legions of lovers. They wear a lot of black. They're all tall and thin and have advanced degrees in human sexuality and simply reek of desirability. And of course that's not true -- I know they have bills to pay and parents who criticize them and co-workers who irritate them. They just don't write about them. And so they seem elevated above the rest of the noisy, squalling, humdrum world. They glide overhead, weaving webs of sexual intrigue where they play with their willing victims, turning them this way and that to catch the light as they harden into jewels, while the rest of us below sigh with envy.

"Well, jesus, stop sighing and do that, then," you reply. I could . . . in a way that's what I've been doing, I suppose. But it feels incomplete to me. It doesn't feel honest. And it makes for a mighty paltry well of material I can draw on, too. Part of the reason is that, unlike a lot of the established sex bloggers, I'm neither active enough nor experienced enough to have the material to justify keeping a journal devoted exclusively to sex (were I a sex worker, it would make a lot more sense to me). But the main reason is that sex isn't something I can separate out like a yolk from the egg of my life. And for every experience I recount, there are memories evoked, decisions made, fears and joys realized that I want to add like so many footnotes to what I do end up setting down in writing.

"Why does it matter?" you finally exclaim, throwing up your hands. "Write whatever the hell you want here!"

But then I'm just another boring person, I wail.

"All right," you say. "We have reached an impasse."

Hmm. Let me work on it.

"Christ. Fine. While you do that, could you throw up an image that represents this dilemma so I at least have something to look at while you overthink this nonissue?"

Oh, sorry. Sure thing. Here you go.

Sugasm #150

This Week’s Picks

Stolen Time
“The sigh of a kiss that has been too long waiting is a wicked rush.”

Keeping things hot when everything hurts
“While it’s not as fun for him, what I love about those times is how sexy he makes me feel at a time when I probably feel the most worthless as a lover.”

Like lovers do…
“As soon as I got that groove, he felt it. His body started to tense up and tremble.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice
At What Point Have You Crossed The Line?

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

I want him

And I know it's "not a good idea." He's a figure of some controversy, after all. And do the math -- for every woman who went to him claiming she knew the score and who managed to walk away unscathed, there are two who fell for him anyway and were bitterly hurt to realize that he wouldn't change for her. Women who say they knew better but couldn't help wanting to be the one who made everything different; the one he had to break the rules for.

That won't happen to me. This is why: I don't want to be anyone's "the one." If you know me well enough, you know that's true.

Of course, that doesn't change the intensity of my desire. I want to experience him. I want to feel the line of his teeth on my skin. I've encountered very few men I feel the need to submit to -- he's one of them. It's a curious and rare reaction, and I have no idea how far it could take me. And I want to challenge him, too. Not overtly, but sexually. I want to see his eyelashes flutter with pleasure and know that he is feeling every bit as shattered and fulfilled as I am. I want to break his heart, just a little, just in that "I wish I'd known you all my life" way. Just in that "I wish you didn't have to leave" way.

I want to feel his hand on my throat. I want to hear him groan. And when I do leave, I want to feel branded. I want people to look at me and wonder what's happened.

But most of all, I want the connection between our minds made manifest in the connection of our bodies. Those playful words we tease out of each other; those careless insights and terse, coy promises ("oh, I will"); I want them to become shockingly, inescapably real, however transient that shared reality might be. It would be worth it. It would be worth anything.

I want him. I want him. I want him.

Sunflower HNT

I had Paul Weller's song "Sunflower" stuck in my head all day yesterday, so when I went by the store for yogurt, I couldn't resist splurging (with money I really can't spare) on a few flowers of the same name. Et voila, a Half-Nekkid Thursday photograph is inspired.

Sensation play

This weekend just past I felt a flogger for the first time. It was at the party. As floggers go, it was kind of hard to miss -- a man was wearing it on his belt, and in addition to the LEDs glowing at the end of each of its strands, it had a lit shaft covered in little blue smiley faces. Cute, yes? After eying it at intervals all night, I asked the owner if the little lights at the ends made it hurt more. "Not as much as you would think," he replied, "but it's a pretty mean flogger." Hoping I wasn't being gauche or breaking some sort of flogger protocol, I held out my bare forearm and asked if I could see what it felt like. He readily obliged, adding, "Tell me how it feels -- this is the first time I've used it," and flicked it my way. It felt soft at first impact, then my brain registered it as hard, and then, almost a full minute later, my arm began to blush and sting. I laughed and showed him. "Talk about a delayed reaction," he said, and I agreed. "You're a giggler," he said. "You'll be laughing when you have your first real flogging." Oh jesus, I hope not, I replied. What an embarrassing state of affairs, to be exposed as a giggler. Then I asked him if he would do my other arm, just for symmetry. He was happy to. I laughed.

Someplace I've never been, part 2

Virginia by Jennifer Nehrbass

The man from New York had suggested we meet at a pub not far from my house. I had showered, and even though I hadn't washed my hair it was damp from the spray. I felt rushed and disheveled, but strangely calm and focused nonetheless. Everything seemed clear, hyper-clear.

As I arrived I saw another vehicle pull into the parking lot. It was already so late that I knew it had to be him.

I parked and waited. I didn't want to get there first. When a minute or two had passed, I opened the door and stepped into the humid night. By late August, summer seems to have lasted an eternity in Austin, and it isn't even close to being over. This night was no different. The air was heavy, hot, and muggy even though it was after midnight. The temperature was still in the 90s.

I walked through the bar and out onto the back deck, where he had said he would be. And yes, there he was at the table farthest from the door. He was attractive, average height, average build, intelligent eyes. He didn't smile in greeting. I don't remember seeing him smile at all, but there was a lot I was unable to see directly. It's hard to explain, but the whole time I was with him, I wasn't able to confront things visually. I didn't use my eyes to see my surroundings as a whole. I saw small pieces of the whole. I know, for example, that he was wearing flip flops. I remember images -- his hand disappearing under my skirt, my mostly full glass of beer on the table when we left, the expanse of his t-shirt across his abdomen when he stood right at my car window -- but I'm getting ahead of myself.

He asks me if I want something to drink and I say yes. We walk to the bar and he buys two beers, waving off my offer to go dutch. A group of young people glance at us as we make our way to the back of the deck. Maybe I'm imagining it, but they seem to know that something is up. One girl's eyes seem to linger on us. When we sit, my back is to them, so I can't see them, but I vaguely hear them talking and laughing.

I may have said something, he may have said something, but the first thing I remember is him telling me to unbutton my top button. I do, and we continue talking, but at regular intervals he tells me to undo another button. I don't hesitate. I undo each button smoothly, determined not to react. I can feel a defiance building inside me -- not to defy his commands but to defy any natural reaction or hesitance. We are two cool customers to anyone looking on from the outside. Cool as silk. Cool as cream. He tells me to scoot forward in my chair. I oblige. He tells me to part my legs. I obey. It's too dark outside on the deck -- he can't see. There's a flicker of impatience or annoyance at this across his face. Are you wet? he asks. I tell him I am. Show me, he says. I reach under my skirt and then hold my shining finger out to him. It's a strange mix of resentment and excitement that courses through me each time I do what he asks.

He pulls my hand over to his crotch and I keep my eyes locked on his as I knead the bulge of his erection, tracing it with my fingers, scratching at the fabric with my nails. He leans forward and his hand snakes up under my skirt, already bunched up around the tops of my thighs, and he draws a breath when his fingers encounter the slick swollen folds of my cunt. "Oh, you do like this," he says, and twists his fingers farther in. I am leaning back now, my head falls back, I'm breathing hard, and --

Stop, he says quickly and sits up. I'm struggling to grasp the meaning behind every single thing. Everything is charged with significance. Every act has a goal. And I have completely lost my bearings. I have no idea what I'm doing. So when he says stop, I freeze, uncomprehending. Why stop? Then I hear the footsteps on the deck behind me. Someone has come out to tell us the place is closing. Now I understand. And I feel better that he's looking out for us.

I think I want to take you back to where I'm staying, he tells me. Would you be willing to come? I indicate that I would. I follow him in my car to the house, which happens to be close to mine. We stop on the way for condoms. At the drugstore I park next to him, and he comes to my window. Take off your shirt, he says, and I start to, but he stops me when someone approaches. I have a moment to sit and think while he goes into the store, but no thought comes. I am merely there, in the dark, in my car, the window down, the stifling hot night pressing in on me, and then he is back and it is a short way to the house.

I park in front and walk up the driveway where he is waiting for me. He shows me into the backyard where there is a patio with some furniture. He makes no move to open the back door, but stops on the patio and kisses me. It's the only time we kiss -- not just that night, but on the following nights. I remember how his mouth tasted, good, faintly like drink and cigarettes but more of him, and his tongue is warm. I remember being too stunned to kiss back. He tells me to undress. I do, laying my clothes across a chair, my mind racing with the novelty of being outside, more or less in public, and naked. I have not done this. I have never done this.

"On your knees," he says quietly. I don't hear him at first, or maybe I do and it's that delayed comprehension effect again. Everything seems to take a few seconds for me to process right now. Uncharted territory. "On your knees," he repeats sharply, and I sink. Suck me off, he says, and I start to unbuckle his belt, but I'm fumbling and he helps me and then I have his cock in my hands and then in my mouth.

He talks to me, too, but not the way Rick did. He calls me a whore, he tells me I'm a good cocksucker, he wants to know how it feels to be such a slut. These words roll off me -- I hear them, but I don't feel them. At the same time, I recognize them as a sign of approval; of excitement; and that in turn excites me. His cock hits the back of my throat, over and over, and I gag now and then, but I manage to keep going until he pulls out and turns me around and bends me over what might have been a low wall, I'm not sure -- a pause while he gets the condom on -- and he's sliding into my cunt, murmuring, telling me that I'm such a whore, look how wet. He's fucking me hard and we're both drenched in sweat, and I realize that I'm making noise and there are neighbors and can they hear me and oh my god, fuck me, I'm saying, and he is. He is.

When he comes I feel the first recognizable emotion of the night, and I push it back, because I don't know what to do with it. There doesn't seem to be a place for affection here. He withdraws and I stand up, disoriented, reaching for my clothes, not sure at all what to do next. I opt for turning back into myself. I feel friendly, all of a sudden, and I want him to think I'm an interesting person. Oh, stop it, I tell myself. Get dressed and get the hell out of here.

I dress, and sit down to put on my shoes. I push my sweaty hair back from my face, try in vain to gather it off my neck, and mutter, "It is really fucking hot."

"Yes it is," he says, not exactly to me, each word enunciated like a drop of water into a bucket.

I've been keeping my eyes down, unable to calmly take in my surroundings, but when he says this I look straight at him. He's still nude, standing like a pasha, legs apart, arms on his hips. He isn't looking at me. He's looking around, head raised, and I hear him inhale through his nose. He fairly reeks of satisfaction (and really, why shouldn't he) -- he's like Yul Brenner in The King and I. It almost makes me grin. I'm certainly no Deborah Kerr, in my half-clothed state, grit on my knees, sweat and come and my own juices sticky on my thighs.

He asks me if I would like a cigarette. "Yes please," I say, and reach down to brush my knees. "They got dirty," I explain self-consciously. Oh, sorry, he says, and I make some sort of goofy noise and shrug. We sit at the table on the patio and smoke, and the nicotine makes me dizzy. I don't smoke, I want to tell him, except now and then when I need a reason for the ritual, but I end up saying nothing. Well, nothing about that. I know we talked. I don't know what we talked about. I was there and I wasn't there. I put out my cigarette and he pointed out how late it was. He said he would be in touch. I held myself very still on the inside as I rose, said good night, and walked down the driveway to my car. I held myself still as I drove home. I concentrated on how I felt physically. Thirsty, mainly, and sore, and really, really, really fucking high. Strangely triumphant. I started to laugh.

The next day he emailed me. He was looking forward to using me again. We'll see about that, I thought to myself, but really, it was a foregone conclusion. I had to see what came next.

Oddly enough, he does not chase pussy

For Bad Man:

This mah dawg.

Only in dreams

Last night I dreamed that the New Yorker and I were chatting online. Soon after we began to converse, he sent me this message:

"By the way, I actually live in Austin. I work at the Broken Spoke. I'm sorry."

(This is so unlikely for any number of reasons that will become clear once I finish my account of our meeting that it's almost unfair I should deprive you of the laugh by telling you the dream first.)

Now, my reaction in the dream wasn't one of shock or betrayal or anger. No, it was more along the lines of "Thank christ, I REALLY need some good nasty sex tonight." But while I was trying to formulate a more genteel version of this sentiment to write back to him, he sent another message that said, "I presume your silence means you're angry."

I quickly responded that my silence meant something quite different, and for some strange reason that follows the unknown laws of dream logic, we exchanged pictures for a while before arranging to meet and carry on in a suitably deviant way.

I woke up convinced that this had actually happened. It was only when I mentally walked myself through the dream again ("What the hell kind of chat client is that? I've never seen that chat client. Oh. That's because I invented that chat client in my head. Crap.") that I realized I didn't have a date for a lovely hard fuck.

What brought it on? Guilt over the unfinished story? The party I'm supposed to attend tonight but just can't get excited about? Who knows, who knows.

[Edited in the wee hours of Sunday to add: I've since been to the party. I'm very glad I went. Details to follow.]

The dream was so vivid that later in the day when I took a nap, I woke up wondering all over again whether it had actually happened.

Which means that I, like the Angry Police Captain, have spent the rest of the day sighing a lot.

I guess we know what's on my mind.

HNT virgin no more

Since it has been a summer (and now an autumn) of losing virginities, let's watch another fall by the wayside, shall we?




I've been working on the continuation of my previous post, but life is being distinctly uncooperative. And somehow I can't see myself bringing the sexy during tonight's VP debate. But soon afterward, because I've promised myself.