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Posts Tagged ‘sex’

  1. 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

  2. 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

  3. 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

  4. 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

  5. The Twitter Hook-Up: Part 2

    February 3, 2012 by Heather Cole

    Heather

    I’ve written this post a hundred times in my head and deleted it just as many. I even imagined speaking the words to you over the phone so I could hear your voice one last time, but I knew I’d cry. I’m a fool in a lot of ways, and I see my mistakes like a neon yellow brick road stretching behind us. Hindsight being so fucking clear and all. My heart is bruised and my ego in tatters, but at least the anger is gone. Now I can sit down and put these words to paper. This is what I wish to say to you while staring into your gorgeous blue eyes, my hand cupped against the scruff of your cheek.

    Twitter was still new to me when you sent me a Direct Message. We had a few back and forth jokes to boast about on our Time Lines and some light flirting, but I was still surprised by your message. You’re a witty man. You think fast on your feet, and our conversations were playful and fun. Our banter was a beacon in the dark days of my disintegrating marriage.

    We swapped war stories about our exes, and I called you more than once in tears over some new hurt and the worries for my child. The uncanny part was our mental connection. You filled my thoughts, and my phone would vibrate moments later with a text from you. We were tender, raunchy, funny and generous with each other, and it took no time at all for my Twitter crush to shift into overdrive before I could find the safety brake.

    You were one of the first people I told about M. I was a nervous mess before I revealed this secret part of me and held my breath as I waited for you to return with a verdict. You hinted that we needed to have a serious talk. As the days stretched into weeks, your silence spoke volumes. I watched my phone obsessively, waiting for the text or call when you would finally communicate with me about it. About us.

    There’s no point in dredging up every moment, every step where I knew something wasn’t right but didn’t want to look too closely. Despite my disappointment, you continued to make me laugh. I soaked up your attention like basking in sunshine, a glimpse of light peeking through the clouds. You felt right in my heart, and I leaped into the feeling without a glance at the rocks below me. I can’t apologize for that part. I loved you. In fact, as I’m typing this, I still feel love for you.

    The promises you gave me that I was the “only one” were unnecessary. Freeing myself from the cage of my marriage meant that I wasn’t about to plunge into another commitment. I didn’t care if you were dating or fucking other women. What I asked for was honesty. So when I found out that your trip to see me also included fucking two other women, I was…

    I was standing in my kitchen, staring out the window without seeing a thing. I was crying, but it was in relief. Relief that I could let go of your judgment of me. Finally we were on equal footing.

    Then the anger arrived like the hot blast from a furnace. I called Nikki at midnight and left her a twenty minute message about what I had learned about your other relationships. Let me be very clear about this. I wasn’t pissed that you sandwiched my visit between two others, I was pissed because we didn’t use a condom. My only partner had been my husband, and you swore that you didn’t have any others. I was too excited about oral sex and an impending orgasm of epic proportions to insist. THAT is inexcusable. I’m at fault too, and I’m still kicking myself that I jeopardized the people I love the most with something so careless. When there are multiple partners, my dear, you use a fucking condom or show me the goddamn test results that you’re clean. I’ll gladly show you mine.

    Even after the emotion had washed away, I didn’t want to let you go. I think it was the vision of our potential that kept pulling me back to you, and the fact that you appreciated aspects of me that had gone unnoticed for years. Never mind that we could set a bed on fire by orgasms alone. So I stalked your TL like an obsessed detective, trying to piece together subtweets and imagined context. I combed through your mentions to scrutinize the avatars, remembering a time when you used to respond to my comments. I was unable to let go, so I made myself suffer the connection in true masochistic fashion. Until now.

    Nikki’s advice was to punch you in the nuts, and at one point, I would have delivered it with ninja-like accuracy and maniacal glee. Luckily for everyone involved (especially your future lovers) I’m not in that place any more. Instead, I wish you the best. I see you for the amazing man you are, and at the same time, see that I can’t afford to be entangled in your lies. I hope you find whatever it is that you’re looking for on your TL and the women that flock to it. Since I know for certain that you’re not looking for an STD, use a condom next time. The next vagina thanks you.

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

  6. Two Girls, A Guy and The Twitter: Heather

    January 5, 2012 by Heather Cole

    Part 2 – Heather

    I was a late bloomer and a nerd. (I’m still a nerd despite trying for years and years and years to change that.) I grew up in the middle of nowhere with a traditional rural upbringing. The message was grow up straight and strong, get married, have children and BE GOOD. And holy fuck was I a good girl. Until I discovered sex.

    I went from losing my virginity at seventeen (“Um…why is your hand down my pants?”) to maximum sex overdrive in the blink of an eye (“You want your best friend to watch? Sure!”). I made a career out of dating Bad Boys, the type that you never ever want to bring home to mother. I seduced employers and co-workers, friends and their friends’ friends. And the entire time I was thinking I was wrong somehow. Wrong for loving to fuck. Wrong for loving the connection between people getting hot and naked and sweaty. Wrong for falling, every damn fucking time, for the silver-tongued, golden-boy jock while secretly making out with his girlfriend underneath the bleachers. Luckily for me, I had my Good Girl disguise firmly in place and most people had no clue about the raunchy things I did. I was an under-the-radar sex fiend.

    Then, like Nikki, I felt like the thing missing in my life was the Right Man. So that’s what I did. I found a Right Man and married him. I even had a baby. I buried my sexual side and devoted myself to being the best wife and mother I could be, and damn, was I good at it. So good that for a very long time I forgot about that crucial missing piece.

    Just like Nikki I wrote a book and joined Twitter to learn about indie publishing and find writing friends. The last thing I was looking for was an online affair. In fact, the first time I interacted with Nikki was in a tweeted conversation, albeit a sarcastic one, about our kids. Oh, and then there was The Guy who was fucking her who also entered the conversation. And later entered me. (That story, though, is an entirely separate post because it gets kinky. Kinky in a BIG way.)

    When Nikki and I met we had a situation that could have pitted us as rivals, but all we could see was the similarities between our lives. Now we are both experiencing an amazing rebirth which includes incredible fucking. We love sex, and we’re willing to talk about it. Our kind of sex may not be your kind, but surely we can all agree that we love it. Think of us as your very best girlfriends that you can call up the morning after and laugh about taking a load of semen in your eye. (For the record, I’m the High Priestess of Rookie Mistakes.) We laugh because we know how that feels, and we LOVE to talk all about it. We particularly want to talk about this sex stuff with you.

    So leave us a question or comment, and we’ll respond. Promise! To quote one of the cheesiest lines ever, “we’ve only just begun fucking.”

    Category Soulmateclone | Tags: ,, | 1 Comment

  7. Two Girls, A Guy and The Twitter: Nikki

    January 3, 2012 by Nikki Blue

    Part 1 – Nikki

    Sex isn’t something one should be ashamed of. It’s natural. It can be sweet and gentle, or just fucking hot.

    I discovered sex at a very early age, fourteen to be exact. Once I had a firm grasp on what I was doing, the orgasms followed and I spent a good part of my young adult years on my back, my knees and various other positions that require a great deal of yoga to tolerate. I was proud of my ability to please men, always leaving them wanting more. I loved sex, and I couldn’t get enough of it. I did, however, question the normalcy of some of the desires that I had. I didn’t understand them and had no one to talk to about it. I was labeled a slut by the women while the men were ripping off my panties and throwing my legs over their shoulders.

    I eventually reached a point where I assumed I was supposed to settle down and do what was expected of me, so I married and reproduced. I suppressed my sexual needs and morphed into the happy homemaker I thought I wanted to be, losing bits and pieces of myself every day.

    14 years later, as feelings of unrest and unclaimed orgasms began to surface, I wrote my first book and created a Twitter account to learn as much as I could about publishing from social media. My voice eventually grew louder, my mouth got trashier, and my confidence blossomed, along with my sexual frustration. There was no denying it any longer. I needed to fuck again. Really fuck, as often and as dirty as I could.

    Through a mutual  fanfuckingtasticly cool tweep, I met Heather and we began to interact here and there. It took us both entering a torrid online affair with the same man to realize that we had a lot more in common than unruly kids and bad marriages. The affair opened my eyes to what I was missing, and I busted out of my suburban candy-coated shell with orgasm after screaming orgasm, always wanting more. I knew at that point there was no going back for me. Oh, and did I mention she took him from me? Yeah, she did. Snatched him right out from between my legs, but I’m ok with that because she gives him something I’m not capable of.

    So without him between us muddying the waters, our relationship grew into what it is today. We discuss everything from orgasms, to genital hair removal debacles, to divorce nightmares. We share pictures of facials, bruises and hot footwear. We have no secrets and we don’t judge lascivious behavior. In fact, we encourage it.

    Category Soulmateclone | Tags: ,, | 2 Comments