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‘Nikki’ Category

  1. Unhappy Wife, Unhappy Life

    April 2, 2012 by Nikki Blue

    My life has been littered with seemingly innocent moments that have moved forward with the alarming speed of an unmanned bullet train. Don’t get me wrong, the ride is a thrill in the beginning. Sometimes I’m even able to fool myself into thinking it’s what I want, but I inevitably lose my sense of direction. When I’m finally able to open my eyes after I’ve propelled forward with no safety net in place to protect me, I’m paralyzed and dry heaving in the middle of a horrifying wreckage of my own making that leaves me asking, “What. The. Fuck?”

    I don’t know why I thought my wedding day would be any different. I chose a form-fitting ivory gown because scarlet would’ve been a bit too obvious to wear on the day I would officially lay to rest the person I was in a shallow, unmarked grave. Beads of perspiration began to form above my lip as I leaned forward in the chair I was sitting on in the Bride’s Room while my dad knelt in front of me reminding me to breathe. His 3rd wife handed me a small glass of whiskey saying, “Drink it, sugar” because we’re all about class in my family. When I handed Mr. 3rd-Time’s-a-Charm the empty glass, he told me that it was ok to call it off if I had doubts and that marriage doesn’t always turn out like we expect it to. Boy, he wasn’t fucking kidding.

    But it turns out that I didn’t completely bury who I was in hopes of having the charmed life I thought I wanted. The only portion of my personality that I was able to excise was the part that encouraged my intense sexual appetite. My submissive disposition remained, and before I knew it, I had become a mindless android with only one function.

    The strong man I vowed to love until death do us part was dominant in every way but the way I needed him to be. All I wanted to do was please him, and the mere thought of his disappointment sent me crashing face first into a wall of self-degradation. He fed hungrily on the power that I gave him, never appreciating it or giving any in return. I found myself silently begging for something that my husband wasn’t capable of giving me.

    It wasn’t long after I accepted my undervalued role as my husband’s less than equal partner that I decided it was time to try my hand at reproduction. I traded in my daily chairside banter with patients who saw me as witty and charming for puzzling conversation with messy short people who clung to my legs and ate oatmeal with their fingers. I retreated into the fortified cocoon of motherhood hoping that one day I would receive validation for the complex creature that I was.

    That acceptance never came. Partially because the man that I married so many years ago really had no idea who I was. I never felt that all-embracing trust that allowed complete honesty, so I kept things to myself. I wasn’t honest about the number of sexual partners I’d had. I always figured if I didn’t have to hold up all of my fingers during the tally, he wouldn’t see me as damaged goods. I wasn’t honest about my feelings for him. I loved him, yes, but I was never head-over-heels in love with him. I wasn’t honest about my propensity to please, and I didn’t tell him that the lack of a power exchange in our relationship only escalated my need to gratify someone else.

    I’m just as much at fault in the collapse of the life we had together as he is. I realize that it wasn’t fair to him when I said, “I do, sorta,” and I’ve learned a lot from the fallout that left me bruised and bloody. I’m also thankful. I’m thankful for the children he gave me who think I’m the coolest mom ever, and love me no matter how many times I embarrass them by wearing an AC/DC T-shirt to a school fundraiser, or kick their ass playing Just Dance. Despite my flaws, and there are plenty, they think I’m pretty awesome.

    I’m still learning too, but there are a few things that I know for sure: When I race ahead at warp speed not paying attention to the voice in my head screaming, “What the fuck are you doing?” I’m not the only one who gets hurt. And I will never again give someone the gift of my submission who doesn’t understand it enough to know that a back and forth flow is vital for success or downplay the magnitude of my sexual compulsion. Most importantly, I will never ever compromise who I am for another’s approval. I am who I am, and if you don’t like me, well, fuck off.

    Category Divorce, Nikki, Sex | Tags: ,,,,,, | No Comments

  2. The Aftermath: Sex After Divorce

    March 23, 2012 by Nikki Blue

    Like Heather wrote in Busting Out, we had plans for when we were sprung from the joint. Big plans. And we spent hours and hours on the phone discussing them as our soul-sucking marriages crumbled around us. Our unholy unions seemed to mirror each other’s. We were both frantically clawing our way to the surface from the hole of unhappiness we were buried in, and we were covered in resentment and bitterness. But we were evolving. We still are and those conversations were our release, they were our hope. We perfected our diabolical laughter, and we schemed about all of the ways we were going to fuck when we escaped our self-made prisons. The explicit scenarios we rattled off sounded like scenes ripped straight from the pages of a hardcore erotica novel. We meant business. Wait, we weren’t planning to fuck each other. Well, not at that point anyway.

    Unlike Heather, I didn’t have the added worry of my kinky desires affecting the custody of my children so I created a profile on FetLife and OKCupid in addition to my Ashley Madison account. They became the gateway to getting what I’d been missing for so many years, and I admit that for a short time, the word “no” disappeared from my vocabulary altogether. I came (literally), I saw, and I conquered.

    And then one day, I abruptly woke up from my orgasm hangover and realized I had been thinking with my vagina and started thinking with my head. As I sifted through the trash heap of messages from men who claimed they were the solution to what I needed, things were suddenly different. I no longer felt the rush of planning my next orgasm. The outlets I was using to rediscover the deeply sexual being I was once upon a time transformed into more of a nuisance than an answer. Every day life took precedence again and I grew less tolerant of bullshit. I judged grammar and typos harshly, and swore if I saw one more LOL scattered throughout another trumped up profile, I was going to scratch my eyeballs until they bled profusely and stab the next man I saw with a rusty butter knife just for the principal of it. I knew then that I had reached the point where it was time to find my pants and delete my profiles.

    The harsh reality is that life doesn’t wait for you to get off of your back or sober up after divorce. It doesn’t change speeds according to what is going on in your world, and it doesn’t politely give you time to adapt. It punches you in the throat with the precision of a ninja and moves ahead whether you keep up or not. I had to re-prioritize my life without the security of a unaware husband backing me up. I got pickier. I chose quality orgasms over quantity, and I chose real life over a fantasy one. The day to day tasks are still there and new ones have been added. My book still needs to be finished, bills still need to be paid, and kids still need to be taken care of, now more than ever.

    I am now officially a divorcee, a single mother, a statistic. I’m the woman, the writer, the full-time student drinking coffee in a Barnes & Noble on Saturday night while my offspring pick out books to help them reach their reading goal. I’m a survivor, and I emerged on the other side of “divorce sex” a more judicious person. I’m happy, and I smile for multiple reasons. I smile because I’ve accomplished things that I never thought I could, I smile because I’m proud of the person that I am today, and I smile because I still have lots of orgasms.

    Category Divorce, Nikki, Sex | Tags: ,,,,,, | No Comments

  3. The Uh-Oh Moment

    February 8, 2012 by Nikki Blue

    When I was in high school, the idea of being affected by a sexually transmitted disease never crossed my wildly audacious mind. Sure I knew about them, I just didn’t put much stock into what had been so poorly preached, because like most sexually active teenagers, I thought I was invincible.

    Sex education was a topic that was buried at the bottom of our health class underneath nutrition and first aid. Our teacher did her half-assed best to make sure we were marginally educated on the dangers of STD’s. She did such a bang-up job teaching us how to prevent unwanted pregnancy that there were fourteen young mother’s-to-be in my ninth grade class alone. When their gestational condition grew too difficult to camouflage, they became the target of gossip mongers and were secretly shipped off to their great Aunt Opeline’s in Missouri for an extended vacation. Either that or they were forced into Alternative School on the other side of town. Their newborns were either placed for adoption, cared for by a grandma barely surviving on welfare and government cheese, or on rare occasions, raised by the very young newlyweds themselves.

    We didn’t think there was much to be frightened of, and if one of us became one of the unlucky statistics who contracted a venereal disease, it was easily cured. In our somewhat warped perception of reality, herpes was just unsightly cold sores, crabs were the equivalent of head lice and all it took to eradicate gonorrhea (The Clap) and chlamydia from our still blossoming bodies was a dose of good ol’ penicillin. As far as we were concerned, the most common repercussion from having irresponsible sex was pregnancy, and even that was curable, so to speak. We just didn’t hear about people getting VD. If it did happen, which I’m sure it did, no one talked about it. It was a dirty secret that was swept under the rug along with the rumor about you-know-who’s mom getting so hammered at the neighborhood block party that she fucked such-and-such’s dad behind so-and-so’s garage during the wheelbarrow race.

    As I moved into my twenties, the game changed a little as we were faced with a new and deadly crop of STD’s. AIDS reared its ugly head, and while it was mostly prevalent among the homosexual community and drug users who shared dirty needles, the number of heterosexual people who were contracting the deadly disease was on the rise. Hepatitis C also wormed its way into the party mix. Even then I was pretty reckless when it came to protecting myself. It seemed I was bullet proof as I breathed a sigh of relief every year when my test results came back negative across the board.

    Then I got married and the days of casual, hot steamy sex became the stuff of my masturbatory fantasies that carried me through the years of missionary style faked orgasms. I never imagined that one day I would once again feel the anxiety of waiting for those same test results. During the breakdown of my marriage, I made new friends. Friends who benefited me greatly, in many ways, multiple times. I was smarter this time, though, and condoms were mandatory for playtime. Pregnancy wasn’t an issue since I’d had my tubes cut, burned and tied when I delivered my second tax deduction, but a clean bill of health was.

    As my wedding vows were going down in flames, I began to notice some odd behavior that made me call my estranged husband’s fidelity into question. I didn’t care if he was fucking someone else. Honestly, I hoped he was. I wasn’t particularly worried about anything disease oriented either because I hadn’t fucked him in months and had no intention to ever again. I pondered all of this as I lay in my bed, alone in the guest room one night. As I grew tired, my thoughts drifted to the weekend of no holds barred fucking I’d experienced a few weeks prior when he took the kids on a trip. I couldn’t help but smile as the memories of hot, screaming orgasms flashed before my eyes like an x-rated slide show when reality slammed into me like a freight train. There was so much fucking that night, so many orgasms and even a little booze that it’s no surprise I didn’t immediately notice when my playpartner wasn’t wearing a condom, but at what point did it disappear? I couldn’t remember, and even though I’d made him put a new one on right away, panic set in posthaste.

    I wasted no time in scheduling a doctor’s appointment to either ease my mind or blow my world apart. As I laid there in my pink, paper dress, my feet in the stirrups and my vagina on display, I chewed nervously on my nails while I admitted to her that I’d had unprotected sex with someone other than my husband. I expressed my fear and my wish to be tested for everything.

    Again, I felt judged.

    She took the cultures she needed and handed me a prescription for bloodwork which I had done the next day. The two weeks it took to get the answers I desperately wanted was the longest two weeks of my life. I slept less than usual, barely ate and couldn’t shake the humiliation and anxiety that had settled heavily onto my shoulders. Distraction was futile and worry gnawed at my every thought like a tapeworm in my brain. Being the naturally pessimistic person I am only intensified the torment to epic proportions as I exhausted myself with research on how I would live the rest of my life with HPV, genital warts or even herpes. How one careless move would affect my future relationships, my future sex life.

    My doctor called me herself to give me the happy news that every test came back negative. I felt like I was fifteen again. I may have even rolled my eyes a little when she reminded me of the importance of condoms. I could finally stop worrying that I would be labeled a leper and move on with my life disease free.

    And I intend to keep it that way.

    Category Nikki, Sex | Tags: ,, | No Comments

  4. The Twitter Hook-Up: Part 1

    February 1, 2012 by Nikki Blue

    Nikki

    With all of the social media outlets at our fingertips today, it’s no wonder that some people view Twitter and Facebook as viable hook-up options. Personally, the only thing I use Facebook for is to find out who died so I can strike them from my Christmas card list ASAP. Nothing turns me into a raving lunatic faster than wasting stamps. Well that and stupid people.

    Anyway.

    Unlike mega dating sites eHarmony and Match.com, the anonymity of Twitter lends a certain boost of confidence to behave like an impossibly over-sexed porn star. Especially since a hefty percentage of Twitter hook-ups are nothing more than dirty direct messages and text fucking with the occasional Skype screw. You can claim to be anyone or anything you want, and no one will be the wiser. All you have to do is say you’re a Sex God and suddenly you’re a Sex God.

    The challenging part is weeding through the bullshit, and there is a ton of it. It can be overwhelming, and at times, invisible until you’re ankle-deep. There are the wanna-be’s who’ve tried to dom me on my TL. It always makes me quirk an eyebrow because a true Dom would find that behavior deplorable. Just ask one.

    There are also the players who think they have all the bases covered as they haphazardly juggle multiple playmates, not realizing that their TL reads like a laundry list of bad deeds. Unfortunately, neither do some of the women who fall into the carefully laid trap. Try to run that game on me, and you’ll get a swift punch in the nuts.

    Then the unexpected happened when I discovered an unlikely match. Well, he discovered me and when he told me his age, I just knew I was going to hell. There was no way I could take this guy’s avatar seriously, but I couldn’t stop staring at it either. And so our innocent flirtation began with subtle innuendos and polite tweets simply saying, “how’s your day gorgeous?”

    Then the DM’s began.

    In this situation, most people would assume the DM’s blasted full speed into all-out raunch, and I’m not going to lie and say that they didn’t. In the midst of them though, we took a chance and exchanged numbers and pictures. Some dirty, some not. The conversations turned deeply personal and little by little, the protective layers slowly peeled away, exposing the real people behind the fabricated personas. That’s when we began to spend hours on the phone talking about our lives, laughing about everything imaginable, and yes, making each other cum repeatedly.

    All pretenses of a customary courtship were set aside, and we fell fast and hard because the nervousness of looking perfect and how our body language was perceived wasn’t a concern. It doesn’t get any more honest that Skyping in pajamas and no make up. It’s all what you make it. Now would I go out on a second date with him that way? HELL no, but by the time we’d reached the point where Skype was the natural next step, we’d already crossed so many boundaries it didn’t matter anymore.

    Geography can be a big hurdle, but only if you make it into one. That’s the beauty of flying the friendly skies, people. My Twitter beau and I have shared our fantasies about our first meeting, the anxiety and the lust that will consume us. I imagine with all of the hot phone sex and emotional coalescing under our belt, we’re sure to be asked to leave the airport terminal for inappropriate behavior. The best thing we can do at that point is seek privacy as quickly as possible, put out the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign and fuck each other’s brains out.

    Over and over again.

    Category Nikki, Sex | Tags: ,, | No Comments