Last word

Some words feel too alien to be true, even when they are. It makes them hard to say, even harder to discuss and defend. I don’t handle it well. A sentence causes hurt and denial and anger and pleas and I have no words, nothing to offer that doesn’t make it worse.

This isn’t working.

We’re not–we can’t be–a couple.

We’ve been together more than a decade. We moved states away with nothing but each other, twice. Said vows between the arms of a hurricane. I didn’t want kids, he got surgery so we could be sure. We’ve boosted (or sometimes dragged) each other over the day to day obstacles of work and life and academia. Eleven years, almost twelve. Some of it has been good. Some, unbearable.

It isn’t working.

Too many arguments. Too much damage control, too little ability to understand each other. Too much guilt. Because it can be controlled, all this damage, but one of us is gunpowder and the other is flame. How much time, how much effort, before the hazards of staying together aren’t worth it anymore?

There is shouting, tears. Not so much fighting as being miserable at each other in the same room. First he says fine, I’ll go, find a place to stay right now; if we’re not together I can’t bear to be here. Then it’s please, I can’t live without you, just stay, we’ll figure something out. I try to list steps we can take, so we might do this calmly, though neither of us is calm. I say I’m sorry. It doesn’t help. We’re still broken.

We are both essentially single for the first time in our adult lives. He denies it, and I don’t have the energy to say it again. I slink off to another room, fail to be productive, wish I were alone in a quiet that didn’t touch anyone else’s life, where no one else could touch mine.

There are things I know: that this is my fault, that it needs to be dealt with, decisions made, that I cannot put off or put on him. That I am controlling and hurtful and not to be trusted. That the boundaries I set are not fair, that they make intimacy all but impossible. That this is not going to change. That I am not wholly sane, not wholly sure about the things I think I know.

It isn’t working and I feel like an imposter. How can I write about relationships here when mine all fail so spectacularly all at once? How can I be allowed (yes, really, I am) to provide counseling on sexual behavior and boundaries and the rest? Why do people keep asking for relationship advice and how dare I say “I’ll try” instead of “dear God, run, ask anyone but me”?

I’m shutting down and shutting people out. It seems safer for everyone, though this time I’m aware that it is also selfish. This is terrible timing, though no timing would be good. Final week of semester. Papers and exams and presentations demand attention. Applying for jobs. I am avoiding the necessary conversations, not even sure I can form the right words.

It isn’t working. What else is there to say?


“I’m not enough.” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard it. The lament of the insecure. The plea for attention. The moment when desire, sex, or love stops growing. Enough drags us down to huddle in austerity. “I’m not enough for you,” as though anyone could be, or should be.

“How awful would that be? How terrible to live surrounded by the stark, sharp, hollowness of things that simply were enough?” (The Slow Regard of Silent Things. Patrick Rothfuss)

I don’t want to be enough. I want you clamoring, insatiable, aching for more. I want “let me catch my breath” to crumble into a moment that means more than breathing. I have let you break me open like a pomegranate, and no, of course you don’t owe me anything but I would be proud to stain your mouth, your hands. To have your fingers scrape every last inch of me. It’s not greedy if I’m grateful. Enough? If I consumed you whole it would not be enough, and why would I want it to?

I don’t want to be enough. I want to be too much, overwhelming, terrifying. I want you to need to step back, attenuate with something or someone else to keep from being totally subsumed. I want to be the fever dreams you can’t quite remember and can’t stop thinking about. I am a natural disaster, terrible, unsafe. If you are who I think you are, you long to chase storms. If it is too much and you still want more, I will say yes. If it destroys me I will still say yes.

If I am enough? Then you’ve had enough of me. Move on. Go gently, if you can, but move on. If I want you, I won’t think just enough is worth your time.


We know bisexual erasure is real. The San Francisco Human Rights Commission published a detailed report addressing it. Meta-analysis of published medical literature shows a stark difference between the number of articles that use the term bisexual and those that actually analyze or discuss it. Bisexual erasure even has its own Wikipedia page. We know it exists because we know what people say, over and over, when we try to come out.

What I didn’t know was how pervasive it is, how few resources exist for individuals, health care providers, researchers, anyone.

Search for “bisexual” on, and it returns 1520 results. That’s respectable. Hard to complain. Except those results aren’t real. After a few pages of seeing “bisexual” only in the context of the larger LGBT community or in the phrase “gay and bisexual and other men who have sex with men,” I looked closer.

Of the first thousand results for “bisexual,” five address bisexuals separately from other groups. Five.


Those five aren’t stellar, either. None is a useful resource for individuals or healthcare providers. One explicitly chooses to refer to women who have sex with women as lesbians regardless of their self-identity or behavior with men. And my favorite exists only to warn straight women of the dangers of bi men:

case example bisexual cdc
Biphobia as edutainment!

The page about stigma for gay and bisexual men talks about homophobia. It talks about same sex relationships and legal rights.

It doesn’t say a word about biphobia. It doesn’t mention the struggle of coming out and being told you’re wrong, you don’t exist, you’re lying. It doesn’t address that bisexuals are stigmatized by gay communities as well as straight. It doesn’t talk about the higher rates of intimate partner violence bisexuals experience.

And people don’t think it matters. They derail. “What is on that page is important, it’s a useful resource!” Yes, it is. For gay people. For those aspects of the law that affect bi and gay folk similarly. But it is not a page for gay and bisexual men. It is a page for gay men. It assumes bi men are just men with a gay half that can use those resources and a straight half that doesn’t need them. Either that or it’s just paying lip service and doesn’t actually acknowledge bi folk exist.

This is important. We need resources, acknowledgement, information. We don’t need these things because there’s something wrong with us, we need them because we’re human and everyone does. Gay and lesbian needs are finally being taken seriously. Not enough and not by everyone, but it’s happening. That’s fantastic. What’s not okay is tacking “bisexual” on as an afterthought to the name without seeing if what’s offered is helpful or useless or even actively harms us and telling us to be grateful to be included at all.

I’ve e-mailed the CDC about this. They’ve not responded. But I’d like to note it’s not just them. The NIH, APA, and WHO resources appear at first glance just as likely to elide bisexuality into the LGBT or “gay and-” label. I just don’t have the graph porn finished to show it yet.


“I keep telling myself I won’t come back here.” He’s sprawled in my chair, clutching one of my books.

“We don’t have to have sex. That’s not the only reason I call, you know.” It doesn’t occur to me until much later that it’s the only reason he answers.

“When you called–I was trying to figure out how to break up with you. Except I can’t.”

I laugh. He looks up at me. “Sorry, just…wouldn’t we have to be together before we could break up?”

“Well, if you’re going to be sensible about it…”

“So why can’t you?”


“Stop coming back. It’s because I beat you at Smash Bros, isn’t it. You want a rematch.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely not it.” He stands up, looking for a place to put the book down. I get up and put it away before I give him my attention.

We’re face to face and too close to be coy. I take his hat off to run my fingers through his hair. He leans into me, close enough that his nose brushes my cheek and then bumps closer. Close enough that not kissing is unreasonable, deliberate torment.

“We don’t have to.”

“Do you want to?”

“Yes, but you’re always miserable after.” I’ve pulled back. “I like sex. I like sex with you. I don’t want to be the awful woman who makes you sin.”

“Awful.” His voice is soft, his mouth so close to mine. “You aren’t making me do anything. Only making me want to.” I don’t know what to say. My hands are on his hip, on the back of his neck. All I want to do is pull him closer. I’ve initiated every time and I’m afraid he only half wants it. I stand still. He moves closer. “Lord, give me temperance…but not yet.”

Not yet. I don’t kiss him and he doesn’t kiss me. We let go, slam together with the inevitability of gravity. His weight and his intensity drive me back until my legs hit the bed. When I fall I drag him after me. His teeth close on my throat. I’m trying to stay quiet, not sure if my roommate is home. She used to go out with him. I’m not sure how awkward this is for her. I’m pulling his hair, snarling, wrapping my legs around him. I want to tear his clothes off. I have no intention of putting enough distance between us to get him out of them.

He rolls away to unbutton my shirt. There’s no fumbling: he’s neat and focused. I fling the shirt on the floor as soon as I can jerk my arms out of it. I reach to untuck his but he pulls back. “Did I do that?”

I look down. My upper arms are covered in leopard-spot bruises. “Yeah.” I grin. “I think you missed a spot.”

He runs his hands over my shoulders, too gently. I lean into the pressure, groan a little when he tightens his grip. His mouth lands on mine. It’s unexpected–I’ve kissed him before, and he kisses well, but he always moves away to kiss and bite every other inch of skin he can find. This time I hold him in place. We don’t break apart until I pull his t-shirt over his head.

I slide out of the rest of my clothes and onto his lap. He reaches between my legs to pop the button on his jeans, then stops. “Condoms?”

Hell. “Yes, but not– Roommate needed–” I trail off. He doesn’t need to know she’s fucking someone else, or who. “I don’t know if she’s home.” I keep a bowl of them on my desk. They don’t fit him and neither of us needs the fear of another one breaking.

“Not when I got here.” He stands up. “I know where she keeps them. I’ll explain if she’s here.” I consider arguing that I should go, but he has clothes on and I don’t. I nod. He’s only gone a few seconds, long enough for me to get nervous again. He notices. “You okay?”

I stand to put my arms around his neck. “Could be better.” He grins and lets me pull his face up to mine. I’m biting his lip hard. He dips slightly, pushing his jeans down. He catches my thighs in his hands as he straightens back up, lifts me off the ground. We teeter a moment before tumbling onto the bed. He lands on top of me. His hand slides up my thigh. I’m gasping, pushing closer to him, but he shoves me down. His teeth close on flesh an inch below my collarbone. I curl my fingers in his hair, not sure whether to pull him closer or away. “Will you please fuck me already?”

There’s a moment of fumbling with the condom. He’s shy of being watched, and I like his shyness. “Are you sure–?” I pull his hips toward me. “Yes.” He pushes into me slowly. He’s watching my face, almost comically concerned. It does hurt. His cock is the largest I’ve seen and I’m not in the habit of using lube. But I like the pain. I thrust against him hard, making us both groan out loud. I hold still, a shivering line of tension from shoulder to cunt. It takes a moment before I can stop gasping long enough to speak. “Fuck me. Hard.”

It’s his turn to shiver. He does, choking out half-sentences between gasps while I dig my nails into his back. I’m not listening. I tell him to bite, yes, harder, and he does, with one hand over my mouth to muffle the screaming when I come. And again. We’re all shuddering sweat and sound blending together. He moans “I’m going to…ngh. Please–”

I don’t remember if I answered–I was somewhere past words and his “please” pushed me over the edge again. His whole body jerked, knocked the breath out of me. When he rolled over he pulled me on top of him and held on tight.

We lay there a long time, not talking, or if we did talk it wasn’t about much. I asked if he was going to stay the night. He wasn’t, and he took that as his cue to check the time and pull on his jeans. I watch from bed, too content to move.

“Still think you’re going to stop coming back here?”

He grins at me from the doorway. “Not yet.”

e[lust] #64

Cheeky minx
Photo courtesy of Cheeky Minx

Welcome to Elust #64

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #65? Start with the rules, come back December1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

On a special note I want to mention that the judges voting on Elust is often very close, this month more than most. You all do such fine work that it is very hard for us to come up with the final results.

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Ownership: On Sexuality & Feminine Relations

Tool Time

Seven – A Fairytale of Sorts

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

The Love Letter of O
To My Single Submissive Friends – Be Brave

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
What S/He Said: Pressing Stop

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!


Writing about Writing

How We Talk About Play

Erotic Fiction

The Warehouse
Taking Chance
The Little Mermaid
Trick or Treat
Bad Sex Turns Good
Shall We Dance?
Let’s Play a Game (Spuffy Erotica)

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

A MakeLoveNotPorn Reality Check
Pondering Dildos as Art
Where does bdsm come from? Other species/
A Females Perspective on Extreme Feminists

Erotic Non-Fiction

Fucking on Facebook
A lot of Patience
Hands Away
Tall Dark and Handsome Pleasant Surprise
Torture His Balls. Tease His Cock.
Caning Sometime?
I Took my Pony Slave Shopping
Private Dancer
Earning Pleasure The Hard Way
At the Movies

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Finding Shelter in the Shadows.
My First Scarification
Q: “What’s stopping me from reporting owner?”
Squirting…Fact Not Fiction-Part 3

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Shiny Lesbian Syndrome
Losing it, asking for it
How I Handle Being A Parent & Sex Positive
Sex as the most intimate performance
The crowded mirror
Sex Hangover


Penisaurus – a Lusty Limerick


Sex toys are NOT required for fantastic sex
My paint brush is empty.


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I am setting my feelings outside myself. They are too much to hold inside right now and I don’t have the time, I just don’t have the time.

To be busy–to choose to be busy–is to choose not to be present in oneself. I know this. I understand that it is avoidance and good for no one. But so am I–good for no one, least of all myself. The emotions aren’t good. I don’t want them and I don’t know what to do with them.

Lonelyandsad is quiet, at least. If I stop moving, choose not to be busy, it will lumber over and lie on top of me with a sigh. It might be comfortable if it weren’t so heavy. If I am busy it stares from corners, never quite out of sight. It is patient. Distracting.

Toloveyou is insistent. It paws at me. Check your phone, check your phone, check your phone. I try to be gentle when I push it away. It comes barreling back, nips and pulls. It is naive, unused to change. It is not the only toloveyou I’ve had. It will learn soon enough that sweetness and earnestness and hope don’t change anything, spend more time sleeping out of sight.

Fearandtrembling is never far. It peers and pecks at everything, pulls it apart layer by layer looking for tricks and traps and danger. Whatever is delicate and innocent will end up shredded on the floor with the rest, but I don’t dare take it away.

Unwanted creatures, all. They can’t be part of me, they’re too alien and thoughtless for that, but they’re still mine to care for and control. I don’t know how.

Hurt Me

“Please choke me.”

He will. His hand will close around my throat until my lungs burn, until my eyes water, until my body’s fight to breathe makes me shake. I gasp when he lets go. The air won’t come. I have to peel off each breath like a ragged strip of wallpaper. I recover quickly, hungry for him. He shoves me away with a hand tight around my throat before I can bring my mouth to his.

“Please bite me.”

He will. His teeth close around my nipple, building pressure while I writhe and grind against him, sobbing between tea-kettle shrieks. He almost almost almost breaks skin. The surface will scab over tomorrow though it doesn’t bleed. He’s on the edge of tearing me apart while I try to tear myself away.

“Please hit me.”

He will. His fist will send tremors through my thigh, over and over. He might let me twist some new target into reach, work me over like dough folding under his hands. Or he might pin me down, make a swollen, purple mess of me, reduce me to a few small inches of exploding pain.

“Please don’t lie to me.”

He will. I’m trying not to ask “what’s her name?” Trying not to wonder if she’s young, if she knows she’s not the only one, if she trusts him. If I were a better person, I might even care.

I ask for what I need. I’m not too proud for that. He says yes, always. He follows through, sometimes. I’m grateful every time he does. I can’t get angry when he doesn’t.

There’s plenty to say. Volumes, easily. But I’m tired and I’ve said it all before and nothing’s changed. I’ve run out of words. There’s nothing left but “please,” and pleas don’t mean a damn thing.