Damn Comment-Spammers

Those that noticed the ungodly number of comments on the last post: it was originally almost up to 300. I deleted a lot, but Blogger doesn't have a mass-delete function, and I got bored with the manual process.

I'm not dead, and neither is my libido. I'm just buried under a demonstration-deadline for the 31st, which has sadly cut into my blogging time. I promise to be back as soon as I can.

Love you all,

D

A Night Well Spent; Disaster Week Ends

Went up to SF this evening to experience Writers With Drinks, a spoken word/variety event sponsored by (and in support of) other magazine. And lemme tell ya, it was a blast! There were several readers present, among my favorite were Alicia Erian, reading from her first novel, Towelhead. It was a chapter both erotic and disturbing. Enough so that I bought a copy from the author before leaving.

Also reading was Tad Williams, who read a chapter from his book The War of the Flowers. That's one I'll have to get in the near future, but he wasn't selling copies like Ms. Erian was. Poet Liz Henry read 5 poems, and Mondo 2000 founder R. U. Sirius read from two of his books, including Counterculture Through the Ages: From Abraham to Acid House.

But for me, the true highlight of the evening was meeting and hearing Violet Blue. She read a chapter she's contributed to the upcoming "Everything You Know About Sex Is Wrong". It's the (extremely humorous) story of her taking part in an educational production on sexual anatomy and technique using actual porn performers. Yes, it turns out about as well as you're now surmising. (She also has some photos from the day in one of her online albums, linked off her home page.) Getting to meet her and hear her read made me into a total stuttering fanboy. I love reading her weblog, and to top it all off she's amazingly cuter in person than the pix in her albums (and the albums are pretty flattering, make no mistake). She was a delight to chat with, I'd have loved to have had more time.

So, moving right along...

I'm calling "Disaster Week" to a close. I thought I could make more of it, but I suppose I'm pretty grateful that I only have a handful of true disasters to recall. Three posts, and I'm fresh outta material. Time to go back to more enjoyable sexual escapades.

Dausa

Tales of Disastrous Sex 3: Love's Labours Lost

Not all of my stories of disaster can be humorous, I'm afraid.

In 1991, I had to move back to Oklahoma from Denver, when my first job went belly-up. Prior to this, I had gotten back in touch with a friend who lived in Tulsa. She was someone I had a hopeless crush on-- hopeless, because she was a lesbian. We had known each other several years, and there always seemed to be a bit of chemistry, but we'd never pursued it. She just wasn't into penis. Well, she was having some doubts about that part lately, and how would I feel about swinging through Tulsa on my way to OKC? Mind you, it was a good 100 miles or so added to my trip. (As if I wouldn't consider driving an extra 100 miles to get laid, even in a U-Haul!) Well, long story short: I got there later than planned, and more fatigued than I expected. I had to continue on to OKC the next morning, so we went to bed and just slept. At some point in the night, one of us woke the other one (I honestly don't remember who woke whom) and we proceeded to have very bad, fumbling, clumsy, uncomfortable sex. I lost track of her again, and haven't heard from her since.

A few weeks before that, I had met someone at a party, and we had hooked up. She was weird, a strong follower of Messianic Judaism, and very aggressive. We slept together twice, though I was already worrying that this broke my "don't fuck someone crazier than I am" rule. In the afterglow of the second time, I confided in her that I was worried I was going to have to move back to Oklahoma. Then I did. But it all happened so fast that I didn't have the chance to call her before I left, and I lost her number. A few years later, after I'd returned to Denver and settled in to a more stable job, I ran into her at a birthday party for a mutual friend. I went up and apologized for disappearing as I had, but that I did in fact have to go back to OKC, and had only recently managed to get a better job and return to Denver. I tried to smooth things out, to be as considerate as I could be, but she was still pissed and wasn't interested in a word I had to say. And told me so, in so many words. So my last words to her were, "Well, at least I tried to apologize." I can't blame her for being bitter, but it's clear that I probably shouldn't have stuck my dick up there in the first place, addict or no. (Though, once she put my name on the mailing list for her church, I felt a lot less guilt and a lot more annoyance.)

Luckily, that's all I can think of at this late hour. Understand that I've had my share of positive and negative sexual experiences. I'm not picking these two just because they were bad, but because they really, really hurt someone in the process. It's just as well I don't remember any others. I can only hope it's because they're few and far-between.

Dausa

Tales of Disastrous Sex 2: Wednesday Cock-Blogging Edition

Since I've started keeping a sex-blog, and reading so many of the excellent ones out there, I have particularly enjoyed two traditions: Wednesday Cock-Blogging and Friday Pussy-Blogging. I haven't actually taken part in any cock-blogging, though. But let's change all that, shall we? Keeping in with my theme for the week, I treat you to some disastrous penile trials...

(Not all of which will be sexual, in the strictest sense, but c'mon, they're all about the dick!)

I think the first clear memory I have of messing myself up pretty good, penis-wise, would have to be early in my fifth-grade year. I was just starting to like girls, too, so this really hurt me. I had been riding my bike along some neighborhood side-street, a little (a lot!) too fast, and something caught on the front wheel. I pitched over the handlebars and slid a few yards along the street. Ran home, dragging the bike and trying not to cry in front of everyone else around. Mom's close inspection revealed a couple of bruises, and some scrapes. Both elbows (of course), one shoulder. And... my penis (I don't even remember what euphemism she used-- I know I didn't hear the word "penis" until the next year in my first sex-ed class). I had scraped a patch of skin off of it (through the friction against my denim jeans) that covered about 70% of the length, on one side. Remember me saying that I was starting to notice girls? I was also starting to get spontaneous erections. Roll that one around in your head for a bit.

Of course, like most men, I've caught myself in the zipper on a few occassions. At least none of those drew blood. And none were of the "There's Something About Mary" severity.

One time, I was having some wonderfully vigorous doggy-style with P. She kept insisting that I do it harder. And I was doing my very best for the person I loved. On one out-stroke, I actually pulled completely out of her by accident. And on the in-stroke, the tip actually met up with one of her thighs. All my weight and force were behind that thrust. I bent my erection. And that was a sensory experience I wish on no other man.

When I first discovered masturbation, my technique-of-choice was to fashion a fake vagina out of tissues dampened in warm water. Don't knock it 'til you've tried it. Anyway, I'd wrap a handful of tissues around my erection and pour warm water from the tap over them, and then do my thing. Of course, I had to re-moisten them periodically. Not usually a problem, except that one time I was doing this someone elsewhere in the house started the clothes-washing machine on a cold-water cycle. Not knowing this, I filled the small cup with water from the running tap. Water that wasn't warm, but in fact HOT. Which I proceeded to pour over my tender, 15-year-old erection.

One time, a little while out of college, I became curious as to just how many times I could orgasm (from masturbating) in a 24-hour period. The answer, of course, depends on how long you want to be too damned sore to do jack with your dick afterwards. Next time, more and better lube.

Of course, there have been other, less-serious incidents hardly worth mentioning. Getting whacked in the crotch while holding a piñata at a kid's birthday party. Having a cat mistake the twitched erection under the sheet for a mouse. But I think that's enough abuse-imagery for now.

Dausa

Tales of Disastrous Sex: Number 1 in a Series

The lovely Virgin Slut made an interesting suggestion earlier this week. I took it to mean a focus on disaster stories, though that isn't exactly what she meant.

Nonetheless, I shall devote this week (granted, I'm only starting on Tuesday), to...

Tales of Disastrous Sex

Episode I: A Saturn Wrecks My Wank

The setting: Denver, somewhere around March or so of 1996.

I was living with P, my only real long-term partner. Someone I'd actually met while still in Oklahoma, who moved to Denver a year or so after I did. Like me, she still had family in Oklahoma. Her sister had been in town visiting for a few days, which had been a bit of a damper on our sex life, since P was ultra-paranoid about exposing her (underage) sister to anything even remotely inappropriate (no comments on this part, please, it was P's preogative to make this choice and I honored and respected that). To make matters worse, P was driving the sister back to Oklahoma (that had been the plan-- sis flew out one-way, then P would drive her back and see the rest of the family as part of it) so it was going to be another few days. But on the other hand, P was taking her son, and I was faced with the prospect of having the house to myself for several days.

So of course my first thought once the car pulled away from the house was to have a first-class masturbation session. I wasn't even going to wait for bedtime, either. I did wait about an hour or so, first. I figured that if they forgot anything, there were likely to remember it in the first 30 minutes or so. When they weren't back within an hour, I assumed they were well on their way.

So I laid out the implements of my pleasure: Medium vibrator for anal play (check), smaller vibrator for genital stimulation (check), good-quality lube for larger vibe (check), tasty porn for visual stimulus (check), and towel to lay down so the lube doesn't mess up the bed (check). I then set about said pleasure.

It went a little like this: Start with the medium vibe, around the opening of the ass. No pressure yet, not even a need for lube (yet). Just build up an appreciation of the sensations. When that starts to feel really good, introduce the lube. Don't be stingy. The towel is there to catch any excess. Liberal application, then start working the vibe inside. Again, taking one's time about it. When the buzzing tip cozies up to the prostate, you'll know it. Oh, you'll know it for certain.

At this point, I start using the smaller vibe around my balls and the base of my shaft. Also, by this point, I'm pretty close to completely rock-hard. So I position myself so that I can rock back and forth on the bed to control the vibe in my ass, and reach for the lube. The plan is to use the strong hand to stroke, the other hand to use the smaller vibe, and a gentle back-and-forth rocking to control the medium vibe. Versatile, no?

Then I hear the front door open and shut.

Something I didn't point out earlier: I'm in a mostly-underground, basement level of the house. The door is upstairs. It's not like anyone walked in right on me at that moment. However, shortly after I hear the door, I hear P call out my name. "Are you downstairs?" she calls. An involuntary tightening of the sphincter ejects the medium vibe. I hop off of the bed. I'm now frantically trying to clean the lube off of my hand and from around my ass, so I can get dressed before she gets down here.

Footsteps on the stairs. She calls again. "Just a minute!" I reply, hoping to by a few more seconds. She comes around the corner as I'm zipping up my jeans. Figuring out immediately that I'm flushed and up to something, she looks around me at the bed, and sees the toys, the towel, the porn.

She burst out laughing.

They had gotten about 45 minutes away (just to the edge of the metro Denver area), when an oncoming car threw a rock that glanced off the drivers' front window. In one of those freaky situations, it was just enough force at just the right angle to make the window totally distintegrate with a loud "Pow!" So they had turned around and come home.

And she had literally caught me with my pants down. And the sad thing was, she was half-expecting it. That's why the sister and son were still in the car: just in case I wasn't decent. Good call, that, since I wasn't.

We did what we could with the window, and they left again. I waited the 11 hours or so for them to get all the way to the family's home, waited until I got the call from her that they were there safely, before I went at it again.

Couldn't get into using the toys again, though. I kept seeing the look of amusement on her face. Plus, she had been disappointed, since I had waited until she left. She wanted to watch me, if I was going to be that elaborate about it.

More Self-Suckage

Another Edible Dirt cartoon worth reading (with regards to my former flexibility):

http://catmydog.keenspace.com/d/20040830.html

Actually, they're all worth reading.

D

When Two Plus Two Equal Three

I have been with two virgins. And I have had two lovers decide they were lesbian at some point after our relationship had ended. One person was in both groups. This is a little bit about these three people that I still think about today...


First, there was K. K is three years younger than me. We met in high school, and were friends. We had common friends and some common interests. But I was a senior and she a freshman. As attracted to her as I was, she was seeing someone and I was about to graduate. It didn't help that the guy she was seeing was a first-class dick, who liked me even less. And it didn't help his mood that his girlfriend kept talking to me.

I graduate. She gives me a very lingering hug on graduation night. And I pretty much let it go. I mean, she was still with him, and I couldn't be sure of the motives (if any) behind the hug. Plus, I met someone just about this time whom would end up being my first lover. She was my age, and she didn't have a boyfriend (that I knew of-- I later found out otherwise when she left me to go back to him). Anyway, fast-forward a couple of months, I've had two other lovers since the first (hey, I may have been a late-starter but I was determined to catch up), and I've started my frosh year of college.

I forget why, but there was some event I went to back at the HS. It involved some people from the drama department, which K was involved with. And so I saw her again. This time, she was free of the encumbrance of the asshole. We talked. We talked some more. Numbers were exchanged. Her still being in HS, and me barely out, the early days were still very HS-like. Lots of late-night phone conversations, with lots of giggling. Notes passed, more like letters but still folded in that pass-notes-in-the-hallway form. It was all sickeningly sweet. But it did get much more intense.

I remember the first time we made love (yes, that was what I felt it was at the time, so I'm stickin' with it). She was self-conscious about her weight, and about the difference in height between us (I'm 6'4" now, I was about 6'1" or so then). But I was just in awe of how beautiful she was to me. Her eyes, her smile. Her sharp intake of breath when I first entered her. I remember my Christmas present from her that year. And I remember how hurt I was when I got back from my final exams and she wanted to break up.

I later found out she had come to the conclusion that she was gay. She had dated one other guy after me, then (as far as I know) only other girls from then on. Recently I stumbled across some old notes of hers, in which she describes how much more she enjoyed sex with me than with the earlier boyfriend, because I engaged her more, she felt like I cared more. She really sounded sincere and happy in those notes, and maybe she was. I hope she's as happy or moreso now.

When I’m tired and thinking cold
I hide in my music, forget the day
And dream of a girl I used to know
I closed my eyes and she slipped away

-- Boston, "More Than A Feeling"

L was actually in my love-life before K, but only by a few months. I started with K because the lengthy "courtship" went back to before L. L and I went to middle-school together (junior high, some call it), but different high schools. We ran into each other on campus our freshman years, and exchanged numbers. We both lived on campus, even though our families were only 15 miles or so away. I actually did not think that there was anything at play other than renewing our friendship. Honest.

See, L is black. And this was Oklahoma. Not only were interracial relationships asking for trouble, there was also the matter of clueless types like me who assumed that no one who wasn't white would be at all interested in me. So I had no sense of what was to come when she called me late one night, wanting to come over. My first semester of my freshman year, I had a nearly-invisible roommate in my dormroom. He hated being away from home, so he had scheduled classes from Tuesday morning to Thursday afternoon. As such, he was only around Tuesday and Wednesday evenings most of the time. So we had the room to ourselves. She sat on the edge of my little bed, while I sat at my desk, and she tried to explain something to me.

I say tried, because she was nervous as all hell. Stuttering at some points. I couldn't quite figure out what she was getting at. Was there someone she wanted to go out with, but didn't know how to ask him? That seemed to be the general gist of it. She looked me in the eyes. I started to notice how attractive she really was. But she wouldn't be interested in my pasty white ass, surely not. Then she kissed me.

I remember almost every first kiss I've had with a person. This one was most memorable for it's shock and surprise. I had been taught that this wasn't the way things were done. Not in the Bible belt. What would my friends think? What would my grandparents think? And most importantly, how did I get so lucky?

That kiss led to another, and another. Soon we were making out on my bed. And soon after that, we were undressing each other. I remember noticing how different she smelled, how it seemed like her skin had a different texture. These probably weren't really true, but I thought so at the time. I reached for a condom, but she said not to worry, she had an IUD (this was 1986, AIDS was barely a blip for heterosexual college kids). She was a truly wonderful lover.

But it was a while before she called me again.

Over the next four years, we had an odd relationship. She would call when she was horny. I would have her come over, and after some small-talk we'd fuck each other silly. She'd leave. Sometimes, I could tell she had been drinking. I came to believe that she wasn't very happy with herself over doing a white guy, and that I was just the fall-back guy when other things didn't work out. But she started dating another white guy. She didn't call me for almost a year at one point. Then she started coming over again. She was cheating on him with me. Most of the time, I'd hop into the the shower and answer the door in my robe. After all, I knew why she was there. Every time, I let her initiate that sex part, because I was pretty confused and I was never sure until she initiated that she really wanted it. Any time I'd tried to initiate in the past, I'd been rebuffed. But everytime, it was amazing. She remains one of my most memorable lovers in my romantic history.

Around Christmas right after our first time, she sent me a Christmas card. In it, she asked what I wanted out of the relationship. I hemmed and hawed around the question. I was raised by conservative grandparents. I couldn't bring her home. In fact, I thought that my reaction was why I didn't hear from her for a while after the first few times. (But at about this point, I also started going out with K, above, so the timing was pretty bad for such a decision.) In a way, I blew it. Something kept drawing her back to me, maybe I touched her in the ways she truly enjoyed most. She married the other fellow, her native Irishman who wasn't self-conscious about taking her to meet the folks. But not before giving me another toss or two, before I moved away to Denver.

We lost touch, but later re-established it when I came across her name on a university's faculty web pages. We never got together again, because she was married. We lost touch again, then I found her again through the magic of Google. She wasn't married, but she had decided she was gay. And she was very happy in her relationship, and I wished her well. For the second time, I was the next-to-last guy.

In your room
I come alive when I'm with you
I'll do anything you want me to
In your room

-- The Bangles, "In Your Room"

After L, but well-before I found out she had come out, was J. J was four years younger than me. I actually met her and started dating her just after her 18th birthday. That was treading a pretty fine line in my personal opinion at the time, but she really was a hell of a person. We met through friends, as we were both French Horn players. I was about to graduate college, and she was about to enter the same college. We met through common friend who were music majors. What struck me most was her height-- she was at least 5'11". When I first met her, I could barely believe she was only 18. It was quite awhile before we actually decided to go out. I wasn't really comfortable with having a high-school girlfriend my senior year of college. But we kept running into each other (mutual friends), and we seemed to really hit it off.

We dated for about a month or so, but it never went beyond the making-out stage. I don't think I even got under her bra during that time. She was busy with graduating, as was I, and we lived a good 50-60 mile apart. So we drifted apart. No hard feelings on either side.

The following August, after we'd each graduated, we got back in touch. I was about to do some grad classwork in preparation for a M.S. program (which I never followed through on, going into the industry instead), and she was in town for the week of marching band drill before the start of classes. I had my own apartment, and she would come over some evenings after a gruelling day of marching drill under the sun (Augusts in Oklahoma are hella hot and hella humid). One night, we started fooling around again. Only this time, she didn't want to stop. I had to ask her several times if she was sure-- I'd never been with a virgin, and I didn't want her to regret it the next day. She convinced me she was sure.

Her first time could have been better, I imagine. I didn't know how to make it go easier for her, so there was some pain, and even a little bleeding. And some tears. Which didn't help me in believing I had made the right choice. But the next morning, she suddenly pounced. And it was a whole lot better the second time. And the many times to come (ahem) after that. I had created a monster, it seemed!

We drifted apart, but we were always affectionate towards each other, even after she met someone else. I moved to Colorado, and a few years later she married. I like to think that they have a few kids and have a pretty typical suburban yuppie life.

Strangers
Nobody knows we love
I catch your eyes in the dark
One look relives the memory
Remember me
The way I used to be
-- The Cure, "Secrets"

Ah, but I said that there was overlap. And if you're clever, you figured out which one. It wasn't until a few years after that first time in my dorm room, that L confessed to me that she had been a virgin that night. I had no idea. She was so very agressive-- I had had three lovers at that point, and she seemed more sure of herself than any of them had been (none of whom had been virgins when I was first with). There were no outwards signs (but factor in tampon use and an IUD, and that's no big surprise). But there it was, the truth, years after the fact.

I don't know if I and the Irishman were her only male partners. I wonder sometimes if she, too, were a sexual addict at the time. Or maybe, she was already struggling with a lesbian identity, and she was using me (and ultimately her husband) to try and deny it. If either were true, she may have sought out other partners as well. At least she's happy now.

I remember these people well, and warmly.

Dausa

Not As Unique As I Had Thought

For those who would follow in my, err, footsteps: How to Suck Your Own Dick

I think the women readers can at least appreciate the illustrations.

D

(Edit: And as long as I'm in a linky mood, here's a good illustration of my feelings on smoking.)