The problem with change is that it’s often opposed by fear or force of habit. Wanting to be or do something different is easy, the execution...not so much.
For instance, it took me a long time to get over the fear of going back to school. Or at least to get over the fear enough to actually apply to one and make concrete plans to attend. I’m still terrified of being in a classroom again. I was stuck in a routine headed nowhere because it was safe and it was what I knew, but I wanted to go so badly that I finally said “enough” and grew a pair.
But my latest dilemma is a little more complicated than forcing myself to wade through paperwork and red tape. It’s not about just being afraid of change or being stuck in a rut. It’s also that I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.
Remember when I got tired of the single life, couldn’t seem to meet anyone new, and ended up dabbling in the online dating thing? And remember how, for my troubles, all I got was a few dinners, a few posts and a sore asshole? Yeah. And remember how I said I was done with that bullshit because it was time consuming, irritating and the majority of the guys are psychos?
Sigh. Well several months ago I inadvertently got drawn back into the snake pit. Seriously, it was not intentional.
I received an email one day from the dating site saying I had a new message. That was strange, seeing as how I hadn’t been on the account in months and, consequently, hadn’t had a message in months either. Apparently if you aren’t on there often, they don’t chat you up.
Being a curiosity killed the cat sort of woman I decided to see what it said and, as it turns out, it was from a guy I’d gone to high school with. I remembered him immediately – a tall, dark, bearded kid that wore big black tennis shoes and a trench coat all the time. In fact, he referenced his appearance himself in the email: “It’s me – Big creepy guy in the trench coat? I saw your profile and decided it’d be rude not to say “hi”.”
“No, no it wouldn’t be rude at all”, I thought, “Because we never spoke to begin with.”
What I said, however, was nice yet dismissive. Something along the lines of, “Yes, I remember you. Thanks for the message. See you’re still stuck in this godforsaken town too. Hope you’re doing well.” The subtext being, “Yep, we walked down the same halls. This is weird. You’re weird. High school sucked balls. Kthanksbye.”
What began then could best be described as a whirlwind of weirdness. I started to receive text messages and phone calls from exes that wanted to “hang out”, “catch up” and, my personal favorite, “go for a little swim...wink wink, nudge nudge”. And, I assume, because I’d logged onto my dating account, my inbox starting blowing up there as well. I went from no prospects to way too many in record time. It’s like they were all on the same period cycle or something.
I was chatting with guys again and trying to decide who, what, when, and where again. I’d forgotten how exhausting it could be and I quickly realized that one thing I am not good at is juggling men. I had a hard time talking to more than one of them at a time because I would mix up details and forget things.
Not only that, but I like to focus all my energy on one thing, which is basically the anti-thesis of online dating. It’s not a hard thing to do when you’re the queen of the one night stand, don’t call me I’ll definitely be blocking your number club. But that wasn’t me anymore...or I didn’t want it to be. I still craved sex, sure, but it was now more about wanting the (gag) connection.
And it’s tricky because I’m such an overtly sexual person. I often don’t realize until later that I was being suggestive in the first place. Or, sometimes I know I’m doing it but I still can’t seem to stop myself. It’s hard to make a deeper connection when I’ve always been so immersed in the physical side of things.
So, I decided that since I was apparently giving dating another shot, I should take steps to change all that about myself – to make a concentrated effort to A) keep my hands to myself, B) watch my dirty mouth, and C) (the most difficult) stop thinking that wanting to have a relationship made me a needy girl and being ashamed of the fact that I was tired of being single.
At first it seemed to be going well. I went on a date with a really nice guy and we started talking on the phone and texting quite a lot. Occasionally there was a bit of flirting, but it was harmless and not at all risqué. I was feeling good about it, really excited that I was not only keeping myself in check but that we had so many interesting conversations.
But apparently we’d reached the statute of limitations on harmless flirting and interesting conversation, because he decided to nudge me in the opposite direction. With his penis. Or rather, with a plethora of pictures...of his penis.
Let’s see, there was one that was clearly taken at an upward angle, but zoomed in to make things appear larger than I suspected they actually were. There was the one following that at a slightly different angle that validated my suspicions about the first. And then there was “the montage”.
Allow me to commentate:
Photo 1: “This is a picture of my crotch covered in jeans. See that there? That’s the tell-tale bulge of my things-may-appear-larger, side-mirror-penis. Now wait for it, don’t get excited!”
Photo 2: “Oh! Oh! Look! He’s coming out to play! He’s a little shy at first, I know. That’s why he’s only poking his head out of my natty boxer shorts.”
Photo 3: “SHAZAM! Here he is in all his glory. And see?! He brought two ugly, hairy friends to make him look better!”
The whole thing was hilarious, with each picture arriving mere seconds after the other, but at the same time extremely disappointing. First, because I’d gone to such lengths to try and behave myself and he had to cheapen the experience. And second, because it was ill timed, terrible photography.
After that guy there was another with nearly the same story – great conversations, funny, interesting. Then the invisible switch flipped and he was making random comments about my tits and the like.
He didn’t actually use the word “motorboat”, but it was implied. And though I find the concept funny, the reality is actually quite awkward and slightly uncomfortable. It’s like when you’re running and not wearing a sports bra so they’re bouncing all over the place, only imagine them going that fast sideways, back and forth, instead of up and down. Though, given a choice, I’d certainly rather be “motorboated” than run without a sports bra...or run at all, for that matter.
Where was I?
Ah, then there was the slip up.
The “I’m feeling sorry for myself because I can’t seem to meet anyone nice, so I’m going to agree to dinner with a guy friend that’s always liked me because, after all, we’ve been having lunch often and it’s been just fine.”
And even though I’d established ground rules about our friendship, mainly “you can compliment me all you want and we can be friends, but nothing else”, I ended up drinking way too much beer.
And even though we didn’t have sex, I did end up on my back.
Because he said, verbatim, that he’d been “dying to eat this pussy for years” and being under the influence I thought, “Self, how could you deny a dying man the treatment he needs?” I figured, why the fuck not?
I’d had sex with him years ago and that was horrific, so I wasn’t going there again. I’ve not had many good experiences in the oral sex department, and in fact I usually decline any offers, but I’d heard a rumor once from his ex girlfriend that he was excellent at it. So I shrugged and said, “As long as we don’t have to play Wheel of Fucking Fortune, go for it.” And he did.
I must say, though I was disappointed that I managed to break my ABCs of change rules, she was right. He was excellent. The only problem was, after two go rounds I was pretty sober and he refused to stop. I think it must have been some kind of ego thing, to see how many times he could make it happen. And no matter what some people may say, you can always have too much of a good thing. Especially if it comes with a nonstop commentary and demands to look at him, while he looks back with a creepy wet childish grin that screams “LOVE ME! I ALWAYS CLEAN MY PLATE!”
So, once again I said enough. No more online dating or hooking up with exes. “Self, you are unable to become involved with a guy, past the point of introductions, without getting penis pictures and offers to use your tits as bongos. Your vagina is not a frozen yogurt buffet for the needy and you just need to quit while you’re limping back in last place.”
Then I met someone – a friend of our new neighbors who has been hanging out on the lake with us nearly every weekend.
At first I didn’t even think of him that way. I simply liked hanging out with him, and everyone else, and thought he was funny. Then one afternoon we were floating together, cracking jokes and I realized, “Uh oh. I think I kind of like him.”
We’re both generally flirty people anyway, but it was when others started drawing attention to certain things that I really started to wonder if maybe he liked me too. Like when we all sat drinking one night on the dock and he lay down with his head in my lap, then held on to my hand when he finally got up to leave, releasing one finger at a time as if to hold on longer. Or how he somehow always ended up beside me or directly across from me on every boat ride and at every dinner. There were dozens of little signs that, had my confidence not been so wrecked by all my dating failures of the past, I probably would have jumped on, said “A Ha!” before suggesting, “Yo, let’s go make out behind the bleachers.” Or, you know, the classier, simpler version: “I like you.”
But maybe wasn’t good enough for me, I wanted to be sure. So I talked to his friends, our new neighbors, who’d quickly become my friends too. Basically I got the he’s always been a little flirty, but he’s actually quite shy speech. “I know he wants a serious relationship and he doesn’t just hop into bed with people”, she told me.
I decided then that my strategy would be to let him take his time and, if he was interested, he’d make a move when he was ready.
Unfortunately patience, shy men and subtlety are not on my list of specialties. So far I’ve gotten two kisses on the cheek, one “you’re so beautiful”, and a lot of disappearing acts. I’m not really sure any of those count as “moves”, except possibly the disappearing acts and that would be a move in the opposite direction. No bueno.
There’s apparently something fundamentally wrong with me, because it can’t be all these guys. I don’t know how to date AND I don’t know how to wait (patiently) for the sex.
My solution to this was to ask other people for advice, but unfortunately my friends and certain family members aren’t really qualified to give it.
Proof?
Claire: “Fuck him. He blew you off that one time. Ignore him. Wanna take a shot of this?”
Leigha (Yes, my 18 year old sister, Leigha.): “You should do what I do because it totally works. I don’t pay them any attention and they come running. Play really hard to get, mmk? They like it. Sigh. I love the game.”
Dave: “Put it on him. GET SOME, AL.”
Mom: “They all want one thing. Stop giving it to them. You did? Well, search me then!”
Grandma: “I’ve seen these commercials for products that help extend the penis. Does he own a house?”
Claire: “He’s probably gay anyway.”
Rachel: “You need to go out and get some strange.”
And we’re back to the beginning again, with virtually no improvement save for the realization that oral sex doesn’t always suck. The whole time. Back at the beginning with no idea what I’m doing, no current prospects (unless you count the one that’s “probably gay and wants you to be his beard”), and a cancelled dating profile.
The changing bullshit is hard.
Showing posts with label oral sex. Show all posts
Showing posts with label oral sex. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Seven things I like - Part seven
7. Sex
Who doesn’t like sex, right? Honestly I think you’d be surprised.
I used to work with a girl who loathed it, said it made her skin crawl. And not just with a certain guy, with any guy. She just couldn’t enjoy it. I, of course, assumed that she’d had some kind of bad experience in the past, but after getting to know her, becoming friends, and point blank asking – I found out that there was no real reason at all. She’s been with the same guy for about five years now and he has to pretty much beg for it, the poor lamb.
I love her to death, but if I were her man, I’d be singing “What’s love got to do with it” as I moonwalked out the door on my way to stick my wang in the first hot chick available. Which might be why she calls me Al instead of Alyson.
I wasn’t always that way. I suppose in some ways I used to be worse.
When I was younger it was quantity over quality – As long as you were getting some, who cared if it was great? Like smoking cigarettes, it was cooler to do it than it was to abstain, even if you weren’t sure you liked it. I don’t know if that attitude was simply peer pressure or more of a combination of things.
My mother never mentioned sex to me. Ever. I figured that I knew the basics well enough anyway from reading the Judy Blume book Forever and watching my cousin Ashley demonstrate with naked, dry humping Barbies. And then there were the scenes in Days of Our Lives. Until the age of 15 I was convinced that if sex was going to be any good at all, it had to be done between purple sheets, in a candlelit room, and he’d better be using his John Black raised eyebrow face right as the over the top saxophone music started playing. Which really made going to that Kenny G concert awkward because I kept looking around in horror, waiting on the other spectators to start arching their eyebrows and touching each other.
My first time was so far away from any of that. I remember thinking, “This is what all the goddamn fuss is about? THIS is what guys want? Psssh, whatever.” There was no pain, no bleeding, nothing. Now that I’m older that doesn’t surprise me. I spent my summers riding horses, jet skis, and tubing on water rougher than two day stubble on a transvestite. My cherry hardly had time to settle in before it was being popped unobtrusively, like just another zit on the collective face of adolescence.
Being introduced to the world of “sexual activity” with so little fanfare had a marked affect on my attitude. There was power to be had, and all I had to do was assume the position and make a bit of noise. A horrible outlook for a teenage girl, but there you go.
After discussing it with my therapist there is, I suppose, a distinct possibility that I was a complete whore bag because my daddy didn’t love me enough. And, of course, a bit later, because sleeping with one person for any length of time brought up that nasty word “commitment”. I couldn’t say exactly how many people told me that most women end up marrying men like their fathers, but it was enough to fuel the fire for quite awhile - better to be safe and dip out in the middle of the night carrying your panties in your purse, than be sorry and have all your hard earned money and your gold wedding band spent on the crack rock.
The sad truth about all of my sexual encounters in the beginning was that they were unremarkable. I accept partial blame for those first however-many-we’re-talking-about-here, because I didn’t know any better and I didn’t care. Sure there were small moments here and there when something was “ah’ight” or “felt kinda nice”, but in general it was just a whirlwind of who really gives a fuck?
Did I tell the guys or my friends that? Absolutely not. Sex was totally awesome and shit. Me? I came all the time. Yep.
The one exception was oral sex. Though I didn’t enjoy receiving it at all, I enjoyed giving it quite a bit. In the beginning because it meant I wasn’t required to demonstrate just how much I was enjoying his sexual prowess and later because of that old ego booster – power. Being good at anything can be a welcome rush. Being good at giving head, having a man bigger and stronger than you trembling under your mouth and your touch, well, it’s twice as welcome.
It was unfortunate that my very first orgasm happened with one of the most revolting men I’ve ever met in my life. My therapist would have taken one look at him and asked, “Is his middle name ‘I Told You So’? Or maybe ‘Predictable’?” He was blonde, lanky, and good looking, but clearly from the wrong side of the tracks. The sort of boy my grandmother would watch from her window with the cordless phone in her hand and a scowl on her face, whether he had a plausible reason for being there or not.
I was living with his brother and his brother’s girlfriend at the time and that was a whole new experience in and of itself (threesome number one, in fact), one I’m glad I don’t remember much of. One afternoon I needed to get some things from my parent’s house and decided to take Mr. Bad News with me. My mother was absolutely horrified. She pulled me aside and asked me all sorts of questions about him, most of which I didn’t know the answers to. “You’re going to regret it”, she said. And she was right, though not for the reasons she implied.
I regret it because I hate him. And I hate that the memory of my first really good bout of sex, the one with the big finish, if you will, belongs to him. The sleazy bastard.
But as much as I dislike the man that started it all, I can’t deny that it completely changed my sexual outlook. I went from giving in, to actually wanting it. And if I reached numbers that a woman my age really shouldn’t be reaching, well, I can blame that on him too. Because after the first orgasm, you’re always in search of the next one and the next one. And I found them, sporadically and in between some of the most horrific and amusing sexual encounters likely known to woman, but still, I found them.
The funny thing, though, about those horrific and amusing sexual encounters, is that I started to like them too. Even if I didn’t get the desired result, the story itself was almost as valuable. This has less to do with the sexual aspect of it all and more to do with my love of writing and/or making people laugh. I’m sure the male inspirations behind my stories wouldn’t be too thrilled with my logic, but hey, I didn’t fuck them for the story. That was just a bonus.
For instance, I doubt the Brazilian would be thrilled to know that I made fun of his child molester van and the way he said “I fuck you, yes” repeatedly. Though props must be given for introducing me to being slapped. Well done, Junior.
And I doubt The Shump Daddy would like everyone to know that he sweats more than should be humanly possible, and screams in the faces of the women he’s bestowing his penis upon...at warp speed.
No, I doubt they’d appreciate that at all. And neither, I’m sure, would my family. Which is why I suppose I’ll have to wait until the majority of them are dead before I publish a book entitled: Daddy Issues – How I fucked my way through my fucked up life and enjoyed almost all of it.
And I have enjoyed almost all of it, aside from the first few encounters when I was too young to be enjoying it anyway, though as most of you know I’ve slowed down considerably. Eight months and counting, goddamn it.
It’s frustrating, of course, missing out on one of the things I enjoy so much. But just like all those years of unimpressive practice, all those orgasms, all those clit stabbers, sweaters, and fetishists – being (not completely unwillingly) abstinent is a learning experience. I’m sure I’ll come off of this long stint of inactivity enriched by all the knowledge it’s created. Or, I’ll just accidentally kill the first man that gets there with my super human vagina that’s had eight months of kegels and relatively little else, and end up as a character on the Lifetime Movie Network. Either way I still get laid, so it’s a win.
I haven’t yet decided if I’m still afraid of commitment. It really just depends on what day it is and whether or not I’ve eaten breakfast. I have, however, decided that it’s ok to be a woman with an impressive list of past lovers, no matter what people say. It’s not really shameful if you aren’t ashamed. If I ever do settle down with a nice man, maybe I can teach him a thing or two. And if hell doesn’t freeze over, I’ll always have a valuable life skill.
Now that I’ve finally finished this meme it’s time to pass it on to seven more bloggers. But before I do, let me tell you this:
I thought choosing seven things I like and writing an entire post about each one was going to be cake. It wasn’t quite that way. I made a list of things to write about in the beginning and only two of them actually made the cut. For me, probably like most people, I never really thought beyond the basics of what it means to like something. I like cake because it tastes good or I like reading because it’s a welcome distraction. I realized that if I really wanted to test myself, I needed to approach things a little differently. So I did. Or rather, I tried to. Several of the posts were about things I hadn’t planned on sharing at all, but I think we all know that sometimes blogging takes us in directions we hadn’t before considered. I hope you enjoyed reading my seven things, as unorthodox as some of them were. And I really hope that the bloggers I’m about to name decide to continue this meme in the new tradition.
They don’t have to be seven things you like/love. If you choose to participate, you can do seven things you wish you knew back then, seven influences on your life, seven ways your mother in law tried to ruin your marriage, or seven things the neighbor does that makes you want to shank her in the ovaries. Whatever you want, it’s your choice.
All of these bloggers are favorites of mine and I look forward to seeing what, if anything, they come up with.
Baglady
Jerrod
Sara
Vegetable Assassin
Girl Interrupted
Ally
Didactic Pirate
Thank you. Come again.
Who doesn’t like sex, right? Honestly I think you’d be surprised.
I used to work with a girl who loathed it, said it made her skin crawl. And not just with a certain guy, with any guy. She just couldn’t enjoy it. I, of course, assumed that she’d had some kind of bad experience in the past, but after getting to know her, becoming friends, and point blank asking – I found out that there was no real reason at all. She’s been with the same guy for about five years now and he has to pretty much beg for it, the poor lamb.
I love her to death, but if I were her man, I’d be singing “What’s love got to do with it” as I moonwalked out the door on my way to stick my wang in the first hot chick available. Which might be why she calls me Al instead of Alyson.
I wasn’t always that way. I suppose in some ways I used to be worse.
When I was younger it was quantity over quality – As long as you were getting some, who cared if it was great? Like smoking cigarettes, it was cooler to do it than it was to abstain, even if you weren’t sure you liked it. I don’t know if that attitude was simply peer pressure or more of a combination of things.
My mother never mentioned sex to me. Ever. I figured that I knew the basics well enough anyway from reading the Judy Blume book Forever and watching my cousin Ashley demonstrate with naked, dry humping Barbies. And then there were the scenes in Days of Our Lives. Until the age of 15 I was convinced that if sex was going to be any good at all, it had to be done between purple sheets, in a candlelit room, and he’d better be using his John Black raised eyebrow face right as the over the top saxophone music started playing. Which really made going to that Kenny G concert awkward because I kept looking around in horror, waiting on the other spectators to start arching their eyebrows and touching each other.
My first time was so far away from any of that. I remember thinking, “This is what all the goddamn fuss is about? THIS is what guys want? Psssh, whatever.” There was no pain, no bleeding, nothing. Now that I’m older that doesn’t surprise me. I spent my summers riding horses, jet skis, and tubing on water rougher than two day stubble on a transvestite. My cherry hardly had time to settle in before it was being popped unobtrusively, like just another zit on the collective face of adolescence.
Being introduced to the world of “sexual activity” with so little fanfare had a marked affect on my attitude. There was power to be had, and all I had to do was assume the position and make a bit of noise. A horrible outlook for a teenage girl, but there you go.
After discussing it with my therapist there is, I suppose, a distinct possibility that I was a complete whore bag because my daddy didn’t love me enough. And, of course, a bit later, because sleeping with one person for any length of time brought up that nasty word “commitment”. I couldn’t say exactly how many people told me that most women end up marrying men like their fathers, but it was enough to fuel the fire for quite awhile - better to be safe and dip out in the middle of the night carrying your panties in your purse, than be sorry and have all your hard earned money and your gold wedding band spent on the crack rock.
The sad truth about all of my sexual encounters in the beginning was that they were unremarkable. I accept partial blame for those first however-many-we’re-talking-about-here, because I didn’t know any better and I didn’t care. Sure there were small moments here and there when something was “ah’ight” or “felt kinda nice”, but in general it was just a whirlwind of who really gives a fuck?
Did I tell the guys or my friends that? Absolutely not. Sex was totally awesome and shit. Me? I came all the time. Yep.
The one exception was oral sex. Though I didn’t enjoy receiving it at all, I enjoyed giving it quite a bit. In the beginning because it meant I wasn’t required to demonstrate just how much I was enjoying his sexual prowess and later because of that old ego booster – power. Being good at anything can be a welcome rush. Being good at giving head, having a man bigger and stronger than you trembling under your mouth and your touch, well, it’s twice as welcome.
It was unfortunate that my very first orgasm happened with one of the most revolting men I’ve ever met in my life. My therapist would have taken one look at him and asked, “Is his middle name ‘I Told You So’? Or maybe ‘Predictable’?” He was blonde, lanky, and good looking, but clearly from the wrong side of the tracks. The sort of boy my grandmother would watch from her window with the cordless phone in her hand and a scowl on her face, whether he had a plausible reason for being there or not.
I was living with his brother and his brother’s girlfriend at the time and that was a whole new experience in and of itself (threesome number one, in fact), one I’m glad I don’t remember much of. One afternoon I needed to get some things from my parent’s house and decided to take Mr. Bad News with me. My mother was absolutely horrified. She pulled me aside and asked me all sorts of questions about him, most of which I didn’t know the answers to. “You’re going to regret it”, she said. And she was right, though not for the reasons she implied.
I regret it because I hate him. And I hate that the memory of my first really good bout of sex, the one with the big finish, if you will, belongs to him. The sleazy bastard.
But as much as I dislike the man that started it all, I can’t deny that it completely changed my sexual outlook. I went from giving in, to actually wanting it. And if I reached numbers that a woman my age really shouldn’t be reaching, well, I can blame that on him too. Because after the first orgasm, you’re always in search of the next one and the next one. And I found them, sporadically and in between some of the most horrific and amusing sexual encounters likely known to woman, but still, I found them.
The funny thing, though, about those horrific and amusing sexual encounters, is that I started to like them too. Even if I didn’t get the desired result, the story itself was almost as valuable. This has less to do with the sexual aspect of it all and more to do with my love of writing and/or making people laugh. I’m sure the male inspirations behind my stories wouldn’t be too thrilled with my logic, but hey, I didn’t fuck them for the story. That was just a bonus.
For instance, I doubt the Brazilian would be thrilled to know that I made fun of his child molester van and the way he said “I fuck you, yes” repeatedly. Though props must be given for introducing me to being slapped. Well done, Junior.
And I doubt The Shump Daddy would like everyone to know that he sweats more than should be humanly possible, and screams in the faces of the women he’s bestowing his penis upon...at warp speed.
No, I doubt they’d appreciate that at all. And neither, I’m sure, would my family. Which is why I suppose I’ll have to wait until the majority of them are dead before I publish a book entitled: Daddy Issues – How I fucked my way through my fucked up life and enjoyed almost all of it.
And I have enjoyed almost all of it, aside from the first few encounters when I was too young to be enjoying it anyway, though as most of you know I’ve slowed down considerably. Eight months and counting, goddamn it.
It’s frustrating, of course, missing out on one of the things I enjoy so much. But just like all those years of unimpressive practice, all those orgasms, all those clit stabbers, sweaters, and fetishists – being (not completely unwillingly) abstinent is a learning experience. I’m sure I’ll come off of this long stint of inactivity enriched by all the knowledge it’s created. Or, I’ll just accidentally kill the first man that gets there with my super human vagina that’s had eight months of kegels and relatively little else, and end up as a character on the Lifetime Movie Network. Either way I still get laid, so it’s a win.
I haven’t yet decided if I’m still afraid of commitment. It really just depends on what day it is and whether or not I’ve eaten breakfast. I have, however, decided that it’s ok to be a woman with an impressive list of past lovers, no matter what people say. It’s not really shameful if you aren’t ashamed. If I ever do settle down with a nice man, maybe I can teach him a thing or two. And if hell doesn’t freeze over, I’ll always have a valuable life skill.
********
Now that I’ve finally finished this meme it’s time to pass it on to seven more bloggers. But before I do, let me tell you this:
I thought choosing seven things I like and writing an entire post about each one was going to be cake. It wasn’t quite that way. I made a list of things to write about in the beginning and only two of them actually made the cut. For me, probably like most people, I never really thought beyond the basics of what it means to like something. I like cake because it tastes good or I like reading because it’s a welcome distraction. I realized that if I really wanted to test myself, I needed to approach things a little differently. So I did. Or rather, I tried to. Several of the posts were about things I hadn’t planned on sharing at all, but I think we all know that sometimes blogging takes us in directions we hadn’t before considered. I hope you enjoyed reading my seven things, as unorthodox as some of them were. And I really hope that the bloggers I’m about to name decide to continue this meme in the new tradition.
They don’t have to be seven things you like/love. If you choose to participate, you can do seven things you wish you knew back then, seven influences on your life, seven ways your mother in law tried to ruin your marriage, or seven things the neighbor does that makes you want to shank her in the ovaries. Whatever you want, it’s your choice.
All of these bloggers are favorites of mine and I look forward to seeing what, if anything, they come up with.
Baglady
Jerrod
Sara
Vegetable Assassin
Girl Interrupted
Ally
Didactic Pirate
Thank you. Come again.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
We've only just begun: Part two
The following day, at work, I was full of nervous anticipation.
I watched him go through slide after slide of meaningless computer drivel. I was day dreamy and impatient. He smiled at me often, as if to say “just you wait”.
We talked during lunch break outside, careful not to touch each other. Dating or sleeping with other employees was frowned upon.
He asked if I would like to come over that night and watch a movie. I said, “I’d love to...” and in my head added, “Have sex with you”.
I went to the gym after work. I’d been going consistently for a few weeks and really enjoyed it. That night, I remember nothing. I couldn’t tell you what machines I used, or how long I stayed. I floated in, did things, showered, and floated out.
His house was in a large subdivision and when I pulled up, it wasn’t quite dark yet.
I rang the bell and he let me in. I don’t know what I was expecting exactly, but it wasn’t his parents sitting in the living room...living there...watching the pre-walk of shame.
He introduced me, quite flippantly, and I awkwardly waved and said hello. Then I followed him up the stairs, glancing back at his parents to gauge their reaction. I don’t think they even glanced up from the TV after I walked in the door.
Once I was in his room, I forgot all about them.
We picked a movie (I’m pretty sure it was Eurotrip) and settled down on the bed. We talked about work and I asked him about the pictures of children around his room.
“I have three sons”, he said nonchalantly.
I balked. “THREE?”
He told me a little about them, their names and ages and the tiny little fact that they all had different mothers. Then he mentioned that he had a vasectomy. Of course, I thought, why wouldn’t he? Three kids at 28. (Ah, 18 year old Ally...your ignorance amuses your 24 year old self.)
I was surprised by all the information he was throwing at me. I’d never liked children and I’d never slept with anyone that much older. The truth is, after the first few minutes, I didn’t care. I had decided that he was pretty much perfect, kids or no kids, and I was determined that we would have a relationship.
I was lying on my stomach, chin in hands, watching the movie. He was propped up against the headboard, ankles crossed and nestled against my body.
I felt him slide his hand up the leg of my pants and rub my calf. I continued watching the screen while he shifted over me, lifted the hem of my shirt and licking the small of my back. I was biting the shit out of my bottom lip, which is what I do when I’m nervous or insanely turned on...or both.
He grasped my shoulders and I allowed him to turn me over. He leaned over me. One hand braced on the bed and the other cupping the side of my face, he stared directly into my eyes. I’d never seen that look in a man’s eyes before...because I’d never slept with a man. Boys...only boys. That stare was impossible to break, intense, knowing, calculating...scary. I was shivering before he even really touched me.
He pulled his shirt over his head and gawd, he was sexy...with just the right about of muscles and tattoos on his upper arms.
He made short work of my clothing and the rest of his, pausing to kiss me every so often.
I was on fucking fire. I was touching him, kissing him, and begging him to touch me more. He ran his tongue down my body, pausing to lick my inner thighs and I made a noise of protest. I’d never liked oral sex. But he grinned at me and moved in anyway, pinning my wrists to the bed when I raised my hands to say no.
He didn’t have to hold them long...they went limp, and then grasped the bed sheets tightly when he paused to bite my thigh. I think that was the first time I came, but who really knows? I felt like a bomb set to go off every few minutes and each explosion, though slightly different, left me more breathless and more...gone. I think my mind was gone. I had no idea what was happening, really.
My mind might have deserted me, but my mouth was clearly present. I believe he had to say “Shhhh” several times. When he finally slipped inside me, he had to cover my mouth with his to keep me quiet. It had been eleven months and, well, you guys know...right?
We didn’t have sex that night. I can’t call it that. He was intense, tender, achingly slow, and every single movement was made for me. At the time, I called it making love. Now, years later, I call it artful seduction.
But I’ll have to save that for next time.
I watched him go through slide after slide of meaningless computer drivel. I was day dreamy and impatient. He smiled at me often, as if to say “just you wait”.
We talked during lunch break outside, careful not to touch each other. Dating or sleeping with other employees was frowned upon.
He asked if I would like to come over that night and watch a movie. I said, “I’d love to...” and in my head added, “Have sex with you”.
I went to the gym after work. I’d been going consistently for a few weeks and really enjoyed it. That night, I remember nothing. I couldn’t tell you what machines I used, or how long I stayed. I floated in, did things, showered, and floated out.
His house was in a large subdivision and when I pulled up, it wasn’t quite dark yet.
I rang the bell and he let me in. I don’t know what I was expecting exactly, but it wasn’t his parents sitting in the living room...living there...watching the pre-walk of shame.
He introduced me, quite flippantly, and I awkwardly waved and said hello. Then I followed him up the stairs, glancing back at his parents to gauge their reaction. I don’t think they even glanced up from the TV after I walked in the door.
Once I was in his room, I forgot all about them.
We picked a movie (I’m pretty sure it was Eurotrip) and settled down on the bed. We talked about work and I asked him about the pictures of children around his room.
“I have three sons”, he said nonchalantly.
I balked. “THREE?”
He told me a little about them, their names and ages and the tiny little fact that they all had different mothers. Then he mentioned that he had a vasectomy. Of course, I thought, why wouldn’t he? Three kids at 28. (Ah, 18 year old Ally...your ignorance amuses your 24 year old self.)
I was surprised by all the information he was throwing at me. I’d never liked children and I’d never slept with anyone that much older. The truth is, after the first few minutes, I didn’t care. I had decided that he was pretty much perfect, kids or no kids, and I was determined that we would have a relationship.
I was lying on my stomach, chin in hands, watching the movie. He was propped up against the headboard, ankles crossed and nestled against my body.
I felt him slide his hand up the leg of my pants and rub my calf. I continued watching the screen while he shifted over me, lifted the hem of my shirt and licking the small of my back. I was biting the shit out of my bottom lip, which is what I do when I’m nervous or insanely turned on...or both.
He grasped my shoulders and I allowed him to turn me over. He leaned over me. One hand braced on the bed and the other cupping the side of my face, he stared directly into my eyes. I’d never seen that look in a man’s eyes before...because I’d never slept with a man. Boys...only boys. That stare was impossible to break, intense, knowing, calculating...scary. I was shivering before he even really touched me.
He pulled his shirt over his head and gawd, he was sexy...with just the right about of muscles and tattoos on his upper arms.
He made short work of my clothing and the rest of his, pausing to kiss me every so often.
I was on fucking fire. I was touching him, kissing him, and begging him to touch me more. He ran his tongue down my body, pausing to lick my inner thighs and I made a noise of protest. I’d never liked oral sex. But he grinned at me and moved in anyway, pinning my wrists to the bed when I raised my hands to say no.
He didn’t have to hold them long...they went limp, and then grasped the bed sheets tightly when he paused to bite my thigh. I think that was the first time I came, but who really knows? I felt like a bomb set to go off every few minutes and each explosion, though slightly different, left me more breathless and more...gone. I think my mind was gone. I had no idea what was happening, really.
My mind might have deserted me, but my mouth was clearly present. I believe he had to say “Shhhh” several times. When he finally slipped inside me, he had to cover my mouth with his to keep me quiet. It had been eleven months and, well, you guys know...right?
We didn’t have sex that night. I can’t call it that. He was intense, tender, achingly slow, and every single movement was made for me. At the time, I called it making love. Now, years later, I call it artful seduction.
But I’ll have to save that for next time.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Why I don't like (receiving) oral sex:
Aside from the fact that I’ve only met one man that could do it without making me feel like a turkey being glazed before stuffed.....
It’s all Michael Bolton’s fault.
That’s right. That long haired crooner of the 90’s ruined oral sex for me.
Oh, don’t get me wrong, I liked him alright. “When a man loves a woman” was a classic...a ballad for lovers young and old. “How am I supposed to live without you” made me want to get on my knees and raise my hands to the sky and shout, “WHY! WHY!” before collapsing into a heap of teenage angst on the floor.
My mother was completely obsessed with him. I don’t mean, “Gosh, he’s just so handsome. I love his music. I have all his albums. My friends and I are so excited his concert tour is coming through!”
Nuh uh.
I mean, “OH MY FUCKING GAWD LOOK AT THAT MAAAAN! I WANT TO CLIMB UP THAT BODY AND STAY THERE TILL I MELT OFF! SCREAM! THEY’RE PLAYING MY FAVORITE SONG! IT’S MICHAEL IT’S MICHAEL! WHEN A MAAAAAN LOVES A WOOOOMAN! SWOON.”
She had so many t-shirts with his face plastered on them. Most of them were sleep shirts so she could “lie against his face”. Yeah, I’m serious.
I still remember the day the announcement came over the radio that he was coming here for a concert. We were in the car. I almost died that day. She swerved and yelled and if it’s possible to do the mambo while driving...she did it. I still blame my bad (selective) hearing on her Michael screaming fits.
She’d hidden her camera in her pants to get it into the concert and came back with 4 rolls of film. Where she put them all, I never want to know.
Evidently, while singing one of his soulful songs, Michael decided to walk down an aisle and into the fevered group of middle aged women. Schmuck.
My mom had an aisle seat. As soon as he got to her row (and I’ve heard this story 70 thousand times) he stopped. He looked at her as he crooned into the microphone. He got right.up.in.her.shit...and took her hand. After a second, she jerked her hand back, whipped out her camera, and snapped a picture right.up.in.his.shit.
Her friend said the poor man couldn’t move for about 15 seconds. Just stood their singing and blinking while my mother screamed, “MICHAEL MICHAEL I LOVE YOU”. It’s lucky for mom that her friend hid the camera. Otherwise, I never would have had the pleasure of gazing into an 8x10 blown up photo of Michael Bolton’s startled face every single day for about 10 years.
And now, we’ve come back to ME.
I was young, dumb, and full of false bravado when it came to boys.
I was also home alone quite often. My sister stayed at a sitters or a friend’s house until my mom collected her, as I was not to be trusted. Something about feeding cat food to her and her friends. Whatever.
One summer I had a very eager and experimental boyfriend that we shall call Big Nose, or BN for short.
BN didn’t live very far and he would ride his bike through the woods to come see me almost every day.
After weeks of making out, he finally convinced me to allow him access to the Holy Grail. (Yes, I said weeks. I wasn’t always slutty.) And so we progressed from only under the shirt feely action and tonsil hockey to fingering.
I was less impressed by this fingering business than my friends. Mostly because BN had no idea where the clitoris is....or probably even WHAT it is. Probably thought it was a myth, like unicorns and free hookers.
I braved his fingered onslaught like a champion, only occasionally saying, “Would you hurry up”, when he got a little too excited.
Then one afternoon he made me an offer I was too bored to refuse.
“Wanna let me...you know?”
“What”, I said, popping my gum.
“Go down?”
Big sigh. “I guess. Saved by the Bell doesn’t come on for another half hour anyway.”
He dragged me back to my parent’s bedroom, of all fucking places, because “they have a water bed and I hear it’s better.”
To which I replied, “I’m not having sex with you.”
And he said, “I know that...I mean I think it’ll be more fun.”
Gum pop. “Uh huh.”
And so we arranged ourselves on the bucking water bed. I was nervous and hiding it pretty well behind my practiced disdain.
He reached over to hit the play button on the tape player and said, “Just for a little background...” and out came Michael’s voice.
I gritted my teeth and looked up at the ceiling as he made his move.
Ok. Alright. This was fine. Weird, but fine.
As I turned my head to the side, Michael started in on “Time, love, and tenderness” and my eyes locked on the giant framed photo of his face. Staring at me.
And the water bed was making little slosh slosh noises...and BN was making weird slurping noises and poking me (unpleasantly) with his gigantic nose...and Michael was staring at me and singing, “Oh baby, oh baby, you just need some tiiiiime love and tendernesssssss” and BN started moving his tongue in time with the lyrics and it was FREAKING ME OUT. Time, lick, love, lick, and, lick, tenderness, three fast...lick lick lick.
And it scared me, ok.
Something about the combination of the water bed, that giant nose, and Michael Bolton timed licking knocked me off oral. It took me years not to hear that long haired fucker in my head every time a man dined in.
The one that finally managed to make it seem like a pleasure and not a thing to get out of the way was, go figure, a man whore and the kid’s dad. I’m sure he could tie cherry stems into knots with his tongue. Maybe even lift a five pound dumbbell with it.
The first time he came after me with that thing, I ran. Well, crawled relatively fast across the bed. Once I explained the problem to him, and he finished laughing hysterically, he held me down and tried to cure me. And there was no love and tenderness involved.
Now that he’s out of the picture and leading a life of abstinence, (ironic laughter) I’ve reverted back to my old issues. There’s just not been another that knows what the fuck is going on down there.
And that is how Michael Bolton gave me an oral sex complex.
The End.
It’s all Michael Bolton’s fault.
That’s right. That long haired crooner of the 90’s ruined oral sex for me.
Oh, don’t get me wrong, I liked him alright. “When a man loves a woman” was a classic...a ballad for lovers young and old. “How am I supposed to live without you” made me want to get on my knees and raise my hands to the sky and shout, “WHY! WHY!” before collapsing into a heap of teenage angst on the floor.
My mother was completely obsessed with him. I don’t mean, “Gosh, he’s just so handsome. I love his music. I have all his albums. My friends and I are so excited his concert tour is coming through!”
Nuh uh.
I mean, “OH MY FUCKING GAWD LOOK AT THAT MAAAAN! I WANT TO CLIMB UP THAT BODY AND STAY THERE TILL I MELT OFF! SCREAM! THEY’RE PLAYING MY FAVORITE SONG! IT’S MICHAEL IT’S MICHAEL! WHEN A MAAAAAN LOVES A WOOOOMAN! SWOON.”
She had so many t-shirts with his face plastered on them. Most of them were sleep shirts so she could “lie against his face”. Yeah, I’m serious.
I still remember the day the announcement came over the radio that he was coming here for a concert. We were in the car. I almost died that day. She swerved and yelled and if it’s possible to do the mambo while driving...she did it. I still blame my bad (selective) hearing on her Michael screaming fits.
She’d hidden her camera in her pants to get it into the concert and came back with 4 rolls of film. Where she put them all, I never want to know.
Evidently, while singing one of his soulful songs, Michael decided to walk down an aisle and into the fevered group of middle aged women. Schmuck.
My mom had an aisle seat. As soon as he got to her row (and I’ve heard this story 70 thousand times) he stopped. He looked at her as he crooned into the microphone. He got right.up.in.her.shit...and took her hand. After a second, she jerked her hand back, whipped out her camera, and snapped a picture right.up.in.his.shit.
Her friend said the poor man couldn’t move for about 15 seconds. Just stood their singing and blinking while my mother screamed, “MICHAEL MICHAEL I LOVE YOU”. It’s lucky for mom that her friend hid the camera. Otherwise, I never would have had the pleasure of gazing into an 8x10 blown up photo of Michael Bolton’s startled face every single day for about 10 years.
And now, we’ve come back to ME.
I was young, dumb, and full of false bravado when it came to boys.
I was also home alone quite often. My sister stayed at a sitters or a friend’s house until my mom collected her, as I was not to be trusted. Something about feeding cat food to her and her friends. Whatever.
One summer I had a very eager and experimental boyfriend that we shall call Big Nose, or BN for short.
BN didn’t live very far and he would ride his bike through the woods to come see me almost every day.
After weeks of making out, he finally convinced me to allow him access to the Holy Grail. (Yes, I said weeks. I wasn’t always slutty.) And so we progressed from only under the shirt feely action and tonsil hockey to fingering.
I was less impressed by this fingering business than my friends. Mostly because BN had no idea where the clitoris is....or probably even WHAT it is. Probably thought it was a myth, like unicorns and free hookers.
I braved his fingered onslaught like a champion, only occasionally saying, “Would you hurry up”, when he got a little too excited.
Then one afternoon he made me an offer I was too bored to refuse.
“Wanna let me...you know?”
“What”, I said, popping my gum.
“Go down?”
Big sigh. “I guess. Saved by the Bell doesn’t come on for another half hour anyway.”
He dragged me back to my parent’s bedroom, of all fucking places, because “they have a water bed and I hear it’s better.”
To which I replied, “I’m not having sex with you.”
And he said, “I know that...I mean I think it’ll be more fun.”
Gum pop. “Uh huh.”
And so we arranged ourselves on the bucking water bed. I was nervous and hiding it pretty well behind my practiced disdain.
He reached over to hit the play button on the tape player and said, “Just for a little background...” and out came Michael’s voice.
I gritted my teeth and looked up at the ceiling as he made his move.
Ok. Alright. This was fine. Weird, but fine.
As I turned my head to the side, Michael started in on “Time, love, and tenderness” and my eyes locked on the giant framed photo of his face. Staring at me.
And the water bed was making little slosh slosh noises...and BN was making weird slurping noises and poking me (unpleasantly) with his gigantic nose...and Michael was staring at me and singing, “Oh baby, oh baby, you just need some tiiiiime love and tendernesssssss” and BN started moving his tongue in time with the lyrics and it was FREAKING ME OUT. Time, lick, love, lick, and, lick, tenderness, three fast...lick lick lick.
And it scared me, ok.
Something about the combination of the water bed, that giant nose, and Michael Bolton timed licking knocked me off oral. It took me years not to hear that long haired fucker in my head every time a man dined in.
The one that finally managed to make it seem like a pleasure and not a thing to get out of the way was, go figure, a man whore and the kid’s dad. I’m sure he could tie cherry stems into knots with his tongue. Maybe even lift a five pound dumbbell with it.
The first time he came after me with that thing, I ran. Well, crawled relatively fast across the bed. Once I explained the problem to him, and he finished laughing hysterically, he held me down and tried to cure me. And there was no love and tenderness involved.
Now that he’s out of the picture and leading a life of abstinence, (ironic laughter) I’ve reverted back to my old issues. There’s just not been another that knows what the fuck is going on down there.
And that is how Michael Bolton gave me an oral sex complex.
The End.
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