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  1. Dear Nikki: How Much is Too Much?

    June 16, 2013 by Nikki Blue

    Dear Nikki,

    I have a really great group of friends who know I’m kinky. It’s an amazing feeling to finally be myself without worrying about what others think. My friends have been very supportive of my kinky endeavors and are very open about sex themselves. We love to sit around and talk about things that would make most people’s ears hurt, but lately when I bring up sex, one friend in particular changes the subject. The first few times it happened I thought I was reading too much into it. But now she clearly takes control of the conversation or clams up altogether and I feel like she’s judging me. Should I confront her about her attitude change?

    Baffled in Baltimore

     

    Dearest Baffled,

    Coming out of the kinky closet to your friends takes sizeable gonads, my kinkalicious friend, so let me give you a big high five for that brave moment. And I agree with you wholeheartedly. It is amazing when you feel safe enough to let your hair down among friends, sharing the parts of you that normally require a super secret password to unlock. It’s like you can finally breathe. This newly found freedom, however, comes with the responsibility of establishing boundaries that everyone is comfortable with.

    I remember the hot wave of relief that rolled through me the first time I divulged my kinky nature to my friends and they didn’t hunt me down like the village ogre wielding pitchforks and buckets of holy water. It was both terrifying and exhilarating, and to my surprise, a few of them unveiled their own little juicy box of lifestyle secrets. I no longer had to hide my kinky tendencies and that level of comfort is a fan-fucking-tastic feeling. So I empathize about wanting to spew the contents of your kinky wishlist to your accepting friends.

    It sounds like one of them, at least, has had her fill of your sexploits, and she may be trying to clue you into the need for a subject change by hijacking the conversation. I understand your focus may be on sharing every delicious detail of your kinky sexcapades with your friends and you may not be thinking about limits outside of a BDSM scene, but you need to keep boundaries in mind as they relate to friendships as well.

    Balance plays an important role in any type of relationship. It’s all about give and take, and if you try to make your sex life the primary topic of conversation with your friends, you’re doing all of the taking and none of the giving. And by giving I mean listening to what they have to say about their partners and what’s going on in their lives too. You’re assuming that everyone is interested in hearing the particulars of your kinky lifestyle, and I have a sneaking suspicion this assumption is what is making your friend uncomfortable. I highly recommend you put the brakes on the sexy talk, otherwise your friend may redraw the boundaries of your friendship to include less of you in her life.

    Have a heart to heart with your friend. Ask her what is bothering her and be prepared to listen, offering an apology if you feel it’s necessary. Don’t apologize for being who you are (never apologize for that), but for monopolizing the conversation and forgetting to listen. Then maybe smoke a peace pipe, slam a shot of tequila or whatever you agree on, and get back to the give-and-take that good friends experience. Don’t get me wrong though, if your audience is open to it, you can talk about group sex and slapping your partner’s cock until the cows come home. Just remember to ask what’s new in their lives, and maybe talk about the blowout BOGO sale going on at the grocery store. Or what a douchebag your best friend’s ex-husband is.

    See? It’s all about balance, baby.

    *hugs*
    Nikki

    Category Kinky Sex | Tags: ,, | 3 Comments

  2. Anal Orgasms Are Hard, Y’all

    June 7, 2013 by Nikki Blue

    I’ve pondered anal orgasms for days now and I’m no closer to knowing what to write about them than I am to receiving a shiny Mother of the Year award for my outstanding parenting skills. I’m tired and I’m frustrated, and all I can think about is how I’d sell one of my kids to a band of gypsies for a stack of buttermilk pancakes with boysenberry syrup, but I digress.

    I realize I’m struggling with this particular subject matter because despite how often Mr. K and I have anal sex, I’ve never actually experienced an anal orgasm. Sure I’ve had clitoral orgasms during our anal sexcapades, and the delicious sensation that shoots straight to my clit when Mr. K penetrates my asshole is wickedly intense. I haven’t orgasmed from anal stimulation though. And I really want to.

    Rumor has it the female anal orgasm occurs from indirect stimulation of the G-Spot through the vaginal wall, but science suggests the nerve endings that flood the anus move through the same nerve that activates the clitoris; the pudendal nerve. So which is true? Who the fuck knows. Finding concrete information regarding the female anal orgasm has been nearly as challenging as finding a lone silver sequin in a glitter factory. Even with my internet ninja skills. Most search results provide links to videos on porn sites and we all know that’s always a credible source. *eye roll* Some argue its existence altogether, saying the anal-o is nothing more than a sexy creation of orgasm mythology.

    I disagree with the naysayers though. They’re harder to find, but there are women who have had what seems to be the elusive anal orgasm. They can be found spouting their experiences with what is apparently the Super Bowl of orgasms on FetLife, message boards, and blogs. I’ve read in some cases where anal orgasms are so powerful women have passed out from them, gushed like a fire hydrant, or they were so overwhelmed with pleasure they were left shaking uncontrollably. I confess I’m totally down with that.

    Prostate orgasms are a different story though. The interwebs are damn near busting at the html with hard facts, benefits and techniques. Using diagrams, websites and books on the art of prostate pleasure tell us the gland is located one to two inches inside a man’s rectum toward the front of his body. And they tell us that we can give our men mindblowing orgasms by massaging the walnut shaped gland with our finger or a dildo. The first time I did this to Mr. K, he found the stimulation extremely pleasurable but when he said he felt like he was going to pee I stopped, worried I was doing it wrong. But they say it’s normal for the man to feel like he’s going to pee just before a prostate orgasm. Well, “they,” whoever you are, I’ll be testing this theory when Mr. K visits in a few days.

    We spent some time today talking about my anal orgasms, or lack thereof, and Mr. K asked if there is something we’re not doing right. I didn’t have an answer for him. But realistically, orgasm or not, how can something that feels so amazing be wrong? We’re not giving up on them though. We’ve vowed to dedicate ourselves to the worthy cause of discovering the almighty anal orgasm. You know, for science.

    Category Anal Sex | Tags: ,, | 10 Comments

  3. Call Me Deep Throat Jr

    June 1, 2013 by Heather Cole

    When you’re a collared and/or owned submissive, or a submissive in a long-term dynamic, there’s often talk about training. The training can range from a basic set of assumptions like “you will text me good morning and goodnight every day” to complex and formal protocols regarding anything from kneeling when the Dominant enters the room or setting the table a certain way for every meal. Although we call it training, it’s a lot like learning your partner’s preferences in any relationship. One difference is that in our dynamic, we have punishments established for when I fail to meet the rules. Because I can be damn cheeky on occasion.

    One of the items on our training list was learning to deep throat. When sir first broached the topic, I thought he was exaggerating. He had a tendency to voice his fantasies out loud, which I adored, but hearing him describe me as a “sword swallower” made me pause. Up until that point I had never really been confident with my blowjob skills in general, so imagining myself with his cock past my tonsils and down my throat seemed beyond the realm of possibility. Plus, I have the most sensitive gag reflex in the universe! (not hyperbole) I was well into my twenties before I could manage swallowing pills. Yes, my mama crushed them up in grape jelly for me so hush. Instead of voicing my incredulity that I thought sir had me confused with a carnival performer, I replied “thy will be done” in the most un-sarcastic tone I could muster. (Yes, I really said that.)

    The next day I woke up to an email with a list of links regarding deep throat techniques from sir. He’s very thoughtful like that. I read that there was a numbing spray popular with the porn industry, but I was more interested in managing my gag reflex naturally. This meant that every day I brushed my tongue with a toothbrush, moving side to side and further and further back along the muscle, to deaden the physical reflex. Did I gag? Oh yeah. But I kept doing it.

    When sir visited, he’d test my progress by crowding his fingers in my mouth or pulling my tongue. He began giving me my vitamins, his thick fingers pushing the pills back along my tongue as I tried to relax and breathe and not bite him. I started having flashbacks to my life growing up on my grandparents’ farm. Have you ever seen livestock de-wormed? Well, pilling your slave kind of looks like that. You hold their head, there’s a struggle, eyes roll, and water and spit goes everywhere. At least I didn’t stamp my pointy hooves all over sir’s bare feet. I mean, I was mostly domesticated after all.

    The other trick of deep throating was figuring out when to breathe. When the tip of his penis reached the back of my throat, my nasal passages immediately closed up. It was a natural part to my gag reflex. If sir was moving rapidly in and out of my mouth (face fucking me) then I could manage to breathe through my mouth with the movement of his cock. Going slow and deep was a different matter. Inhaling as I went down on his cock, opened up my throat. I could stay like that with him down my throat, but eventually I needed air.

    The worst part was gagging. I learned not to eat for several hours before I saw him, and then came the day where he was ready to put me to the test. Into the shower we went. Well, he stood in the shower and I knelt outside the tub and leaned forward. He gave me a warning, and then he pushed into the back of my throat with his cock. One stroke, two strokes, and then I gagged. The first couple times weren’t bad, like when your cat is warming up a hairball–it’s more movement than actual product. But the fifth time… I vomited. Actual barf on his actual penis.

    One of the things that I adored about this man was that early on in our relationship, he told me that we were going to get messy together. He told me that he had every expectation of reaching past my sense of modesty to see all the pieces of me. Our bodies weren’t sterile machines. We sweated, we smelled of sex and other things and our bodies produced fluids. Through it all, sir encouraged me and relished the fact that I couldn’t hide myself from him.

    Coming from a long marriage where I was expected to not smell of anything but soap and pure thoughts, this part of our dynamic was refreshing and nerve wracking at the same time. When I puked on sir’s cock, I was horrified. I realized that there were people that had a fetish for that, but I wasn’t that person. Tears leaked out the corners of my eyes from throwing up as I stammered another apology.

    “The only thing I feel sorry about is that you lost your vitamins,” he said.

    I looked down in confusion and saw the mostly dissolved remnants of my daily pills. I started to laugh, amazed that I had just vomited and was feeling good about the experience. Sir said he wanted to work on deep throating a little longer, so I resumed my position and went back to it. (I puked twice more.)

    I’m happy to report that I’m even better at deep throating now. Sir and I are going to take a trip to the toy store to buy a long flexible dildo so I can work on going even further. That sounds really weird, doesn’t it? Sometimes I peek at myself from the outside and wonder, what kind of freak wants to deep throat a ten inch dildo? This freak does, my darlings. I’m going to be a great party favor.

     

    (Oh, if you’re trying this at home, make certain that you establish a noise or hand signal or smack on the thigh for when you’re in distress. This will come in handy if you’re restrained and deep throating in the shower and water goes up your nose. Trust me on this.)

     

    Category Oral Sex | Tags: ,, | 4 Comments

  4. Anal Play vs. Scat Play: Setting the Record Straight

    May 31, 2013 by Nikki Blue

    I’ve rewritten the opening paragraph of this blog post three times now and I’m still not sure I won’t come off sounding like a raging bitch, but you know what?

    Fuck it.

    Anal play has been a hot topic between Heather and me as of late. More so than usual, because Heather has been dealt a handful of harsh criticisms and unwarranted judgments that have been slung with the carelessness of mud. I think it goes without saying my hackles are raised and the claws are out in defense against this pack of close-minded kinksters who believe ALL anal activities fall into the scat play category. This, my kinky friends, is what I call bullshit.

    Viewed as extreme by the majority of kinksters, scat play is loosely defined as getting sexual pleasure from the excretion of feces. Whether it’s from the sight, smell, taste or feel of it, there are those who get off on it. Sometimes scat, also known as scatophilia, is part of a submissive’s desire to be used as a human toilet. Sometimes it’s part of enema play, and there are some Masters who incorporate it into slave training. Like many other kinksters, scat play is a hard limit for me. Like super fucking hard.  Anal play, however, refers to any sexual activity that stimulates the anus. It’s a blanket term used to describe analingus or rimming, fingering, fisting, the use of anal toys, and anal intercourse. It does NOT include the consumption of or anything else pertaining to scat.

    I give a lot of thought to anal play beforehand, making sure my ass is as clean as it can possibly be, because the last thing I want to do is give Mr. K more than he bargains for when I pull the jeweled plug from my asshole and shove it in his eager mouth. Now does that sound like scat play? Didn’t think so.

    There are some who will argue that regardless of the level of preparation, the anus is still a dirty place. I’m not naive to this. I understand that it doesn’t matter how little I eat the day I know Mr. K will worship my ass, or how well I cleanse internally with a douche bottle, there is still the possibility of trace amounts of feces. But that doesn’t stop me from kissing him after he’s tongue fucked my asshole or giving him a blow job that makes his knees buckle after he’s, well, you know. That still doesn’t classify it as scat play as far as I’m concerned.

    Scat play and anal play are clearly different fetishes and saying they are the same doesn’t make it so. I find no appeal whatsoever in scat, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to condemn a person who does either. There’s too much judgment floating around the kinky community as it is, which in Heather’s words is super shitty. And for those who don’t feel that they need more than a soapy shower before a round of anal sex, guess what: still not scat play. With that being said, all fetishes have lines that can easily blur, but with good communication and a clear understanding of limits, those lines are less likely to lose focus.

    Anal play is an important element of the sexual connection Mr. K and I share. It has been from our first night together. And as our relationship and roles have evolved, the purpose of our anal play has grown deeper. We give ourselves freely, allowing the incredible sensations, both physical and mental, to take control of our bodies. The high is more addictive than any drug. So anytime a person, kinky or otherwise, passes judgment on me because of their own hang-ups, I’ll defend myself. And when they push me into a corner trying to shove their definition of anal play down my throat or when they attempt to devalue what I feel is the most powerful expression of intimacy, back up because I’m coming out swinging.

    Category Anal Sex | Tags: ,, | 13 Comments

  5. The Period Predicament

    May 17, 2013 by Nikki Blue

    I hate my period. I hate that I feel like I could eat my children every day for an entire week leading up to it. I hate that the flow is so heavy I need to pop iron supplements like they’re tic tacs so my anemia doesn’t kick in from rapid blood loss causing my vision to blur. But what I hate the most is that when Mr. K visits, eight times out of ten, we have a messy threesome with ol’ Auntie Flo. Her presence is annoying and inconvenient, and to be honest, I don’t feel as dominant when she’s in town. I don’t feel confident enough to sit on Mr. K’s face as he worships my ass, which is something I absolutely adore, and I don’t immediately collapse on top of him in post orgasmic bliss after using him. Instead we clean each other up, rearrange the towels on the bed, and make remarks about hotel housekeeping calling the cops. The red stained sheets are usually one blood splatter away from a full-blown crime scene.

    Fortunately my periods aren’t painful. Fibroid tumors, endometriosis, or ovarian cysts aren’t the cause of my monthly deluge. Altered hormones from pregnancies and my body changing with age are. I assumed there was no solution to my problem and actually began to look forward to menopause so the situation would rectify itself. Last month was particularly brutal, so I started asking questions. My Nurse Practitioner said that up until now, healthy women our age (“our age” meaning perimenopausal) with problematic periods tend to get shafted. I don’t need a hysterectomy because my lady parts are in good shape, and I don’t need birth control pills because my tubes have been cut, burned and tied. And an endometrial ablation isn’t an option because according to the research I’ve done, good results aren’t the norm. What I do need is a period that doesn’t control what I wear or the time between bathroom visits. These days women have more options, and after reading positive reviews about a particular non-hormonal treatment, I walked away with a prescription whose price tag damn near gave me heart failure.

    Almost a week later and $109 poorer, I was preparing for my getaway with Mr. K when my period made an unexpected appearance. My first instinct was to curl into a fetal position and sob hysterically. The second was to ask Google for a magic spell that would make it disappear, because supposedly, Google knows everything. The third, and most irrational by far, was to call my pastor for an emergency prayer circle. Don’t laugh, I’m Southern Baptist. It’s what we do. But then I remembered the whole restraining order thing and quickly shelved that idea. I came to terms with the fact that once again, there would be our definition of blood play and I eventually climbed out of my self-made pit of despair. I popped two of the pills as prescribed and hoped for the best. It was really my only option.

    We didn’t notice much difference the first day. There was still blood and messed up sheets despite the carefully laid beach towels. It was then that I began to worry I was the exception and the pills wouldn’t work for me, but I continued to take them as directed. The next morning, however, there was very little blood evidence on Mr. K, and by late afternoon, there was even less. And when we got naked again that night, my period went missing. It had vanished along with my anxieties of ruined bed linens. To say that we were thrilled is a massive understatement. Mr. K exclaimed the pills were pure genius and we shared a Julie Andrews moment, but with less singing and more orgasms.

    I’m incredibly lucky that Mr. K has no qualms about the state of my vagina during my period. He earned his red wings over a year ago during our first weekend together and he continues to amaze me with how much he loves everything about my body. And now, thanks to modern medicine, I no longer have to arm wrestle Auntie Flo to prove who is more dominant. I am, and I’ll win every fucking time.

     

    Category Sex | Tags: ,, | 4 Comments

  6. A Field Guide to Hunting Unicorns

    May 2, 2013 by Nikki Blue

    According to the Urban Dictionary, a unicorn is a bisexual person, usually (though not always) female, who is willing to join an existing couple, often with the presumption that this person will date and become sexually involved with both members of that couple, and not demand anything or do anything which might cause problems or inconvenience to that couple. They are mystical, magical creatures, and the pursuit and capture of them can be quite tricky. For Mr. K and I it has been a time consuming and incredibly frustrating safari, and it seems we’ve encountered one disappointing let down after another. There were times we considered giving up the search for a unicorn altogether, questioning the legitimacy of their existence.

    We’ve been hunting them for awhile now and contrary to popular belief, most unicorns don’t have tell-tale marks separating them from the masses, making them easy to spot. They’re not covered in glitter, and they don’t wear pink leather chaps. They are masters in the art of camouflage, and they blend in well among soccer moms and business professionals. There are also different species of unicorns and it’s impossible to distinguish where they fall until you’ve already invested a significant amount of energy into learning their manner. Are they a true unicorn whose knowledge of the Unicorn Handbook is not to be trifled with? Or are they newbies with a holier-than-thou attitude when answering your sext?

    Mr. K longs to experience the magical properties of a unicorn. He wants to pet one and play with it and watch it bow its silky nose in deference to my kick-ass unicorn domination skills. Although I want to fulfill the fantasy for him, sifting through all of the fakes and wingnuts is exhausting, y’all. So, if you’re considering your own quest for the elusive unicorn, the following may save you wasted effort and a tremendous headache. Oh, and bulk up on patience because you’re gonna need it. LOTS of it.

     

    • Unicorns see in magic color vision, so when meeting one for the first time it’s best to wear colors that hold their attention, such as pinks and purples.

     

    • Unicorns love Skittles because they’re the colors of rainbows, obviously.

     

    • Some unicorns are attracted to shiny things and designer bags.

     

    • If a unicorn makes excuses about meeting face to face after sexy emails have been exchanged, or disappears altogether, they’re a dude.

     

    • When the unicorn’s cell phone in their profile photo has an antenna, odds are good that the selfie is WAY outdated.

     

    • Tasers work best in the apprehension of unicorns. They’re more discreet and less bloody than crossbows or so I’ve heard.

     

    • If a unicorn asks to move into your home as a nanny to your kids before ever setting eyes on you, she may have inhaled too much glitter over the years and is now cray-cray.

     

    • If a unicorn says that all play must be bareback because of her “allergy to all condoms,” RUN.

     

     
    Last week, I had a lunch date with a unicorn Mr. K and I recently met on a swinger site. We made arrangements to meet at a neutral location and I wore white jeans because hello, white jeans. And because the myth of unicorns states that they’re lured into captivity by a virgin dressed in white.

    Virgin… *snort*

    Anyway, I chatted with the unicorn about failed marriages, kids, careers and alligators. Her confession that she likes rope play surprised me and I might’ve purred when she said she is submissive in the bedroom. She was, however, quick to point out that she doesn’t like pain, which was a broad statement that I felt needed clarification. Does she consider nipple clamps pain? Spanking? Tit slapping? Being tied to a chair and forced to watch Twilight repeatedly?

    “Define pain.”

    She laughed when I asked, saying all of the above were acceptable except for anything that would leave marks. And sparkly vampires. She’s funny, she has quite a bit of swinging experience, and seems to have a firm grasp of unicorn-ing. She also understands that when Mr. K is in town our time together is precious and she respects that. She is looking forward to meeting us both for a drink to see if they click too.

    The perfect unicorn doesn’t exist (except for my soulmateclone), and the idea of a perfect one is an unattainable fantasy. The right unicorn is a reality, though, and both the hunter and the unicorn should be selective, taking the necessary time to make sure the situation is a good fit for all involved. Is this unicorn the right one for us? Only time will tell for sure, but right now we’re waiting patiently with our family sized bag of Skittles, and when all systems are go, we’ll cast our magic net made from pure fairy dust. Organic, of course.

     

    Category Group Sex | Tags: ,,, | 7 Comments

  7. Dear Nikki: Sometimes Size Matters

    March 29, 2013 by Nikki Blue

    Darling Nikki,

    I’m a long-limbed, lanky 6’3” man. I want to enjoy sex with my partner from behind, but when we’re on our knees the parts don’t line up so well. It takes a lot of stretching to get so low. Can you suggest any positions for such big size disparities?

    Sincerely,
    Tall Man

     

    Oh my stars, Tall Man, I haven’t been called “Darling Nikki” in ages! *ahem* But it’s not like the song was written about me or anything. That would be…pfft, that’s crazy. I mean seriously, the odds are like a bazillion to one that it was me. I confess there are some uncanny similarities, but it wasn’t me. It wasn’t!

    *wipes brow*

    Where were we? Better sex positions for big size disparities. Right. Listen, sugarbritches, one of the fantastic things about sex is that there is no wrong way to do it. Except fucking like a jack rabbit. That’s wrong, so very wrong. Anyway, sometimes we have to get creative to find what works best for us. We experiment. It’s like science, but naked.

    The first step to successful experimenting is opening the lines of communication. Don’t be embarrassed to tell your partner you want to fuck her from behind with less contortion. Have her lay on her belly with one or two pillows under her pelvis and voila! It’s like doggie style, but lazier. Plus, it’s a great position to nail her g-spot. It’s a win/win. You can also sit on your knees between hers and grip her hips, moving her back and forth. Or suggest she wear heels and pull her to the edge of the bed and stand on the floor behind her. Okay, so the heels don’t add to her height in this scenario, but they’re hot, right?

    Don’t forget that communication goes both ways. Her needs are important too. Ask what they are and if she needs to feel the intimacy of looking into your eyes and not your sternum during missionary sex, rest her legs on your shoulders and use your hands or elbows to support your weight. It will put just enough distance between you for the connection she needs.

    Another sure fire way for the naughty parts to match up is for her to sit on your lap with her legs wrapped around your waist. And if you’re a big fan of kissing like I am, this position should give her enough height for some hot and heavy tongue action. Don’t stop there though. Whether it’s Cowgirl or Reverse Cowgirl, I’ve yet to meet a man who doesn’t enjoy watching a woman bounce up and down on his cock, so lay back and let her go. This is also a great position for anal sex because she has complete control of penetration on top and you have an all access pass to her clit.

    You’re welcome.

    Sometimes there are hurdles to overcome to have the sex we want and that’s okay. With a little ingenuity and a whole lotta communication and willingness to experiment, you may find that those obstacles are nothing more than minor speed bumps on the road to deeper intimacy and mind blowing sex.

    *hugs*
    Nikki

    Category Sex | Tags: ,, | 2 Comments

  8. What’s in a Number?

    March 22, 2013 by Nikki Blue

    I was twenty-four when I wrote the list of my sexual consorts. Okay, fine. When I tried to write the list of my sexual consorts. I can’t remember if it was a particular thought that sparked the precarious trip down memory lane or if it was something someone said that triggered my body count curiosity. I do remember that I was sober. At least I think I was. I wouldn’t swear to it though, because I drank a lot of booze in those days. Okay, fine. I drank a lot more booze in those days. Nevertheless, it was a task I’d assigned myself and I was determined to recall the dirty details of my sexual past.

    The memories came easily in the beginning, flooding my brain with sights, sounds, sensations and feelings. It would seem identifying the notable landmarks of my sexual pilgrimage wasn’t the painful undertaking I’d anticipated as I recounted the names of lovers past, the lines on the yellow, legal-sized notepad filling in quickly.

    I remembered the cool night air coming in through the open windows of the 300zx as I clung to J.N.’s broad shoulders in the back, his deep voice reassuring me he’d stop if it hurt too much. And I remembered letting K.C. think he was my first because he couldn’t seem to get it in. My vag was super tight that particular night apparently. I giggled when I remembered the tickle of R.S.’s porn stache on my stomach when he licked my belly button for the first time. And I might’ve fanned myself when I thought about the quarterback ditching his prom queen girlfriend to fuck me against the field goal post after homecoming. When I tried to remember details about the bad boy though, my memory failed me.

    It had been nearly six years since I’d allowed myself to think about him. Emotionally, I couldn’t afford to. I’d managed to sidestep the psychological aftermath of our volatile relationship by turning the memories off and ignoring the heartache, numbness eventually taking its place. But the wounds were still open and they were bleeding, affecting every decision I made. I was distrustful and saw subsequent partners as playthings. And at times I was cruel, not caring how my words or actions made them feel.

    I shook off thoughts of the bad boy and forged ahead with my list, the specifics of my memories continuing to fade. Frustration mounted as I fought to recapture highlights of my sexual interludes, most of whom were men, and the struggle to remember names and locations worsened until eventually, “bartender” and “guy from gym” were the only pieces of information my memory could provide. I wanted to remember every tiny detail, but I couldn’t. I could barely remember faces and it was a bitter pill to swallow.

    Why couldn’t I remember? I could remember the smell of the fire when I fucked S.G. at his parent’s lake house when I was fifteen with perfect clarity, but I couldn’t remember the color of the guy’s eyes that I’d fucked days earlier. Irritation finally gave way to anger and I ripped the list to shreds. And like the night the bad boy threw me into the trunk of his camaro for trying to break up with him, I locked the memory of it away.

    Three years after I’d failed to complete my list of sex partners, I married a man who had supposedly slept with twelve women before me, all of whom he’d had serious relationships with. When we were still dating, he asked how many men I’d had sex with and I panicked, blurting out “ten” without hesitation. I chose ten because it was a good number. It was less than twelve and easy to remember. When I thought about it, I wondered why it mattered how many partners I’d had. It was a part of my life that had nothing to do with him, but I knew in his eyes that it had everything to do with him. He was closed-minded and superficial and if I had been honest about my numbers, I would have been labeled a slut (again) and deemed unfit for marriage. I realized I could never allow him any insight into the sexual being I really was because if I did, his judgement would be harsh.

    When my marriage collapsed, I promised myself I’d never hide who I am again. It’s not fair to anyone, especially me. I no longer wear a mask and I don’t keep secrets. What you see is what you get. And when Mr. K asked how many partners I’ve had, I didn’t falter and I answered honestly.

    “I don’t know.”

    Are my numbers higher than his? Maybe, but big fucking deal. It’s part of my past, not my present. My numbers don’t matter to him. What does matter is that my “sexy, fuckable body” is his now.

    I know now that my memories of sexual partners were sketchy after the bad boy not because of volume, but because regardless of what I did or who I did it with, it was about him in some way. Whether it was a form of retaliation, brattiness or a way of regaining the control he’d taken from me, I was subconsciously giving him the finger. And I know now that numbers are irrelevant. They don’t define who or what I am. Did I make mistakes in the past? Absolutely. Would I change any of it if I could? No fucking way. My history is what’s molded me into the person I am today and I wouldn’t change that for anyone.

    Category Sex | Tags: ,, | 30 Comments

  9. My First Orgy

    February 5, 2013 by Heather Cole

    This past Saturday I experienced a first. I attended my very first orgy with absolutely no idea of what that would entail exactly. I had some general impressions from Hollywood, of course. I’ve watched Rome on HBO, people. If orgies were like TV, then I knew what was supposed to go down: barely clothed, toga-wearing people eating and drinking, sprawled across chaise lounges, the space full of writhing bodies and wandering… hands. I had the Hollywood idea in my head of a free-for-all sex party, but it wasn’t the nudity or sex that made me nervous; I was anxious about the “free” part.

    Over the past month I’ve realized that I share best, both physically and emotionally, when I’m grounded in the surety of my relationships with my partners. This shouldn’t have been a shocking revelation, least of all to me. But when my girlfriend, Liri, invited me to an orgy thrown for her boyfriend, Matt, the free-for-all sex party sparked some anxiety. I suddenly felt uncertain. The fearful voice in my head whispered that no romantic partner of mine would want me to attend such a thing.

    I felt torn by the contradiction. On one hand I identified as a sex slave, and part of me got off on being used for sex in whatever way my partner wished. I enjoyed multiple partners in various configurations, so an orgy would appear to be right up my alley. If the writers for Rome were correct, Saturday was supposed to be about letting go to have sex with whomever crossed my lap. The flip side of that desire was that I was painfully aware of boundaries, and it was my worst nightmare to go bungling through them. Or worse, I feared that I could make a sexual advance or indulge in a sexual act that somehow jeopardized a friendship or my romantic relationships. I asked myself if it was possible to enjoy an orgy at all while honoring the parameters of my relationships and the boundaries of others.

    Some days I feel like I over-articulate my emotions, but I’ve survived a relationship where I relied on a traditional construct, a marriage contract, to convey my love and loyalty without actually voicing those sacred feelings. I’ll never take such things for granted again. And I think what I needed to hear from Zen and Liri and Boy Scout was that they felt as committed to me, in their unique and different ways, as I was to them. I needed them to know that no matter who I had sex with at the orgy, none of that jeopardized my love and relationships with them.

    I felt better after I talked to everyone, but there was one last piece I was missing. My safe haven of rules and commands where I have one focus, to serve my Sir. My poly relationships don’t work because of a list of rules we give each other. My D/s dynamic, however, works precisely for that reason. I confessed that I needed some rules in order to navigate the orgy to both Boy Scout and Liri even though it was difficult for me to voice that need out loud. I articulated that I craved to be put in my place and marked. I needed to go into that situation knowing I was owned, and even though it was a sexy free-for-all, I had to be grounded. My poly relationships were all in order. I needed my D/s dynamic to be too.

    How does this slave go about getting her needs met in the face of an impending orgy? I called it “full-blown brat mode,” and I learned some valuable things as a result. For example, I can’t say “shut up” to Sir. I can’t call him a “good boy.” And I sure as fuck can’t eat his fresh-off-the-conveyor belt Krispy Kreme donut while he’s out walking the dog. When I opened the door to Matt’s house on Saturday, I had bruises on my back and ass, compliments of Sir and his belt.

    I walked into the kitchen wearing a short black dress and red heels and got a drink. Several guests couldn’t make it, so it was going to be in intimate orgy of seven. We stood around the kitchen island making small talk and eating hors d’oeuvres until Liri asked, “why the fuck are you still wearing clothes?” I blinked at her in surprise and replied, “you didn’t tell me otherwise.” Naturally my clothes came off (I’m a good girl that way), and she invited everyone upstairs to play the game, “let’s see how many times we can make my girlfriend come.” That’s a kick ass game, by the way. I have to add that it was also a bit surreal. At one point there were four people covering parts of my body with kisses and bites as my girlfriend used the Hitachi on my clit and Laccaria used the nJoy on my G-spot. Then there was the roundtable of friendship spanks while kissing the sweet lips of the woman across the table from me. There were ice cubes on my clit as I breathed in the sweet cleavage of a voluptuous female, and I squealed against her skin when Liri left teeth marks on my red, paddled ass. Yes, I believe that can be classified as some wanton sexual revelry.

    It wasn’t an episode of Rome, though. For one thing, we weren’t paid actors who had to pretend to have sex with people that they pretended to be attracted to. There wasn’t a casting agent to ensure that every person who attended had the correct attitude for the orgy. Nor was there a script to follow where everyone fucked and was sexually satisfied. We were real people, most of us good friends, and we had regular human concerns like having a bad bout of PMS and being stressed out from an impending move. There were relationships in flux, and people who weren’t in the mood to fuck… we were regular people at an orgy with our own baggage and our own expectations that sometimes didn’t mesh.

    I had my clothes pulled off twice before I could finally get out the door, and if I wasn’t the dedicated blogger that you read here every week, I would have stayed naked and stayed a helluva lot later. But I drove home like a good writer should and texted my people that I was safe and sound and in bed. That was the best part… saying I love you to all three of them before I closed my eyes. I really am one of the luckiest girls in the world.

    Category Kinky Sex | Tags: ,,, | 15 Comments

  10. Group Sex: It ain’t a Pack of HoHos

    September 14, 2012 by Nikki Blue

    It’s a pet peeve of mine that few men take the time to read my ‘about me’ section on my Fet page before shooting a message my way. This is particularly bothersome because it took me hours and two vodka tonics to write about the qualities that make me me. Instead, they choose to ‘love’ one of my photos, usually a naked one, and send me a note saying, “I think you’re hot.” Or “hey, what’s up?” Another one of my intellectual favorites. Then there are those who barely skim over my carefully crafted…okay, booze induced profile, only connecting my heteroflexibility to my love for my soulmateclone. The assumption is often made that we come as a sexually packaged deal, like Pop-Tarts or HoHos. I roll my eyes, a lot.

    This has been a hot topic for Heather and me lately. Partly because we find it amusing. Being best friends doesn’t automatically make us bed buddies. But the main reason our presumed two-fer status is upfront and center is because we’ve been squeeing loudly about my approaching visit and the probability of play parties and other debaucherous behavior. In other words, we’re planning for a lot of nakedness. With so many bare-skinned activities on the agenda, we felt compelled to broach the subject of group sex. We realized that we needed to explore what this means for the two of us and where our boundaries lie, because in Heather’s words, that’s what best friends do for each other.

    In my twenties, the group sex I participated in usually wasn’t planned. It just happened. There was no forethought, or voiced limits, or concerns about safety. We flew blind and I thought nothing of getting naked with a group of people. I was even sober for some of the pile-ups. But regardless of my level of intoxication, I knew precisely what I was doing and had no regrets. Well, except for that one time I drank so much I couldn’t keep track of who was who, but that’s a story for another time.

    I’m a sexually adventurous woman. I always have been, and I take full responsibility for my actions. But I’ve found that some aren’t as bold as they claim to be. A friend of mine, my best friend actually, chose to shove every bit of the blame on me once the haze cleared and the reality of what we’d done the night before set in. She conveniently forgot that it was her face buried between my legs while her boyfriend used my mouth. I was the slut in the situation, and she walked away unscathed. Our friendship was damaged beyond repair.

    Bad judgment cost me a friend, and I felt the effects of that loss for a long time. We’d known each other since high school, and I felt our connection was a solid one. I found out the hard way that some bonds have limits. She didn’t abort our friendship because I knew her boyfriend wasn’t as well endowed as she claimed. She cut me out of her life because she was embarrassed that it was her tongue in my vagina. I wasn’t the one who initiated the disrobing that night. I was the only one who had experience with group sex though, and I should have known it was a mistake. I was the one who was thrown under the bus and left for dead and because of that, I look at group sex differently now. I understand that it’s not something that everyone is capable of handling. I’m more cautious, and less trusting because of the fallout that painted me as the licentious one. It’s now something I put more thought into and I tread lightly. If I suspect the slightest hint of doubt from anyone involved, I’ll call it without hesitation.

    The question is will we or won’t we, if the opportunity presents itself, get naked with each other in a group setting. Fuck yes we will. But only because we trust each other immensely. That faith in our friendship is what allows me to let my guard down and indulge in situations that I might not otherwise. Heather is the most significant relationship I’ve had in my entire life, and I would never do anything to jeopardize what we have. Because of this, we have talked about it up one side and down the other. We know exactly where we stand.

    Heather is the only person whose sincerity I’d never doubt. I’d trust her with my life. I trust that what we do when the clothes come off won’t affect our amazing friendship. We have a unique relationship that allows us the flexibility to indulge in what we enjoy without apprehension. Does this mean that when we’re alone we’ll strip down and get busy? Nope. I don’t roll that way and she has a girlfriend. But will we get down and dirty together if people are in agreement and circumstances suggest a hot mess of orgasms? You bet your sweet ass we will.

    Category Group Sex | Tags: ,, | 4 Comments

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