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regular lust, Uncategorized

Go Fuck Yourself

February 11, 2016

vibrator

I threw out my sex toys when I moved. They had gone unused for quite some time before that.
Like a really long time. I am not sure if they were even good anymore, do they expire like canned goods?

Had a moment of paranoia about the box exploding when the garbage men picked up the trash that week. It’s raining plastic men parts. Ha.

Had more than one moment of paranoia when I finally replaced them after years of letting the old ones collect dust. I went to the same store two days in a row and the girl behind the counter actually said…”wow, you’re back fast.” I blushed so hard my ears went hot. I mumbled something, tried to formulate an excuse for why I was back. Luckily she made me want out of her sightline which put me in the very back of the store. Found the good stuff.

Made me shy. Me…Sarah, sex shy???…haven’t been that in years.

I love sex, everybody knows. It’s not a secret.

I have no idea why I am twitchy about shopping for toys. I have no idea why the shop girl thought that was an appropriate thing to say.
To make things even worse, a group of girls came in behind me as said shop girl was testing the rather sizable rubbery goodness I had picked out to make sure it worked. I really wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. Or snatch the thing out of her hands like Gollum with the ring. But I stood, waited and paid. Brought a backpack the second time so I wasn’t seen with the discreet black bag.

I was mildly traumatized. Until I got home and tried it. Bliss.

Two things.

Why do I have some strange shame about sex toys but not the copious amounts of actual sex I have?

And second, why the ever-loving fuck did I ever stop using them in the first place? They are amazing.

Second one is easier to answer.

Stolen joy.

I eat Kraft Dinner once a year or so. I get a hankering for it, hot dogs as well, Cheez Whiz too on soft white Wonder bread, aaaaaaand now I am hungry. I know these things are terrible for me, but I indulge regardless.

This is shaping up to be my worst comparison ever. Dildos and junkfood.

Imagine telling the man you are dating/living with that you like Mac ‘n’ Cheese now and again. Suddenly every time dinner rolls around, guess what you get…elbow macaroni with dayglow orange sauce. So I didn’t let him cook anymore, he wasn’t very good at it anyways.

I got sick of it after a while.

I got sick of him too. Constant complaining about everything ever. He just had general physical and mental weakness. That, and he couldn’t change a fucking tire. Not a turn-on.

Somehow my brain equated using toys to him.
Vagina had a Pavlovian response with an equal yet opposite dryness.

“When you are only wet because of the rain”. Tori Amos

It’s time to move along now. Go on, git.

I was talking to Young Un today. He likes a girl but the sexy spark isn’t there. He accidentally sparked this article (and a quick quickie with myself). I realized as I was comforting him saying ‘we just can’t fuck outside of our people baby boy, it feels weird.” We can’t. It does feel like alien probing. Since having this realization I don’t seem to attract ‘the others’ thank fuck. Just boys who seem to have access to an instruction manual on what I like. Either that or I am easy to read.

She doesn’t go down either. If there was ‘Head Olympics’, he would win, hands down, triple gold forever. Hurts my feelings he isn’t getting any back. She isn’t the one honey. Take it from me, I know.

Weird, I just realized I went off on a tangent to avoid talking about why I feel shame buying a vibrator (or three) alone.

Ahhh, there it is. Alone, in this case Stephen King is correct, it is the most horrible word in the English language.

I feel like I am being judged as less of a woman because I am giving off the impression no one is fucking me but me.

Damned if I do damned if I don’t. I fuck too much and I am a turbo-slut. I only fuck the turbodildo3000 and I’m a pathetic spinster.

By publishing this article, I technically win.
And suddenly I am out of eggs…the sex store is right next door to the bodega…

I have my eye on a rabbit.

vibrator

www.passionprops.com

 

 

Boys

The Guest Room

December 31, 2014
~my bed~

A very long time ago a boy taught me the true meaning of intimacy.
It is not simply sleeping with someone, but beside them. Holding each other like twins in the womb.
Outside is chaos but in here we float, safe as houses.

Just like any blissful feeling, human nature dictates we chase it, covet it, lock it down, and abuse it until it loses all meaning and the original feeling.

For years I forced that concept  with other partners, never realizing that sleeping next to THAT boy was a warm and lovely manifestation of how we felt. but not the next one, he snored a lot. The one after that made me feel claustrophobic. And the one after that fit all my curves just right and let me be the big spoon so that was okay until it wasn’t. Another would caress my cheek until I woke up at 4 am and we could talk about dreams so I liked being there, but the next one was the filling in a burrito he made of all the sheets…different boys, different joys.

Dr. Suessisms aside, rocket science this is not. So why am I the only one saying anything?

I read an +Elephant Journal article,”why we sleep together” and just the title filled me with a great sense of relief, thank God, it’s not just me, and him and that other lady who thinks I am onto something. phew.

Turns out said article was advocating bed sharing. ugh. Like we need an article telling us that it’s okay to do what everybody does.
I say nay nay.
Time to open a dialog.

The following statement is true.
I love the way he looks, tastes, feels, sounds and smells.
The following statement is also true.
The sheer magnitude of his morning cuteness is enough to make me ovulate.
The following statement is also true.
After our first night together I offered up the guest room should he sleep over again.
He continues to sleep over, and he does sleep in the guest room.

(insert shock and awe)

but but but
But what?
But you said you loved all this stuff about him and he is adorable in the morning.

Those things are the truth…and so is this…

After sleeping with enough Scorpios to write a handbook* I have stumbled on the notion that their night time is precious.
Sleeping next to them is a privilege, not a right. in the past I have earned that privilege SIMPLY BY ACKNOWLEDGING IT, accepting it, not taking it personally and behaving in a reverent manner when it does happen.
I have expanded this theory to include errrrbody (even though this one is a Scorpio too, I have a problem, I need a support group.)

The following statement is false.
I care about him, adore him, respect him, want him LESS because I do not want/need to trap/sleep with him in my bed at night, after we fuck.

Out of all of the men I have slept beside, I have rarely enjoyed the experience, but when I have it’s been blissful (see; tickling my cheek and whispering dreams). my ‘twin in the womb’ was over 20 years ago, and sorry, it’s kinda hard to top. Why sully it by trying?

I have spent the better part of 18 years in relationships and due to finances, living arrangements, convenience (that in retrospect was not convenient at all) always shared a bed. Back when we slept on furs in caves, the conservation of body heat and safety in numbers made sense, but I am not a huge follower of anthropological precedents and I have a guest room with a lovely bed in it. Again, not rocket science. I also made the bed uncomplicated, in the manner of men, and removed the throw pillows. Boys don’t really like throw pillows. they tolerate them.

The following statement is true.
My dogs sleep in my bed.
(insert more shock and awe).

One keeps my belly warm, the other my feet. I don’t worry one bit about waking them up to take back the covers. they know sleeping with me is a privilege not a right.

The new hotness said, when I offered him the guest room citing the (literal) dog fight for sheets and space as one of many reasons for it…”the dogs were here first”  (see why I love how he sounds…he says shit like this)

The door to his room is shut to keep out the dogs and noise, not me. You see dearhearts, I have opposable thumbs and have been successfully operating doors for years now. If I have a bad dream, get cold or sucky for whatever reason, I am welcome on the other side of the door and the bed. Because I ASKED him and he has concrete proof of my respect for him and his space. So he knows if I am climbing into bed it’s because I need to, or it’s morning and I brought him coffee.

(come back for * “fucking scorpios, a handbook for the criminally insane” on 01.01.14)

men

Chivalry

December 23, 2014


I’m dating a new man. I use the word dating loosely, an umbrella-term for any activity wherein two people who might want to fuck go out and figure out if they do indeed want to fuck. Also, the subsequent forays for nourishment or fresh air because you have to get out of bed and stop fucking at some point.

Third date, yes, let’s make with the fucking.

I drive 2 hours into god’s good nowhere…scary. Don’t know him That well, no one can hear me scream, he’s capitol H huge (noms), could easily overpower me etc… welcome to being a woman and dating.

Louis CK does a bit about how brave women are for going out with men because statistically speaking the leading cause of harm to women is men.
Truth. Himself included.

We both knew why I was there, mostly because I said it. I am not subtle. In search of ‘morning after’ coffee, we stop at the grocery store, a man (not mine) subtly yet aggressively gets in my space. Every woman I know has an automated response…big girl panties up, defensive posture, 2 seconds later, we’re on guard. This time something wonderful happened. My date looked at me, looked at other dude and proceeded to put his shoulders back, and move ever so slightly to block me.

His body spoke in a calm, clear tone “I am right here”. I tucked myself into the safe space he made for me, and was overwhelmed with relief. I am the reigning Queen of ‘I Got This’, but do I always have to “Got This”?

We went back to his house and I fucked him, a lot, in a rather wanton manner because I felt safe. Anyone picking up what I am putting down? Trust=sex, and lots of it.

Outside of strip clubs, I cannot name one workplace where I was not harassed or abused in some way. The one I am citing now, the abuse was criminal. I worked with my ex at the time, he left me to the wolves, preferring to ‘console’ me privately and keep me leaning on him. I finally stood my ground, I was fired. He quit in what appeared to be a show of solidarity, but really, quitting jobs was a hobby of his, so the lustre flaked off that quickly. We didn’t fuck for 8 months prior to splitting. Now you picking up what I am putting down? No trust, not interested.

“Well I didn’t know what to do”, seems to be the theme of this latest great Canadian sex scandal.

Do what my new guy did.

The metamorphosis that old school chivalry must finally make.
Stand BESIDE me, not over me.

How do I express the relief in the arrival and actualization of something I had no idea was even possible but that I yearned for? In gratitude I channel my 50’s housewife and make him sweet potato pie and suck his cock like I’ve got the poison and he’s the remedy.

Uncategorized

Morning Wood

December 22, 2014
goodcross
Gotcha.
Early yesterday, I was literally stacking wood.
My father’s voice ringing in my ears, “work smart not hard dummy”.
Not once in the history of Ever did my dad ever call me dummy, my psyche added this.
Before I realized how much thought he put into everything before he started doing it, I thought he knew everything, he does. He set the bar for logic, and as I wandered out into the world, I saw how high above most it truly is.
He did say “If it starts to fall, don’t try to stop it, you can’t.” it is easier to restack wood than reattach toes.  I extrapolated, ‘try to figure out why it fell and don’t do THAT again’. Huh, good life lesson. Shit falls apart, retreat to safe distance, let it fly, put it back together, better this time. Learn but don’t dwell. You have wood to stack.
Send in the metaphors.
Just like relationships, if it doesn’t stack well in the wheelbarrow, dump it and start over, it’s just gonna give you trouble and break your toes.
The bottom row is important, it’s what you are building on and what is going to keep you warm during that snowstorm in April. Choose wisely and put some effort into it. You need the right combination of stability and space. Let it breathe.
Focus Grasshopper.
1.       1. If you put a log on the stack and it rolls, it’s just going home, let it.
2.       2. The wood will stack itself if you just zone out and let it. Stop overthinking, keep moving.
3.      3.  You will find odd pieces, this is the nature of trees, its alright.*
Often you will find a compatible odd chunk that when added to the first is just the perfect thing.
*Unless the weird one seems to need a third to keep it in place, then burn the fucker, now.
So I am looking down at a bush cord of wood, briefly contemplating, but I jump right in. Shortly after I realize need a crib stack on either side, forgot to pull good wood for that, and I should have a support on the back half, didn’t do that either. Dummy.
I started seeing a new guy. I likes him. I said to a friend yesterday I truly thought he was just some big dumb guy I could climb around on for a month. Ya, no. I like him. He’s amazing, funny, sweet and smart.
Anyone still with me? I did the same thing with the new man, jumped in all excited, didn’t think ahead. Shoulda waited and dated instead of jumping into bed on the 3rd date, but it was a really good date, and the base of the woodpile  is solid, I’m doing what I can with what I have where I am, just kinda after the fact, so far it’s working.

 

Oh, don’t forget the kindling. It’s one thing to have nice chunks of hard wood, but the little things are what start the fire.
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