"Anything else would have tasted like ashes."

It's been a stressful day. Classes, homework, rehearsal. The show I'm working on now deals with human rights violations. It's beautiful and inspiring and immensely draining. I work with the director and she has me repeat the same monologue a dozen times, focusing in on one line -- "That policeman raped me again." She says, "think about the word 'raped.' One in four women are raped at some point in their lives. What does that mean to you? What does it mean that she says again? How many times has it happened already?"

I don't want to think about it. I'm extraordinarily grateful that I am not that one woman in four. I'm one of the lucky three who do not have to live with that reality, who live their lives day to day with an idea, maybe of what it means to be raped, but no personal experience, no in-the-gut understanding of the concept. I don't want to know how that feels. When we finish working we both have headaches.

We sit and talk about two people we know who are being deported. They are brother and sister. They have lived here since the age of three, but they are being sent back to Nigeria, where they know no one and do not speak the language. The sister's lawyer took her case pro bono, and she may be able to stay for another year, long enough to maybe finish her education and get citizenship. The brother is not so lucky. He has to pay his own legal fees. He is not as well-known in our community. He is going to be separated from his American girlfriend and 18-month old child. We aren't charging for tickets for this show, but we are accepting donations. We are starting a legal fund for this man. It probably won't be enough, but at least someone will be trying to keep him here. At least he will know someone tried to help him stay with his family. I was born an American citizen. I will never have this problem. When we go home we are all exhausted and sad.

I do political theater because I have never faced the realities other people are forced to live with. Because it makes my stomach roll to think of their pain. Because I cannot fathom the ways in which people hurt other people and destroy their lives. I cannot imagine my body being violated. I cannot imagine being torn away from my family. I want to help and don't know how. So I get onstage and pour all my confusion about the world and my love for the people who are harmed and my anger on their behalf into scripted words and hope other people will feel the same confusion and love and anger and then maybe we can do something.

I was supposed to see Valentine tomorrow, but we're both so busy it probably won't happen. It's too bad, because I'm craving touch like nothing else right now -- another human being with warmth in their body, a chest to lay my head on. I'd like to be tied up. It makes me feel quiet inside, which is amazingly soothing, especially when so much of the world seems wrong.

Oh well. Next best thing. I'm going over to Ben's and getting as stoned as my body can tolerate.

"Come on and let me give you that 'O.'"

It is a wonderful thing when moods align.

I'd been stressed out, frustrated, overwhelmed by life. When that feeling hits I want nothing more than to be hurt, to let whatever is going on inside out in the yelps and whimpers dragged out of me by the good kind of pain. When I'm upset I want two things: one -- to be beaten until I cry, and two -- to be held and petted until I'm done. He'd been busy, stretched thin, cutting back time with friends and lovers to finish all the work. We hadn't seen each other in a week.

Me, feeling isolated, craving touch and craving pain. Him, all wanting. Both exhausted. We lay down in my bed, theoretically to take a nap, and curled up together. I think it was the music that did us in. Jeff Buckley singing Your Flesh is So Nice in the background.

She's ass-slappin' pretty . . .

He nipped lightly at my neck, then bit down harder, slipped a hand down the front of my pants . . . and then the clothes were a pile on the floor by my bed and his hands were tangled in my hair or digging nails into the curve of my breast or pulling my hips back hard against him, and all the frustration of the week came out in hisses and moans and gasps -- ultimately much, much more restorative than any mid-afternoon nap.

It was hot out, so when I redressed I put on a tank top instead of the long-sleeved thing I'd been wearing. When I got to my Kabuki class I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrors which line the walls and tried not to laugh. There were two deep purple bruises on my chest, just over the neckline of my tank top, where he'd bitten especially hard. My shoulders and upper back bore smaller, redder marks from the smaller, sharper bites. It seemed a shame to cover them up with my yukata, but I still danced better than I had in weeks.

Mirror

Valentine isn't a sadist. Not really. Inflicting pain doesn't in and of itself turn him on. Making me squirm does, though, and if the easiest way to turn me on is to hurt me, well, he can get into that.

"I'm sort of a mirror," he says. "My biggest turn-on is seeing the person I'm with aroused, so I'll move in whatever direction gets them there." He likes to please. And he's good at it. Fuck, he is good at it.

I try to let him know what I want, what I like. That's always been hard for me, but I know it's the best way to get it, so I tell him, when his tongue flicks over my nipple, "That feels good. I'd love it if you bit down." I tell him, "It was really hot when you grabbed my wrist like that." And it gets easier, because every bit of information I give him takes, and he gets better and better at guessing what else I might like. He digs his nails into my shoulder, or grabs a handful of hair, or whatever seems right at the moment.

One day he picked me up and brought me to his place, then bent me over the couch. He'd borrowed a paddle from his considerably more sadistic girlfriend. And he was good with it, good at catching my reactions and guessing where to go from there -- a harder, deeper hit here, a series of quick, stinging slaps there. "I'm paddling you for you," he told me at one point. "But I'm fingering you for me."

He worries about going too far, he tells me. He likes seeing me excited, and to a certain extent enjoys the freedom to take what he wants and be a bit selfish, to fuck me hard without worrying about hurting me, because I like it rough, things like that. "But I don't want to be a bastard about it. I don't want to abuse your trust." Of course he doesn't. He's a good feminist man. The idea of making a woman do something she doesn't want to makes his stomach turn.

I'm glad he thinks about these things. I feel much more secure in the value of my safewords when I have been explicitly told that the person topping me (or fucking me, or both) is a feminist. I do my best to reassure him that it would probably take more to push me too far than he thinks, and that I'll tell him if I feel we're treading too close to that territory. I remind him that it's because I am so comfortable with him and feel certain that he respects and cares for me that I can have sex with him at all, let alone this kind of sex. I tell him that I consider the understanding of and wish to fulfill my desires a very good indicator of that respect for me.

Every time we have this conversation I find he bites down a little harder, digs his nails into my hips a little more, hesitates a little less to get me down on my knees.

And I'm really very happy with the way that works out.

Wanting

For some reason my hyper-sexual moods always hit when I have the most work to do. I have a paper to write by tomorrow, and I've hardly touched it in the last couple of days. Today, despite knowing perfectly well things are getting out of hand, I haven't managed to get anything done.

I have, on the other hand, given myself three fantastic orgasms.

I've also taken a shower, hoping to wake myself up and clear my mind, but all that did was make me really reluctant to put clothes back on. I like being naked entirely too much. So I've reached a compromise with myself, and I am now sitting at my desk wearing a skirt, tank top, and sweater, but no bra or underwear. It isn't helping me get work done, but it does feel nice.

It's tempting to call Valentine up, find out if he's free, invite him to come over and throw me around a bit (after an ill-advised and rather dull weekend tryst with a pretty stranger, I've been craving something rough even more than usual -- something about dealing with men who seem afraid they might break me does that. I like feeling vulnerable. I hate being treated like I'm fragile.) I'd tell him I'm wearing the perfume he likes, that my hair is clean and soft and needs pulling, and that I'm in the mood for sucking cock. (Valentine has a beautiful cock, by the way. I am somewhat obsessed with it. I could write an entire post on this subject, but I'd feel astonishingly silly. I might anyway.)

There's a tender spot on my lower lip where I bit it when I came earlier. Now I want someone else's teeth closing on it. I want fingernails on my back and shoulders, a hand on my neck. Unfortunately, I have a paper to finish.

I might call anyway, just to let him know what a dirty mood I'm in. Just to tease. To see if I can make him hard just with my voice and my desire and the contents of my filthy mind. It's no fair being frustrated alone, after all.

Backseat

I'd been out of town for a week on spring break and of accomplished exactly nothing in that time, so I was determined to review my lines and do my reading before going back to class the next day.

Except I'd been out of town for a week. And I'd had the worst sexual experience of my life to date just before leaving. I was horny and dying to exorcise the bad sex demons. So I IMed Valentine and mentioned this to him, explaining that the next time I saw him I would probably jump him. He invited me to spend the night, but I told him no, too much work to do, I was going to be up late and didn't want to have to factor a 20 minute bus ride into my morning.

I got to work. And then, a little later, I messaged him again to whine about being bored and horny.

". . . That's it, I'm coming over," he told me. We'd drive to some secluded spot and fuck, he said, and then he'd take me home and I could finish my work. I didn't argue. I'd never tried car sex before, and was curious to find out what it might be like.

He signed off. About ten minutes later I got a text. "Wear a skirt."

I put on a skirt. Thought about it, added a pair of striped wool thigh high socks. "I am skirted," I texted back. "Also, I may or may not have neglected to put on underwear."

He pulled up in front of my dorm shortly after. When I got in the car he kissed me hard and pulled my skirt up to show the tops of my thigh-highs. "I want you to touch yourself," he told me, and I did. We stopped at a light, and he put a hand between my legs to feel how wet I was. When finally we found a quiet, dark place we couldn't get into the backseat fast enough.

Screwing in cars rarely works very well, I'm told. It's cramped. There's no place for limbs to go, no room to change positions, especially not in the sudden and smooth way Valentine manages with almost smug ease at home in bed. There's the possibility of getting caught.

This car sex, on the other hand, was fucking epic. Or possibly epic fucking. Whichever. Both. Somehow we managed to maneuver my too-long limbs out of the way. The potential for being caught in the act was more aphrodisiac than off-putting. He fucked me hard, once, and then I climbed on top to keep going (the novelty of his practically non-existent refractory period may never wear off. Seriously.) We were both tired, though, and it was hard to move much with me straddling him, so soon we gave up on the idea of him coming a second time, put our clothes back in order, and climbed back into the front of the car. I curled up in the seat, feeling shaky and boneless, and once home I got absolutely nothing done. I crawled into bed and had sweaty, intense dreams.

I like thinking that we managed to pull off something which usually turns out mediocre at best and make it that hot. Like my shiny new fuckbuddy and I are just that good, to take something which is usually the domain of gangly high school students who can't fuck at home without upsetting their parents and make it hot enough to have dreamgasms over.

So, yes. It would seem that car sex has found its way into my fantasies to stay. I guess that's what happens when you find out it can be done well.

Fuckbuddy

It started off as rebound sex. He was the guy who'd been open about his interest in me for months, who had often told me that while he could certainly put friendship before attraction he'd love to be able to pursue both. Sometime this fall he asked me to dinner, and I said no -- my situation with Ben was too complicated, I was confused enough with one lover that two would just make for a headache, I wasn't interested in seeing anyone else anyway. When the breakup happened, with all the emotional mess, I told him I probably wouldn't be dating anyone for a good, long while.

If this man were a Shakespearean I'd call him Valentine. It's a courtier's name, and that's how he strikes me -- quick and clever, knowing what to say when. I wouldn't go to dinner with him, so he suggested lunch. Let me buy the first time so he'd have the opportunity to pay me back. We started spending more time together.

One day we were curled up in his bed watching a movie, and I let him kiss me. He was warm and comfortable to tangle myself up with, and I'd spent the day ruffling his hair to better show the bits of pink dyed in, and it was all very nice, and it had been too long since I'd been touched. So I let him keep kissing me, and not long after that I let him slip a hand down my pants, then remove them altogether, and since my reticence about sexual contact relies heavily on stopping the action before the other party has demonstrated the delicious things they can do with their tongue, the word "no" had slipped out of reach long before he lifted his head and said, "Do you want to fuck me, Bea?"

It was good. Trembling-afterward good, this-is-a-terrible-idea-and-I'm-going-to-do-it-anyway good. And it freaked me out. I held myself together afterwards, talked idly about how my scene partner for Acting had ditched out on me and I was annoyed, and -- what? Oh, yes, I did like having my hair pulled, but anyway, I didn't feel quite prepared to work this scene in class and some repetition would have been helpful . . .

I wondered how long I should wait to put my clothes on to keep from being rude. Got nervous waiting and said "I should get home" so I'd have an excuse. He drove me home and asked "What are you thinking?" when I was quiet in the car. I told him nothing, smiled when I kissed him goodbye, and drifted through the rest of the day trying not to think. I canceled another non-date with the Nice Boy, feeling awkward about going out with him while freshly fucked by someone else, and made plans to hang out with Ben instead.

He was in a weird mood, which meshed poorly with my weird mood, and it ended in my storming out of his apartment and stomping home. Once home, I signed onto IM hoping for someone to rant at and found only Ben, messaging me to say that he was "more often than not a jackass" and apologize repeatedly, sincerely, and at length. I remember informing him that I really could not care less how much he felt like a jackass and then backpedaling when he asked if it would be better if he left me to hate him in silence. I remember telling him that while he'd definitely behaved like an idiot, my anger wasn't entirely because of that. I remember saying I'd come to his place needing somebody to talk to and been upset to find him so distant. He said we'd talk soon, that he could come to my place so I could throw him out, if I wanted. A few days later we did talk, and I tried to articulate (somewhat less clearly, since I was a little stoned and still very upset) the thoughts I laid out here. He held my hand and listened quietly, and I felt considerably less panicked afterwards.

The next time I saw Valentine I told him I didn't think we should have sex again. He said that was okay and kept his hands to himself that day.

The time after that he gave me a backrub, and once he started using his nails I got all shivery. It wasn't long before he extracted an admission that I was horny as hell. He teased a little more and I practically begged him to fuck me, which he did gladly. Afterwards, I was okay. Pleased, even. Able to think about the possibility of doing it again. My self-imposed dry spell, it seemed, was over.

I think the reason this is all right is that I feel safe with him. I trust him, easily and comfortably. He has a girlfriend, and while they have an open relationship, his first priority is her. He isn't looking for someone to love, which is good because I'm not either. I'm attracted to him, but my feelings for him do not extend beyond friendship. I'm not stuck with the fear of falling.

Besides, it's hard to pass up sex that good.

That's a damn good story

To ensure you will feel like a complete fucking idiot:
- fuck the guy you've already turned down repeatedly because you're bored and horny and a little sad
- bonus points if you do so in the middle of the afternoon when you have a date planned with a Nice Boy later
- super ultra bonus if you cancel that date to hang out with your ex-lover because you're freaking the fuck out and need to cling to someone, only to find that something in both of your moods is clashing, causing him to act like a jackass and you to become blindingly furious over bits of jackassery you could normally point out and then let go.
- A week later, once you've stopped freaking the fuck out, you can decide this may not have been a terrible idea after all. Fuck the guy again.
- cancel another date, not because you're freaked out, but because it seems a little classless to show up for a date with one guy while you're still covered in bite marks from the last one
- decide you probably won't end up too traumatized in the long run and continue this new fuckbuddy arrangement (because really good sex beats common sense anytime) but tell yourself that it's probably better not to start up anything else.
- A week later, sleep with your ex-lover's best friend from his high school days, who is visiting. In the ex's apartment. After jumping the Fuckbuddy earlier in the day.

When I told Ben about the Fuckbuddy (at that point still considered the Regrettable Rebound Hookup) he asked "Well, was it at least good sex?" and I admitted it was. And since it was, I find I regret it a lot less than I might have.

Last night, however, was not. When he knocked on the door of the guest bedroom, I wanted to say to both of the men hovering awkwardly, "Let's never speak of this again." Because if Ben and I ever discuss it, I know it will slip out that it was some of the least interesting, pleasurable sex of my life to date. And shy, sloppy kisses, fumbling touches and poor staying power aside, I just don't think it's nice to tell someone's best friend they're bad in bed. Especially not when their best friend is as prone to casual mockery as Ben is.

To make yourself feel better:
- tell yourself the sheer absurdity will make it a damn good story just as soon as you can stop cringing long enough to tell it.

*facepalm* I'm okay, amazingly enough. I feel like I'm hearing the story from someone else, and I have to admit on some level it's fucking hilarious. I'm just hoping it isn't one that's going to be repeated too often.

Naked

Early on in my friendship with Lo, we were talking about sex and relationships. "See, you're like me," she said. "You can separate love and sex."

I laughed. At lot.

I understand why she thought that. The way I talk about sexuality, it might sound like it, but it isn't so much that I can separate love and sex as that I realize others can and do, and I respect that.

I respect it. I don't understand it. For me sex is a vulnerable thing, and I am bad at vulnerability. It scares me and confuses me and makes me angry, because I don't feel in control of my world anymore. There are a limited number of people who can ask me for that vulnerability without getting an answer which roughly translates to, "No. Go away. What right do you have to ask that of me?" See, when it comes to sex all my protections fall away. All of my intellectualizing is jerked out of my grasp. It's partly the kind of sex I want -- the hold me down, hurt me, make me yours of it. It requires so much trust to let someone inside your head and your heart and your body and leave it intact when they're done. And sex is worth so much more to me when those first two are included.

I used to hope that once I got into the rhythm of the whole sex thing, I'd be the super-liberated, fearless slut, have Adventures, whatever. On some level I still envy those people. But I can't do it. I just can't.

I think I'm obnoxiously monogamously wired. A sex drive that won't shut up and the fierce desire to concentrate it on just one person, and god help them if they can't keep up. Which is annoying, because I'm fine being single (well, not currently fine being single, but that has more to do with missing a specific someone than wanting a general someone) but not fine with not getting laid, and also not fine with fucking just anyone. I'm just not comfortable enough with most people.

I don't have to be in love with somebody to sleep with them, but I do have to have a certain instinctual level of trust in them. That sort of trust is something I feel with very few people, and fewer still who I'm attracted to. This means my list of sexual partners is a very short one, and likely to remain that way.

Different levels of sexuality require different levels of comfort, too. I can play with pain with just about anyone I'm reasonably sure won't damage me. I'll make out with anyone who hits my "oooh, shiny!" buttons. If I find myself at ease with them, things can go further. Penetration with toys and fingers is comfortable for me. It's easy. Baggage-free. Oral sex is something I'm a little shyer about, but not paralyzingly so, so when it comes to women I'm more comfortable faster. Being penetrated with a penis . . . that's different. A mindfuck along with the physical one. I wonder if being fucked by a woman with a strap-on would be the same -- that's something I've yet to try. But PIV sex? It's scary, in some ways. It's invasive, transgressing all these physical and psychological boundaries I need so much to hold myself together as a person with a private space in her head. Inviting someone into that space is an enormous risk for me.

When that risk feels worth it, it's great. Because I love having my boundaries pushed. I love struggle and I love surrender and I love having someone take what they want from me and leave me bruised and exhausted and used. I love feeling my defenses slip out of reach. But for that to be okay, I have to be with someone I don't need to defend myself from.

The first time I saw Ben after he ended things, I ended up on his bed with my knees pulled up to my chest, crying. He curled his body around mine and stroked my hair. "In the words of one sexy, sexy man*," he said, "'I've seen you with your clothes off. I never thought I'd see you naked.'"

I remembered afternoons spent tied to his bed, drifting quietly like I do with rope around my wrists. I remembered his teeth on the nape of my neck. I remembered how I'd always shiver at the sound of his belt coming off, and how he'd laugh softly when he noticed. I remembered his hands on my wrists pressing down, his fingernails dragging down my sides, the way he'd end an otherwise gentle kiss by biting down on my lip. I remembered the place all that took me to -- the way I'd feel open and vulnerable and trust him only to hurt me the way I liked. I rolled over, lay my head on his chest. "You saw more than you thought," I told him, voice scratchy and raw, eyes red with tears. Naked, heavy winter sweater or no.

He kissed the top of my head. "Yeah, I guess so."

I don't think I can be naked with anybody else just yet.



* That sexy, sexy man is, of course, one Malcolm Reynolds.

Sexless Sexblogging

One of the problems with keeping a mostly sex-oriented blog is that it gets difficult when you're not fucking anyone. It's not that there's a lack of material. I could write about fantasies I've had, either to pick them apart and analyze them or just for the joy of smut. I could write about the ill-advised rebound fuck I'm still angry with myself over, why it seemed like a good idea at the time and why in retrospect it was decidedly not. I could write about how I find myself making excuses and pulling away from the possibility of a new relationship -- what I'm afraid of and why I'm so sure I'm not ready and why sometimes it's tempting anyway. I could write about what I want from a relationship when I'm up for one. I could write about all the things I still want to try. I could write about Ben, delve into past experience and hope it doesn't hurt too much.

I'll probably do all of those things, at some point, but for various reasons, including the emotional fallout from the aforementioned idiotic rebound fuck, I have been feeling a bit detached from my sex drive, which is not very conducive to writing about sex.

There will be a post as soon as I can spend the time to finish writing it about my approach to sex and how The Rebound went totally against that. So that will be a post about sex, but I doubt it will be a very sexy sex post. I guess what I'm saying is that I'll write about the sexy stuff when I'm feeling horny again.

In the meantime, I have a History of Science paper to write. Ew, college.

Valentine's Day Non-Dates

So it's Valentine's Day.

For the first time in my life, I was feeling bitter about not having anyone to spend it with. Here's how it works: I don't mind being single, but being single when there's someone I love and can't be with sucks. I don't mind being alone for Valentine's Day, but when there's someone I want to spend it with and can't, it sucks.

Only last night, out of nowhere, I got an offer. I went out to a dive bar to watch my roommate do stand-up, and the guy friend I mentioned after Lo's birthday -- the one I sort of thought I'd blown my chances with by hanging all over my ex -- came along to keep me company. My roommate and her friends left before we did, and after a few drinks he put his arm around me, and then made some silly, sheepish comment about knowing he must be drunk because he had the nerve to do so.

He walked me home, even though he was drunk and I was sober, and asked what I was doing today. When I told him nothing, he invited me to come hang out with him.

So I guess I have a . . . well, not a date, but a something. We didn't use the word "date." Officially, I am not dating right now.

I keep wavering back and forth about how interested I am in this guy. Usually when that happens they can make up my mind for me by kissing me -- if I find myself pulling away or shoving them off, I'm not into them. If I realize, a moment later, that I seem to be kissing them back, that tends to mean I like them. If it takes him several drinks to put his arm around me, though, I'm really not sure what it would take to get him to kiss me. I may have to (gasp) actually take some initiative.

I am terrible at shy people. Shy is supposed to be my thing. I mean, seriously, the last guy I was involved with started off our relationship by pinning me to his living room floor. (He then stopped and asked ". . . is this okay?" which was somehow charming in its backwardness.)

Oh well. I think I have found the appropriate balance of cute-but-not-trying-too-hard for my outfit. And I am wearing my necklace with the handcuff key, which is in part pretty and in part strategic, because my interest will definitely intensify if he recognizes it for what it is. ;)