"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 Stories: Alyssa Royse, "Orgasms Aren't That Big A Deal"

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

Here, Alyssa Royse writes about the aftermath of an accident that left her largely orgasm-less, and how this have affected her sex life.

For me, her piece brings up all sorts of delicious issues to ponder like: What is the goal of sex? How is physical sex different than emotional/spiritual/passionate sex? What constitutes sex? What (if anything) differentiates sex from the sexual?

***
I pretty much don’t have orgasms. I am not alone in that. I have felt guilt, fear and shame around that fact, and I am not alone in that. I have faked it, and I am not alone in that.

Orgasms were always hard to come by for me. But after really learning my body, I could get there, both on my own and with lovers. However, after a car-accident and resulting brain injury, they all but disappeared. And I was, frankly, glad to see them go. As good as they felt for the short time they were happening, the drama and pressure around getting there never seemed worth it to me. I never understood what the big deal was. They’re awesome, but they’re a tiny part of a much larger picture.

If I just needed a quick orgasm, I would rely on porn and a vibrator to get me there quickly. But if that was all I wanted, I would never bother having sex with other people. When I’m having sex with someone, I want it to be an unencumbered journey of exploration with a very specific person. I want no map, no “to do” list, no expectations and no goals. Just all in, focusing on the moment, not on the finish line.

In my mind, the focus on the orgasm rather than everything leading up to it, is like focusing on the wedding but not the marriage – pretty much missing the point.

When I finally figured out that the absence of orgasm was very likely one of the many changes in my body connected to my brain injury, I was almost relieved. But in a culture in which men are trained to win awards, conquer challenges, and be victorious, it’s awfully hard to get guys to accept that an orgasm just didn’t matter. Now I could blame it on my injury, which was totally justifiable and no guy could possibly take personally.

“So, you just don’t have them, at all,” one of my friends asked. “Sometimes it happens, but it’s unusual, and I usually tell lovers that it’s not possible, just because it’s easier, and pretty much true.”

“I’m sorry,” my other friend said.

“Don’t be,” I explained. “It’s great.”

In unison, they both said, “how can that be.” 

I did my best to explain the performance pressure around having an orgasm. That in many cases, women feel like they have to get there to please the guy, like the guy will feel like a failure if he can’t make you cum. And, of course, we feel like a failure, or like we are flawed and not good enough if we can’t get there. Then the whole focus becomes this one thing, and it’s just too much pressure. Frankly, it’s incredibly hard to have an orgasm under that kind of pressure.

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.)

Someone Who Actually Used The Female Condom!

A reader over at Dan Savage's column in The Stranger recently linked to this IBWMW reader letter. Upon re-reading it, I loved it again so much that here is it again, showing up at your doorstep, no worse for the long trip. Take it in and give it a good home will you?

Not only is this letter about the female condom, which as faithful readers will recall, I am unduly obsessed with, but it is also stunningly well-written. (Also, non-irrelevantly, I am home with a sick child today and can't be sitting around writing about wieners all day.)

The reader, let's call him B, was good enough to report back to us on his experience with the female condom. I love it especially because he uses the phrase "from a purely penile perspective." Writes B:

"With a regular condom, men lose all the direct friction on the penis, which is, of course, why so many guys hate using them. With the female condom, all the friction and sensation comes back (for the male), but the feeling is still very different from regular no-condom sex, because of what the penis is actually rubbing against: a urethane sheath. Urethane feels nothing like skin, and is also very different from latex… more Saran Wrappy, really.

Maneuvering the penis through the ring-opening is fun, like an accuracy game, and it requires the help of fingers, which most people will probably find lacking in the romance department. But hey, when there’s a plastic ring dangling out of a person’s vagina, it ain't gonna be a scene outta Jane Austen.

Note: Not a scene from
"Pride and Prejudice"

Once the penis is safely inside, a lot of the things you’ve grown to expect from penetration are the same: the pressure and the warmth are as they should be. But then there’s this strange, unfamiliar texture, like your penis is now gripped by something that’s smoother and more plastic than you're used to. From a purely penile perspective, it’s a bit like having sex with a warm, tight sandwich bag. But that’s just a best guess, of course. I’ve never gotten it on with food wrapping, honestly.

I will admit that the sensation was actually exciting as a novelty. Everything else about my girlfriend was the same, but her vagina felt noticeably different. She was 98% human and 2% love doll, and that was a bit of a turn-on, as if she’d swapped out her sex part for something new… not better, but at least different and maybe a tad futuristic.

Blame it on all those nerve endings that make intercourse so penis-centric for guys, but even with all the other stuff that’s going on during sex, there’s no disguising that what you’re feeling down in the thrusting zone isn’t really an au- natural vagina, but something “other.”

So, yeah. Warm, tight, and plasticky.

It’s not a feeling I’d want every time, and it would definitely get to be a drag if it was the default birth control method. But as a one-off experiment, it was enjoyable and memorable."

Guest Post: "That Doesn't Turn Me On" by The Housewife Blogger

Since we're already talking about bad sex moves (that would be you, unexplained thwacking on the butt with a penis), I unearthed today's guest post, That Doesn't Turn Me On, courtesy of The Housewife Blogger. So, without further ado, The Housewife:

The Husband and I have been together for the better part of a decade.  Yet, sometimes, he seems to revert back to teenager mode, and do stupid things.  I want to ask him what he's thinking when he does some of these things.  For instance...

• My tits are not balls of dough.  There should be no hard kneading involved; especially after I ovulate because they are the most sensitive things in the world after that.  The jiggle that happens when I walk down the stairs is enough to hurt them, so please, no kneading.

• Saying stupid things like, "You kind of need to trim things up a bit".  Shut.  Up.  There needs to be 4-6 weeks in between waxing appointments, and I can't trim it super short or else the wax can't hold on to the hair as well.  Deal with it, in a few days, it will be smooth again.

• Pretending like you're giving me a back rub, then migrating to either my boobs or cooter.  Do it right!  When I say my shoulders are tight, I don't mean my boobs.  When I say my lower back hurts, that doesn't mean my cooter.  If you give me a proper back rub, then I'll consider your advances.

• When you try to have sex with me when I'm sick.  I know I stay sick forever when I get a cold, but when my nose is stuffy, I don't want to be stuffed.  That's just how it is.

I think I'll turn this into a Powerpoint presentation for The Husband.

Thank you, Housewife. See more of her posts here.

BTW, after I ran the bad sex moves contest, several people asked me what bad sex move I'd experienced. Okay, here goes: I once (briefly!) dated a guy who exclaimed "Hoo Boy!" during sex.

Yes, I know. One should be free and uninhibited during sex and all that. But if lack of inhibitions leads to "Hoo Boy"-yelling, it's time for self-protective inhibitions to kick in.

But that's just according to me. As I learned after being reprimanded by an angry furry, one person's Sexy Tiger Lover is another's weirdo-in-a-sweaty-ass-tiger-costume-with-alarmingly-situated-groinal-flaps.

Who knows, maybe the person who's with Mr. Hoo Boy today is at her desk this very second, reliving the feverish night before when her man shouted "Hoo Boy!" during the throes, and shivering with a secret thrill of delight. "Hoo...boy," she whispers to herself, dreamily twisting a loose strand of hair around her finger.

So, gentle reader, I wish for you sweet dreams of whatever it is that does it for you, whether it be fevered kisses in the night, furry tiger penises or, hell, reruns of What's Happening!! Though maybe not a combination of all three. Unless it's that one where Rerun does that cool dance.

Guest Post: Molly Mounds from Scary Sextoy Friday, Plus I Digress

Mounds brandishing her
weapon of choice. 

As you just read .00054 seconds ago in the title, today's guest post is from Molly Mounds, penner of the accurately named Scary Sextoy Friday. Mounds, a writer and online smut peddler in Silicon Valley, reports that she "encounters many terrifying sextoys on a daily basis and chronicles them for your pleasure, dismay and horror." Last week's entry's was particularly heinous and I feel the urge--nay, the need--to pass it on to you. So without further ado, please give a warm welcome to Miss Molly Mounds and The Molestache:

OK, it's been awhile since I literally jumped out of my seat:

, 

GAHHH!!!!

I don't even know where to start with this one; the creepy '70s molestache, the Jay Leno-sized chin, or how about the ROWS OF FUCKING SPIKES INSIDE?

Also, there's something oddly familiar about this...thing. 

It's reminding me of something...

Someone...

Someone from my past...

Wait! I've got it!



AHHHHHHH!!!

There you have it folks: your childhood, ruined. Again.

You're welcome!

Again, that was Miss Molly Mounds at Scary Sextoy Friday.

Oddly, the Molestache also reminds me of a Jim Henson creature, only in my case, it's Cookie Monster.* I feel that this toy would, for sure, make a Cookie Monster-esque "Mmmwahhh, ummmmwha" chomping sound as it serviced your member.

Anyway, if I did have a member wishing to be serviced, I would be way too afraid to stick it in there. Who knows what the hell might lurk inside? If the scary pokey spikes are the thing you can see, I'm guessing something even worse hides in its bowels. An evil gnome? The entrance to Narnia? The imprisoned and miniaturized cast of Starsky and Hutch? I don't know, but I'm not hanging around to find out.

And you? Your thoughts?

* Addendum: I am not proud to admit this, but after writing this, I interrupted my important vacuuming duties and googled "cookie monster sex" to discover if anyone did, indeed, harbor sexual fantasies about the insatiable blue Muppet. Besides an oddly high number of Youtube videos of Cookie Monster having sex with, among others, Barbie and Elmo, I found the following chart from LA Weekly, detailing the results of a UCLA sex survey of college students.  The question here was: Which innocent childhood fantasies could best morph into adult sexual fantasies?

There's Cookie Monster, right there with a host of other WTF choices like "Strawberry Shortcake and Lemon Meringue," "My Little Pony" and "Oral Sex with Barney." Compared to these, Cookie Monster is starting to look sexier by the moment. At least he seems passionate. On the other hand, the Count is European, which might make up for his rather boring conversational skills...  Hmmm, I am assessing the sexual potential of various puppets--clearly it is time for me to return to my vacuuming.
bye.

Guest Post: On Being Chosen For A Threesome

Today's guest post is from Confessions of a Recovering Cynic, a ballsy, hilarious blog in which heroine, self-described "train wreck," Tricia* writes about hideous dates, having to move back in with her parents and sending her brother to the post office to mail a butt plug to a reader/contest winner.

In the following post, Guest Star, Tricia--who clearly has an especially alluring Blogger profile--has been propositioned by a married couple for a threesome. Instead of just writing about that, which would certainly be fine enough, Tricia takes it a step further and imagines the couple's conversation as they look at her profile, deciding if she is the one to share their marital bed. Note the subtle manuevering between the husband and wife as they try to work the situation to their own advantage.

So behold, Guest Star (text and artwork courtesy of Confessions of a Recovering Cynic):

Guest Star

So, I've already told you that my online profile is quite titillating to the geriatric set. I get swamped with emails from silver not-so-foxys suggesting that I look like I'd be a hoot.

Cuz mama taught you to share...

Today I was surprised to find out that apparently I am attractive to someone who doesn't bear an AARP card.

More specifically, two people who don't bear AARP cards.

That's right...I'm being propositioned as a guest star.

Now, I'm no fool.

I know how this conversation went down as they perused the profiles.


Hubs (clicking on picture of blonde could-be Playmate):
     She looks pretty good, honey.

Wife (thinking over my dead body):
     Um, I prefer brunettes...

Hubs (clicking on Megan Fox look-alike):
     Here's a brunette!

Wife (still thinking over my dead body):
     Hmm...she looks like she might have herpes.
(Shuffles profiles, lands on mine. EUREKA!)  
     How about her? She looks...nice.
(Nice = not so ugly that hubs will heave his lunch, but not as pretty as wife, naturally.)

Hubs (considering):
     She's a little...chubby - don't you think?

Wife (speaking soothingly):
     Nah, I think she's...sensual looking. Just think, hon - big tits!

Hubs (realizing with alarm this might be his only shot, and that a mediocre threesome is still better than no threesome):
     You're right, babe! Let's email her.

*And yes, overly attentive stalker  astute reader, this is indeed the same Tricia who "won" last week's contest on Most Stupid-Ass Thing Done for Love. She was the one who, among other things, paid for her own engagement ring.

Guest Post: "Demystifying Cunnilingus" by The Barreness

Today we bring you a lesson in the art of pleasuring a female orally. Or, as it is more formally called, "cunnilingus." (Though it is Most Certainly Not called cunnilingus by anyone I know--even at the most formal of occasions. Cunnilingus is a displeasing word, made all the more displeasing by the prominent "ling" sound right there in the middle of the word, forcing anyone who says it aloud into making an involuntary suggestive flick of the tongue.)

Our instructor in the art of, well, you know, is a lively, sassy Brit, The Barreness, who writes the equally lively and sassy blog Hello, Sailor.  I urge you, using my highest possible words of urging, to check it out immediately. At the very least read Meet the Barreness, an intro to the Barreness worldview. But you're here for cunnilingus talk. Let us cede to the Barreness:

Greetings Chaps and Chapesses.
As you might have guessed, today's topic is an educational one, its necessity brought into rather glaring focus for me throughout the recent audition process.

As it turns out, despite machinations and unsubstantiated claims to the contrary, nearly every man I meet, infuriatingly  most men  lots of men are absolutely bloody clueless about how to give good head.