Tag Archives: sex

Need To

I’m a lover of lists, and plans. Every week I open my day planner, draw in the outlines of each day’s schedule–the meetings planned long in advance, the deadlines. I add in errands, reminders. Monday, groceries. Wednesday, make spare keys. Friday, play games. As things come up, the sketch of my day is fleshed out, filled in. Have lunch with this friend. Drop into that colleague’s office. Sew the button back on to these pants.

Crossing items off is soothing. Satisfying. Affirming, even: I said I would do this thing (if only to myself), and I did it. I’ve fulfilled my duties, gotten through what I need to do, earned the blank hours of time my day planner doesn’t presume to chart.

The last month has not, in day planner terms, gone well at all. Items pushed to the next day, and the next, then the next week. I send apologies, trim all but the bones from my projects, but still every line of every day is filled. Still so many lines are going uncrossed. I need to write that paper. Need to stop ignoring this blog. Need to do laundry. Need to sew that button back on to these fucking pants, the ones I’m wearing right now that are driving me up the wall.

The need-to list crowds out the rest. The uncharted hours don’t feel earned. Maybe I’ll try to poke at work or catch up on chores. More likely I’ll sit, text, feel too much guilt over being unproductive to allow myself a book or a night out, knowing that not-relaxing is just going to make tomorrow more stressful. Knowing that if I can not-relax, I will.

So I drove twelve hours and change to fuck a friend for a weekend before turning around and driving back home.

I had a psychiatrist once who suggested I manage anxiety with casual sex. Call a friend with benefits, go to a swinger’s club, be safe of course but unwind. It was a good suggestion: sex is an outlet for all that nervous energy. It was a good suggestion but I’m not taking it much lately. Used to be a week without sex felt like an unbearably long time. (All right, it still feels that way.) Lately six weeks or more isn’t unusual. No partners in the state. It’s something I could change: I’m frequently reminded that there are about a million apps for that, but frankly it feels like just adding another stressor to the need-to list: find a partner.

I don’t have time for that. God, especially after indulging in last weekend. I need to write that paper. Need to do laundry. Need to sew that button back on to these pants.

There’s a chance the burden at work will decrease in a few weeks. (Honestly I’ll probably quit if it doesn’t.) Now I’ve moved and unpacked, things at home are starting to calm down. There’s a hope of getting back to days that are filled with lines I can actually cross off.

Until then, it would be nice if I could fill the prescription for casual sex alongside all my other meds.

Room for Improvement 

I’m pretty sure I’m not good at sucking cock.

It’s a shame. I love doing it. I’m greedy for it, even. With my latest partner (this boy who is definitely not a virgin anymore and probably needs a nickname here since I keep fucking him), I try to get him off with my mouth every time we get together. He says it feels incredible. He says it’s a mental block, not anything I’m doing. Whatever the reason, I can’t make him come.

He’s not the first. The person I was married to was more blunt (“your mouth doesn’t feel good. Stop trying.”) Another partner more jovially says that there are other ways he’d rather come anyway. One blamed the size of his cock (I have small mouth. Had-to-have-permanent-teeth-removed-because-they-didn’t-fit-in-my-jaw small.) Another said he’d just never been able to get into getting head. And most of the rest have come, and seemed to enjoy it. (I’m not secretly a lamprey or anything; it’s not that bad…I hope.)

And maybe blowjobs aren’t everyone’s thing and that’s fine. I’m not going to push or pout if someone doesn’t want it. It’s when they say they do want it… it’s when I definitely want it… and we can’t quite get what we want out of it. It’s both of us feeling guilty about substandard performance and cementing another layer on top of our walls of performance anxiety. Because no way that makes anything more difficult.

I’m not going to fall apart, start rending my garments or gnashing my teeth (well, maybe garment-rending, if someone asks nicely). My ego can handle my being less than awesome at sucking cock…mostly. But it’s been enough now that I don’t quite trust “it’s not you, it’s me,” and I’m not sure what to do about that.

Just practice, I guess.

Be a Better Lover

It’s not about lasting longer. It’s not about a set of techniques.

I love the idea of getting someone so turned on they can’t hold back from orgasm for more than a moment. So when a man (it’s always a man) tells me he’s deliberately holding back an orgasm to “be a better lover” or “because I don’t want to be selfish,” I want to tear my hair out. “Better lover” looks like code for proving some kind of masculinity or winning an internal endurance contest, not about a partner’s pleasure. Most women don’t orgasm due to penetration alone at all–prolonging it isn’t going to eventually overcome the secret barrier to unlocking her orgasm-from-penetration, it’s just going to chafe eventually. I am one of the ones who can get off that way, but that doesn’t mean I want endless PiV intercourse (see chafing above).

Another common “better lover” technique that has to have high failure rates is taking something that worked with another partner or partners, or something seen in porn, read about in Cosmo, whatever, and ignoring its effectiveness on the actual person you’re in bed with. If a partner stops you, says or signals that something doesn’t feel good, or just doesn’t respond positively to something, odds are it’s not super amazing for that partner. And for god’s sake if your partner says “that’s not working/I don’t like that,” stop doing it. Don’t just obliviously continue. Don’t try again after a few minutes. Just stop. The last time I was with one partner he kept trying to do this uncomfortable two-finger thing to my clit while we were fucking, even after a “that’s making me cringe. Not good.” I’m not real keen on sleeping with him a next time, no matter how exciting his other partners find it. And don’t act like your partner is malfunctioning if they don’t like Magical Finger Technique #3 that was so great with your girlfriend six years ago. You wouldn’t sulk or suggest something’s wrong with a partner who doesn’t eat shrimp just because six-years-ago-girlfriend loved them, would you? Why is sex different?

If you want to be a better lover, stop listening to magazines and ads that tell you what women like or what men want. They’re useless. Listen to your partner. No woman is the amalgam Woman of a Cosmopolitan magazine poll. Ask what they want, listen to the answer, and (unless it crosses some boundary of yours) do that thing. Listen to feedback. Improve. If one of my partners did all the things that I find fucking amazing in bed to someone else, the most common response would be along the lines of “Jesus fuck what is wrong with you? Slow down! Not so hard!” If someone tried slow, sensuous, light touches with me and didn’t escalate relatively quickly…I’d probably suggest we watch a movie instead. There’s no manual. There are no cheat codes. There’s just talking and trying and finding what works.

Mirage

It’s the first hot day, the first day of skin baking as soon as you step outside, of air that scalds your lungs when you breathe deep. I’m lying in the grass eating apricots that she won’t touch. Too warm, she says. Like eating small furred creatures alive. (She says “souris”–mice, not “creatures,” but it’s small, burrowing things she calls to mind). The heat makes my scalp itch. She’s pacing like a tiger in a cage. We’re alone as far as we can see: shimmering air, our picnic bag, Mad, and me.

“You are going to burn.” She’s pouting.

“So are you. Should we find some shade?”

“Too hot. We will die here, all burned up and blistered.”

“Oh. In that case you should kiss me.”

“Tu es folle?”

“You won’t give me a dying wish?”

“Tu veux un baiser?” She’s smiling, finally, looking down at me.

“Yes. No. Je veux…baise moi?”

“I knew you would say that.” She’s grinning. It wouldn’t be the first time we fucked outside. There’s no one here. I hold my breath. She shakes her head. “How can you think like that, it’s so hot.”

She isn’t touching me, and I don’t think she will. It’s too hot. My hair is shifting in the grass. I stifle a shudder at the image of fire ants marching through it. I’m sweating, my shirt stuck to my skin. I am trying to remember that she is delicate. Under this sun, she wilts. Under her, I turn cracked and hard. I want to kiss her–yes, even sticky with apricots. Even with sweat drying salt on my skin. I want her hands creeping under my clothes, clawing, burrowing for cooler earth straight through me. I am wishing her poise would melt along with her makeup, am comforted that it does not. I crave her something vicious and irritable. I want to kiss her like a cottonmouth strikes, again, and again, long after my venom runs out. I want to lick the shimmer from her skin. I want her to make me forget the redness blooming across my skin.

But she is waiting for me to stand, and when I do her kiss is soothing. “Let’s go.” I let myself be soothed.

We leave apricots and dented grass behind.

Bareback

I carry a pile of condoms in my purse. I like to have a variety. “Classic,” large, non-latex, internal. There’s one specially shaped to improve sensation for uncircumcised penises. One in black latex with a raised design that I honestly can barely feel, but the size and shape work for a variety of penises and when you roll it onto a dick it looks like a fuckable work of art, so on balance I’m a fan.

I carry condoms even though in Louisiana doing so can be considered enough evidence of prostitution to arrest. I hand them out by the thousands, literally (I work in sexual health). I’ve even stuck a couple to the fridge in case my roommates find themselves in need of one. I do this because as a prevention tool, condoms are versatile and effective.

I do not use condoms consistently.

Choosing not to use them is a big deal for me. Working in public health drills a very specific message into you, and that message is WEAR A CONDOM! Every act, every time, even for oral sex, unless you’re in a 100% mutually monogamous long term relationship and you’re 300% sure your partner isn’t cheating and even then…maybe wear a condom.

It’s not advice that works for everyone. To be perfectly honest, it’s not advice that works for most people. It doesn’t always work for me.

I’m not monogamous. (I know, you’re shocked. I’ll let that sink in.) Currently, I don’t even have any long-term relationship type partners. I have a couple of friends with benefits who live out of state, and another lover even farther away. Visits with any of them are infrequent.

The lover is a woman I’ve written about before (and whom I haven’t seen in a year, but I’m hoping to soon). We don’t use barriers for fucking with hands, and I can’t remember the last time I used one for oral sex with anyone. When we fucked the same man, we insisted on a new condom every time he switched between us. He didn’t understand why, but he didn’t argue.

One friend with benefits is married/poly. He doesn’t use condoms with his wife, does with everyone else. We still let each other know when we get STI screening (twice a year, for me)–condoms aren’t always effective against all the things.

The other is a boy who hadn’t had sex with anyone before me, and still hasn’t with anyone else. The first time, and the next visit, we used condoms. A lot of them–it’s not often I find someone willing to try to keep up with me when I’m in the mood for an all-weekend sex marathon. (Aside: this poor man, when he starts seeing someone not me…)

Before the following visit I asked if he wanted me to stock up on condoms. Neither of us was having condomless sex with anyone else. I hadn’t been with anyone else, period, since months before my last STI panel. I use a copper IUD for birth control, and while any birth control method can fail, the IUD has effectiveness similar to tubal ligation; I don’t really worry. And I like the mess of fluids, maybe partly because they’re taboo. He didn’t have a preference either way, so we decided to go without, at least until/unless one of us wanted to pick them back up again.

It’s not as straightforward, for me, as being fluid bonded with this person/those two, not with anyone else. It’s a topic that has to be revisited, fairly often, and I’ve definitely had partners (including my ex-spouse) bristle at the conversation. It’s not what works for everyone, but it seems to be what works best for me.

Three Days (in moments)

This is how to fit months of sexual tension into three days:

My stilettos threaten to slip between cracks on the deck. I have to stop kissing him to take them off. I have to stop kissing him and his hand draws back from under my skirt and I can’t stand it, not even for a second. I’ve been too long without kissing. I need more.


I’d forgotten how messy sex without condoms can be. I’d forgotten how much I love it. I’m forgetting words other than “yes” and “more” and “please.” He’s still looking at me like I’m performing miracles every time I come. I don’t know why. I don’t want it to stop.


He says “I need to fuck you” but it only makes me moan. I have his cock in my mouth. His hand is trembling in my hair. It almost feels like hes pushing me away, apologizing as he thrusts into my throat. I’m struggling not to gag, but the struggle makes me want this more. This is what I’m greedy for: feeling him tremble, hearing him gasp. I want to be solid while he quakes. I don’t want to stop.

He stops me. I’m pulled up his body into kisses that are all hunger and teeth. He says “I need to fuck you.”

I tell him “no.” Our bodies are pressed together. I writhe. He shakes.

“I need to fuck you.”

“No.”

He’s pleading, between kisses, for anything more than kissing. I tell him “no” as I slide two fingers into my cunt. I try to keep kissing him though I’m struggling for balance and for breath. He’s making a face like he’s in pain. I want to draw this out, seeing him this desperate, but it’s too much. I make myself come, far too quickly.

He insists it went on for hours.


Kissing, every moment I can steal one. In my hammock. Through the walls of a grave. In the passenger seat of my car, my knees around his hips, hoping my skirt drapes over his hands. I can’t get enough. He doesn’t try to stop me.


I fall asleep, or into something spinning and dark that might be sleep. He wakes up to ask if I’m okay, more than once. I’m okay, nervous about being not-okay but not uncomfortable being touched. We don’t sleep late, up near sunrise and unable to keep our hands off of each other.


I’m half-growling at him to fuck me. He knows I’m sore already. I know neither of us really cares. He pauses anyway. Asks if I’m sure. I’m more than sure. Demanding. He says “yes, ma’am,” and I don’t know whether it’s the words or finally feeling him inside me that makes me moan. His mouth is everywhere. On my mouth, holding me quiet. Teeth on my breast, making my body arch up into his. I keep asking for more. He keeps giving it to me.


We need to leave for the airport. He’s complaining that my underwear’s teasing, that he can see too much through the mesh, so I take it off. He reaches under my dress as we kiss goodbye, briefly slips his fingers into me before getting out of the car.

Nah, Bro.

We’re talking about burlesque. He says he’s never been.I fill him in on some of the acts around town, show him a particularly creative costume.

“Wanna ask her for a threesome?” I’m jarred. Neither of us has expressed any kind of attraction to the other. It seems out of nowhere.

“She and I are just two. Sad story. And sweetie, when I sleep with straight boys they don’t get to jump straight to the boss levels. They gotta earn it.”

“Oh god I’m kind of afraid”

“Right answer.”

“Didn’t say I wasn’t interested”

“Damning with faint praise.”

“Just saying. I do think you’re really attractive ūüôā and I think you’d be fun!”

“Thank you, and yes, quite.” (Modesty? What’s that?)

“I’d try anything at least once.”

“See, that shows lack of imagination.”

“Want to share some imagination with me?”

We have a mutual friend who knows–well, I don’t know how much about my proclivities, but enough. (He can read this. I don’t ask whether he does.) Maybe this kid knows what he’s asking to get into, but I doubt it. So I tell him I’m into kinky stuff, that I don’t mean fuzzy handcuffs and 50 Shades of Grey. I’m not impressed with anything about his approach, but I’d be willing to at least have a frank discussion of compatibilities with a large subset of my social group.

“I kind of want to try it..” So much for frank discussion. Bear in mind that my phrase of choice was “I’m into kinky stuff.” I have no damn idea what he kind of wants to try, and I suspect he doesn’t either.

“Why?”

“Just sounds like something different. I want to see what it’s like.
I’m really interested.”

“…in you’re not sure what. For you’re not sure why. I hope you understand my skepticism.”

This approach annoys me for a few reasons. “I’ll try anything once” means “it doesn’t occur to me that you might want to try something I’m not into.”It focuses on his willingness to peruse a free sample tray of anything I can think of, and doesn’t acknowledge that creating those samples involves my time and energy and emotional labor, plus some degree of vulnerability. A person absolutely has the right to reject scenes and revoke consent, I’m not saying that planning kinky play obligates someone to go through anything with me. I am saying I’m not going to get my hopes up or waste my time and effort when I don’t see any likelihood of appreciation for any of it. I’m not in the mood to be told I’m a disgusting freak for playing with electricity, bruises, tears. I’m well past willing to deal with young men recoiling from the idea of strap-on play because they think it’s gay. He says he’ll try anything once…but that’s obvious and utter bullshit.

His vague, ill-conceived interest is 100% about using me to fulfill a curiosity. Not once does he say anything that acknowledges my enjoyment might be a factor. Sex and kink are about shared experience. Feeding off of each other, mutual enjoyment. I want to get my partners off. I expect them to want to get me off. I look for collaboration and intensity with partners. He seems to be hoping I’ll provide a service.

Last week I had pretty much completely vanilla sex…and it was good. I’d rather fuck someone with no hint of sadism or masochism or power exchange who’s clearly invested in getting me off and savoring the experience than play tour guide to the land of kink for some bro who really just hopes I’ll stop talking and get naked already.

So nah, bro. I’m good.

First

We didn’t have a plan.

I hate that.

It’s the afternoon of my last day in my hometown. I’m spending it with a very old friend, someone about whom I could easily say “we have nothing in common,” but we’re both here and I’m glad for it.

It’s a shock to see him drinking, though I know it’s not new. He laughs at that. Drinking isn’t all: apparently he’d decided–planned, even–to have sex outside of marriage. Plans fell through, but still, it was within the realm of possibilities. I ask about it–what changed, why he hadn’t sought other opportunities.

He says “It’s a lot easier for a pretty girl to just decide to have sex than for someone like me,” I know he’s turned down women before, so that isn’t all of it.

“Well, I’m right here, if you want to change that.”

His body language closes, tilts away. For a moment I’m not sure if he’s going to ask me to leave. “I can’t tell if you mean that seriously or not.”

“Yes, it’s a serious offer. I’m available, I wouldn’t want any kind of relationship–I’m driving four states away first thing in the morning.”

“What would you get out of it?”

“I like being responsible for people’s firsts–I don’t just mean sex. They look at you like you’re magic.”¬† Well, that, and I’d get laid, same as you.

He’s undecided. I don’t want to push (well, I do want to, because “maybe”s drive me nuts, but I know better). So we talk about other things.¬† Fail to decide what to do about dinner, drink too much to go get anything.

His roommate texts “Almost fifteen years of this, just have sex with her already.” It should annoy me, because fifteen years ago we had zero sexual tension. Hell, last year we had zero sexual tension. But today it is on the table and I can’t help but laugh.

Eventually it’s late enough I need to think about driving home. I ask if he’s hoping he won’t have to decide, just default to “no” when I leave. He says that’s not the case. Doesn’t say what is.

“Come here.” I pull him up next to me to kiss him. This is not how I kiss. This is a shadow, not a storm. I am giving him space, asking if it’s okay without a hint of teeth or claws (yet). This is not the storm but I can feel it, am greedy for it, there is something of thunder in every moment he says yes to.

Afterwards, I worry. Was I too pressuring? Might there be psychosocial effects he wouldn’t have predicted? I’ve had a lot of partners. (He didn’t ask how many, and I’m glad, because I don’t know.) Sex is something I enjoy, and yes, it’s a big deal but there’s nothing more attached to it than that. For him, it was a first, and I’m a little unsure why he said yes to it at all, least of all to me.

Turns out he was willing to answer that in a lot of detail:

Okay, why I said yes to you.¬† Honestly, part of it was that I had already said yes to somebody else.¬† Even though that didn’t happen, the fact was that I had already made the decision that it was something I was willing to do.¬† When I agreed to it with [redacted]’s ex, it was for a few reasons.¬† I found her attractive, yes, but much more important was how we’d had such an intimate relationship for so long that I wasn’t afraid of being embarrassed with her, and we were also in no danger of either one of us falling for the other and thus complicating things.

By complete coincidence, you just happen to meet those precise criteria as well, making you exactly the one other person in my life with whom I could imagine having sex with outside a committed relationship.¬† I didn’t realize that until you made the offer.¬† In fact, it hadn’t even occurred to me before that, though it seemed immediately obvious as soon as you said something.

I wanted to quell your fears over this, too.¬† I don’t want you to worry at all about leading me to do anything I was not prepared to do.¬† I’ve said that I’m responsible for my actions and I mean it; even had you come over with the express purpose of sleeping with me and you went into full seduction mode to get what you wanted, it still would have been my decision whether or not I’d do so.¬† Girls have done that, so I know I’m capable of saying no.

What I didn’t tell you at the time is that I’d been seriously considering it since you first offered, and I decided to go through with it the moment you pulled me onto the bed.¬† The whole time you thought I was afraid to take the next step was really just me stalling for my own sake.¬† I’d made my decision, but I wanted to give myself time to see if I’d get freaked out while I still had the chance to back out.¬† I’m sorry you had to put up with my insurance plan, but I wanted to be sure I wasn’t getting into something I’d regret.¬† When I finally said yes, that wasn’t me deciding I was ready to actually have sex.¬† That was me deciding I’d had enough time to change my mind on the decision I’d already come to.¬† No second guessing ever came up, no moments of serious trepidation in the hours since saying yes in my head, so I went ahead and said yes outside my head too.¬† I don’t want you to think I got caught up in the moment.¬† I decided long before the moment, then gave myself all that pre-moment time just in case.

And even though I’d never have thought of you as someone to have my first time with, in a way I’m glad that it was you.¬† You were always there for me all those years ago, even while you were going through far worse than I was.¬† Even if we’ve obviously drifted apart in the intervening years, you were probably the first person I was ever truly–albeit not physically–intimate with.¬† Somehow it feels appropriate that you were the first I was fully physically intimate with as well.¬† Perhaps that’s silly of me.

I know it wasn’t a big deal for you and I’m perfectly okay with that, but obviously it was kind of a big deal for me.¬† [Redacted] asked me today if I was happy I did it.¬† Happy is not the right word; it did not make me happy.¬† Neither did it make me unhappy.¬† Instead, I’d say I’m content with it.¬† It wasn’t some huge life-changing event or anything. I still feel like the same person, and I’m glad for that.¬† But I’m also relieved.¬† I’ve spent the last few years growing increasingly doubtful about my decision to wait, and now all that pressure, all that doubt and worry that’s been weighing on me is gone.

And that’s not even including long-familiar worries about my potential performance.¬† I know I was far from amazing, but unless you were merely an incredibly convincing actress, I feel okay about what I managed for a first time.¬† Perhaps with practice I can eventually become truly decent, though I imagine that day is still long in coming.

Whether I should have done it or not I cannot conclusively say (though I certainly don’t regret it now), but in the end that almost doesn’t matter.¬† The decision was made, it’s over, and there’s no sense worrying about it anymore.¬† So for helping me with that, I am genuinely grateful.

Oh, and it was really fun too.

All that said, I don’t want this to change our relationship because I value it greatly (yes, even despite the infrequent contact).¬† I’m fine with referencing it or joking about it or whatever; I feel no need to hide from what we did, but I also don’t want it to define our relationship.¬† I realize you probably weren’t worried about that, but I tend to overthink things.¬† I was thrilled to see you and I would have been entirely happy about that day even had we not slept together, and I’ll be just as happy to see you or talk to you again even with no expectation that it will ever happen again.

Okay, I think I’m done with this painfully long and meandering text.¬† TL;DR:¬† I loved seeing you, and I thoroughly enjoyed having sex with you.¬† I’m glad you came, and I’m glad you came.

Swing (or “‘Merica, Fuck Yeah!”)

Two women and a man walk into a Walgreens for condoms and rum. The Chef and I are¬†giggling arm in arm. Chi looks back at us to ask if we want anything else. Whiskey? Champagne? I shake my head. I won’t be drinking at all: I prefer strange nights sober. I’m half-monitoring dirty looks coming our way. We’re not being obvious, not really, but we’re too familiar to be friends and it’s clear we’re not sisters.

Two women and a man get a stern glare from the cashier. She says she can’t sell us alcohol–three sober adults over twenty-one. She can’t refuse to sell the condoms. It isn’t worth an argument. Chi can run in to another store for liquor.

The Chef and I wait in the car this time. She twists around to talk to me. “So Chi’s never had a threesome before. I thought it might be fun to give that to him, before I go home.”

“Yeah? I could go for that.”

“Sure? I know you’re going through some shit, if you’re not down it’s cool.”

“I haven’t had sex in ages. We’re talking once in the last four months. I am more than down.”

“Well awesome. Let’s see if we can make this work.”


I’ve never been to a swinger’s club before. I’m not sure what to expect. We pile onto a couch and watch a woman in jeans and pink stilettos dance. I’m taking it in: low light, music, people milling around. The Chef speaks first. “Okay, we should negotiate things. Game plan, everybody’s limits..?”

“Well, you pretty much know what you can do with me by now. Um. No penetration without a condom–”

“Wait, does that include oral?”

“No, unless you want it to.” He makes a face. Clearly not. I turn back to the Chef. “I should have asked, is the stuff we do okay here?”

She turns to Chi. “This one’s a masochist.”

“So…like…spanking?”

“Punching, slapping, hitting generally.” The Chef and I are grinning at each other.

“Punching? How hard are you talking about?”

I can’t help it. I burst out laughing. The Chef giggles, too. “However hard you think is too much, she’s gonna say harder.”

He looks at me, quizzical.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Chi and I keep looking to her, deferring. “These things are easier if one person takes charge. Like a facilitator. Do you mind–? That’s usually me.”

I don’t mind and neither does he. She sends us upstairs (“Get acquainted!”) so she can have a cigarette first. We both offer to join her. She shoos us off. “I don’t want to be rushed.”

We find a couch. I’m suddenly shy, looking at the video on the wall, at my hands, anywhere but at this boy I plan to fuck but haven’t touched. He laughs, and it brings my eyes to his face. “Hm?”

“No, just…Lucky me. You have no idea. I have a thing for redheads.”

I shake my head, try not to laugh. Everyone in this town has a thing for redheads. He’s put out a hand, but doesn’t touch. I’m not sure if he’s reaching to push my hair out of my face or pull me closer and I don’t wait to find out. I lean in to kiss him.

For an instant I wish I hadn’t. I ache, suddenly, everywhere. I’m raw from too long without physical contact. This isn’t enough. I love the way he’s kissing me, fierce and open, but it isn’t enough. His hands slide up my legs. Suddenly every inch of clothing is an offense, an affront. I can’t stand the thought of an inch that can’t be touched.

I help him peel off my dress, then everything else. There’s a pause–he’s never seen piercings like mine in real life, is staring with something like awe. Then his hands are on me, and his mouth. I am not clawing at him, not pulling his hair. I am too overwhelmed in this moment to trust myself. This is a fucking stranger and I want to tear him apart.

Then there are three of us. Another room. They joke that I’m a doll. It’s true. I don’t move, they move me. I am flipped, pulled, turned. Chi is hesitant. The Chef isn’t. Her manipulations push me into him. I’m gagging¬† on his cock. He pulls away. “It’s okay. Choking is okay.” I’m still gasping around the words.

His knees shift. “What?”

The Chef answers: “She says you’re good.”

I am scrambling for purchase, and for focus. I’m balanced on the exquisite edge of I need this and it’s too much, and it holds. I don’t know how but it holds. My throat is raw from failing to keep quiet. He’s fucking me, asking if it hurts, and yes, it does, and yes, I want it to.

A moment. The Chef is out of reach. I can’t breathe, the room spins. “I need a minute.” I roll away, try to breathe. They focus on each other. I’m in awe of their intensity, a little humbled that two people as strong as they are would include me at all.

They bring me back. I reach for her, am pushed onto him instead. I laugh. “You’re not letting me do anything!”

“Nope.” The Chef is grinning. “You’re our doll, remember?”

“Not a puppet?”

“Do you want a whole hand in you?” She pauses. “I have pretty large hands.”

Of course I want. A corner of me remembers that her hands are cut and burned. That there are gloves in my purse, lube in her bag. But mostly I don’t care. I’m willing to let her make this call. I like the roughness of it. She’s talking. Taunting. Telling me about my body, measuring the movement of her hands. She has words for both of us, all I can do is cover my mouth to hold back a scream.

She pauses. “Don’t let her do that again.”

Chi’s hands cover my wrists, but he doesn’t grip. He’s looking down at me, so I nod and twist to fit his hands more easily. He holds me down while she adds pressure. Shaking. Screaming. We’ve left lube across the room. “Right up to the last knuckles, but not past them.”

We need water. I need caffeine. We’re there for hours and most of a box of condoms more. Too much sensation for one night, and exactly what I needed.

‘Merica. Fuck yeah.

Red in Tooth and Claw

He’s puppy-eager, all sweetness and smiles. We haven’t made plans for after the show, haven’t ruled them out either. He suggests a wine bar. I don’t drink wine. “Well, I kinda have a surprise for you, if you want to come back to my place? Maybe. Do you like surprises?”

I don’t like surprises, as a rule, but he’s sweet and eager enough that I’m willing to humor him. It’s an under-bed restraint, the kind with velcro cuffs. He’s suddenly shy, showing it to me. “I don’t know if you like– I don’t want to freak you out.”

I laugh. I know I shouldn’t. It’s good that he’s cautious; he barely knows me. I move in close to him. “I’m not freaked out. Though I don’t know if you’re a top or a bottom?”

“Um. Top, usually. But I like both. You?”

“Total switch.”

“So how about you tie me down first, and we’ll switch later if you want?”

“Mhmm.”

I kiss him, partly because I feel awkward and unsure what to say, mostly because I’ve been wanting to since he first showed his teeth. I’m in heels. Even pulling his hair to tilt his face up, I have to lean down to reach him.

He shuffles. “The problem with being short.”

“It’s not a problem.” I step out of my shoes. But–“I’m on my period. Is that going to bother you?”

“What? No. Wait–does it mean I can’t eat you out?”

“Depends how you feel about blood, I guess.”

I’m wary. Plenty of men have told me they have no problem with menstruation–until they see or feel or smell blood and they’re suddenly shocked and disgusted. But we’ll see.

He’s cuffed to the bed, tense and straining. I am holding him by his hair and one wrist. I’m kissing him. There are a thousand things I want to do with him, and all of them have to wait. I can’t stop kissing him. I can try. I can tease, pull just out of reach and let him strain against my grip in his hair to reach me. But then I look at him, so open and hopeful. But then he says “please” and I want to devour him. This is still kissing, isn’t it? If it’s mostly teeth, if I’m not sure whether he’s tilting his head to get closer or because he’s afraid I’ll break skin?

“What are you up for?”

“Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

I lean back on my heels, try not to sigh. He should know better. It’s a conversation we should have, but right now we’re both giddy with sex. Right now, if he can’t be specific, I can.

“Are you ticklish?”

“What?”

I graze my nails across the soles of his feet. He thrashes. “Oh, shit!” I keep tickling. I’m listening for it. It doesn’t take long for him to choke a “stop!” out through helpless laughter.

“Stop?” My hands are already off of him.

“I mean–you don’t have to.”

“You said stop. I do have to.” I move over him. “How do you feel about biting?” My mouth is an inch from his skin.

“Okay. Good.”

He tenses as my teeth sink in. He is moving in small waves, making small sounds. He marks easily. My teeth leave rising welts above a tattoo, below his ribs, across his collarbone. He’s moving but so quiet. I look up at him. He’s biting his lip. “What, I’m not biting hard enough?” I laugh. “If you need more…” I bite hard enough to make him hiss.

He laughs. “Am I bleeding?”

“I’m not biting that hard.” I bite harder.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck” Curses rattle out of him like a screen door in a storm, and God, what it does to me to see him so nearly unhinged.

I have one hand on his cock to anchor me while I drift over him. I take him in my mouth, only for a moment. I don’t want to take my eyes off his skin, off the lines my fingernails are leaving. He’s making sounds that aren’t words. I’d rather hear words. “What do you want?”

“I want you to fuck me.” He’s breathless. It’s beautiful.

“Condoms*?”

He lets his head thump back on the mattress. “In the car.”

I laugh. There’s no chance I’m getting dressed and walking across the street in the middle of the night to rummage through his car for a condom. I know I’ll want one later, but for now–“you want to fuck me?”

“Yes.”

“That’s too bad.” His whole body jerks. I’m kneeling over him, teasing, just out of reach. He’s begging. Please, and your skin is so soft, I can’t stand not touching it and please. And I tease. At some point he’s beyond caring if we use a condom or not, or maybe he knows he can say whatever he wants and it won’t make a difference. And I laugh again. It’s a delight to have him this desperate. He’s begging me to kiss him, to just let his hands free, to let him get me off. I let him loose; I want his hands on me as much as he does.

He slides his fingers into me, and I stop trying to think at all. We are lines and angles and waves. I’ve lost track of my hands, try not to notice it, focus on his. I’m too loud, too shaken. It’s a struggle to sit up, after. “Oh. Fuck.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re pretty much covered in blood.”

He looks down. It’s not much of an exaggeration. I’m bracing for disgust, my own as much as his. He grins. “Badass.”

I’m too floored to speak. His mouth is on mine before I have to. We keep going. Keep saying it’s time to run down to the car but we wear ourselves out first, don’t break apart until dehydration forces us to.

We look like the aftermath of a slaughter.


*I always, always carry condoms in my purse. Regular, latex-free, textured, plus a few packets of lube. But I wasn’t carrying magnums. This oversight has since been remedied.