Conversation With a Dom, Plus Help! Reader Needs Sexing Advice!

I recently talked with a dominant, K.* He's pretty hardcore in that he would be happy to use an electro-stimulation wand on someone.

I wanted to know what it was about being a Dom that did it for him. So, I just asked him because I'm quite nosy. Here, come and eavesdrop:

K:  As a Dom - I am strict, but very reasonable.  I enjoy training those that are sincere--watching them grow as a person and a submissive and seeing their world expand around them as they learn what they are truly capable of feeling and experiencing. 

I look for someone who truly wants to submit, and please. And I will make sure they are pleased as well.

Me:  What turns you on about it? I mean, you sort of have to do all the work as far as prep goes.

K:  For me it really depends on the person I am with and our relationship, and what it is that turns them on. Knowing you are turning the other person on - that is the biggest turn on. I love being in charge. I enjoy thinking about what to do to a person. How I will do it? What will affect them the most? There is creativity there. How will they react when I make them wear a butt plug to a restaurant? Or Ben wa balls out to a club? Watching the thoughts play across their face. Thinking about, planning the order in which I spank them. Flog them. Use a vibrator on them. So many options. 

I love surprising them, keeping them on the edge. Building. Each subsequent sensation adding to the previous. Pushing them. Getting to know their bodies. Their minds. Paying attention to how they react. Seeing when they start to doubt. Knowing they are seconds away from using a safe word. Then watching them melt as I give them pleasure. Such a rush.  

It is incredible watching how some get so turned on by the right amount of pain. Had one submissive that got to the point she could orgasm and squirt from being spanked. That was amazing. Yes, knowing that they would do basically anything for me - that is an aphrodisiac.

Me:  What is it about the pain?

K:  I have never been into the truly sadistic side. Never driven primarily by fear. But I do use pain to accentuate the pleasure and to train.  I am into all types of restraints, blindfolding - to make you wonder what is coming next. Will it be soft and pleasurable? Or will it sting? Alternating between the two, slowly building up the pleasure until you are begging to cum. You will hold it till I tell you that you can cum.

I want a sub to crave me and be willing to do anything for me because they want to please and because they know I will give them incredible pleasure (along with pain). But never driven by the fear I will whip them bloody. That is too...simple? crass? Yes, I use the threat of things like the cane or whip to keep their attention. Or to ensure they follow certain rules. But that is all.

The vast majority is honestly giving them what they want, sometimes whether they know it themselves or not. And conveniently it is usually what I want to do to them as well.

It is all fascinating.

It IS pretty fucking fascinating.  Thank you K.

Help! Reader Needs Sex Advice! "I'm on Zoloft and can't have an orgasm w/ my partner to save my life.  I can when I masturbate on my own and so I'm defaulting to that cause it's a sure thing. But I want some new ideas we can try cause I really wanna find a reliable partner orgasm situation again like I used to have pre-Zoloft.

A friend recommended this book kinda She Comes First: A Thinking Man's Guide to Pleasuring a Woman but I have two kids and a job and will only read a book if it's close to a sure thing. I also know it's something of a mind game as I can have lucid dream orgasms without even touching myself. But those are less now w/ ye olde Zoloft. This married woman wants to come in the presence of her partner again!!! H-E-L-P, Jill!"

Here are some ideas from me, Little Miss No Medical Degree:
--Switch drugs. Celexa cured my ails but made my sexuality die.
--Drug holiday.  Stop a couple days before doing IT. (If you're going insane, abort mission.)
--Bring on a fuckton of toys.  There are wearable vibes to wear during penetration (haven't tried--anyone?), vibrating cock rings, clit sucking things (this one's good), and if you just want to have an orgasm in someone's presence, I'm all over Doc Johnson's iRock.**
--Get super turned on before--watch porn, jerk off a little, whatever.  You might also try a CBD or THC-based arousal gel like Foria Awaken or Foria Pleasure. You have to massage it in for 15 minutes ahead of time, so maybe the enforced foreplay is what does it, but it seems to do something.  (I think I have a sample packet I can send if you email me your address.)

What say you, orgasm-having reader?

Contest Winner:  The winner of the Prostate Silicone Perineum Tickler and muy importante accompanying Wicked Aqua Sensual Care lube donated by Ella Paradis is a reader named, er, "Fred" who wrote:  Really interested in the Pspot massager and possibilities, kinda skeptical about the orgasm potential. You would think if it were so easy and incredible every guy on the planet would be having one! It reminds me of trying to give yourself a blowjob by becoming more flexible, intriguing but not really practical. I promise that if I win I will shout from the rooftops about my journey into my nether regions.  

Consider yourself warned.

xoxo
jill

*I'm running a series of off-blog conversations I've had with some among you about the odd corners and crannies of the sexual experience (sometimes literal crannies--see also: the last one on M from Alaska's truly stellar prostate orgasms).

**If you buy any of this stuff through those links, IBWMW gets a kickback but I'd recommend them anyway.

Best Sex Ever Contest Winners! (Plus a l'il patriarchy smashing).

Clean up, clean up, everybody do their share.

The winners of the Best Sex Ever Contest have been notified and if it wasn't you, fear not, there's always tomorrow for dreams to come true (Clarice, 1964). And to dry your tears, I'll share two entries with you that I especially liked.

The first is from "Wilma" not her real name, nor near as I can tell, anyone's real name.

I could not pass up entering your cool contest because it involves a subject near and dear to my heart. Very sadly, for me, the best and most profound and powerful sex was with a man who destroyed my heart and soul so thoroughly, I haven't wanted to have sex with another man for several years. And goddamn it! I'm a woman who LOVES SEX!

I never should have gotten involved with him in the first place, as I was (very unhappily) married with two daughters. It was a simple and completely innocent Facebook post asking if any of my many musician friends happened to have a pair of bongo drums that I could borrow or buy to use at a middle school Earth Day garden party. Wouldn't you know, Mister Great Cock-Heartless Lover answered. From that moment on, I was in thrall to him, ultimately destroying my already wrecked marriage, shattering the trust between me and my daughters and spending the next 4 years in total, self destructive despair. Even after years of therapy, countless suggestions and support from friends and far too much journaling and self reflection, I am still pathetically addicted to this man.

It was because of That Moment, the first, single moment when I finally opened up, became totally and terrifyingly vulnerable and allowed my self to meld mindblowing sex with Love. I had never allowed it before out of fear of intimacy, and here I did it with the one man who would use it against me over and over and over again. But man, I still remember That Moment, and the power and beauty of it all and for that, I am grateful. Because at least now, I know what I am capable of. I still believe, after all these years of self afflicted misery, that I'll experience That Moment with someone worthy and who I'll feel worthy enough with.

Jill, going against all my better judgment, I'm shooting this email off to you without taking one moment to re-read, proof or edit what I've written.

Goddamn! It feels fucking great to get this off my chest! Thank you for offering the opportunity for your readers to participate in this endeavor.

Love you.

And this from Sky Roy, which actually is his real name. I love this because it's so outside what I've ever experienced. Also he used the phrase "sexual compersion." (Compersion, n: A feeling of joy when a loved one invests in and takes pleasure from another romantic or sexual relationship.)

One time myself and two women I am involved with decided to have a threesome. We all got tipsy and/or high, and sat on the couch together. We started talking, electricity just crackling around us, and finally somebody started touching in a way that was erotic. Suddenly everyone's clothes went flying into the air and we started having the most natural, effortless, astounding sex. We moved from room to room trying every configuration you can imagine, extending the session over about three hours.

The best parts of the experience were me having four mindbending orgasms, which given that I am male and pushing forty is pretty rare over that timespan, as well as two separate occasions where we had a simultaneous three way orgasm. We were so in tune that we were able to get each other to come just by proximity somehow, and the people just touching on the sidelines of the current action were able to climax just from sexual compersion. It was magnificent.

People talk about threesomes full of jealousy and and possessiveness, but I have never experienced that. It has always been good, and this one in particular was wonderful because we were all so happy watching each other be happy.

Thanks for your entries, loved reading them.  And if I could, I'd be mailing each and every one of you something to stick up a favorite hole.

****
I've been tossing around the idea of a post The 10 Most Humiliating Things About Being the Chick Who Writes Cosmo's Sex Positions, Ranked, with both #1 and #10 being "I am the chick who writes Cosmo's sex positions."

However, my 12-stepping friend says "Don't go pain shopping" which is the exact opposite of how I've spent my entire life. So in that spirit....

There is actually a lot I love about the gig, mostly that they pay me, unlike most of you cheap-ass motherfuckers (not you dear Ada, IBWMW Minister of Making an Automatic Monthly Donation), but also that I can use the sexual bully pulpit to tell younger chicks the Very Important Information that would have been VERY nice to know in 1989 that if they can't come via P-in-V (that is, practically everyone) then just getting on top or angling themselves just right isn't gonna make them start spewing rainbow colored orgasms. (Clean-up on Aisle 3.)

Filmmaker Trisha Borowicz of Science Sex and the Ladies and a huge inspiration to me saw through my secret plan. "The sacred institution of the Cosmo sex position list is breaking up the patriarchy, bitches," writes Trisha who says cool shit like that all the time. Check out her post "Cosmo Sex Position Lists Will Bring the Orgasmic Equality Revolution!"

To hear me talking me more on this, or just to deepen your stalking routine, go to iTunes and have a listen to the "Who Invents Cosmo's Sex Positions" episode on The Cosmo Happy Hour Podcast. 

Next time I will tell you the one easy trick that will make you come like a race horse every damn time.

xoxox
jill

PS Thank you Sarah and Aneros for the Helix Syn and the Evi!

Real Sex Stories (x 2!), On Pegging and Other Genderfuckery

Of all the articles I've written for Cosmo, I think the most popular have been the two on pegging (here and here).* Between that, and the general tenor of the mail I'm getting lately, I'd say plenty of dudes (at least secretly) are pretty damn interested in pegging and/or screwing around, so to speak, with traditional gender roles in the bedroom.

This seems all good to me. I mean, why stick to your particular birth-given sexual role (i.e. the fucker vs. the fucked, penetrator vs. penetrated, etc...) when you could take on the entire spectrum of possibilities?

If you must know, I also got a lot of weird as fuck letters, which is not related to this subject particularly, but that's just the way it goes around here. But here are two I thought were smart and well written, esp. because one used the phrase "fucked like a boss."

xoxo
jill

*One Cosmo piece was jerkily plagiarized and used verbatim as the uncredited "script" in a YouTube video, an offense negated slightly by the fact that they acted out the positions with Barbie and Ken dolls and even fashioned a wee little strap-on for Barbie.

*************
First a short one from Anonymous, the most popular name around here.

My GF and I have recently introduced pegging to our sexual repertoire (pegging meet coitus, coitus, pegging. And over there we have cunnilingus, bondage, spanking...) Specifically, I was the one who was proactive in making this happen. I picked up on her interest in mutual anal play and took it another step. My own orgasms are intense because of the physical stimulation, but I really get off on how it transforms her into a wanton teenage boy and makes her appreciate just what a guy has to do physically. Now that she is hooked, I have introduced her to the notion that she needs to be the one to initiate and to seduce me. We are having a lot of fun with this.

And this is from Nick and Sarah, who aren't actually named that so don't be eying the Nick and Sarah you know like you know their business:

I'm trying to bust up some traditional gender programming in my life.

Lately I'm taking on female-traditional work: cooking, cleaning, parenting, while my wife works longer hours. I love cooking for my family! I love looking after my little kids. And when the kids are tucked in - welp, looks like I'm the girl in the bedroom too! Now, I'm quite comfortable with my male body and clothing.. But I want to be treated like a girl sometimes - getting kissed firmly, strong arms around me, felt up, and ultimately put down and fucked like a boss. It feels really really good, and a lot more loving than some of the D/S porn.

I'm conflicted about this - and maybe my wife is too - so I really appreciate your positive articles on your blog and in Cosmo.

This is the story of my recent 5th wedding anniversary. My wife Sarah and I had booked a lovely hotel room facing the ocean. I took her for a nice dinner. I confessed that I was interested in submitting to her more in the bedroom, and that I hoped she would take more leadership.

I've noticed over the years, when I've had sex, sometimes my partners would completely lose it. I don't mean moaning a little bit -  I mean uncontrolled moaning, eye rolling, begging for more. Sometimes women will cry afterward because they are so moved by the experience.

To be quite frank, I want to feel that way. As a man, I feel the burden of having to be in control and avoiding expressing feelings that are too strong.  I told Sarah wanted to drop the mask for her. I wanted to give it up to her and feel a strong connection.

When we got home she held me in her strong arms. We looked at the sun setting over the harbor. We kissed each other passionately. She told me firmly that we weren't going to have sex tonight, and that I was getting a spanking. And did I ever!

Sarah put me on the bed, naked, on all fours, ass to the open drapes. My legs are still shaking as I think about what happened. She spanked me firmly, and thoroughly. I looked back at her and felt that connection I'd hoped for.  Here I was, giving it up to a determined, smart, and successful woman - the mother of my children, and my life partner.

She didn't give me any of her body except her strong right arm, but that was all I needed.  I submitted to her like a Catholic girl on prom night, moaning her name loudly into the pillows. When she finished, I was red at both ends..

We collapsed into each other's arms and slept - she held me tightly to her chest as we drifted off to sleep.

Love your blog. xo

Real Sex Lives: Madame Beatrice, "My husband is my submissive pet."

This rerun of a Real Sex lives story came up in my feed and re-struck my fancy, or whatever it is they're calling it these days. (Note: do not call any body part "my fancy.".) If you dig this, check out our other Real Sex stories where people tell the truth about their sex lives.

xoxo
jill

*****
"You are a delight, and I love your blog - we often read it together," writes Madame Beatrice, the "we" including her submissive husband, Heath. Heath "identifies as bisexual and loves to cross dress. He's not yet been with a man, but loves his 'training,' thus far, with my Tantus RealDoe." (It's a big ol' real looking dildo--175.09 bucks worth of strapless cock that comes with this disclaimer: "Don't worry! Your new family member will Not arrive in a truck with 'Dildo Delivery' painted on the side." Which, in a way, is too bad.)

Anyway, this new story a bit more porny than I normally run--I prefer more big picture kinds of things--but I kinda had to run for it for the first sentence alone. Even though I consider myself-reasonably open-minded, I took the first sentence of her story literally and thought "WHAT. THE. FUCK." immediately picturing some poor cat or dog, unsuspecting ass in the air.

I recently took my pet's anal virginity.

I put him on his back, and told him to wait with his legs in the air.
I put on my leather harness, and attached the 7.5 inch dildo that almost perfectly matches my skin tone.
I walked back to the bed, and drenched my cock in lube, then started stroking it.

Fuck, but it felt amazing to stand there, looking down at his tight little asshole, and stroke my cock.
I stroked with the head of it right at his asshole, and told him he didn't really deserve to be fucked. Maybe I should just stroke myself and tease him.

He whimpered. He flat out begged to be fucked.

So I did.

I slid my cock into him in one motion, and I know it hurt. I watched him stretch around me, and I watched his eyes roll into the back of his head. I grabbed the Ovo ring and put it around his head, securing it under the glans. Vibration and penetration at the same time.

Once I started pumping into him, I couldn't stop. I loved watching the veiny rubber sliding in and out.

I've never felt as powerful and turned on as I did while fucking him.
I left so many marks.
I bit, I slapped, I grabbed and dug my fingers into his thighs, ass, and calves.
Nothing existed except my cock and his ass.
My abs were sore, but I just kept going.

I fucked him for almost a half-hour, straight, without stopping.
I don't know how I didn't break him in half.

I ordered him to cum. I told him that he was going to squirt like a good little slut with my cock inside him.

It took less than ten seconds before his navel was pooled with thick, hot cum.

I was shaking. I felt like I was the one who'd just cum all over his belly.

When I pulled out of him, he shook. He collapsed. He nearly fell off the bed.

And once he was cleaned up, he curled into the bed and into my breasts and fell asleep. Out like a light. Completely spent.

So there you go. Someone else's business delivered straight to your screen. And we are done for the day. If you are feeling the pull to share your Real Sex Story, write that motherfucker down and send it on in to:  jillhamilton001@gmail.com.

xoxo
jill

(The Velvet Underground, Venus in Furs, 1967, via You Tube)

"My 7 Most Erotic Experiences," Guest Post from Erica

After finding herself divorced, in her 50s and recovering from a tepid sex kind of marriage, Erica created A Sexy Woman of a Certain Age to explore, celebrate and encourage sexual confidence in older broads. Who, I will remind you again, are sexy as fuck.

Her blog is smart, sexy and real and I admire Erica in all kinds of ways, not the least of which is that her Twitter handle is @OhGodErica. (Is there really any better sequence of words than "Oh God (insert your name here)"?  But, you know, with your actual name instead of "insert your name here.")

If you haven't been over to her blog, do so at once.  But first, have a lot at Erica's "My 7 Most Erotic Experiences," take a shower, then head over after you look presentable.

******
Erotic: of, devoted to, or tending to arouse sexual love or desire.
I live on the tenth floor of a high-rise and my bedroom windows give me a wide view into the rooms of the surrounding apartment buildings. I love the feeling of sun on my skin so I tend to leave the blinds open while I get dressed in the morning. I’m a bit of an exhibitionist — shocker, I know! — so I also tend to leave the blinds open when I get undressed at night.

One evening I was traipsing around my bedroom in my lingerie looking at the neighboring building. Directly across from me was a man standing perfectly still at his window. Peering at me. There was too much distance between us to make out his face, but I could see his torso. It was shirtless, lean, and lovely. We stood like that for a bit, until a woman appeared behind him. He continued facing me and I felt a surge of warmth from my groin as I inhaled sharply. But the woman must have said something because he closed the blinds.

I stood there, irked that my erotic Rear Window fantasy had been cruelly yanked from under me. Ever since I’ve moved into the high rise, I’ve hoped to catch a glimpse of a couple in flagrante delicto.

And I’ve hoped that the man in that couple would watch me watch him.

* * *
Last Sunday morning I laid in bed sipping hot coffee and gazing out my sun-streaked bedroom window. I remembered the moment with the man across the street and wondered if he would ever indulge my voyeuristic inclinations. It was a such a brief snapshot in time, but one with a visceral pop in my erotic memory.

As I made my way to the bottom of my coffee mug, I thought about what makes some sexual experiences sexier than others. Sometimes it’s the level of emotional intimacy. Sometimes it’s the degree of novelty and risk. And sometimes it’s just an exquisite blend of pheromones: a profound chemistry with someone who, at first glance, might not even be someone you would normally choose to be with.

So before it was time to drag myself out of bed and dive into my weekend to-do pile, I decided to play a game with myself. I let my mind drift back over my sexual history and pick the first seven erotic memories that materialized — and that still left a palpable charge.

The Voyeur 
One summer afternoon when I was nine years old, I was doing underwater somersaults in a friend’s pool. When I came up for air, I saw my friend’s older sister french-kissing her boyfriend. They were kissing beautifully, passionately, oblivious to the gawking string-bean treading water nearby. I heard moans and murmurs. I knew I was witnessing something private, and I should turn away, but I was mesmerized. Whatever they were doing, I wanted it. Maybe not now, but someday.

That make-out session was soulful, and blazingly erotic. It is etched into my arousal template, a visceral blueprint for passion.

The Erotic Kiss 
I grew up in a university town. Every year at graduation time, high school kids would wall-vault their way onto campus, cavorting with drunken graduates and alumni during a three-day long bacchanal. The summer I was sixteen, I was desperately in love with a 15-year-old Adonis. Rumored to have lost his virginity at 13, he was a star athlete and a bad boy. Every girl wanted him. We had had an ongoing flirtation, and that balmy night, buoyed by beer and hash, we drifted from the pack. We stood in the middle of the quad, wondering where our friends had gone. I looked up to see him flashing that rogue smile as he drew me into him.

No one had ever kissed me like this. His lips and tongue moved expertly over mine, and I could feel his erection as he pushed his pelvis against me. Lurching footsteps and peals of laughter swirled around us as we melted into each other in a sensuous embrace that I hoped would never end. I wasn’t just aroused; I was transported. My body felt that it had merged with his. I had crossed over from garden-variety adolescent make-out sessions into an almost mystical realm of lust and tenderness.

We dated for a few weeks, but I wasn’t ready to surrender my virginity. He took his coke-can sized penis elsewhere, leaving me in a heartbroken heap.

Real Sex Lives, Severene: "I just had the most fucked up sexual experience."

Inhospitable

(You have arrived at the end of a grand celebration in which we're running IBWMW's favorite Real Sex Lives, stories in which readers anonymously share the truth about their sex lives, or lack thereof. Please don appropriate viewing goggles.)

*****
This new one is dark and raw, but with some beauty and Life Lessons--just the way I like it.

Here, then, today's entry from Severene: 

I just had the most fucked up sexual experience and I don't know what to do with it.

I'm just gonna write it down because I need to purge it or codify it or maybe just see if written down it makes better sense. Here goes:

I had a fight with my husband and I left. From the car, I called my old lover. The one who three months before had decided he would just never call me again. It would have been nice if he would have informed me of this, but he is not nice. That was part of his appeal.

Since he'd disappeared on me, I had been completely lost, weeping inconsolably every night. Yes. Every. Fucking. Night. For three months. I walked hollow-eyed through my life like a specter, tears welling up at any reminder of him. This happened a lot since my reminders included:  doctors, the city of Houston, pretty much any song on the radio, references to following your instincts/heart, hospitals, any mentions of fucking in general, the entire Jewish people... you get the idea.

Perhaps fleeing was just an excuse to see my lover again. I wanted him to hold me in his arms and tell me everything was gonna be all right--even though it wasn't gonna be all right. He has a big hairy bear-like body and I just so needed to be near him. Physically, close to that big body, like it would heal me.

I called him hysterically crying and asked if I could stay for two nights at his house in Houston. He told me things were going well for him but he could "always fit me in" or something like that that made me feel like shit. He sounded pleased though. He told me it "wasn't going to be free" and I was going to end up licking cum off my tits. It seemed like a good deal to me.

I drove like crazy, speeding for hours, weeping and/or feeling elated that I was going to be well-fucked by this man again. I was a mess. You don't have to tell me that.

I arrived at his house before him and waited out front for a few minutes. He pulled up and, for a moment, smiled and looked happy. I met him in his garage, hugged him and burst into tears.

We walked inside and he sat down at his table and started going through his mail. He looked up at me, as though surprised I was still there. "You look ragged out," he said, disapprovingly.  I had been crying intermittently for several hours--a few months, technically--but he wasn't giving me any slack. I instantly felt a million years old, haggard and foolish in my suddenly too-short skirt. He gave me a sort of dismissive gesture so I left to wander his house.

His house was a smallish McMansion, which is not an oxymoron. It's the kind of place that has a grand showy staircase entry that makes odd-shaped, uncomfortable spaces below to accommodate this bourgeois idea of grandeur. He still lived like he did in college, even though he is a grown man, with milk crates as storage and half-read papers scattered haphazardly on the floor. He was using a loose garbage bag leaning against his kitchen cabinets instead of making the commitment to a real trash can. He was just crashing there, not making a life there, as he probably had in every space he'd inhabited in his 48 years on the planet.

He was incredibly uncomfortable that I was in his space and clearly wanted me to be...not there. This was horrible and obvious and I should have just left immediately, but I desperately wanted to fuck him and win him over and just have him stop wanting me gone. How was this so awful to him? We'd gotten along famously the last time I'd seen him--albeit in the neutral territory of a hotel--how was having me there suddenly so fucking unbearable to him?

I don't know if it was my "ragged out" appearance, the invasion of his space, my general hysteria or that his heart was now elsewhere (jeez, writing it down now and seeing all those things together, the answer is clearly "e. all of the above"), but he was now clearly Not That Into Me. I was wretched and humiliated but somehow still there like an asshole. I just couldn't accept what was happening and that he didn't love me or want me anymore.

He came over to me, bent me over the couch and hit me on the ass, hard, a few times--something he'd never done before. Then he walked into his kitchen and started looking around in the fridge. He's kind of like that. He will stick his dick in your mouth for a few minutes, pull his hard-on back out, then go sit down and have a bowl of grains or something.

Despite my humiliation or perhaps due to it, I was super turned on and still trying to act like everything was normal. He put a Lou Reed record on the turntable and pulled his dick out of his scrubs, making the universal signal for 'suck this.' I did, willingly and greedily.

His dick is tremendous. My eyes well up just thinking about it, it's really that good. So thick and fat and fucking huge. His dick is like if you took another man's dick, and inflated it with 2--maybe 3--big good puffs of air. I can feel it in my mouth still. I fucking love that thing.

"OK, I will fuck you then," he said after a bit, like I just earned something. He grabbed me and took me up his staircase to his bedroom, shoving my panties into my mouth along the way.

As he took off his clothes, I looked at his wide calves dispassionately. His legs are short, very stocky and nearly hairless. I don't really like them at all. I marveled for the billionth time why I was so fucking attracted to this man who, objectively, was not attractive to me. Unlike him, however, I did not say out loud the leg equivalent to "you look ragged out."

In bed, he asked if I wanted him to hit me again. I said no, and he said, "Beg me." "Please don't hit me," I whispered, not entirely sure that that was actually what I wanted. "Beg me to fuck you," he demanded. That wasn't going to be a problem for me. I really was hysterical, in both the modern and early 20th century interpretations of the word. I completely lost it, crying even more, begging and begging him, over and over. I completely lost my shit. In truth, it was strangely liberating. All that needy open-wound stuff that you try to hide from the world is what I was presenting to him. I was a fucking endless chasm of need and lust and desperate wanting and I let him see all of it. After bearing
witness to that... whatever the fuck it was, he seemed satisfied that I'd begged sufficiently.
He went into the restroom and came out, rolling a condom on. I burst into tears again.. "Why are you so sad?" he asked. "Because you have to wear a condom," I wept. The condom meant he'd been with other women and everything was different now.

He slid inside me and we barely moved. I came quickly and softly, twice. I looked into his huge brown eyes and said, "Can you feel how much my pussy loves your cock?" He nodded. The look on his face nearly killed me. It was so, I don't know, just open and dear. Or maybe I imagined it. It felt like we were making love, but maybe only I was.

Once done with the fuckery, things deteriorated further, if you can believe it. I--like an ass--or you know, like a fucking human being, grabbed on to his big hairy back and hugged him, wanting him close. And he couldn't fucking take it. "Hmmm, I'm oppressing you," I said, letting go and moving to the other side of the bed. But even that wasn't far enough and he got up and went downstairs. After awhile he came back and got into bed, willing me silently not to be there anymore. "You need to sleep, I'll go to the couch," I said. I did and we were both relieved.

He is the head of a serious hospital unit and got calls throughout the night. I could hear him up and down, all night, restless, taking calls, advising the night staff, working on the computer. I saw that his life, brain and probably his soul were filled with agitation and chaos, and it scared me. He wouldn't, or maybe couldn't, allow himself peace or comfort. It was like he was on coke, but without the happy or euphoric part. Two of the patients died that night.

I woke to the sound of him again moving around the house. He finally walked over the couch, pulled his cock out of his scrubs and stuck his huge hard-on into my mouth. "You are so hard," I murmured, taking him in as deep as I could. He pulled back out and said, "Got to go to work." Me, lustful, rejected, miserable, hopeful, and a million other things I still can't figure out, suggested that I could take him out dinner that night after work. He looked pained.

"I am out of sorts. I think you will be happier at a hotel," he said. Oh... We weren't, then, playing some sort of high-level psycho-sexual game, like the ones we played back in college that had turned on us so much. This was real--he really did hate me that much. I went red-faced with the realization and shame. Perhaps reacting to the look on my face--though that would be unlike him--he added. "I'll come tonight after work and stay with you."

Then he took a handful of twenty dollar bills from somewhere and dropped them onto me, one by one. They floated down, landing on me silently.  

Yeah.

And I was completely broken.

It's so beyond humiliating that I hate admitting how it all really happened. But I am telling you, both because it's true and because it has a happy(ish) ending.

That is,

After he left and I was alone in his terrible, tortured space, I finally got it that I could and needed to leave.

As I walked out and saw his yard, covered with gravel instead of grass or anything else living or beautiful or life-giving, I felt elated, like in the final scene of "It's a Wonderful Life." I didn't have to be in that barely lived-in house or try any more with this man I now realized was far too broken for me to fix. I drove home, crying yet again, but this time with gratitude. I had built a rich life and had a real home with gardens and fruit trees and pictures on the wall. I could even sleep through the fucking night. I was incredibly lucky.

In Shamanism, there is this idea of soul loss. That is, that you can lose a piece of your soul or vital essence after a trauma of some sort. Only through a soul retrieval, often done by the shaman, can that part be returned to its owner. I am not necessarily a subscriber to this point of view, but I do feel like for those three months I had lost a part of myself, of my heart, to this man.  And without it, I was so so lost.

But somewhere in our extremely fucked up sexual transaction that night, I got that part back and was whole again.

Maybe I went so low that it somehow circled back and became good. Or maybe my self-esteem got so fucking battered and kicked in the ass that it actually gave me self-esteem. I know it doesn't make much sense but that's what happened. It's like my re-set button was pushed and I was suddenly ok.

I still sometimes dream about his cock and wonder whether the sex, at least, was as hot for him as it was for me. The sex felt huge and dark and sexy and scary and horrible. We'd generated this terrible big awful energy and brought out each other's darkest sides and probably scared the shit out of each other. I don't see how it couldn't have affected him somehow. 

And now that it's really over, he will never tell me how it all was for him and why it was so hard for him. That makes me sad. I guess it doesn't make much difference though. I know have to go forward and not look back. That's what you do.

But I now know I have this huge scary amazing passion inside of me and that I may have a penchant for some fucked up shit. Still not sure what I'm gonna do about all that.

****
Have one of your own? You know what to do. 

xoxo
jill

image: Andre de Dienes, "Nude", c. 1960

Real Sex Lives, Reader Question Version: "What's the sexiest thing someone has done to get you into bed?"

One wooing technique.

(You have arrived in the midst of a grand celebration in which we're re-running IBWMW's all-time greatest Real Sex Lives stories.)

Hey you, a reader needs our help! Let's hop into the IBWMW Rescue Van!

Today's problem: Getting in the mood, with a emphasis on proper boner presentation. Here, let's let this improperly-wooed reader explain her predicament.

Dear Jill,

I need some advice from you and the thoughtful IBWMW readers if you would be so kind.

My husband is terrible at proposing that we have sex. The sex itself is good but I usually need a little time to warm up to the idea-- a little convincing-- and he can bring it up in a way that is a total turn-off (seriously, he recently walked up to me while I was doing the taxes and tapped me on the shoulder with his boner with a defeated expression before wandering off to the kitchen to consume a can of beans).

But here's the important part: he's a good listener, a sweet guy, and perfectly willing to try to change his approach. It's just that I can't come up with any really specific requests for him. We must be the two most unimaginative people around (before we jump in bed together, anyway). So I was hoping for some help from the IBWMW community: what is the sexiest thing someone has done to get you into bed? How do you get in the mood and initiate sex? I'm all ears for ladies initiating sex, too.

-Anonymous lady whose husband would be super embarrassed if he figured out this was about him.

Ok, I'm gonna be no help here because I actually like the whole primal Presentation of Arousal thing, though maybe without the can of beans aspect.

So my smart and lovely friends, you're in charge. Can you help this wordily-monikered Gentle Reader?

xoxo
jill

(photo source) 

Real Sex Lives: "In Praise of the Hand Job" by An Anonymous Husband

(You have arrived in the midst of a grand celebration in which we're re-running IBWMW's all-time greatest Real Sex Stories. Feel free to hang out awhile and look around.)

In Greek mythology, Hera and Zeus were arguing over which gender got the most pleasure from sex. Zeus said it was the women and Hera claimed it was the man. Tiresias, who had spent time as both a man and women, sided with Zeus. (For this, Hera struck him blind, adding further complications to already becoming overly eventful life.)

What I take from this is that the Gods are kind of jerky but have interesting conversations. There's also the takeaway idea of experiencing sex from the perception of the other gender.  Wouldn't it be interesting to have the body of the opposite sex for an hour or so? You could sort of ravish yourself and see what everything felt like.

That's why I like the following piece.  It puts me into the mind and body of a man, without the muss and fuss of expensive surgery or intervention by angry gods. But I'll stop yammering and get to An Anonymous Husband's take on the hand job:

The hand job doesn’t get much press, especially when compared to its more popular and storied cousin, the blowjob. Oh, I imagine the subject is still big in high school, where a quick gf/bf handy in the backseat of the car or on the family room couch is as close to sex as a lot of kids get. But married folks who have long since moved on to the main event tend not to think too much about the humble wife-wank, and I think that’s a shame. Because hand jobs, when done right, are awesome.

My wife enjoys sex more than any other woman I’ve slept with, but her overall libido, at least as far as quantity goes, is far lower than mine.  I’m in the same boat with millions of married men: I’m an every-night guy who happens to be madly in love with a once-a-week girl.

Unfortunately, I don’t do particularly well with “not getting any.” Without sex, I get cranky, irritable, and mildly depressed. The change is subtle- I don’t turn into a raging asshole overnight- but it’s there. It’s as if there’s a reservoir of happiness and contentment that, for better or for worse, can only be refilled with orgasms. Since one orgasm a week isn’t going to come close to meeting my wants and needs, I’m more than happy to go it solo when time and circumstances allow. But finding such

Real Sex Lives: Betty Fokker, "Even I, schooled in feminist thought and the rejection of fat-hating bullshit, wonder why he would ever WANT to fuck me"

(You have arrived in the midst of a grand celebration in which we're running IBWMW's all-time favorite Real Sex Lives.)

Today's guest post comes courtesy of the lovely Betty Fokker, penner of The Stay-at-Home Feminist Mom. (The slogan on her blog-- and just one of the many reasons I love her so--is: Don't try to oppress me with your patriarchal values. It will not go well for you.) 

Betty is hilarious, smart, and takes my breath away with her adept cussing. She is also fat. Oh, don't worry, she'd tell you the same thing herself.  

Now normally, Betty is well aware of how smoking hot she is, and rails against the whole stinkin' fat-hating society, but in the following post, dear Betty briefly succumbs to self doubt. Here she's talking about fat, but I think a lot of chicks could say the same thing about their stupid straight and/or curly hair, freaky pointy ears, or whatever.

(An aside: It took me like an hour to find a decent image (above left) to convey the concept of sexy zaftig womanliness. By contrast, it took me .00000004 seconds to find an image to convey the idea of "lady with big boobies.")

I also like her post because not only does Betty use the term "asshat" with typical aplomb, but she also lays down this sentence: "Even when I walk out of the shower and he pops a boner that you could club a baby seal with, I still wonder if he likes what he sees."

Here now, ladies and gentlemen, Ms. Betty Fokker:

Turns out that almost 1/3 of the women of Britain feel that they are too fat to have sex, and that (strangely!) has a negative effect on their libido. Imagine, if you will, the concept that you loathe your physical self so much you don’t feel you should have sex since some poor male (or female, since the Fokker doesn’t care one way or another who shares your bed. I am not an asshat.) would have to look at your nekkid flesh, and touch your smooshy body. I don’t have to image, considering the fact every time my Sweet Babou wants to tear up the sheets doing a nekkid waltz, I am surprised and bewildered.

Even I, schooled in feminist thought and the rejection of fat-hating bullshit, wonder why he would ever WANT to fuck me. I’m fat, therefore I am undesirable.

I have always, in my heart, operated under the assumption that he loves me so much he is willing to make the sweaty pretzel with me despite the fact I am repulsive to look upon. Moreover, I see that love as a sign of his quality as a superior human, not as a function of my worth. I just feel lucky. Like a lottery winner, not someone who invented the next-big-thing in computers and got rich from my efforts.

I was a well-loved and petted preschooler, so I always had the hope, maybe even the assumption, that I would be a lottery-winner in love one day. After all, I had been loved, so it wasn’t beyond the realm of reality. But as all the cultural messages of my ‘ugliness’ because of my obesity hammered at me for years, I assumed it would be one of those miraculous events – like a reverse beauty and the beast. I dreamed that one day a man would love me in spite of my hideous outward appearance. Which is better than the idea that I would never be loved, I guess, but is still all kinds of Fokked up.

Maybe I would have been more sanguine that Sweet Babou desired me is he had been a chubby-chaser. Then it would have made sense to me why he wanted me. But no, his prior girlfriends could be used to skewer cocktail hors d'oeuvres. So I have always believed, on some level, that loving me was a great sacrifice on his part, done because his heart was pure. All the rumpy-pumpy since we met has failed to convince me otherwise. Even when I walk out of the shower and he pops a boner that you could club a baby seal to death with, I still wonder if he likes what he sees.

This is not what I want to feel. I want to believe, as well as understand, that my fat does not devalue me. I do not believe it devalues others, but I cannot shake that feeling about myself. It makes me all the more determined, as a woman and a mother and a feminist, to fight fat-haters on every front, since this is horrible and I don’t want my daughters or any other woman to ever think of themselves as less because their body is more. Fat–hate and discrimination is BULLSHIT, y’all.

But I still wonder if he secretly thinks I’m yucky.

*****

See also: My Wife's Body by An Anonymous Husband, in which a husband examines this phenomenon from the male point of view.

xoxo
jill

(image source: http://lacontessa.tumblr.com/post/907275831/tamara-de-lempicka-le-modele-1925)

Real Sex Lives: Girly Jona, A Jerk-Off Description in the Second Person

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Real Sex Lives: "My Wife's Body" by An Anonymous Husband

(You have arrived in the midst of a grand celebration in which we're re-running IBWMW's all-time greatest Real Sex Stories, which I am this very second impulsively re-renaming Real Sex Lives. Better, yes?)

"My Wife's Body" by An Anonymous Husband is one of IBWMW's most passed around, viraly posts. It's been re-posted on sites ranging from mommy chat rooms ("I think I might want to have sex with the lights on. Is something wrong with me!?") to at least one hardcore fetish site that requires a false name, admissions of fetish preferences, etc... just to look at it.

Anyway, if you are needing this in your life today, well, please enjoy it. Because here at In Bed With Married Women, we like to keep our ladies happy.

***
My wife, like millions of women in this world, has a poor body self-image. She hates her body, in fact, and never stops beating herself up over her extra pounds, or her veins, or her wrinkles, or countless other aspects of her form.

It has always been thus. A few years back, I found a photo of her that I’d taken a decade ago, when we were first dating. She looked at it sadly, and said, “I’d give anything to be that thin again.” Stunned, I gave her a wide-eyed stare and replied, “All you did back then was complain about how much you hated how you looked. Just like you do now.” She admitted this was true, and shrugged, knowing that things will probably never change.

I wish, for both our sakes, that things would change. I’ve tried on numerous occasions to get her to see something different when she looks in the mirror, something more in tune with the reality of her body. I’ve begged her to try to see herself through my eyes, or at least to take my word for it when I tell her that she’s gorgeous.

Because she is. My wife is drop-dead, eye-popping, tougue-lolling-out, double-finger-whistling, instant tent-in-the-pants gorgeous. The first time we kissed , I actually got light-headed. When she crawls into bed, naked, I am overwhelmed. Every day, when she gets dressed and undressed, I can’t help but stare, like a schoolboy catching sight of the girl next door through a bedroom window. Sometimes I can’t believe my luck, and wonder how it is that I somehow conned this beautiful, sexy woman into being my wife.

I tell her all this, but my opinion on the matter seems to have little value. Still, it’s the truth: I love my wife’s body. Every fucking square centimeter of it. Even if she never can, I do. And I always will.

So, Wifey, if you are reading this, let me say:

I love your smile, because it is rare, and because it is dazzling. I love the mineral-brown of your eyes, and how they go so perfectly with the deep olive of your mostly-Jewish skin and the sweeping dark of your hair. I love your nose, wry, sarcastic, smart-assed. I love your chin, the ideal size and shape for my cupped hand.

I love your lips, a washed-out watercolor red, stretching so carelessly around some shocking swear word or bit of catty gossip. I love your neck, muscled, serious.

I love your breasts, and how they hang down, heavy and full, when you are on top of me in bed. I love to let them rest weightily on my flattened palms, to press them upwards against your chest as you lower yourself towards mine. I love to grip them around the sides like they are dangling fruit, and stroke them up and down, as if warming them up for play.

I love your pale, round, fleshy ass, and how it looks peeking out from beneath your nightgown. I love the contrast between the white skin and black lace on the few occasions you’ve worn those hot panties I bought you. I love the very topmost end of your ass crack, where the thin line fans out like the delta of a north-flowing river to water the smooth, flat plain of your lower back, which I also love.

I love the perfect slope of the little hill between your legs, and the puffy bush of your pubic hair, where I delight in resting my hand, or my head. I love every fold and crease and line of your cunt, the pinks and peaches and browns and reds, the slick of sweat and moisture, the springy curls of almost-black that tangle and pull and stretch.

I love the wide curve of your belly, especially when I have to look up to see it. I love that smile where the cheek or your ass meets the back of your thigh, and constantly want to tuck my hand in there. I love your legs, not fragile girly stems, but the legs of a real woman who has crouched down behind home plate in a little-league game, hiked the Kalalau Trail in Kauai, and yes, kicked a hole in the bedroom drywall when you were particularly angry with me.

I love the top of your head, which I can so easily kiss, because I’m taller than you. I love your feet, even though you almost never wear the cool shoes and boots I buy you. I love how your soles feel to my tongue, and how you pull away when I do that.

But back to your ass. I love, love, love that ass. It really is amazing.

Your body, wife, is magnificent. I must look at it, and hold it, and touch it, and taste it. I want and need it, because it is beautiful.

And I want you to accept that it is beautiful too.

Your takeaway today:  Your ass is amazing--quite biteable, really.

xoxo
jill

Plz comment, share, like RT and otherwise fill with virtual love. And if you are feeling the pull to share your Real Sex Story, write that motherfucker down and send it on in to: jillhamilton001@gmail.com.

(photo re-doctoring courtesy of said Anonymous Husband, who really is quite amazing.)

Real Sex Lives, Dusky: The Visit to the London Lover

(You have arrived in the midst of a grand celebration in which we're re-running IBWMW's all-time greatest Real Sex Stories. So get comfortable there and have a look.)

This is part 3 of 3 of Dusky's True Wife's Tale. It's so beautifully written and so well captures the shifting tones and moods of the visit to see her lover in London that I really don't want to muck it up with extraneous commentary. (However, if you'd like to get caught up on Dusky's story, start with:  "I Have Had One Great Love and One Great Lover and They Are Not the Same Man" then "I am Going to See That Old Lover")

So sit back, grab a cup of tea or other U.K.-approved beverage, and let's head to London with Dusky to visit that sexy old flame...

Ah hello...

I've been building myself up to writing to you.  Unfortunately things didn't go so well. :(  However, in the end, it hasn't been all bad.  Like everything else with my trip it seems to be a case of not really getting what I wanted, but in the end getting what I needed.  I find it hard to summarise all my feelings and what happened.  So I've just typed out the full story even though it's rather long! Please feel free to edit and post it should it be of interest.  Perhaps as a cautionary tale!

A few weeks ago was my wedding anniversary.  Hubby and I had a lovely day: we went out for lunch and wine tasting at a beautiful winery, drank more wine at home, and had some nice marital nookie.  I was also in the very strange position of spending some of the day packing for holiday and messaging my lover to arrange our date.  The next day I got on the plane to London.

I arrived in London-town on a Saturday morning.  I messaged the lover on my UK number, letting him know I was in town, and receiving a suitably excited response.  I teased that maybe he'd like to catch up while I was in town?  "Gosh, yes, that would be wonderful" replied the man who was already in the process of booking a hotel room for us for the following night.  Sunday I spent the day at a rather posh luncheon with my uncle, chatting as eloquently as I could manage with the men my uncle & late father rowed with at university.  When I got a spare moment I messaged the lover to say how proud he would be of my good-girl act... he responded "if only your polite company knew what was going to happen to you later tonight."  I was SO excited thinking about exactly what would be happening to me that night.  After lunch I was shaking with anticipation as I prepared for my date... putting on my best perfume, applying the make-up I so rarely wear, slipping the lingerie chosen for his tastes onto my recently de-fuzzed body (normally more bear-like in the quantity of hair), and my most striking and flattering dress.  I looked good and felt great.  He was running late from work, but I didn't mind... he was keeping me updated, and I spent the time having a pre-date date with London, wandering around Westminster, admiring Big Ben and the local attractions in the most beautiful summer evening light imaginable.  My lover rang me to arrange the exact spot to pick me up and I heard his soft, posh, sexy voice for the first time in years.  At last he arrived... and from there I have to say my fantasy went downhill.

He looked good, and seemed pleased to see me.  He teased me about the tattoo on my hand and asked after my family... we checked in at the hotel and then went out to dinner.  In the hotel room he said it was good to see me and kissed me.  It was a good kiss, slightly awkward but sensual.  We could well have gone to bed there and then but we were both determined to have a date to build up the tension.  But maybe we should have stayed in.  If I were to do it again it would be just a private, quiet night in a nice room (not a bland little one with no view and barely more than a bed), with a good bottle of wine and some beautiful music and many hours to talk deeply and passionately before eventually making it to bed.  In any case, we went out.  He took my hand as we walked and told me about his work.  I'm a lot older than the starry eyed little thing that fell for this older man a decade ago, and I was surprised at how much he brags about himself.  I suppose he always did, it's just that it used to impress me rather than bore me.  Over dinner we chatted quite mundanely, just general catch-up type things, about work and home life.  We talked about our partners a lot which I'd planned to avoid but found myself doing.  Neither of us got jealous, but it certainly didn't add to the romance of the evening.  We didn't really flirt or seduce one another at all.  We walked back to the hotel in the same manner and then we were there, just stuck in the little hotel room and its bed.  I sat on the bed and he put the telly on, stripped down to his underwear and joined me.  Intimate as spouses.  Ridiculous.  I'm sure he hoped for a positive reaction to his body, but I was waiting for a compliment myself and some attempt at seduction!  In the end we made a few jokes about the movie on the screen, and then I turned onto my stomach so that I was looking up at him and we started making out.  I got turned on by his touch instantly, and so we continued.  He told me in his posh accent that I have "magnificent tits", and we were soon naked. 

Real Sex Lives: Dusky, "I am going to see that old lover." (pt. 2 of 3)

(You have arrived in the midst of a grand celebration in which we're re-running IBWMW's all-time greatest Real Sex Stories. So get comfortable there and have a look.)

This is a True Wife's Tale update on Dusky. In her original entry ("I Have Had One Love Great Love and One Great Lover, and They Are Not the Same Man"), Dusky eloquently and honestly described the frustration of loving her husband but having little sexual connection with him. Yes, the sex was friendly and loving enough, but she was looking for smoldering and intense.

Instead of just jettisoning her sexual energy and figuring that this was what "mature love" was or something, she began a torrid email correspondence with Great Lover From the Past. The two exchanged sexy photos and deliciously detailed descriptions about exactly how they would like to wreck each other's bodies.

And, because she wants to live her life openly and authentically, she told her husband about the whole thing.

Several weeks later, I received an email from Dusky.

In just under 3 weeks (eep!) I am flying to London.  It is going to be a little 'me' holiday before hubby and I start trying for our first baby.  I will be catching up with friends and family, but also, I am going to see that old lover.

We will go on a date, and most likely it will lead to sex. He has a girlfriend who has no idea what a cheating bastard he is, so it will all be pretty sordid and clandestine.  It upsets me that I am being open and he is lying, but I will take what I can get.  It feels a little pathetic and anti-feminist, but this man is just too important to me to say no to him.

I now define myself as poly-amorous.  I have acknowledged to close friends, to my lover and to myself that this is not just about sex.  I have a relationship with my London lover, and indeed, we love each other.  We also love our partners.  To me it all makes sense and works.  My husband doesn't like that I have a relationship with this man... he wouldn't mind me just shagging someone else, but the love involved is a problem for him.  But at the same time, he has come to understand that I feel a need for this other person in my life, and he has found his way of meeting my needs.  Our basic arrangement is that he knows I contact this man and will most likely be sleeping with him on my holiday, but he doesn't want to hear about it.  We both have full permission for sex with other people, we just have to avoid it interfering with our life together.

I feel very lucky.  I have a wonderful husband, a wonderful lover, plus some very special and completely understanding friends to talk to about it all.

Anywho, that's where I'm at. Let me know if you'd like a post-London update.

Dusky

Well, I don't know about the rest of y'all, but I completely wanted a post-London update.

So, if you're down with it, too...coming tomorrow (dun-dun-DAH)...Dusky meets The Lover

*Real Sex Stories are an occasional feature of In Bed With Married Women--the idea being when someone (originally it was just wives, but really, it can be anyone) tells the truth about their sex life (or lack thereof), we all Learn and Grow, and can thus scamper unfettered out into the world to have smarter, better--I don't know--somehow truer sex. This also means that as fun as it is to mock and or judge someone else's choices, don't be a judgey asswipe in the comments.

Want to share your story? It's easy!  Just rip your soul out and email me the tattered remains.

xoxo
jill

(Photo via LaContessa)

Real Sex Lives: Dusky, "I have had one great love and one great lover, and they are not the same man."

I chose this to illustrate the concept of having two balls in
the air.  However, not quite sure why model has made a
couch fort of those (exceptionally stylish!) throw pillows. 

(You have arrived in the midst of a grand celebration in which we're re-running IBWMW's all-time greatest Real Sex Stories. So get comfortable there and have a look.)

Real Sex Lives, nee True Wife's Tales, are an occasional feature of In Bed With Married Women. ("Occasional," as Webster defines it, "whenever I am too fucking lazy to write a new post and/or someone happens to send one in.")

The idea behind them is that when someone (originally it was just wives, but really, it can be anyone) tells the truth about their sex life (or lack thereof), we all Learn and Grow, and can thus scamper unfettered out into the world to have freer, better--I don't know--somehow truer sex.

At the very least, RSTs allow you to indulge in the lower pleasures of Voyeurism and/or Judging.* So enjoy.

We are starting with one of my very favorites, a three-parter, from Dusky, a woman who I love so much we've become virtual friends even though she lives far, far away.

xoxo
jill

*Judge all you want, but keep that $%$# to yourself, please. These are real people being brave and 'fessing up.


Dusky, early 30s.

     Jill, thank you for your blog, it is a great read… and also a great comfort to read different experiences of love & sex. 
     I feel I live with a secret pain... I get a pang of hurt every time it is suggested that great sex & great love go hand in hand.  I feel surrounded by the idea that naturally the greatest sex of your life will be with the love of your life. The implication being that sex is a litmus test of the true inner feelings of two people, that if you really loved one another, the sex would be spectacular.
     I have had one great love and one great lover, and they are not the same man.
     My husband and I had a very romantic story, falling head-over-heels in love almost instantly and moving in together in less than two weeks. We stayed up all night talking, talking, talking… and by day we spent hours on end just sitting, gazing at one another and sighing. In between the talking and the gazing, we did manage some sex too. I don't remember if it was great sex then, it was just part of celebrating our enraptured love, taking our physical closeness and affection to the extreme.
     Since the 'in love' phase of our relationship has faded, we are still a ludicrously happy couple. We are best friends, and true partners. I never thought I would want to live with someone full-time, but having found the right person to live with my life is a constant joy, full of love, affection, fun & laughter. Friends and family consider us soul-mates, strangers can see how compatible we are. And everyone assumes our public physical affection is a sign of the great sex we must be having at home.
     The reality is sex has always been the less satisfying aspect of our relationship, particularly for me. After 5 years of trying to train my well-meaning husband to please me, I have pretty much given up.  We have agreed to an open marriage as I feel it is the only chance to get the satisfaction I crave. We continue to have fun, loving sex within our marriage, but now I can look outside for the intense, smouldering, sensual passion that I have missed.
     I have reignited communication with a man from my past. We never lost contact, but until recently we only shared rare & friendly messages. Now we are all the way back to regular, completely sexual communication: describing in detail what we want to do to one another, even sharing porographic photographs of ourselves.  For now it is a little thrill, in the hope that we will make it a reality someday (we live in different countries). I am sure he is not the only man who can satisfy me physically, but he happens to be the one I have experienced who can. The sex with this man was well beyond any other sex I have had. I've always enjoyed sex, I tend to be quite uninhibited, but this man knew how to really blow my mind. Sometimes I am overcome with vivid memories of that sex and I just ache to experience it again.  For some reason we felt an instant physical attraction to one another, and somehow that translated to an intense physical chemistry and sexual compatibility.
     I believe I have two mates in this life, one that meets all my mental and emotional needs, another who meets my physical needs. And generally, my little arrangement which allows me both makes me very happy. But sometimes I am very sad that they are not the same person, that the man I love can't really experience this sensual side of me. It is hard to have sex conversations (and I do love sex conversations!) with anyone other than people I know VERY well. People probably think I'm being prudish when I fail to join in their talk of sexy times with their partners, when I am just hiding the truth that the spectacular sex I would like to be talking about was with someone else entirely.
     An old friend told me a story years ago, before I met my husband. She said a friend had a most wonderful partner, they all adored him and thought she was the luckiest girl on earth to have snagged such a kind, beautiful person. They couldn't understand why she wasn't sure about the relationship. Then one day she confided in them - he was bad in bed. My friend said they reacted as though she'd said he had cancer - they just felt so sorry for her.
     Well my husband isn't entirely useless in bed, but I know how that woman felt. When you're with a wonderful man who is bad in bed, everyone else sees this perfect relationship on the outside, and don't how much it hurts to hide the frustration you feel on the inside.

Would you like to tell your own story? Just sit down at the computer, rip your heart out, and jot the results down in an email and send it to:  jillhamilton001@gmail.com

(photo source)

Sex, Laid Out Right There For Everyone To See

I'm digging the debauchery of this one

Hey loveys. Starting, eh, maybe today or tomorrow, I'm gonna to be re-running some of my favorite Real Sex Stories (nee True Wife's Tales.) If you refer to your notes, you'll recall that these are reader-told stories about what really happens in their sex lives. It's not designed to get you off, particularly, but just to share the huge-ass variety of what can and does encompass a sex life, or lack thereof. The truth is Good, I say, and being brave and telling it really does set us free. 

Having written highly person stuff myself, I can say that it is extremely fucking cathartic to get that $%$# written down and out of you. So if you feel called to do so, rip your own sensitive little heart out and write your story down. Whatever it is. It's all just life and we can deal, yes? Send it to me at jillhamilton001@gmail.com, then go forth unfettered.

In the meantime, here's some stuff I've been writing elsewhere while simultaneously beating back one motherfucker of a dark depressive spell. I *think* I've tamped it down, and I'm cautiously stepping forth back into the world, blinking at how bright and lovely it all is.  Anyway, have a look if you'd like--and comment, tweet, like and/or share because that's how they judge how "good" they are:

--Why (Straight) Dudes Aren't  Using Sex Toys. Yet in AlterNet. (Featuring smart and thoughtful wanking commentary from some articulate sex-toy usin' IBWMW readers. Thanks!)

--I Tried Cosmo's Scrunchie-on-the-Penis Sex Tip for Cosmo.

For the latter, I'm not sure if I'm being a total whore because I am indeed having sex for money. Or that I have the best job ever because I am being paid for sex. In my mind, it really could go either way. If it's the whore thing, I'm gonna to upgrade myself to "courtesan," at least, and consider myself the elite expensive kind that only few may experience.

We'll see if that works.

xoxo
jill

PS Think if you want to write something!

(photo via Lady Cheeky, as is my custom)

Real Sex Story: Abigail, "I'm the girl he fucks."

"I love your site, love your writing, love the theme, love it," writes Abigail, in a single sentence guaranteeing that I'd be running her Real Sex Story. "My friends, (and strangers probably too) are tired I'm sure of hearing me prattle endlessly on about how absurd it is that we live in a culture of people that bow down and worship at the alter of romantic love because often, the other kinds, fuck buddies and mistresses and even friendships that aren't remotely erotic are just as solid, and maybe even more relevant. But you don't see anyone making movies about that. And then I found you."

The thing I like about these is that they give you a chance for hop inside someone else's head and just sort of roam around (careful, don't touch any important brain parts). For that reason, I'm running this completely unedited. Well, that and general laziness.

Also, other housekeeping blog news:  some fuckhead hijacked the "If you liked this story, try this" link thing at the bottom of the posts, linking them to his own stuff (so jerky!) so that's gone for a bit as I figure out how to fix it. Also, a couple people said they had some problems leaving comments, others said they did not. If you are having trouble, let me know in the other comment form in right column or write to me at jillhamilton001@gmail.com.

And finally, my story on Smart, Arty Porn Sites is on Salon and was the #1 most read on AlterNet. Probably 'cause people thought it was porn, but fuck, they clicked, they count.

Here, then, if you have remained awake, Abigail:

I'm the girl that he fucks. Her delivery was deadpan and I imagine her to be in that moment to be beautiful, sitting cross legged and naked. One of those long limb-ed, blank eyed girls displaying equal parts shyly and proudly hipbones sharpened on some eerie combination of youth and food avoidance. Hair tangled, sticking to the sweat and the cum that glistens lightly on a collarbone that was bitten and not kissed. She seeks something more of the earth than of the sky from my sometimes lover, my heart friend. This I know with a certainly that has no foundation for logic but is true nonetheless. A misnomer that word, that 'my' for he isn't mine, but I haven't found, and not for lack of effort a phrase existing within this language to indicate knowledge of another without linguistic ownership. Irritating. He isn't mine, this soul match to mine. I sometimes suspect that he belongs not even to himself but to some lilting Irish tune piped out by an Appalachian mountain dwelling hermit grieving for the womb like embrace of union wages and his long dead wife. He retreats often from this world, and from me, my sometimes not mine loverfriend. Though he lately seems less puppeted by the marionette strings of whatever it is that he belongs to that isn't himself or another. I've never minded the absences, though I'm glad that his mountain piper plays less. He is and was always wildest in the late night early morning, that faded blur between night and day: drunk and sober. A state that he seeks, drawn by that Irish mountain song that no one can remember the words to, that song that only belongs in the grey green blue of a never sober mountain morning. I sometimes but not tonight tell him that I love him. He sometimes but not tonight says the same. Always clumsily, both of us, exchanging that meaningless meaningful word that weighs entirely too much and not enough and it passes between us awkwardly and at random. I'm the girl that he fucks. She tells me this deadpan.