The things I would do for you

is better when your man is shoving his fingers inside of you while rubbing your clit with his thumb. Squirting is better when he lifts cupped hands from between your legs and splashes your stomach with the evidence of his work. Squirting is better when you have daily maid service to change the soaking sheets. Isn’t it all better when he turns to you after you exclaim “I never thought I could do that with you” and he calmly says, “my darling, I knew you would.” He sees this as some sort of evolution in our sexual behavior. As if each new practice added to our repertoire means we are closer to a divine sexuality.

We are going home for Christmas. That is, I’m going to my parents on the east coast, he’s going back to his family on the west coast. I am reluctant to leave this place; it has become my home. He, of course, has children and a Christmas tree and a wife to return to. Breakfast dishes to wash over there, and drycleaning to pick up over there, and a daily routine, over there. Me, I’ll be wandering around my parent’s house aimlessly, wishing I could skip it all and stay in this bed, behind me, where he sleeps, not-so-quietly after a night of red wine and vodka and the sweet, embarrassing truths that come out when one is not-just-slightly drunk.

Eating too much: pate en terrine

Drinking too much: gluehwein

Reading too much: Colette

Fucking too much: from behind, with one hand pushing down on my lower back, the other, spreading me open to watch the penetration

Should I take my vibrator with me?

“I want you to suck me until I am hard, then climb on top of me and stick my cock into your ass, so I can fuck you with my fingers and suck on your tits.”

Instead we fell asleep. Well, with his cock in my pussy imbedded from behind. Two little sleepy spooners.

More on squirting later….

Before, a bit uncomfortable with him stimulating my g-spot. Too intense, too long, too focused on me. Lately I’ve gotten greedy and now insist on the two finger fuck, petting and stroking the spot until it swells, one hand inside me and one vibrating over my clit until I come from it all and he enters me. The same for the past few days: lick me, finger fuck me, slide inside.

Today, alone and horny and with a stack of pornography I decide to entertain myself. Perched on a chair I inserted the vibrator, full speed, full rotation, angled forward. I didn’t stop when it became uncomfortable, I didn’t stop when it was too intense. I felt the build up, and I continued stroking, hard and against my g-spot.

I moved to the bathroom because I thought I knew what was coming. Although it had never happened to me before, I had seen it. I stroked and stroked, occasionally holding the vibrating tongue against my clit, pulling away before I came, stroking again. Allowing myself to swell and ache and pushing past that feeling. Then there it was: a torrent of fluid as I came, clear and watery and squirting across the tub. I continued to pump the vibrator inside me, allowing my urethra to relax, milking every last drop out. Surprised, satisfied, it was warm and clean and slightly musky sweet. It tasted like his lips after he goes down on me.

So now I sit again in front of the computer. Empty and relaxed, wondering if it will ever happen again like that, wondering if it’s too soon to try again. Wanting to call and tell him this, but contemplating just showing him. I wonder, I wonder. I think I’ll try again.

Darling,

I’m starting to ache from last night, the past few nights. Maybe we should stop with the hands on my chest, at the base of my throat. The bruises on my ass and breasts show what you do to me after the lights go out, but my ribs ache and my lips are sore and you can’t see that. I fear that tomorrow my cheek will be red and sparkling with burst blood vessels. That there will be thumb prints on my jaw.

I asked you to pull the plug out of my ass because it hurt so much this time: it went in so quickly I couldn’t bring myself to relax.  What message does it send when I cry and mew and say I can’t handle it but my pussy is so much slicker and wetter after? Where is this going? I don’t think even you know.

I followed him to Europe. I rationalized the trip with thoughts that being left alone in a hotel room all day would force me to finish writing this thing that has been hanging over my head for over a year. The reality of it is that I sleep late, have leisurly morning fuck with him, then breakfast at the café on the square, then walk back home a different way each time, stopping to buy bread, look at antipasti, the wurst, the crepes, then settle on gnocchi for dinner and buy 250 grams of pesto cream sauce, a wedge of gran padano, and a handful of flat-leaf parsley to go with the half finished bottle of wine from last night.

I end up watching American tv dubbed into the local language and perusing the porn he downloaded off the internet. I book hotel rooms in capital city where he has to work, and although this is the place where I first met him, his capital city is far different than mine. We meet with old friends and former lovers, and establish ourselves as the new relationship with these others that only knew us in the old.

This has been the longest amount of time we have ever spent together. Before it was catch as catch can, making excuses to go to LA, up to him, down to me. Once a week if we were lucky. Now he walks through the door, always in the wee hours, but always back to me. No sleeping until we have had our fill of each other, almost till the sun comes up, but not quite. Not as desperate a connection as when we first met and didn’t rest until we could see each other in the daylight.

I thought our availability to each other and the fatigue and routine would settle the sexual behavior into something calm and easily comforting. Instead it becomes more wicked as we find safety within the relationship. He holds me down hard when I’m under him, hands slowly creeping from my chest to my shoulders to the base of my throat. Aha. I am more greedy and demanding and tell him how to fuck me and where to put his fingers and when to stop, please stop, I want to come with you inside of me, but not there. Here.

After a long evening of red wine and too much grappa and jealous arguing, he turns the light off, sticks his hand in my mouth, bites my breast… then slaps me. I am completely overcome with surprise, about the action, about my response. I yield to him, give myself up, become slick and hot and he slaps my face again, insistent fingers in my pussy, in my mouth. He pushes his cock between my lips, my tongue swirling around the base. I do whatever he wants. He claims me again. You greedy bitch, he says, as he fucks me from behind, and I ache into the pillow and tell him to fuck me harder, to pull on my nipples, slap my tits, slide your thumb into my ass as I wrap my fingers around your cock pumping in and out of my pussy. He slaps my ass again and he groans and he comes. I know I am his.