Thursday, July 30, 2015

How I Learned to Stop Being a Prudish American and Love Foreskin (Dr. Cocklove?)

I admit it: foreskin used to freak me out.  I’m ashamed to say it now, but I totally bought in to the idea that it was aesthetically unpleasing and unclean.  I grew up in the Midwest, which has the highest circumcision rates in the US (possibly due in part to health insurance coverage, but also cause there are a whole bunch of white folks in the Midwest, and they tend to circumcise their kids at higher rates than people of other racial backgrounds do) and was born at a time when a large majority of parents in the States were circumcising their male children.  This means that most of the guys I slept with in my early to mid twenties were circumcised; the few fellas that weren’t were tipsy one-night stands or weekend flings wherein there was little foreplay.  Like Charlotte in Sex and the City. I wasn’t used to uncut guys and didn’t know what to do with an uncircumcised dick.  (For a show that purported to be sex-positive, it could be pretty fucking sex-negative at times – they dissed all kinds of awesome kinks, sexual practices, body types, and even sexual orientations.  But I digress.)

I didn’t fuck guys at all for a number of years; over that period of time, I became a lot more comfortable in my body and experimental in my sexuality and started reading a LOT of sex blogs and books.  For some reason, since I’ve started sleeping with men again, every single guy I’ve fucked has been uncut.  I haven’t been looking specifically for uncircumcised cocks, but they keep seeming to find me (hahaha – I’m now imagining some kind of dick-based RADAR).  Bangin’ a bunch of uncircumcised men in the past couple of years has taught me some things:
a)      In my personal experience (and I know, I know, everyone’s experience is different), intact guys last longer.  This may have more to do with age than foreskin, however.  In addition, when bunched-up foreskin hits my g-spot it feels fucking amazing, resulting in some pretty intense orgasms.
b)      Giving hand jobs is WAY BETTER with an intact penis.  Not only do you not need lube, but it’s so! much! fun! to roll foreskin up and down over the glans and the whole length of the shaft.
c)      Giving blow jobs is way more fun with foreskin present.  There are things you can do with your hands and your tongue while blowing an uncircumcised guy that you just can’t do with someone who’s cut. 
d)     Uncircumcised cocks are beautiful.  Period.

I have come to love foreskin.  So much, in fact, that I prefer uncircumcised dicks to circumcised.  I love the way it feels to roll it with my nimble fingers and the palms of my hands, to glide my tongue over it, under it, around it; I love the way it feels sliding along my labia and pushing past my lips and into my mouth.  If someone were willing to make and send me an “I heart foreskin” t-shirt, I’d gladly post photos of myself wearing it!   

In the past two decades, circumcision rates in the US have dropped; the national average now hovers around 50-60% (of newborn babies).  This is great news, and hopefully over time, uncircumcised penises will start to become the norm in the US.  At least they will by the time I become a cougar.

To my American friends: embrace the foreskin.  Love it.  Play with it.  Stroke it, lick it, roll it around in your hands.  It’s awesome.  

Wednesday, July 22, 2015

The Parent Trap

Image result for exasperated childOn a recent drive home from visiting extended family, my mom and I got into a fight, which isn’t surprising in and of itself – we can’t spend any real amount of time together without fighting.  What is surprising is that on this occasion, instead of reacting the way I normally would (sighing heavily and shutting down), I used a communication technique from books about ethical non-monogamy. 

The situation was this: She said something passive aggressive and meant to evoke feelings of guilt (“Honey, you must be so excited to go to DC so you can get away from your mom.”); in a raised tone of voice, I told her that it’s not okay to guilt trip me; she told me it wasn’t a guilt trip, then lapsed into the silent treatment. 

I tried talking her out of it for a while, but nothing was working – then finally, a light bulb went off.  “You’re a good mom,” I said, “and I love you.  When you say things like that, it makes me think that you think that I think (confusing, no?) you’re not a good mother, but you are.  And it’s okay if you need validation.  I should say this more out loud: You’re a great mom and I love you so much.  If you need reassurance, just ask and I’ll give it to you!  We all need reassurance and validation from the people we love.  I do, too.”  And poof!  Just like that, she came out of silent mode to tell me that she didn’t think that I thought she was a bad mother and that she loved me, too.  We talked about how hard it is that my sister and I live far away from her, and she really does worry that we don’t want to spend time with her.  Most of her friends have children who still live in my hometown and who have kids of their own; I know it’s emotionally difficult for her that we don’t. 

Then she said something really interesting. When I told her that there were a lot of people in my life that I care about, she said, “I guess sometimes I just feel jealous.”  And instead of saying, “That’s crazy – we’re both adults,” I held her hand and said, “Yeah, it’s gotta be hard to have someone depend on you for so long and then become completely independent.  I understand why you feel that way.” Of course, being childless, I can never truly understand – but I can try. And trying makes a world of difference.

Even parents – those people who are supposed to be our rocks – need reassurance that they’re important and loved.  Because they take care of us when we’re young, we sometimes see them as being impervious to feelings of inadequacy or jealousy, but they’re not.  They’re every bit as fragile and vulnerable as we are, especially as they age and start losing their own parents, siblings, and friends; in the long run, it’s not only easier to be compassionate than stubborn, but it's better for our relationships (and our mental health).   



Thursday, July 16, 2015

Goodbye Gift (NSFR)

Where is Kara?!” I demanded as I slammed my hands down on the table in front of me, forcing a few drinks to splash out of their glasses.  My friends looked astonished momentarily, then broke out in raucous laughter.  “She’s in the bathroom,” someone said.  Another friend looked at me with a mischievous twinkle in her eye and said, “You can still catch her if you hurry.”

I’d been dating Kara for a month or two; she and our friends had planned a big night out at a local strip club prior to my departure from Chicago as a going away present.  We were surrounded by beautiful women who were swinging around poles and flirting with customers, but I was only captivated by one: Stella.  I couldn’t stop staring at her.  She had olive skin, magenta-streaked black hair, a Monroe piercing, and smile that suggested a wicked sense of humor.  She was tiny and covered in tattoos, and she had a killer ass.  Kara noticed me watching Stella dance (in a cage, no less), leaned in, and whispered, “Hey -- can I buy you a lap dance?”  I nearly dropped my drink and exclaimed “YES!” before she could even get the whole sentence out of her mouth.  I’d never had a lap dance before and couldn’t contain my excitement.  I felt incredibly lucky not to be a guy at that point, because seriously - how do guys keep their boners in check? 

She walked confidently to the raised cage to talk to Stella, who then delicately slipped out of the cage and came over to our table.  She stood in front of me and gazed down at my eager eyes.  “So,” she purred.  “I hear you want a lap dance from me.”  I couldn’t speak; I just nodded dumbly as she took my hand and led me away from a table of cheering lesbians. 

She led me through blackout curtains into a back room with giant, plush chairs, one of which she gently pushed me down onto.  We were alone in the room, and I was so nervous.  My memory is a blur; I mostly remember trying not to touch her but desperately wanting to because she was so soft. I wondered how anyone could make their skin feel like that.  She smelled like vanilla and moved gracefully as she sidled her body along the length of mine and barely grazed my neck with her lips until they were hovering near my ear and she was breathing into it.  Needless to say, at the end of the song, I was a ball of raging hormones and my knickers were soaked. 

Which brings me back to the beginning.  Kara was in the bathroom – perfect.  I raced to the ladies’ and threw the door open to see her coming out of a stall.  I locked eyes with her, shook my head, and walked her back into it, pushing her down onto the toilet before locking the door behind us. I straddled her.

“I want you to fuck me right now,” I said, my voice husky and my breath coming hard.  I took her head in both hands and kissed her deeply, grinding into her as she grabbed my ass.  She pulled away and looked at me with a smile.  “You’re in luck,” she said. She reached down into her bag and pulled out a dildo; she was already wearing a packing harness, which she swiftly pulled down in order to change out the dildo.

Once the dildo was securely in place, I took off a pant leg (still wearing my sandals, of course, because I’m a classy lady) and haphazardly threw my pants onto the tile floor.  I slid onto the dildo and started riding it – her.  She lifted my tank top and bra up to my shoulders and licked and bit my breasts as I rocked against her, both of us intermittently kissing each other’s lips and necks.  I fucked her (she was wearing the dick, but I was definitely doing the fucking) until I came, one hand on her back, the other pressed against the cold, hard wall behind her.  We sat there for a minute, trembling, then quickly got up and put ourselves back together.

As we were coming out of the stall, a dancer came in and arched an eyebrow at us.  “Having a good night?” she asked, looking in the mirror to apply makeup. “A perfect one,” I said, blushing.  “You?”  “It’s just getting started,” she said, smiling. She was right.     


   

Wednesday, July 1, 2015

Summer Sex (NSFR)

My apartment has giant windows that face south; in the winter, this is perfect, as they trap all the heat from the sunshine that pours in all day.  However, in the summer, it means that my apartment is hot as balls.  Luckily, the result of this is sweaty, slippery, literally hot sex. 

The kind of sex where he’s working me from behind and sweat drips from his face onto the space between my shoulder blades and collects in a pool until it gets so big that it runs in a steady stream all the way down my spine and ass crack, then trickles into my cunt.

The kind of sex that smells like sex and body odor and musk because the heat amplifies the intermingling scents of our bodies.  Where I eagerly inhale the heady scent of his sweat and body odor collected in his pubic hair while moving his cock to the back of my throat.  Where I lick the sweat off of his glistening body because I love the way he tastes. 

The kind of sex where we slide around each other, up each other, down each other (and sometimes fall off of each other, laughing hysterically).*  Where we’re both flushed and have hair sticking to our foreheads and stop periodically to hand each other bottles of water. 

The kind of sex where we fall asleep in wet sheets and don’t care because we’re so exhausted.  Where he holds onto me tight and our skin is burning up but we can’t stop touching each other. 

I have a loft bedroom; heat rises, and I’m grateful. 

*I was once straddling someone on a bed in a hotel room in SE Asia, and I told him to stand up and fuck me against the wall -- only we were both so slippery that when he did stand up, I just slid down his body like he was a firehouse pole.  Luckily, we both found this hilarious and just continued to fuck on the bed.