Monday, January 28, 2013

Squirting... My Everest.

I, like so many, was painfully ill educated about squirting. I thought only some women were “squirters.” Only these select few had the gift. I thought when a woman squirted, the only fluid expelled was an adorable little pump. A thimble full. I never really gave squrirting much thought.

Until I met a man who loves it.

Guess who.

It was one of the first things we discussed, project wise. I think his words were, “Let’s get you squirting.”

Step One: Kegel exercises. Check. (They’re sort of a bitch to remember, though).

Step Two: G Spot Exploration and Familiarization. (Ok, fine! I’ll finger myself silly. For you, honey.)

Step Three: Learn how to Ejaculate without an Orgasm. (Slam Dunk, Ladies.)

The night I tried this, I did everything the book suggested. I laid down a towel, played some sexy music, lit some candles, poured myself a glass of wine, and settled in to play with myself.

The problem is, I felt a little silly. There was nothing stimulating me but my fingers plugging away. Then I realized. I was trying to romance myself. For fuck’s sake! I was trying to seduce myself!

And failing.

I never cum from elaborate seduction scenes. I need good old fashioned filth. So I chucked the music and put on some kinky hentai porn. I kept the candles, because I’m still a lady.

As I watched cartoon Japanese people do imaginative things to each other, my g spot started swelling. I did everything the book suggested. Stroking the soft, puffy area slowly but firmly. Pressing. Getting two fingers in my pussy and pinching.

It swelled and it swelled and it swelled.

I was laying on my back, on a towel, a pillow under my head. Girly Japanese squealing in my ears. I planted my feet and lifted my hips. I pushed, like I was trying to pee.


I kept stimulating. Masturbating. G spot. Clit. G spot.

Then I took my hands away, lifted my hips, and pushed.


Stimulate. Push. Hold. Relax Stimulate. Push. Hold. Relax. Stimulate. Push. Hold.


The tiniest feeling of liquid. A trickle.

Push. Hold. Relax. Stimulate. Push. Hold. Relax. Stimulate. Push. Hold.

A little bit more.

Stimulate. Push. Hold.

More! A gush of fluid rushed out of me. I pushed and I held and it gushed onto my towel.

Then (just as the book suggested) I changed position. I climbed onto my knees, leaning over, I braced myself on the edge of my bed with one hand and reached between my legs with the other. Stimulate! Push! Hold!

A stream of water flooded out of me! A long hard stream jetting out of my pussy with such force I heard the impact as it hit the floor. More than I thought. Harder than I thought. Pressure and momentum and I was pushing and it was rushing out like a geyser...

But I didn’t cum.

That wasn’t the point. This step was squirting without an orgasm. This was a training exercise.

And I’d succeeded. :-)

Shocked at what I’d done, I stood up and stared at the soaked towel on my floor. I couldn’t believe that had just come out of me! I got down on my knees and smelled it. Then I went to the bathroom and urinated to compare samples. Actually, both were odorless. I’d been hydrating in preparation for this exercise all day. Still. I felt certain the liquid on my floor was ejaculate.

I had ejaculated.

Grinning huge, elation flooding through me, I felt amazing. Unstoppable. Magnificent. I couldn’t wait to tell G.

I took a picture of the wet towel and sent it to him.

Then I poured myself some more wine and basked in the glow of my achievement. What’s funny is I totally forgot to keep masturbating. I didn’t finish myself that night. It didn’t even occur to me.

I went to bed feeling like a rockstar.

That was nine months ago.

I’ve squirted several times since, the exact same way. By myself. No orgasm.

I can’t cum when I squirt.

And I can’t squirt around G.

Which is really frustrating when he’s the reason I started doing this in the first place. Once, he was out of town and I spent every day he was gone practicing. I had a routine. I squirted every day. Like a champ. Good squirts- squirts that shot several feet. Squirts that came quickly. Super squirts.

The moment he climbed between my legs, I was as dry as the Sahara.



I get nervous :-( About many things. What he’s seeing, what could go wrong, and most often... what if I can’t do it?

Performance anxiety. Plain and simple. As soon as he’s looking, I can’t squirt. I even tried videotaping myself for him, so he’d know i wasn’t full of lies! But the MOMENT I pressed record, I went dry. If the camera was off,  wet city.

I’m an actress! I’ve acted in front of thousands of people. I’ve sang. I’ve danced.  I’ve cried. I even showed my tits to a room full of strangers.

I do not get performance anxiety.

God! Until now! Fucking fucking fucking frustrating! The more I fail, the more I want it, the harder I try, the more I fail.

I want to squirt.

I want to cum when I squirt.

I want to squirt in front of my boyfriend.

And I want it now.

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

My Number

My number represents a huge insecurity of mine. Every time my number rises, I worry. I’m that much more tarnished. That much less preserved. I’m worth that much less.

When I met G, I’d slept with three men. Two of them were drunken impulses when I was sixteen and rebeling. I regretted these repeatedly during my last relationship. How nice it would have been to be able to say my boyfriend was the only man I’d ever been with.

I’m more used to regretting sexual partners than not.

The other night, G and I talked about our numbers. I brought it up. He knew I’d been with three men when he met me. He asked me what my number was now, and I panicked. I was ashamed. It was higher than I wanted it to be. I didn’t want to tell him, and I sidestepped the question.

The truth is, my number is painful for me. It’s a weight. I carry the men I’ve slept with, like they’re a secret shame. Besides G, I regret every man I let inside me this past year. Starting with-

The Burnout.

He was an artist on the Westside. Forty four years old and stoned from the moment he opened his eyes until the moment he passed out.

He had difficulty achieving and maintaining an erection. Which would be fine, except what it meant for me during sex. He used to draw all the way out and slam painfully back into me- over and over in an effort to achieve sensation. A task that would be easier if I let him take off the condom, or so he told me every fucking chance he got. Once he even tried sneaking it off during sex. Is that the filthiest thing you’ve ever heard? I got up and tried leaving, only to have him chase me into the street and tell me his life wouldn’t be the same if I drove away. Highly dramatic.

Actually he was nice, and I felt guilty every time I tried breaking it off. He “wanted to fight for me.” It was flattering and sad, and I was too awkward and nervous to end it definitively.

I’d see him once a week and get loaded every time. So when the sex rolled around, it wasn’t that bad because I was drunk and numb.

But one night I stayed sober. And when he took me, it hurt so bad... Usually when we’d have sex, I’d struggle not to move. Then inevitably, I’d fail. The pain would cause me hips to jump involuntarily, and he’d slam into my ass and crush his penis. Unable to recover, he’d roll over apologizing that the sex was done, and I’d tell him it was ok and to go to sleep. Relieved.  

I remember sober night vividly. I clutched the blankets, screwing up my face and trying not to move. It was terrible! Being sober, the pain was so much worse than I remembered... I was laying there, taking it, and I thought Why am I doing this to myself? I will NEVER put myself through this again.

And I didn’t. But the next man I slept with was much, much worse...

The Bulgarian

He was the first friend I met who was open about his kinkiness. A computer tech in North Hollywood. Having extremely limited exposure to sadomasochism, I was curious about his life. He had a girlfriend, and he enjoyed watchng her with other men. If you recall from One-Sided Fidelity, I toyed with the idea of finding a cuckold myself. So I wanted to learn about his interest.

We met a few times to taste whiskeys and chat. I admit that I flirted with him, but I turned him down every time a serious advance was made. He assured me it wouldn’t be cheating because of his relationship’s unique circumstances, but something about his assurance didn’t sit right.

One night near his apartment, we met for a couple drinks. When we left, I told him I needed to eat something before I drove myself home. Due to my dietary restrictions, he offered to feed me something from his own kitchen. A bowl of cereal.

After I ate, he started touching me.

I didn’t want to sleep with him.

... but I had this series of thoughts... I met him for drinks. I flirted with him. I came up to his apartment... I realized I had given him every sign to come for me.  I hadn’t meant to, but that’s what I’d done. Add to that the fact that I’d already rejected him twice...

It sounds crazy, but to reject him in that moment seemed... rude.

I felt.. paralyzed. Uncertain what to do. Unsure of what to say.

So I said nothing.

I said nothing as he put a condom on. I said nothing as he fucked me. I said nothing when he climbed off.

I remained silent and unmoving the entire time. Not believing it was about to happen.. happening.. happened.

Not lifting a finger or speaking a word to stop it.

He spoke first. Offering to let me stay a few more minutes, but letting me know I needed to leave. I looked at him and said, “Because your girlfriend will be home?”


Oh my god. Now I was a party to cheating AND asked to leave the moment he stood up.

I picked up my shoes and walked out the front door, buckled them onto my feet in the elevator, and waited until I reached my car before bursting into tears.

I cried the entire way home, those hard sobs when you try to inhale but keep wheezing. I cried so hard my vision blurred, and I couldn’t follow my navigation. It must have rerouted me five times.

I thought about the fantasies I’ve always had. Of being used. My imaginary sex life always involved a man using me for sex, reducing me to a body and nothing more.

But the reality... it was horrible. To be used for sex. To be fucked and then asked to leave. To feel like nothing but a receptacle.

I wished that I’d been raped. Because then it wouldn’t have been my fault. I would have been a victim.

But I was no victim. I’d let it all happen to me. Let it happen, despite not wanting it to. Let a man I didn’t want- fuck me, without even saying the word “no.”

And now he was a number! Forever- forever he’d be a man I had sex with. He was a number in my life. I’d given that to him. This awful, awful man who I HATED NOW! He was a fucking number.

When I got home, I parked on the street. My dog was inside. Every time I got home, my sweet, darling little girl would jump and lick me and get so excited to see me! So happy!

I sat in my car because I couldn’t face her. My dog. I couldn’t face my dog, because she’d be so happy, and I felt crushed, and I couldn’t deal with that.

So I sat in my car for half an hour. Crying and then sitting in silence and then crying again. Like a lunatic. The truth is, I wasn’t thinking rationally. I wasn’t thinking at all. I had this impulse to call G. For some reason. I wanted to call him just to tell him what happened.

I called him. And it went to voicemail, and I hung up. I kept sitting there. Silence. Cry. Silence. Then I called him again. Again it went to voicemail, and this time after hanging up I looked at the time.


God! It was almost one in the morning. What was I doing calling him? He was home in bed with his wife, for Christ’s sake! What was wrong with me?

I went inside and saw my dog. I ate, smoked, and drank myself to unconsciousness.

I never told anyone.

G never asked me why I’d called him. I assumed he didn’t notice the anomaly in his call log. I thought about the respect the Bulgarian didn’t show me. Yes, I assume responsibility for what happened, but the way he treated me wasn’t right.

I wanted to find a man who wouldn’t deceive me about his girlfriend. I wanted to find a man who’d treat me with respect. The next man I met was...

The Con Artist

This is one of the strangest, most diabolical stories I’ve ever heard of. Let alone lived through.

The con artist was a man I met online. He invented a woman and assumed her identity when speaking to me. He convinced me (as this imaginary woman) that he was a cuckquean who desperately wanted me to date her boyfriend.

I fell for it.

He’s an actor who lives downtown. I’d like to say he’s a shitty actor, but any 33 year old man who can effectively portray a 27 year old woman isn’t too terrible.

He was a “catfisher.” I just learned that word. Someone who assumes a false identity online, in order to seduce a stranger.  

This is too long and too horrible a story to tell with any brevity. It deserves its own post, and I plan to write it.

As far as the sex...

The first night we shared, he went down on me. It wasn’t working. I told him I wouldn’t be able to cum that way, and he said, “You’ll cum. You’ll cum.”

The eating wouldn’t stop. I tried telling him it wouldn’t happen! But he insisted it would... I felt so guilty and awkward! I really wanted to cum, but I didn’t know what to do after I’d already said something... So for the first time since I was sixteen, I faked it.

Apparently, I still had the gift.

Anyway, it wasn’t the sex that disturbed me. It was the deception.

I’ll explain more later. The way he lied... but trust me when I say he deceived me more fully than anyone in my life ever has. He left a scar. And now he’s a number, too.

The Friend

G was becoming a hard act to follow. When venting to a girlfriend, I mentioned I was having the best sex of my life, but only sporadically. Dating was a headache and I wanted a break, but more good sex would be nice...

She said, “I should introduce you to Hal!” Hal was a good friend of her’s and since they’d slept together years ago, she personally vouched that he was wonderful!


Actually, Hal’s become a good friend of mine. And we did embark on the “friends with benefits” experiment. The thing about Hal is, he’s the least kinky person I’ve ever met in my life. I mean, ZERO kink. Nothing. Nada. I questioned him extensively, and there was nothing there. I don’t ever use the word “vanilla,” but that’s the only word for him.

I asked him what kind of porn he looked at. Just a penis and a vagina. That’s all he needs. He doesn’t waiver or vary or wonder. Just a penis and a vagina. There’s something charming about a pussy being the only thing he needs in the bedroom. It’s the same quality that endeared my ex boyfriend to me. Simplicity.

… But I need more.

So I asked him to tie me up. I’ll give him props for trying. He tied my legs together by winding one rope around them over and over, like I was the pole of a candy cane. I remember thinking, “Why is he tying my legs together?”

He reached the same conclusion a few minutes later. Whoops. It got awkward, and he had to readjust the ropes, essentially untying me again. But here’s what surprised me...

We tried the rope on another night, and he did the exact same thing!

I’ll say two things for my friend Hal. The first thing is that he made me cum once. Which considering we slept together four times, gives him a 25% success rate. And that ain’t bad, because making me cum is extremely difficult. I dated the artist for months, and he made that basket twice. The Bulgarian- no, obviously. The con artist- nope. So my friend Hal’s batting average is nothing to sneeze at.

The second thing I’ll say for him is, he always treated me with respect. Which is more than I can say for...

The Date Rapist

What is the problem men have with condoms?

With the exception of the one-time-Bulgarian, every single man on this list gave me SHIT about condoms. While we were having sex. I tell you what, fellas, nothing gets a girl wetter than hearing the following:

“I can’t feel anything with this on.”

“I can’t wait for you to let me fuck you without a condom.”

“Will you at least let me fuck you without this for a few seconds?””

ALL of this was spoken to me DURING SEX. What is wrong with everyone?? Didn’t they know that was the most insulting, least sexy thing I could possibly hear? God!

The Date Rapist lived in Brentwood. He originally told me he was 43. A few dates later, he was 45. The next week he was 51, at which point I checked his license. 

I told this gent that protection was a must, and he did nothing but try negotiating with me during our first few (chaste) dates. We had dinner with a doctor friend of his, and he actually said to the doctor, “Tell her it’s ok to sleep with me without a condom. Tell her how clean I am.”

After the good doctor assured me this was true, I said, “And what’s your specialty?”


Like I’m so much of an idiot, I’ll believe your buddy cardiologist’s sage medical advice to go fucking without a condom. Also, a heart and a penis are the same thing.

Men have this tendency to assume I’m stupid.

When we did finally fool around, he began heading in that direction.. sans condom. I said, “You can’t.”

I placed my hand on his chest, but I didn’t push. I just left it there weakly, like this “No Entrance” sign weathered and hanging from one nail. An indication you shouldn’t go forward, but not an intimidating one.

I said, “You can’t you can’t you can’t.” But I said it in this timid little girl voice. I didn’t speak firmly or sharply. I didn’t yell. Later I’d wonder if my protestations were taken as foreplay.

Because he fucked me.

I froze. That same shock, that paralysis I exhibited on the Bulgarian’s couch. Something was happening. Something I didn’t want, and I froze like a deer in the headlights. I literally stopped moving.

He asked me if I liked it.

I didn’t say anything.

He asked, “Do you want me to take it out?”

A window opening. I said, “Yes. Take it out.”

And he did.

For a few seconds.

Then without a word, he fucked me again. And again I didn’t yell or push or swear. I felt unsure of what to do... struck dumb.

I didn’t want him to cum in me. When I knew he was close, I told him to cum ON me. And his charming response was, “It’s too late. I’m cumming.”

And then it was over.

Here’s why that was the worst part. No one had ever cum in me. I’d been with my ex boyfriend for almost a decade, but I was never on the pill. We always pulled out or used a condom. He never came in me. So no one ever had. And... I liked that. I thought it would be something special when it happened. We grownups don’t have a lot of firsts left. That seemed like an important one. And he’d taken it from me.

I immediately went to his bathroom and cried. Then I booked it to his freezer, where I started shooting his schmancy tequila.

I told G about this experience, and he used the term “date rape.” That’s not the way I envisioned a date rape scenario. I still don’t know if this counts, technically. It seems like a grey area. But a really shitty shade of grey.

The strange thing is, I felt compelled to keep seeing him after that. I hated what happened, and I thought, if we wind up together, none of this will matter. If we end up in a long term relationship, he would have been the first one to cum in me anyway. And I wont look back at this experience with regret and shame. It would be just a misunderstanding.

So I tried. And tried and tried... Tried up until we were staying in San Diego and got into a late night shouting match. Tried up until I used the phrase “date rape” during said shouting match. At which point he screamed, “Get the fuck out!” And I obliged

Anyone reading this will probably think I’m a blubbering mess. That I revel in drama and cry frequently. I don’t.

But I was crying when I picked up my car. This thoughtful teenage valet said, “Are you ok?”

I nodded, sniffling. Then I apologized.

He said, “That’s ok. I have sisters.”

To this day, that strikes me as the sweetest, most adorable thing he could have said. Whoever marries that valet is a lucky girl.

And so that’s my story. Those are the men I’ve slept with.

Where was G during all of this?


He was the constant. There when I started seeing someone, there when I ended it. There in between.

I would text him from my dates. Check my phone from restaurant tables. If G ever called me while I was out with someone else, I would have gone to him in a second.

It was never a question where my allegiance lay, but that's not because I'm a bad person. I went out with every new guy in an effort to find a legitimate relationship. f tried. I wanted them to work out.

I kept looking for someone to help me transition out of my kept arrangement. It felt like the right thing to do. My next step. The healthy choice. That's what any psychologist would prescribe, right? Find a normal relationship...

Imagine my consternation when every man I met only highlighted the rarity of what I had with G. After every time I suffered from an unfortunate sexual encounter, G would pay me a visit. Roll me around, make me cum, hold me... I'd feel beautiful and sexy and taken care of. He'd tease me until I begged him to take me. Begged him for more. He made me happy. The difference was so great... this stark contrast between him and everyone else who touched me.

I felt safe. And appreciated. And valued.

It’s ironic that the least seedy, most honest relationship I had was with a married man. And the man I felt most respected by was the one who did the most scandalous things to me...;-)

He could come into my apartment, use my mouth, slap me on the ass, and leave. And I’d feel more valued after that encounter than after a night long rendezvous with a man I was legitimately dating. Because there was always an underlying respect. A care. I knew if I ever became uncomfortable or unhappy, he’d fix it. If I was hurt or in trouble, he’d help me.

Sex with G never pinches or stings. I never apologize. I’m never distracted or guilty or afraid. It’s fun. I think about it... I want it.

And I know it’s difficult to make me cum, but he does it all the time! Good cums, too... the really hard kind I can’t do to myself.

I made a comment to G that ALL the other sex I've had was bad... he shot me this look like, “Yeah, yeah. Shovel it somewhere else.” Which is kind of insulting, because I’m not in the habit of stroking my lovers’ egos. I certainly never did this for any of the aforementioned men.

I don’t think G can relate, because he doesn’t have bad sex. If i had to guess, I’d say 5% of the sex he has is mediocre. Just ok. The other 95% is super duper. Yay for G.

Sex never meant much to me before now. I had sex, and it was good, and I got off. But before this year, I never knew how great it could be. And I never knew how terrible it could be. I’ve learned sex is important.

Sex has effects on us that are greater than seem reasonable, for a basic physical act. There’s something about sex...

It can do anything. Bring us closer together, drive us apart, make us deliriously happy, or devastate us irreparably.

I shouldn’t regret any of my sexual partners, because I’ve “learned from them all.” But that feels like bullshit. I wish I could buy into it, but... I regret. I regret every man but two.

I hate my number.

I hate what my number represents. I hate that now, any man I might meet and fall in love with will ask. And I’ll tell him. And he’ll know..

I don’t like what my number says about me.

It feels high. I increased my number by 200% in the last year.

I tripled my number.

I hate my number.


Friday, January 18, 2013


This morning I had breakfast in a delightfully tacky diner. My dining companion was a lovely woman I met through work. She's got voluminous wavy hair and shining brown eyes like Judy Garland. Though we're on friendly terms, today was set aside for discussing business. However, try as we might to remain on topic, invariably our conversation strayed to more interesting topics...

Judy is charmingly childlike. Married to the boy she met at 17. their's is the only relationship they've ever known. I assumed she was contentedly nestled into a conservative lifestyle.

I was wrong.

She recently watched a comedy, in which the characters visited a swingers' club. This led her into a quizzical diatribe about what kinds of people would patronize swingers' clubs, where swingers' clubs might exist, what the inside of one might look like...

As I listened to her, I gathered that this wasn't the first time she'd wondered. Though she blanketed her interest with jokes and lightheartedness, swing clubs were a genuine curiosity of hers. In fact, she became so animated in her imaginings, she didn't even hear me when I said, "I've been to one." She kept adorably prattling on about how ridiculous they probably were in real life, how the reality probably wouldn't match the expectation...

She hadn't heard me the first time, and I didn't need to open my mouth again. I almost didn't... My private life is my own, and I (like anyone) am reluctant to divulge something controversial about my sexuality, for fear of judgment. Also, my relationship with this woman was primarily professional. I didn't want to tarnish or confuse our interactions.

But there was something about the way she spoke... telling me she and her husband had even talked about going to one.. "but it would probably be awful. I mean, we'd never ACTUALLY go..." I saw this sizzle in her, this pulsing desire, this voice needing to be heard...

How much had she wondered about this, without the sanctuary of a woman to confide in? How many unanswered questions have floated through her mind...?

I made a decision. And this time I spoke up. "I've been to one."

She froze.

She smiled.

Her enthusiasm skyrocketed.

Pelting me with questions, wanting to hear everything, she listened in rapture as I told her my less-than-fascinating anecdote. She seemed relieved. Relieved to stumble upon someone she could open up to...

She told me about her sex life with her husband. She told me how comfortable she was with her husband admiring other women (not that i know anything about that- wink). And then the kicker.

She said, "I bet there are more couples interested in bringing another woman into their bed, than couples looking for another man."

"There are."

"I mean, because women are more open to experimenting with other women. Generally. Probably."


"Yeah,.. Because, even when you're looking at porn, we're all looking at the women, right? Just because... women are prettier. I mean, they're more visually appealing. In porn."

It was so obvious! So obvious that I knew her story before she had to tell me. She was interested in girls, she and her husband have thought about a threesome, and for one reason or another- it's never happened. I knew it. I was sitting there, listening, and I knew.

So how to get her to admit it?

Well, there's only one way...

I said, "I've had a threesome."

"You have?" Cue wide eyes and that cheek-splitting grin. I affirmed that I had, indeed, had a threesome. More than one. And that they're wonderful.

Guess what? She told me she's interested in girls, she and her husband have thought about a threesome, and it hasn't happened yet. Shocker ;-)

Apparently, a while back she had a friend of hers lined up for the big event. The night before, her friend called and bailed.

Women are SO FLAKY.

I sympathized and encouraged her to try again. These things take time to arrange, but they're worth the effort. She was so genuinely happy to have someone to talk about this to.

Can you believe she hasn't told a soul?

No one but her husband knows about these interests. None of her friends are open or adventurous enough to understand. She keeps it bottled up inside of her. I can't imagine. I'd find it terrible not having a single girlfriend to share my own thoughts and feelings with. I have ONE girlfriend who knows about this blog, and I adore sharing my exploits with her. She's interested and encouraging and insightful. Having these marvelous adventures and keeping them all to myself would be torture. When something delicious or enlightening or terrifying happens to you, you need that person to run to. Someone who can listen without shock or judgment. Someone to accept and support you.

My breakfast companion asked me if we could go to that swing club together, just as innocent observers. She's ready to explore and learn. She wants to get in touch with that side of herself. I want these things for her, too.

I thought it was important I write about this. Because I KNOW there are more women riddled with desires, and suffering from not having an outlet.

We're all so gun shy. So repressed and embarrassed. I'm the same. I almost didn't give her the window to confess, because it would require my own confession. I almost let the moment pass.

We need to be less inhibited. If we make the effort to be a little more open, we may discover the people around us are the same. We need each other. Need to relate. Need to know we're not alone in our impulses and proclivities.

I was terrified of divulging my fixation on a man's sexual thought process, but I've received encouraging responses, including two women who feel the same way. I'm so grateful to learn I'm not alone! That no one judges, or thinks I suffer from gender confusion. Though anonymous, I'm talking. And I'm relating. And it's exceptionally therapeutic.

I offered therapy to my friend this morning, just in the form of an ear and a like mind.

Pay attention to others' body language. Their voices. The subtle clues that give them away. The jokes, the shifting, the downward cast eyes... and offer them an opportunity to connect.


Tuesday, January 15, 2013

One-Sided Fidelity

When I first met G, I assumed “being kept” would involve sexual fidelity on my end. I knew he was married and had intimate encounters with other women, but I thought that (given the nature of our blossoming relationship), he’d expect to be the only man for me.

We were in a hotel room, enjoying a day time rendezvous. He was face down, and I was giving him a back massage. He was surprised to hear how little I went “out,” never having gone to a club, never having gone dancing, always remaining at home and preferring the company of my books to sexy Los Angelians… He told me I was young and should be enjoying my life. Enjoying people. Having sex.

I said, “Well, I’m not going to sleep around.”

He said, “I didn’t say sleep around.” But then he shrugged his shoulders, as though that was what he implied, or that it wasn’t his place to judge…

That sucked.

My feelings were hurt…  and yet I KNEW that was ridiculous! The objective, rational side of myself was happy at this revelation. Oh how nice… he’s going to lift me up, and he expects no amount of fidelity in return. I’ll be able to have my cake and eat it, too. When I’m ready to date, I’ll be able to do so freely. Cool.

But it bugged me. I was impressed with how un-jealous and fair-minded he was… but it bugged me.

For a few months, I didn’t do any dating. Remember I’d recently ended a long term relationship. But the day after Valentine’s day, G asked me via text if I’d had a date the night before. I answered that I had, and he wrote,

“Good. Xo”

Good? Good? That asshole. Fine, if he was so glad I was dating, I’d do it a lot more.  And I did.

Childish? Of course, I don't pretend otherwise. You'll notice a theme of mine is trying to grow up. As is pouting and stomping my feet when I fail.


I understood it made things less complicated for him if I dated other men. I felt him constantly worrying that I’d receive the wrong impression about a future for us, since there is no future for us. And since I was so obviously crazy about him, he worried I’d let my heart run away from my head. That I’d picture sunset run-a-ways. That I’d get my heart broken. His encouragement of my dating other people was a measure to protect me. I understood that, too.

But I thought it could bother him a little. 

I mean, he could at least PRETEND to be bothered in order to preserve my ego.

I remember the most jealous I ever was of Mrs G. I picked up her husband after he’d done some drinking and took him home with me for a visit. I never asked him questions about his marriage, because I thought they’d be intrusive. His private life was private, and I respected that. But… when he was buzzed and talking about it anyway, I took advantage and asked him something I’d been dying to for months.

Whether Mrs. G slept with other men.

She did not.

I asked, “Because it would bother you?”

He said,“Yeah, it would bother me.” And then he trailed off saying other things that I honestly don’t remember because I was so jealous I lost focus.

Ok, yes. I had already assumed that was their dynamic, but without confirmation I could convince myself it was an open marriage and he was incapable of possessiveness.  But nope! Not anymore. He didn’t want other men touching her, but he wanted me to go whoring it up all over LA.

I know I can’t compare my relationship with G to the one he shares with his wife. They’re in an actual relationship. They’re real in a way G and I never will be. But… I couldn’t help feeling insulted. This knowledge hurt both my pride and my feelings.

I couldn’t exactly TELL him that, could I? What would I say? 1) He’d worry I expected more from “us” than was right. And 2) It seemed crazy! Why would I want such a thing?

My desire for him to keep me all to himself couldn’t be healthy, could it? I should be dating and gaining experience and transitioning out of my Kept arrangement with G into something more orthodox. Healthy choices… Dating was the healthy thing. Like taking your medicine.

Unfortunately, medicine always tastes like shit. Sometimes dating was fun, but mostly it was like sucking on a mouthful of Robitussin.

Eventually G and I reached a more honest point in our relationship. I started saying that I wanted him to be the only man touching me, the only man inside me… these confessions were uttered between the sheets, but they were true.

I liked saying them, but what I needed was to HEAR them from him. And while he seemed to like what he heard, he never reciprocated the desire. I had to remain content with the fact that he wasn’t disputing me.

One day after a brief east coast dalliance with G, I took a flight home by myself. I masturbated in the plane lavatory with a tiny vibrating bullet. I fantasized about G telling me I was his… reminding me that he could fuck his wife whenever he wanted and any other woman he felt like…but that no other man could lay his hands on me. That I was only his to fuck… I came that way, in the tiny metal bathroom.

That evening  in a remarkably good mood, I agreed to go with a couple new friends to my first bondage party. I dressed in lingerie and stockings and texted G about my plans. One of the things he wrote back was, “I’m jealous.”

What he meant was, I’m jealous that you have a fun night out planned, and I’m staying home.

What my desperate, eager little brain thought he meant was, I’m jealous because you’re getting all sexed up and you’ll be around horny men all night. (As though he was exhibiting a twinge of territorialism).

I felt so happy! I immediately wrote back about how glad I was to hear that, what I thought about when I was masturbating on the plane, how I’d wanted to hear him say that for a long time…

… Until two minutes later when I realized my mistake. I was mortified. So hungry for him to be jealous, I imagined he told me what I wanted to hear. I hate embarrassment. On Clarissa Explains It All, Melissa Joan Hart used to say, “Embarrassment is my least favorite emotion.”  I think about that quotation a lot. It’s my least favorite, too, Clarissa.

That’s one reason the night progressed the way it did. I was in a bad mood all evening, sipping a poorly mixed cocktail and wanting to be alone. I was alone when I sat on the edge of a dais in my lingerie, watching a man beat two women while they squealed and tried to protect each other. After “the scene” was over, the beater came and sat next to me. He was dripping in sweat. I indicated his forehead and said, “Hard work?”  

He told me later I was “choice of the night” and that every Dom there noticed me the moment I walked in. How flattering. I was feeling low and therefore in a receptive mood for flattery. That’s probably one reason I didn’t stop what happened next. That, and it happened so fast! One moment we were talking, and the next he wrapped his hand around my throat and pulled me over his lap, sliding an electrical knife down my body.

This led to an extended session of our own. Things went farther than I would have consented to, had I been asked beforehand. I'm not saying he crossed any lines as it happened… it’s complicated when something like this is happening to you. I’ll expand on that another time. I’ll say this much. I was beaten, exposed, and kissed.

The odd thing is, I thought about G the whole time. I remember specifically lying on a backwards chair and getting flogged, thinking about G… because it felt like I was cheating on him. My neckline was around my waist by that point, and my breasts were mashed against the chair’s cold leather as the flogger’s strokes rained down on my bare skin. I thought about my earlier text, the way I’d embarrassed myself. I thought that just because I wanted G to care this was happening, didn’t mean he would.

So I let it continue.

The next day I told G what happened. And after a day’s contemplation, he told me (drumroll please…)

that it bothered him.


The thought of another man touching my ass or pussy made him feel “nauseated.” Not the choicest of words to rev my kinky little engine, but I still ate it up… later upon reflection, I grew to like his diction. “Nauseated” is so much more visceral than “angry” or “upset.” Nauseated…

The problem is, G’s too good of a guy. He was so aware of the imbalance in our situation… he didn’t feel decent asking for or expecting my fidelity. He thought it would be the height of hypocrisy. Which it is!.. But that’s what gets me off. The unfairness. I hadn’t properly communicated to him that I wanted the unfairness. That it was exciting to me for my own twisted reasons.

I couldn’t communicate these things to him blatantly… I was embarrassed, and I didn’t want him to think I was misinterpreting our relationship. So I kept my mouth shut. Until…

The next time I saw him. We were in bed, and I told him I thought he should be the only man I slept with. He hesitated momentarily, and I asked, “Don’t you want it?”

He said, “Of course I want it.”

Of course I want it…

Mmmmm.  Tell me that’s not the yummiest thing you’ve ever heard. As though his desire to have me to himself should have been obvious.

I said, “Put your hand between my legs, so you can feel how wet that makes me.”

That’s all it took. Once I said that, it was on. Like once he understood it was a sex thing, a switch was flipped.

That's my baby.

He told me everything I’d been dying to hear. How I’d only be with him, only touched by him, felt by him, taken by him… The sex was hot… hearing these words spill out of him, words I’d been aching to hear for such a long time, all while being taken with force.. At one point he used the word “demand.” In regards to my fidelity, he said, “I demand it.”

Uhhhh… I’ve relived that moment many times. For my fidelity to be demanded… not requested or hoped for.. but demanded. I loved it. My physical needs were met that day, but more importantly, this twisted, psychological desire of mine was satisfied.

As he left, he said he was glad we’d gotten this straightened out, because he “doesn’t share well.”

I love that about him.

It’s so strange… when I first started sleeping with G, given that we were knowingly entering a temporary relationship, albeit an addictive one, we used to consider finding me a cuckold. If I fell for the right man with the right predilection, G and I could sleep together indefinitely… Just a couple-a crazy kids, married to some cucks, bangin' each others' brains out… happily ever after.

I know now I could never be happy with a cuckold. I don’t like being with more than one man. Women are a different story. I consider myself to be currently positioned in the ideal situation. I can get all the yummy, giddy fun of first meetings, flirtations, saucy encounters (with women), but I get the deeper satisfaction of remaining un-shared by my male lover.

These circumstances would be enough to make me happy, but getting to bring my women to G so he can enjoy them, and getting to arouse him with the stories of my lesbian exploits are all icings on my cake.

Instead of finding a cuck, I turned out to be one.

G could ask me for pretty much any sexual deviancy... but if he decided to share me with another man, it would break my heart.

I’ve been doing a lot of research on cuckquean forums and messageboards. What I’ve heard from a few women I’ve asked, is that their choice to be faithful stems primarily from indifference toward other men. They don’t sleep with other men, simply because they have no interest in it. It’s a secondary, if not tertiary, aspect to their cuck relationships.

For me, it might be the most important thing. I derive a significant amount of pleasure from NOT being shared. It’s crucial. I like being owned, controlled, possessed…

…Kept. ;-)