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How to Have the Best Sex You Could Ever Have — not for the faint of heart

February 22, 2011 8 comments

Massage -- sex not allowed

Men want to have sex to feel loved. Women want to feel loved to have sex.

There is a formula for having the best sex, amazing sex, sex in which the conscious mind disappears and only the purest form of feeling is left. If you follow the instructions the method always works. It is used by sex therapists to help men or women with inhibitions, such as the inability to have an orgasm with a partner.

I say if you follow the instructions the method always works, but I should say if you can follow the instructions, for the method isn’t easy. It takes partners who are committed to opening themselves to the point of vulnerability. If you are willing to give up your self, your privacy, your hidden thoughts, you may be able to attain heaven on earth.

I met Evie, short for Evelyn, through her husband who is an engineer, as I am. I and they weren’t real close, but we’d get together for dinner every once in a while, and I was happy to go, mostly because Evie was so God awful cute. I had to be careful not to let my feelings show.

I hadn’t seen them for over a year when I met Evie in the local Whole Foods. It was summer, and she was underdressed, at least that’s the way it seemed to me, but it was probably just that I found her body so sexy.

We made small talk, and I asked how her husband was doing, and she told me they had divorced and that the final papers had just come through. She didn’t seem too happy about it. I smiled and jokingly asked, “Can I be the first to ask you out?” Then I added, “Just kidding.” I did want to ask her out, but I didn’t know how she felt about relationships at this point, and I didn’t want to alienate her. She smiled, but she did not directly respond to my jest.

We separated and did our shopping, and we met again at the checkout. I must confess, I kept half an eye on her and timed my exit to correspond with hers. Now that she was on her own I wanted to get to know her better, but I didn’t want to seem too obvious. She was lonely, I found out later, and she asked me if I wanted to go across the street to the Starbucks for a cappuccino. Of course I said yes.

We got our coffees and sat outside in the shade. “I don’t want to be inappropriate, but I’ve always been attracted to you,” I said and shrugged, being self deprecating as if I was admitting a sin.

“I’m not ready for that, yet,” she said. I took her to mean sex. “It’s not that I don’t like you,” she added, trying to soften the blow.

“No offense taken—we’re not kids,” I said. After a moment I said, “Still, I’d like to know you better, some time, if you’d like that.”

She nodded, and we moved on to less dangerous subjects, but the conversation came back around to sex, eventually, if obliquely.

“Was the divorce hard on you?” I asked.

“Yeah, pretty much,” she said. “Money, the house… we had a lot of stuff in common, and Joe wanted it all. He said he paid for it. His salary was a lot bigger than mine. You know, the usual stuff.”

“No, I don’t really know, not first hand. If I was married I’d be loyal as a dog.”

“Joe wasn’t.”

“Loyal? Oh?” I wanted her to know more, but she didn’t volunteer anything. “Did he cheat?”

“Yeah,” Evie said.

“I’m sorry,” I offered sincerely.

She shrugged as if it was water over the dam. Then she said, “It wouldn’t have been as bad if he’d have paid attention to me, too.”

I took her to mean that Joe hadn’t had sex with Evie for a long time. “Maybe it would have been worse,” I offered. “I mean, if he paid attention to you and cheated.”

Evie shrugged again. “Maybe,” she said.

I lowered my eyes, glanced at her body, and then raised my eyes again. “He’s a foolish man,” I said.

Evie gave me an angry look because of my inappropriate appraisal, as brief as it was. “It shouldn’t be about that,” she said. “That’s all Joe wanted… until he didn’t even want that, anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “You’re right. It shouldn’t be about that, though you’ve got to admit…” I briefly glanced down again.

She gave me a disgusted look. I sighed, sorry that I had taken the wrong approach, again, and didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. But then I figured, as long as she broached the subject of sex I might as well dive in. I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. “I know a woman who’s a sex therapist,” I said. “Want to hear her approach to it shouldn’t be about that?

“Sure,” Evie said.

“Imagine two people who know each other pretty well. Not like us,” I qualified. “They’re having trouble with their sex lives. Maybe their interest has waned, or maybe one or the other of them has trouble having an orgasm.”

She nodded to tell me to go on.

“The classic therapy for this is to make a nice environment, light candles, pour a little wine, things like that, and go to bed together and talk. You have to be brave and open up to each other, tell each other what bothers you and what you want, sexually and otherwise. You have to be honest, even if it turns out your desires are not compatible. You are allowed to hug and kiss, but you’re not allowed to touch each other any more than that.

“The next time you go to bed together, maybe you take you shirts off, but you still aren’t allowed to touch intimately.

“The next time, maybe you don’t take off any more clothing, but you can touch bare skin but not breasts or anything overtly sexual. You still talk and open up to each other more and more, tell each other your fears and begin to talk about things like how often you each want to have sex, what kind of sexual experiences you want, the broad outlines the kinds of fantasies you like, and things like that. The idea is to build arousal, and arousal is not what goes on in your bodies. It’s what goes on in your minds. Being aroused but not being able to touch each other builds arousal further.”

“I can imagine,” Evie said.

“Then the next time, maybe you take your shirts and her bra off, and you trade massages, but you are still not allowed to touch breasts or buttocks or anything like that.

Then, the next session, maybe you undress down to your underwear, and you begin to touch intimate areas. But no matter how aroused you get you are absolutely not allowed to have intercourse. That’s the big No-No. It’s prohibited.”

“What if you can’t help yourselves?” Evie asked.

“I asked that, and the woman I know said that if you really, really can’t stop then go ahead, but you’ve got to try not to, or you might fail in your ultimate goal, which is to know each other, build arousal to a crescendo, and then and only then reward yourselves with sex.

“Eventually you decide that you are ready to go all the way, and you plan a special time and go ahead. It seems to me it’s got to be amazing.”

“It’s the getting to know each other that does it, not just the building arousal,” Evie said.

“True. I’ve never opened up to anyone to that extent,” I said. “It’s supposed to be scary, but I think I’d like it.”

It was obvious to Evie that I was imagining, maybe even suggesting, that she and I get to know each other in this intimate way. She said, “You may not like what you find.”

I nodded in agreement, but it seemed that she was considering the idea. I was thrilled. “We don’t know each other very well,” I said. “I expect I would find out things about you that I don’t care for and vice versa. But what I know I like. You’re hardworking and honest, and you seem to be open.”

I like you too,” she said. “ I always have.”

“Do you like me that way?” I asked.

“I never let myself consider it. I’m very repressed.”

“Do you like sex?” I asked.

“Sure, who doesn’t?”

“Some people don’t, I understand, or at least not much. Ideally, if you had your choice, how often would you have sex?”

“How often would you?”

“Mmm, yeah. This might not be so easy. Okay, I’ll go first. If I had my choice I’d have sex… at least once a day, two or three times a day on weekends. I shrugged apologetically.”

Evie didn’t say anything. I prompted her. “What about you?”

“Well… maybe once a week, or a couple of times a month,” she said. “Depends. I need someone to put me in the mood.”

I nodded again. “Okay,” I said. “Thanks for being honest. I guess that means we shouldn’t get married, not that you’re in the market.”

“No, I’m not. Why, are you?”

I chuckled. “I want to have a committed relationship, but marriage scares me. It’s too hard to get out of.”

“You got that right,” she said and laughed. “Is the committed relationship you want monogamous? Or would you need to cheat to get your ten times a week.”

“Monogamous,” I answered without hesitation and sincerely. “It’s a sacrifice I might have to accept, not that I’m talking about you and me,” I added.

“No, of course not,” she said wryly.

We both smiled.

“I’m not ready for a relationship,” Evie said.

I nodded.

“But if you’re sincere about being honest with me…”

I waited.

“I like talking with you. You could come over to my house, late this afternoon or this evening, and we can talk some more. I’d like that.”

“Talk in bed?” I asked.

“No. At least not at first. And no touching.”

I was disappointed, and it showed.

“You can give me a friendly hug, but if you pressure me you’ll have to leave.”

“I won’t,” I said. “I’m not like that. Sure, let’s get together and talk, but not today.”

She looked disappointed. “Why, do you have a date or something?”

“I don’t know… maybe we should just wait awhile.”

“Yeah, maybe,” she agreed.

“But, on the other hand…” I said playfully.

We both laughed.

It was Saturday, and we agreed to get together at her house, but in the spirit of the technique we decided to wait one day and meet Sunday afternoon.

***

We sat on her couch, drinks in hand, Evie with Chardonnay and me with a wine glass of Joe’s vintage port. Ironic, I thought, drinking the port Joe used to hoard and maybe drinking in his wife too. Ex wife, I reminded myself.

“Can I put my arm around you?” I asked.

Evie nodded yes.

I put my arm around Evie’s shoulders, and when she put her drink down she put her arm behind my waist. It felt good, especially because we had tacitly agreed we were going to find out how much we might care for each other, and sex being off the table took the pressure off. We became more like friends than potential lovers, at least in the short term, and it freed us to show we cared without being afraid touching might be too suggestive.

We talked about concerns—hers about getting into another relationship that would turn sour—mine about maybe never being able to get into a relationship at all. We talked about how we felt about each other. I told her I found her physically attractive and that I thought that in many ways she would make an ideal partner, but I confessed I was worried that I might find her intellectually superior to me and that my fundamental nature was to want a woman over whom I could be master. I admitted that I understood this was not politically correct, but I wanted to be honest.

Evie accepted my admission and admitted she was concerned that men just wanted her for her looks, not her intelligence—she’s got a medical degree and is a researcher.

We discussed many other things—family, friends, finances—but I’ll just give the highlights.

***

We had to skip the next weekend, but the weekend after that we went to bed. We drank wine and port again, and we lay together and took turns reading Annie Proulx’s Brokeback Mountain to each other. It’s a great story, even better than the movie.

We put the book down and hugged. I rubbed her back, while we kissed, and she pressed her breasts against my chest, but we kept my penis, which was plump but not erect, from touching her. It felt wonderful having a friend to hug, and not having to have sex was more a relief than a frustration.

***

The next weekend we took our shirts off and went to bed. She ran her fingers over my chest, and I touched her bare skin but avoided her breasts that were teasingly inviting within her bra.

She took a deep breath, and then she said,“I was raped.”

I stopped touching her with my fingers, but I continued to hold her. “It was in college—a date rape in a guy’s room at a fraternity,” she said. “Maybe I could have gotten away. But I didn’t know how to say No. I was too ashamed to make a fuss, and I was scared that other guys might come into the room. So I let him do it. I hate myself.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I guess I can understand how that can happen. Please try not to hate yourself. You were young and inexperienced… with men.”

Evie hugged me and buried her face against my neck. “I never told anyone that before. Not even Joe,” she said. I felt her tears.

“I’m honored. Thank you for confiding in me,” I responded. I took a deep breath. “When I was twelve…” I said. “I hadn’t reached puberty, but I had a friend who was a big kid who matured early. We used to go to the basement of our apartment building and look at ‘dirty’ magazines. He coerced me into giving him oral sex. I succumbed to peer pressure. It happened two or three times, before I wouldn’t go with him anymore.”

“How does that make you feel now?” she asked.

“I don’t know… like I let myself down. I was weak. A little of me died.”

“Me too,” she said.

***

The next weekend we took our shirts off, and Evie took off her bra. I tried not to stare, but her nipples were prominent, a blatant advertisement, and I had lust written all over my face. “Don’t look so smug,” she said.

“I’m not smug. I’m happy,” I replied with a huge grin.

“No touching,” she warned me.

“Oh, come on,” I begged and licked my lips. “Just a little taste?”

“Taste?” she said with horror. “You know what will happen if I let you touch my breasts, let alone taste them?”

“I wouldn’t let it happen.”

“Oh sure. Sorry, it’s not time for that, yet.”

“Yeah, right,” I said with disgust. “Who’s idea was this, anyway?”

“Yours,” she said with certainty and covered her breasts with her hands.

We got into bed together, and she let me look. After awhile I could breathe normally, and though my arousal was very high, after we began talking and time passed the shock of pure sexual stimulation abated, and I began to appreciate the intimacy of lying together with our arms around each other without having to fuck. Pardon my crudeness.

“When we go all the way, how do you want to do it?” I asked. “Would you like me to be on top? Would you like to be on top? Would you like oral sex first? I’m not experienced with that—I tried it once, and I wasn’t comfortable. I didn’t feel like I knew what I was doing. You’d have to teach me.”

“I’ve never had a man do that to me.”

“Really? Have you had a woman do it to you?”

“No, not a woman either. I guess I’m kind of inhibited about stuff like that. Do you want me to give you oral sex?”

“Not necessarily. Why? How do you feel about that?”

“I don’t really like it, though I’ve done it, at times, to please Joe.”

“That’s okay. It’s not a requirement.”

“I just want you to be nice to me—to be gentle and kind and considerate. That’s what turns me on. I don’t want to do anything kinky. I hope that’s okay.”

“Sure. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Well, you said you liked to be the master in a way that’s not politically correct. I’m sorry, but I don’t want to play those kinds of games.”

“Oh, maybe I wasn’t being clear. I think I was talking about what kind of woman I fantasized about. But that’s a boy’s dream—having a woman he can order about and have sex with whenever he wants.”

“You weren’t talking about fantasy. You said that’s what you want in a relationship.”

“I have those kinds of fantasies, but I know they aren’t realistic.”

“There are women like that. Maybe you should look for one.”

“I’d rather be with you,” I said.

Evie gave me a look of disbelief.

“It’s complicated,” I said. I thought for a moment. “In my fantasies, I want to control women and make them do what I want. Sometimes I punish them. I decided this might comes from sexual frustration I had as a youth, or maybe it’s nature rather than nurture. I don’t know. But that’s all fantasy. In real life I want to be nice to women. I like to make women feel good. I never abused a woman in real life, and I never wanted to. But my fantasies do translate to real life in an interesting way.”

“Do tell,” Evie said.

“What I like to do best is to have a woman be passive, not in the sense that she doesn’t respond to me, but in the sense that I get turned on by doing things to her. I don’t need her to touch me, not that that’s objectionable. It just doesn’t get me going the same way as me touching her. There would be nothing I’d like better than to have you lie passively while I undress you, while I turn you over, and while I rub your back with warm oil to make you feel good. Giving you pleasure is what I like and what will get me most hard. In a sense it’s a desire to control you, but it’s nice control.”

Evie’s face lit up. Her eyes opened wide. “That works for me,” she said.

***

We progressed to taking off all our clothes and trading massages, and we continued to confide in each other as intimately as we touched. On some level we fell in love, but that aside, there was no denying that our arousal and desire to culminate our experiment had reached a feverish pitch. Our massages went into sexual areas. I worked on her legs all the way to her vulva, and I would rub oil into her breasts. The only thing I didn’t dare do was linger on her vulva or enter within it, and she only brushed my penis in passing, but I knew she was plenty wet—I could smell her—and my erection was obvious.

I found it interesting that though arousal was high, frustration, both before and after we parted, was not. It was as if the reward of intimacy compensated for the lack of orgasms and ejaculation.

***

We decided it was time to go all the way, and we arranged a vacation together. We flew from Boston to San Francisco, touching side-to-side on the plane, excited in anticipation of what we were going to do. We picked up our rental car and drove to the Russian River area where we had reserved a hotel room on the river. It was off season, and the place was mostly empty, which suited us.

We had an early dinner and went to our room. It had a big bathroom with a huge tub, easily big enough for two, and we filled it with water and got in. We faced each other, one of us at each end of the tub, with one of my legs between hers and one of her legs between mine. She played with my erection with her foot, and then she washed my foot and put it between her thighs and clenched it tightly.

We washed each other with wash cloths, and we relaxed in the water, not saying much but knowing that soon we would go to bed together, and we would join, I inside her and she tightly around me.

We dried each other, and holding hands we walked to our bed and got in. We wrapped each other in our arms and snuggled. Then, as we had practiced many times, I turned her, face down, and with no need to rush I rubbed warm oil into her skin from her fingertips to the tips of her toes. I paid special attention to her neck and shoulders, the sides of her breasts, the dip at her waist, her hips, her buttocks, and her thighs, first behind and then between them up to her vulva.

Evie spread her legs to allow me access, and my fingers entered a little ways into her vagina. And then I took my fingers out and I pushed my hand deep beneath her and caressed her, repeatedly, from abdomen, over her mons, over her clitoral shaft and clitoris, and back to her vaginal opening. Her moans, soft and feminine, encouraged me.

After awhile Evie whispered, “You can turn me over now.” She sounded as if she was pleading.

I turned Evie over, poured more oil onto my palm, rubbed my hands together, and spread oil over her breasts. I touched them the way she taught me, being gentle, at first, when touching her overly sensitive nipples, and being firmer, later, as her breasts got used to being manhandled.

She spread her legs, and I kneeled between them, nudging them wider with my knees, because she told me she liked to have her legs spread wide. I placed my penis, rampant with permission to enter, at the opening to her vagina, ready to receive me, and I pushed on in. She took all of me.

It was hard to believe, after months of getting to know each other and denying ourselves orgasms until we really knew each other, how good it felt. The physical pleasure alone was exquisite to a degree I had never experienced, but our emotional coupling was greater. If I was a man who came easily I would have come right then, but now I must confess.

I had trouble making love, at times. I did not come easily, and sometimes, when with a partner, I could not come at all. I never had trouble when pleasuring myself, so my issue was psychological. If I did not have rapport, my ejaculations might be inhibited, as therapists term this condition. That is what led me to know the sex therapist who instructed me in the techniques of building intimacy, while denying orgasms, to create arousal. Until now I hadn’t had an opportunity to practice her lessons, but now, under ideal circumstances, my condition worked to my advantage.

Never have I been able to come quickly, and I find it easy to delay orgasm indefinitely. Evie knew this, neither of us felt rushed, and we shared pleasure, until, as we had planned, she was ready to turn over.

The myth of simultaneous multiple orgasms is just that—a myth. Sure, it can happen, but most of the time sex isn’t like that. We had decided that taking turns would work best for each of us, and now, Evie on top, in control, pleasuring herself on the hard penis within her, slowly but surely worked herself to the orgasm she wanted, needed, and surely earned. She came with moans, a brief crying out, and spasms of contractions followed by more moans, until she collapsed on my chest. I hugged her as she enjoyed her orgasm and follow on spasms of pleasure, until they abated.

When she was ready she told me so, and we turned over, I still hard within her. I had her close her legs, and I put mine outside hers and squeezed, a position we had also discussed and arranged in advance. This squeezed my penis delightfully, and I took my pleasure and had a powerful orgasm inside her.

Though we both had orgasms that were as satisfying as any we could ever imagine, I can’t emphasize enough that the pleasure we shared was more, much more than physical. We had attained rare intimacy, and that and mostly that is what rewarded us with the best sex anyone could ever had.

Men want to have sex to feel loved. Women want to feel loved to have sex.

 

There is a formula for having the best sex, amazing sex, sex in which the conscious mind disappears and only the purest form of feeling is left. If you follow the instructions the method always works. It is used by sex therapists to help men or women with inhibitions, such as the inability to have an orgasm with a partner.

 

I say if you follow the instructions the method always works, but I should say if you can follow the instructions, for the method isn’t easy. It takes partners who are committed to opening themselves to the point of vulnerability. If you are willing to give up your self, your privacy, your hidden thoughts, you may be able to attain heaven on earth.

 

I met Evie, short for Evelyn, through her husband who is an engineer, as I am. I and they weren’t real close, but we’d get together for dinner every once in a while, and I was happy to go, mostly because Evie was so God awful cute. I had to be careful not to let my feelings show.

 

I hadn’t seen them for over a year when I met Evie in the local Whole Foods. It was summer, and she was underdressed, at least that’s the way it seemed to me, but it was probably just that I found her body so sexy.

 

We made small talk, and I asked how her husband was doing, and she told me they had divorced and that the final papers had just come through. She didn’t seem too happy about it. I smiled and jokingly asked, “Can I be the first to ask you out?” Then I added, “Just kidding.” I did want to ask her out, but I didn’t know how she felt about relationships at this point, and I didn’t want to alienate her. She smiled, but she did not directly respond to my jest.

 

We separated and did our shopping, and we met again at the checkout. I must confess, I kept half an eye on her and timed my exit to correspond with hers. Now that she was on her own I wanted to get to know her better, but I didn’t want to seem too obvious. She was lonely, I found out later, and she asked me if I wanted to go across the street to the Starbucks for a cappuccino. Of course I said yes.

 

We got our coffees and sat outside in the shade. “I don’t want to be inappropriate, but I’ve always been attracted to you,” I said and shrugged, being self deprecating as if I was admitting a sin.

 

“I’m not ready for that, yet,” she said. I took her to mean sex. “It’s not that I don’t like you,” she added, trying to soften the blow.

 

“No offense taken—we’re not kids,” I said. After a moment I said, “Still, I’d like to know you better, some time, if you’d like that.”

 

She nodded, and we moved on to less dangerous subjects, but the conversation came back around to sex, eventually, if obliquely.

 

“Was the divorce hard on you?” I asked.

 

“Yeah, pretty much,” she said. “Money, the house… we had a lot of stuff in common, and Joe wanted it all. He said he paid for it. His salary was a lot bigger than mine. You know, the usual stuff.”

“No, I don’t really know, not first hand. If I was married I’d be loyal as a dog.”

 

“Joe wasn’t.”

 

“Loyal? Oh.” I wanted her to know more, but she didn’t volunteer anything. “Did he cheat?”

 

“Yeah,” Evie said.

 

“I’m sorry,” I offered sincerely.

 

She shrugged as if it was water over the dam. Then she said, “It wouldn’t have been as bad if he’d have paid attention to me, too.”

 

I took her to mean that Joe hadn’t had sex with Evie for a long time. “Maybe it would have been worse,” I offered. “I mean if he paid attention to you and cheated.”

 

Evie shrugged again. “Maybe,” she said.

 

I lowered my eyes, glanced at her body, and then raised my eyes again. “He’s a foolish man,” I said.

 

Evie gave me an angry look because of my inappropriate appraisal, as brief as it was. “It shouldn’t be about that,” she said. “That’s all Joe wanted… until he didn’t even want that, anymore.”

 

“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “You’re right. It shouldn’t be about that, though you’ve got to admit…” I briefly glanced down again.

 

She gave me a disgusted look. I sighed, sorry that I had taken the wrong approach, again, and didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. But then I figured, as long as she broached the subject of sex I might as well dive in. I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. “I know a woman who’s a sex therapist,” I said. “Want to hear her approach to it shouldn’t be about that?

 

“Sure,” Evie said.

 

“Imagine two people who know each other pretty well, not like us,” I qualified, “are having trouble with their sex lives. Maybe their interest has waned, or maybe one or the other of them has trouble having an orgasm.”

 

She nodded to tell me to go on.

 

“The classic therapy for this is to make a nice environment, like light candles, pour a little wine, and go to bed together and talk. You have to be brave and open up to each other, tell each other what bothers you and what you want, sexually and otherwise. You have to be honest, even if it turns out your desires are not compatible. You are allowed to hug and kiss, if you’re moved to, but you’re not allowed to touch each other any more than that.

 

“The next time you go to bed together, maybe you take you shirts off, but you still aren’t allowed to touch intimately.

 

“The next time maybe you don’t take off any more clothing, but you can touch bare skin, but not breasts or anything overtly sexual. You still talk and open up to each other more and more, tell each other your fears and begin to talk about things like how often you each want to have sex, what kind of sexual experiences you want, the broad outlines the kinds of fantasies you like, and things like that. The idea is to build arousal, and arousal is not what goes on in your bodies. It’s what goes on in your minds. Being aroused but not being able to touch each other builds arousal further.”

“I can imagine,” Evie said.

 

“Then, the next time, maybe you take your shirts and her bra off, and you trade back massages, but you are still not allowed to touch breasts or buttocks or anything like that.

 

Then, the next session, maybe you undress down to your underwear, and you begin to touch intimate areas. But no matter how aroused you get you are absolutely not allowed to have intercourse. That’s the big No-No. It’s prohibited.”

 

“What if you can’t help yourselves?” Evie asked.

 

“I asked the woman I know that, and she said that if you really, really can’t stop then go ahead, but you’ve got to try not to, or you might fail in your ultimate goal, which is to know each other, build arousal to a peak, and then reward yourselves with sex.

 

“Eventually you decide that you are ready to go all the way, and you plan a special time and go ahead. It seems to me it’s got to be amazing.”

 

“It’s the getting to know each other that does it, not just the building arousal,” Evie said.

 

“True. I’ve never opened up to anyone to that extent,” I said. “It’s supposed to be scary, but I think I’d like it.”

 

It was obvious to Evie that I was imagining, maybe even suggesting, that she and I get to know each other in this intimate way: she said, “You may not like what you find.”

 

I nodded in agreement, but it seemed that she was considering the idea, and I was thrilled. “We don’t know each other very well,” I said. “I expect I would find out things about you that I don’t care for and vice versa. But what I know I like. You’re hardworking and honest, and you seem to be open.”

 

I like you too,” she said. “And I always have.”

 

“Do you like me that way?” I asked.

 

“I never let myself consider it. I’m very repressed.”

 

“Do you like sex?” I asked.

 

“Sure, who doesn’t?”

 

“Some people don’t, I understand, or at least not much. Ideally, if you had your choice, how often would you have sex?”

 

“How often would you?”

 

“Mmm, yeah, I see this might not be so easy. Okay, I’ll go first. If I had my choice I’d have sex… at least once a day, two or three times a day on weekends. I shrugged apologetically.”

 

Evie didn’t say anything. I prompted her. “What about you?”

 

“Well… maybe once a week, or a couple of times a month,” she said. “Depends. I need someone to put me in the mood.”

 

I nodded again. “Okay,” I said. “That’s fair. Thanks for being honest. I guess that means we shouldn’t get married, not that you’re in the market.”

 

“No, I’m not. Why, are you?”

 

I chuckled. “I want to have a committed relationship, but marriage scares me. It’s too hard to get out of.”

 

“You got that right,” she said and laughed. “Is the committed relationship you want monogamous? Or would you need to cheat to get your ten times a week.”

 

“Monogamous,” I answered without hesitation and sincerely. “It’s a sacrifice I might have to accept, not that I’m talking about you and me,” I added.

 

“No, of course not,” she said wryly.

 

We both smiled.

 

“I’m not ready for a relationship,” Evie said.

 

I nodded.

 

“But if you’re sincere about being honest with me…”

 

I waited.

 

“I like talking with you. You could come over to my house, late in the afternoon or this evening, and we can talk some more. I’d like that.”

 

“In bed?” I asked.

 

“No. At least not at first. And no touching.”

 

I was disappointed, and it showed.

 

“You can give me a friendly hug, but if you pressure me you’ll have to leave.”

 

“I won’t,” I said. “I’m not like that. Sure, let’s get together and talk, but not today.”

 

She looked disappointed. “Why, do you have a date or something?” she asked sarcastically.

 

“I don’t know… maybe we should just wait awhile.”

 

“Yeah, maybe,” she agreed.

 

“But, on the other hand…” I said playfully.

 

We both laughed.

 

It was Saturday, and we agreed to get together at her house, but in the spirit of the technique we decided to wait one day and meet Sunday afternoon.

 

***

 

We sat on her couch, drinks in hand, Evie with Chardonnay and me with a wine glass of Joe’s vintage port. Ironic, I thought, drinking the port Joe used to hoard, and maybe drinking in his wife too. Ex wife, I reminded myself.

 

“Can I put my arm around you?” I asked.

 

Evie nodded yes.

I put my arm around Evie’s shoulders, and when she put her drink down she put her arm behind my waist. It felt good, especially because we had tacitly agreed we were going to find out how much we might care for each other, and sex being off the table took the pressure off. We became more like friends than potential lovers, at least in the short term, and it freed us to show we cared without being afraid touching might be too suggestive.

 

We talked about concerns—hers about getting into another relationship that would turn sour—mine about maybe never being able to get into a relationship at all. We talked about how we felt about each other. I told her I found her physically attractive and that I thought that in many ways she would make an ideal partner, but I confessed I was worried that I might find her intellectually superior to me and that my fundamental nature was to want a woman over whom I could be master. I admitted that I understood this was not politically correct, but I wanted to be honest.

 

Evie accepted my admission and admitted she was concerned that men just wanted her for her looks, not her intelligence—she’s got a medical degree and is a researcher.

 

We discussed many other things—family, friends, finances—but I’ll just give the highlights.

 

***

 

We had to skip the next weekend, but the weekend after that we went to bed. We drank wine and port again, and we lay together and took turns reading Annie Proulx’s Brokeback Mountain to each other. It’s a great story, even better than the movie.

 

We put the book down and hugged. I rubbed her back, while we kissed, and she pressed her breasts against my chest, but we kept my penis, which was plump but not erect, from touching her. It felt wonderful having a friend to hug, and not having to have sex was more a relief than a frustration.

 

***

 

The next weekend we took our shirts off and went to bed. She fingered the hairs on my chest, and I touched her bare skin but avoided her breasts that were teasingly inviting within her bra.

 

“I was raped,” she told me.

 

I stopped touching her with my fingers, but I continued to hold her. “It was in college—a date rape in a guy’s room at a fraternity,” she said. “Maybe I could have gotten away. But I didn’t know how to say No. I was too ashamed to make a fuss. I was scared that maybe other guys would come into the room. So I let him do it. I hate myself.”

 

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I guess I can understand how that can happen. Please try not to hate yourself. You were young and inexperienced… with men.”

 

Evie hugged me and buried her face against my neck. “I never told anyone that before,” she said. I felt her tears.

 

“Thank you for confiding in me. I’m honored,” I responded. I took a deep breath. “When I was twelve…” I said. “I hadn’t reached puberty, but I had a friend who was a big kid who matured early. We used to go to the basement of our apartment building and look at ‘dirty’ magazines. He coerced me into giving him oral sex. I succumbed to peer pressure. It happened two or three times, before I wouldn’t go with him anymore.”

 

“How does that make you feel now?” she asked.

 

“I don’t know… like I let myself down. I was weak. A little of me died.”

 

“Me too,” she said.

 

***

 

The next weekend we took our shirts off, and Evie took off her bra. I tried not to stare, but her nipples were prominent, a blatant advertisement, and I had lust written all over my face. “Don’t look so smug,” she said.

 

“I’m not smug. I’m happy,” I replied with a huge grin.

 

“No touching,” she warned me.

 

“Oh, come on,” I begged. “Just a little taste?” I licked my lips.

 

“Taste?” she said with horror. “You know what will happen if I let you touch my breasts, let alone taste them?”

 

“I wouldn’t let it.”

 

“Oh sure. Sorry, it’s not time for that yet.”

 

“Yeah, right,” I said with disgust. “Who’s idea was this, anyway?”

 

“Yours,” she said with certainty and covered her breasts with her hands.

 

We got into bed together, and she let me look. After awhile I could breathe normally, and though my arousal was very high, after we began talking and time passed the shock of pure sexual stimulation abated, and I began to appreciate the intimacy of lying together with our arms around each other without having to fuck. Pardon my crudeness.

 

“When we go all the way, how do you want to do it?” I asked. “Would you like me to be on top? Would you like to be on top? Would you like oral sex first? I’m not experienced with that—I tried it once, and I wasn’t comfortable. I didn’t feel like I knew what I was doing. You’d have to teach me.”

 

“I’ve never had a man do that to me.”

 

“Really? Have you had a woman do it to you?”

 

“No, not a woman either. I guess I’m kind of inhibited about stuff like that. Do you want me to give you oral sex?”

 

“Not necessarily. Why? How do you feel about that?”

 

“I don’t really like it, though I’ve done it, at times, just to please Joe.”

 

“That’s okay. It’s not a requirement.”

 

“I just want you to be nice to me—to be gentle and kind and considerate. That’s what turns me on. I don’t want to do anything kinky. I hope that’s okay.”

 

“Sure. Why wouldn’t it be?”

 

“Well, you said you liked to be the master in a way that’s not politically correct. I’m sorry, but I don’t want to play that kind of game.”

 

“Oh, maybe I wasn’t being clear. I think I was talking about what kind of woman I fantasized about, in a permanent relationship. But that’s a boy’s dream—having a woman he can order about and have sex with whenever he wants.”

 

“You weren’t talking about fantasy. You said that’s what you want.”

 

“I have those kinds of fantasies, but I know they aren’t realistic.”

“There are women like that. Maybe you should look for one.”

 

“I’d rather be with you,” I said.

 

Evie gave me a look of disbelief.

 

“It’s complicated,” I said. I thought for a moment. “In my fantasies, I want to control women and make them do what I want. Sometimes I punish them. I decided this might comes from sexual frustration I had as a youth, or maybe it’s nature rather than nurture. I don’t know. But this is all in fantasy. In reality I want to be nice to women. I like to make women feel good. I never abused a woman in real life, and I never wanted to. But my fantasies do translate to real life in an interesting way.”

 

“Do tell,” Evie said.

 

“What I like to do best is to have a woman be passive, not in the sense that she doesn’t respond to me, but in the sense that I get turned on by doing things to her. I don’t need her to touch me, not that that’s objectionable. It just doesn’t get me going the same way as me touching her. There would be nothing I’d like better than to have you lie passively while I undress you, while I turn you on you over, and while I rub your back with warm oil to make you feel good. Giving you pleasure is what I like and what will get me most hard. In a sense it’s a desire to control you, but it’s nice control.”

 

Evie’s face lit up, and her eyes opened wide. “That works for me,” she said.

 

***

 

We progressed to taking off all our clothes and trading massages, and we continued to confide in each other as intimately as we touched. On some level we fell in love, but that aside, there was no denying that our arousal and desire to culminate our experiment had reached a feverish heat. Our massages went into sexual areas. I worked on her legs all the way to her vulva, and I would rub oil into her breasts. The only thing I didn’t dare do was linger on her vulva or enter within it, and she only brushed my penis in passing, but I knew she was plenty wet—I could smell her—and my erection was obvious.

 

I found it interesting that though arousal was high, frustration, both before and after we parted, was not. It was as if the reward of intimacy compensated for the loss of orgasm and ejaculation.

 

***

 

We decided it was time to go all the way, and we arranged to a vacation together. We flew from Boston to San Francisco, touching side-to-side on the plane, excited in anticipation of what we were going to do. We picked up our rental car and drove to the Russian River area where we had reserved a hotel room on the river. It was off season, and the place was mostly empty, which suited us.

 

We had an early dinner and went to our room. It had a big bathroom with a huge tub, easily big enough for two, and we filled it with water and got in. We faced each other, one of us at each end of the tub, with one of my legs between hers and one of her legs between mine. She played with my erection with her foot, and then she washed my foot and put it between her thighs and clenched it tightly.

 

We washed each other with wash cloths, and we relaxed in the water, not saying much but knowing that soon we would go to bed together, and we would be joined, I inside her and she tightly grasping me.

 

We dried each other, and holding hands we walked to our bed and got in. We wrapped each other in our arms and snuggled. Then, as we had practiced many times, I turned her, face down, and with no need to rush I rubbed warm oil into her skin from her fingertips to the tips of her toes. I paid special attention to her neck and shoulders, the sides of her breasts, the dip at her waist, her hips, her buttocks, and her thighs, first behind and then between, up to her vulva.

 

Evie spread to allow me access, and my fingers entered a little ways, into her vagina. And then I took my fingers out and I pushed my hand deep beneath her and caressed her, from abdomen, over her mons, over her clitoral shaft and clitoris, and back to her vaginal opening. Her moans, soft and feminine, encouraged me.

 

After awhile Evie whispered, “You can turn me over now.” It sounded like pleading.

 

I turned Evie over, poured more oil onto my palm, rubbed my hands together, and spread oil over her breasts. I touched them the way she taught me, being gentle at first, when touching her overly sensitive nipples, and being firmer, later, as they got used to being manhandled.

 

She spread her legs, and I kneeled between them, nudging them wider with my knees, because she told me she liked to have her legs spread wide. I placed my penis, now rampant with permission to enter, to the opening to her vagina, now ready to receive me, and I pushed in. She took me all.

 

It was hard to believe, after months of getting to know each other and denying ourselves orgasms until we did know each other, how good it felt. The physical pleasure alone was exquisite to a degree I had never experienced, but our emotional coupling was greater. If I was a man who came easily I would have come right then, in an instant, but now I must confess.

 

I had trouble making love, at times. I did not come easily, and sometimes, when with a partner, I could not come at all. I never had trouble when pleasuring myself, so my issue was psychological. If I did not have rapport, my ejaculations might be inhibited, as therapists term this condition. That is what led me to know the sex therapist who instructed me in the techniques of building intimacy, while denying orgasms, to create arousal. Until now I hadn’t had an opportunity to practice her lessons, but now, under ideal circumstances, my condition worked to my advantage.

 

Never have I been able to come quickly, and I find it easy to delay orgasm indefinitely. Evie knew this, neither of us felt rushed, and we shared pleasure, until, as we had planned, she was ready to turn over.

 

The myth of simultaneous multiple orgasms is that—a myth. Sure, it can happen, but most of the time sex isn’t like that. We had decided that taking turns would work best for each of us, and now, Evie on top, in control, pleasuring herself on the hard penis within her, slowly but surely worked herself to the orgasm she wanted, needed, and surely earned. She came with moans, a brief crying out, and spasms of contractions followed by more moans, until she collapsed on my chest. I hugged her as she enjoyed her orgasm and follow on spasms of pleasure, until they abated.

 

When she was ready she told me so, and we turned over, I still hard within her. I had her close her legs, and I put mine outside hers, a position we had also discussed and arranged in advance. This squeezed my penis delightfully, and I took my pleasure and had a powerful orgasm inside her.

 

Though we both had orgasms that were as satisfying as any we could ever imagine, I can’t emphasize enough that the pleasure we shared was more, much more than physical. We had attained rare intimacy, and that and mostly that is what rewarded us with the best sex either of us ever had.

Women’s Tears of Sadness Reduce Men’s Arousal – Pheromone science and speculation

February 14, 2011 5 comments
Woman Crying – photo by Shandi-lee

It has been reported in the January 6 online edition of Science that a whiff of a woman’s tears of sadness will reduce a man’s libido. I read the report in Science News, and I quote from its  article.

Crying women may literally turn men off. Odorless chemical signals in a woman’s waterworks lessen any stirrings of sexual interest in a guy who whiffs her tear-stained cheeks, a new study suggests. Chemical compounds in tears that douse men’s desire have yet to be identified.In the study, 24 men, ages 23 to 30, sniff a jar containing either tears collected from women as they watched sad film clips or drops of salt solution that had been trickled down the same women’s faces. A pad containing tears or a salt solution was then attached to each man’s upper lip as he rated the sadness and sexual attractiveness of images of women’s faces.

For 17 of 24 participants, female faces generally looked less sexually alluring after a man had just whiffed tears than after he’d sniffed a salt solution. Neither substance had a perceptible odor.

Another 50 men who sniffed women’s tears displayed physiological signs of reduced sexual arousal, such as a slow breathing rate and low salivary levels of the male sex hormone testosterone, relative to levels after sniffing a salt solution.

Finally, 16 men who sniffed women’s tears while watching a sad movie in a brain-scan machine displayed markedly lower blood-flow rates — a sign of reduced brain-cell activity — in areas that had previously reacted strongly to an erotic, R-rated movie. No sex-related brain drain appeared when these men sniffed a salt solution while watching a sad movie in a scanner.

There’s no way to know whether women evolved libido-squelching tears because they confer a survival or reproductive advantage of some kind.

Men able to cry at a sad film in a lab are hard to find, so studies of men’s tears will proceed slowly. For now, women are belles of the bawl.

***

So, if you want a woman to be receptive to you (you already know this), and, if you want to be aroused by her, don’t make her cry.

***

The above is one recent study on pheromones and how they act in humans. Other studies you may have read about involve the premise that women who live together or who are close friends synchronize their menstrual cycles.

The research on this subject is controversial. For one, different women have different length menstrual cycles, so unless pheromones can change the length of a cycle synchronization is impossible. A study reported in Nature in 1998 showed that women’s sweat could change the duration of menstrul cycles in other women, but this study did not say that the nature of the changes could cause synchronization. Other studies show that cycle synchronization does not happen.

The bottom line on this is that it is clear that pheromones do work between humans, but the nature of these interactions are not well understood.

***

I wrote a long story about a talented guitarist and his scientist girlfriend, each eighteen at the start of the story, and how they become separated by a misunderstanding. I trace their separate paths and lovers through about ten years.

The woman is God given gorgeous. Her face, in particular, makes people do double-takes when they see her. The attention she gets from men is tiresome to her, and her main focus in life is science. She becomes a virologist and is exceedingly successful, academically and then commercially, but she longs for her old boyfriend who loved her for herself, not for what she looks like or her status.

At one point the woman, Julie, has a brilliant idea, and she goes to talk about it with someone she knows, the uncle of her current boyfriend–not a serious relationship–they get together only occasionally for sex.

Before discussing her brilliant idea, she talks about another idea, just for fun. It is a theory about how pheromones caused her to become so beautiful. Before I wrote this I passed the idea by a microbiologist I know, and he said that the idea was “unproven but entirely plausible.”

Following is Julie’s idea:

***

Emily Deschanel, Dr. Temperance Brennan of Fox TV's Bones, a woman with a classically beautiful face

“A lot of guys think I’m unusually attractive.”

Othman [Julie’s boyfriend’s uncle] nodded again, acknowledging the obvious.

“I’m really a mutt,” she said. “On my mother’s side one set of my great-grandparents were Irish and Sicilian. The other set were northeastern European Jews. On my father’s side all my great-grandparents originated from settlers of New England, the northeastern part of the US. Among them were English, Scottish, French Canadian, and Abenaki Native Americans.

“It’s well known that average features are considered to be more beautiful than unusual features, so the mixing of people helps, with that,” Julie continued. “An example is what some people call mixed race children who are thought to be especially attractive. Really, I’m just extremely average.”

“Othman chuckled. “That’s a good line,” he said.

“I know a lot of men and women who are of mixed ancestry, and there’s nothing special about most of them, so what is it about me? Why am I blessed—or cursed, I think, sometimes—with looks that are so appealing, when others aren’t? Is it just luck of the draw?”

“What do you think?” Othman asked.

“I don’t know. That’s why I say this idea is just for fun. But let’s assume there is a reason. What might it be?”

“Genetics is out of my field,” Othman said.

“Let’s back up to something simple—yeast. Most types of yeast reproduce asexually, by budding, but some yeasts reproduce sexually. In those there are two types of yeast cells. You can think of them as male and female, but they’re called a and α [alpha], and only an a and an α cell can reproduce. To find each other, a and α yeast cells produce and sense each other’s pheromones, and other of their pheromones initiate DNA replication and a host of other changes that allow reproduction.”

Julie could see that Othman was listening, but his eyes were wandering over her body, and she knew he had a lapse of politeness and was thinking more about human reproduction than that of yeast.

“It is well understood that pheromones can cause the expression of genes,” Julie continued. “The right pheromone will cause genes to create proteins that change an organism. This is true for yeast, and we also know that pheromones cause changes in mammals. For example, dogs smell each other, and the right smells can cause the…” Julie was about to say production of chemicals that initiate sexual arousal, but instead she said “production of chemicals that alter behavior.

“It isn’t conclusively proven that humans respond to pheromones, though some experiments purport to show that smells causes women to synchronize their menstrual cycles. Nevertheless, it seems entirely plausible that pheromones do cause responses in humans by affecting gene expression.”

Othman continued to listen attentively. So far what he heard seemed to be basic biology.

“My theory…”

Here comes the meat, Othman thought.

“…is that if a mix of genes is available, then pheromones can cause specific genes in the mix to express themselves to benefit the individual carrying those genes. Here’s an example. Assume that a child is conceived by parents who have a mixture of genes, from different cultures, that affect facial features. During gestation, if the mother lives among one of those cultures then pheromones from the people around her might cause the fetus to express certain of those genes and repress others so that the child develops features that that culture finds pleasing, such as widely set eyes or an upturned nose. The child, when he or she grows up, would then be more likely to attract a higher status mate, which would benefit his or her children.

“My parents are strictly religious, and they grew up in Boston in a church community of people from many different cultures. The church, for all its dogma, wasn’t Christian, Muslim, Hindu, or anything you would recognize. It took in elements of any faith its parishioners brought. It was welcoming, and I appreciate that about it. And, if one has a genetic makeup that is a mix of genes from different cultures, as I do, and if she is gestated within a church community of many different cultures, as I was, then the pheromones of the people of all those cultures might cause many beauty genes to be expressed.” Julie raised her hands, palms up, smiled, and said, “Voila.”

Othman laughed. “Ernst said you’re a character. That is an interesting theory—unproven but, as you said, entirely plausible.”

New York Fashion Week Spring 2011 – Sexy Fashions

February 11, 2011 3 comments

New York Fashion Week Spring 2011 is in full swing, and a few daring designers and models are willing to run the runway displaying their revealing wares.

Designer: Jason Wu, Model: Ginta Lapina, Photographer: Yannis Vlamos--GoRunway.com

Jason Wu has “dropped the bras” as one reviewer commented. Here are two more Jason Wu originals.

Designer: Jason Wu, Model: Jacquelyn Jablonski, Photographer: Yannis Vlamos--GoRunway.com

Designer: Jason Wu, Model: Hanne Gaby Odiele, Photographer: Yannis Vlamos--GoRunway.com

Chloé, another fashion designer with a daring Spring 2011 collection.

Chloé, another designer who dares.

Victoria’s Secret got it right as its five billion dollar annual sales prove: sex sells but it’s got to be classy, not vulgar. American Apparel, on the other hand, perhaps because of its controversial ads is close to going bankrupt. How many women want to associate themselves with a company that advertises as follows?

American Apparel--Controversial Ad

Another controversial ad from American Apparel.

I love fashion week.

US Women’s Water Polo Team — Photo Udated

February 10, 2011 2 comments

I updated the photo of the US women’s water polo team with a higher resolution version. Enjoy!

US Women’s Water Polo Team Updated Photo

Categories: Nudity, Photography, Sports

Vet — A story with a self defense lesson for women

February 9, 2011 Leave a comment

Illustration by Ted Hammond


 

In hand to hand combat there is one and only one effective method for a smaller person who is untrained to incapacitate a larger person, and it isn’t kicking him in the balls.

 

Vet

a story by by Matthew Dyne

 
I was a seriously fucked up dude, but I’m not so bad off now. I found a shrink who went through some of the same shit I did, and understood. Aging also helped wear down the rough edges. Most of all, it was her.

I don’t think of myself as dangerous. It takes a lot to rile me. But, if I vaporize, you’d best not have been fuel for the fire. Hurt me badly and I’ll kill you; threaten a friend and you’ll wish I had.

I own and live in the last house on a dead-end street up against a thousand acres of forest. My father built my house with his own hands. I own another house across the street and down a little ways. My uncle built it.

I had rented my uncle’s house to a woman I badly wanted to get to know, but she made sure to tell me that she had a boyfriend. Shit, I said to myself. She’s not even trying, and I can barely keep my best friend respectful—Down boy, down. What really broke my heart was that, besides being good-looking, she seemed to be a nice person too. She baked me a cake the day after she moved in, and she stayed and ate dinner with me before she went home. She signed the lease using ‘Amelia.’ She told me to call her Amy.

As Amy settled in, she asked me to fix a few things, which I was happy to do. I got to be around her and to know her better. She seemed straightforward and sincere, and I couldn’t help but be stimulated by her appearance in the different outfits she wore. My binoculars kept wanting to wander toward her windows, but I forced myself not to invade her privacy. The only time I did spy on her was one hot day when she was planting in my uncle’s garden. She couldn’t be seen from the street—not that we get much traffic—but I had a clear view of her. She wore short shorts and a peasant shirt that was meant to tease with what was underneath it. It teased me all right—the only thing underneath it was her. I could see through its gauzy material, and I could see into it when she bent over. Her nipples were very pale. Watching her made me harder than I’d been in a long time, and filled me with longing.

Two weeks later, Amy’s boyfriend showed up. He looked to be about six-two, two-eighty. Right off I didn’t like him, but it wasn’t his size. It was my jealousy. After their being apart for so long, I knew what they’d be doing. I couldn’t stop thinking of him fucking her. I had to admit I’d taken a proprietary fancy to my neighbor. As I was going to bed that night, I looked over and saw their lights out. I envisioned a cock that matched his girth fucking her to multiple orgasms. I couldn’t sleep. I thought about jerking off to calm and distract myself, but jealousy dampened my enthusiasm for it. I did it anyway. It wasn’t satisfying, and it didn’t help.

Two days later, their honeymoon, so to speak, was over. It was morning. I heard them arguing and then screaming at each other. I couldn’t make out their words, but I didn’t need to. I felt good about his troubles but bad for Amy. Then I heard a scream that sounded like pain. After that, it was quiet. It was a bad combination. I saw him storm out of the house, get in his car, and drive away.

I didn’t see or hear any activity from my uncle’s house. This wasn’t unusual, but the fight and that final scream concerned me. I got my binoculars, but still couldn’t see her.

I walked over to her place and knocked. There was no answer. I opened the door a crack and called her name.

“Go away,” she said. It sounded as if she was in the bedroom; her nose was stuffed up as if she’d been crying.

“Are you okay?”

There was a long pause before she said, “No. I’m not okay. But I don’t want to see anyone. Go away.”

“Okay. If you need anything, I’ll be home. Call and I’ll come right over.”

She didn’t answer. I wanted to respect her wishes, but I wasn’t comfortable with how she sounded. “Okay?” I said more forcefully.

“Okay,” she said angrily.

“Did he hit you?”

“Yes,” she said, now starting to cry openly. “Go away.”

“If he comes back I won’t let him in. Okay?”

I waited for an answer. Amy came out. Her face was bright red on both sides, and the flesh around one eye was turning purple. I came in, took her hand, and led her to the couch. I filled a doubled-up plastic bag with ice, wrapped it in a dish towel, and told her to keep the compress on her eye—ten minutes on and a couple of minutes off, for the next three or four hours, and she’d be glad she did. She didn’t want to, but I insisted, and she gave in.

“Has he done it before?” I asked.

“Once,” she said disgustedly.

I wondered with whom she was disgusted. For her sake, I hoped it was herself.

“It’s over,” she said. “For good. That’s what I told him, but he wouldn’t accept it.”

I shook my head in sympathy. I was glad, for her, that she had made the decision to drop the prick who was abusing her, but I knew these situations didn’t usually end gracefully. It was ungraceful already. To my credit, I thought of myself only fleetingly. It wasn’t the time for that.

“He’ll come back,” she said.

That worried me. We were becoming friends, but she hadn’t risen to the status of Friend—I wasn’t ready to die for her. I didn’t want to get caught between them. Neither could I let him beat her.

I also thought that she should learn to take care of herself—by calling the cops, running away, buying a gun, or any of a number of other options. Clearly, taking care of herself wasn’t something she’d come to grips with yet.

The reason I’d get involved, if I had to, was that I wasn’t going to allow violence to go on unchecked in my house. That would be a violation of me.

I had another reason too: she was sexy and pretty and kind. I was going to beat the living shit out of him if he so much as laid a finger on her, for the pleasure I’d get out of protecting her. I wanted her to love me. I wanted her to fuck me too. I wasn’t sure which I wanted more.

“Will he be back soon?” I asked her.

“Could be any time. Could be now, could be in a month.”

“I won’t let him hurt you.”

She laughed at me. “How are you going to stop him?”

That, I wouldn’t answer. She didn’t have a right to know. Not yet. Probably never.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” I said. “But I’d like you to sleep in my house tonight. You can sleep downstairs. I sleep upstairs. I’ll take my tractor out of the garage, and you can put your car in there. If he comes back, he’ll think you’re gone.”

She looked at me in a way she hadn’t before—at my face, but not into my eyes. Her expression had relaxed, and she wasn’t focusing. I got the sense she knew how to read people in some way I didn’t understand. It made me uncomfortable.

“That’s generous of you,” she said. “I don’t want to impose, and I’m sorry to have put you in this position.”

“Don’t be, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I’m so scared. I don’t have anywhere to go. It’s hard for me to say ‘No.’”

“You won’t owe me anything.”

“I don’t want you to come on to me.”

“I just told you—you won’t owe me anything.”

“Okay then, but you’re putting yourself at risk, and I’m not sure why. And I can’t live with you forever.”

She hadn’t taken it the wrong way—she’d actually figured me out better than I had myself. Her words “live with you forever” rose in my cock despite the fact that she had preceded them with “I can’t.”

“Would you like to learn how to protect yourself?”

“Can I?”

“I think so.”

“What do I have to do?”

“I’ll teach you.”

“What do you know about it?”

There it was again. Another questions about stuff I didn’t want to go into.

“Look at me,” I said.

This time she looked directly in my eyes and didn’t flinch.

“I won’t come on to you, and you won’t ask me about that. But I know about it—all too well. I can teach you if you’re motivated.” Then I was the one to flinch. I’d said very little but had revealed more than I wanted to—or maybe I did want to, but my defenses were deep and long standing and not breached without trepidation.

***

Amy moved in with me. She tried to confine her belongings to the room I gave her, but her womanly presence was undeniable, especially in the bathroom. She still paid rent, but sometimes she cooked for me, and she kept the house in order. Don’t get me wrong: I like having a neat house too, but it’s easier for me to work at it if someone like her takes the lead. Sometimes I’d come upon a load of her clothing in the dryer, and I’d have to take it out and put it into her basket. I got a special thrill from handling her underwear, but the thrill wasn’t just about her sexiness. It was about intimacy too.

We started with self-defense. “In some ways this is going to be simpler than you thought,” I told her, “because there’s only one way for a smaller person, who’s inexperienced, to effectively attack a larger person. Do you have any idea what that is?”

“Kick him in the balls?”

“There are a couple of problems with that. To knee him in the balls you have to be way too close. If you miss, he can grab you. In defense, distance is everything. You’ve got to attack him but stay out of reach. If you try to kick him in the balls from a distance, all he has to do is close his legs or block you with his hand, and he’ll have a good chance of grabbing your ankle. Then he’ll reel you in and you’re dead.

“You can’t punch him, either. You don’t have enough power to hurt him, and again, you’d have to be too close. The same goes for stomping his instep. If he’s already grabbed you, you can try that, but you won’t be able to do enough damage to incapacitate him. Even if you broke his foot, he’d still have you, and he’d be angry.

“A small person against a big person must go for the knee. You get to keep your distance, and even if you don’t get a good shot on him, you’ll probably make him limp, and then you can outrun him. I’m going to teach you how to kneecap a man. You’re going to practice it five hundred times a day. First, we’ll have you practice on a dummy. Then I’ll pad my legs, and you can learn on me.”

“Five hundred?”

“A practice kick takes less than two seconds. There are thirty-six hundred seconds in an hour. Five hundred isn’t as many as it seems.”

I tried not to be obvious, but Amy wasn’t oblivious to the way I looked at her. I knew it was clear how attracted to her I was. She was considerate and tried not to do things that might stimulate me, and she tried not to intrude on my space. At night, she always waited for me to finish in the bathroom before she showered and got ready for bed. I was usually upstairs by the time she came out, but the few times I wasn’t, I saw her in her robe with her hair all wet. She looked wild and untamable.

She worked hard on her kicks, but she didn’t think she was getting anywhere until I let her kick me. We set up in the basement and fought. I came at her as if she were vulnerable. I taunted her, I pretended to dominate her, and I pretended not to expect a fight. She pretended to be afraid, she was good at faking it, and then she attacked. She had very good balance, and she adjusted quickly to the addition of my forward momentum to the equation of forces. Each time her heel penetrated into the foam of my protective gear, her grunts of effort gave me satisfaction. She became very excited. Eventually, I had to be the one to call it quits.

***

She was still excited after her shower. I could hear it in her voice when she called out, “Can I come up?”

She’d never been upstairs—I knew because I’d laid down a sprinkling of dust I always stepped over—and I’d certainly never invited her. “I’ll come down,” I said.

“No. I want to come up, or forget it.”

Forget what? I wondered, though my imagination provided plenty of possibilities. I didn’t want her in my domain, but I could hear in her voice that she was still excited. If she’s that kind of excited, and wants to go to bed with me… Don’t be stupid, I told myself.

She didn’t wait. She climbed the stairs. I had my boxers on and met her halfway. Her hair was wet, the way I loved to see it. She had a towel around her. I couldn’t stop glancing at her breasts swelling above its edge.

“I’ve been trusting you,” she said. “I want you to trust me.”

I wanted to say ‘Yes,’ but my head was shaking ‘No.’

“You’re helping me,” she said. “I want to help you. Please. Let me.”

“What do you want?”

“Let me upstairs. And tell me why you are the way you are.”

“I can’t do that,” I said, averting my eyes. “You agreed not to ask.”

She started to turn around, but I touched her arm. “Wait… This isn’t easy for me… Give me a minute, and I’ll think about it.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll wait here until you give me an answer.” She turned and sat on the steps and rested her head on her hands as if she would wait forever. It was hard to think while looking at the towel riding up her legs. She knew what she was doing.

I went up and lay on my bed. Let her wait, I thought. This is hard—she can suffer with me. I kept seeing her legs in my mind. They were hard to ignore. I wondered where the towel might have risen to by now. After a while I made a decision. I hoped it would satisfy her. I went back to the stairway. She stood and faced me once more. “You can come up, but I’m not ready to talk about it. If you come up, you might understand why.”

She shook her head in agreement, and I allowed her into to my room. She stopped at the doorway. I could tell she was uncomfortable. She seemed not to want to enter, but she got up her courage and took a few steps in and looked around. Instruments of death were everywhere: pistols, rifles, shotguns, knives, ammunition, reloading equipment, gun-cleaning supplies, a compound bow, tools of obscure usage, military and outdoor clothing, survivalist catalogs. Some of it was my grandfather’s, some of it was my father’s, and some my uncle’s. Most of it was mine. I wasn’t proud of it, and I wasn’t ashamed of it, either; it was just who I was when I wasn’t that other person she thought she knew.

Her gaze turned to my bed. It was the only thing that was soft and inviting.

“Can we go downstairs now?” I asked.

“No. I’ll stay.” So saying, she faced me and took off my underwear, being careful to pull them over my penis, which, with her standing so close to me and being nearly naked, had risen beyond my control. Then she dropped her towel to the floor, took my hand, and pulled me into my bed with her. She wrapped me in a hug and firmly wedged my leg all the way up between hers, and hers between mine. “I like you,” she said. “There are things about you that I like very much. Take all the time you need, but if you want me, if you’re motivated, and if you’re willing to tell me who you are, then you can have me.”

“Have you?”

“You can have me now—this once. But if you want to have me again, you’ll have to give.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“I won’t get pregnant. Is there anything you can hurt me with?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I’m trusting you. With my life. Do you understand?”

“I understand… I was… in the war.”

Amy spread her legs and pulled me on top of her. My eyes filled with tears. She stroked my back and rubbed my cheek with hers as my erection came to full hardness. I dipped my penis into her vagina. Then I took it out and slid it up and down between her labia. I did it again, spreading her wetness over us both. I kissed her mouth and spread her saliva over our lips. I kissed her breasts. Her fingers caressed my ears as I tasted her lovely pink nipples. And then, with a deep sigh of release from the prison of my obsessions, at least for the moment, I pushed on into her. Then I pushed all the way in. And then all the way in and a little more.

Her hands caressed me as I rested in her embrace until I could rest no more, and I began to stroke to her moans of delight. Each time I entered, she pushed gently on my buttocks. I give you me, she said wordlessly. I risk, but I allow. I could be hurt, but I trust. What I promise, I fulfill. I am loyal. Over and over and over again she delivered her message as I reveled in the pleasure she had initiated and now shared with me.

Then she sprinted into animalistic thrashing and a series of undulating moans that grew and grew until they culminated in the violent spasms of her orgasm. For a moment she threw me off pace, but I regrouped and rose to her needs and to my own, and I met her halfway, or so I hoped. My orgasm was violent too. I hoped I hadn’t hurt her, though I’m sure, right then, she was beyond caring. I was hardly in control. Her offer of her self was too generous, too poignant, and too promising. My future was no longer only in my hands; by giving, she had taken it into hers too.

We spent the night together in my bed. It was a long time before we fell asleep, but before we did, I gave up the second of my secrets. “It wasn’t just war,” I said. “It was combat.”

***

I hoped we were rid of him, but I knew better. He came back six weeks later. It was evening, after Amy got home from work. We heard him banging on the door of my uncle’s house and yelling for Amy to come out. I told her to stay inside, and I went to meet him.

“You’re banging on my house. Amy doesn’t live there any more. Get off my property.”

He looked up the road. So did I. Amy was coming toward us.

He towered over me. A sadistic grin covered his face. “You’re fucking my girlfriend. You must want to die young.”

I thought of my friends who had died young, succumbing to the same mindless brutality as his. He was starting to piss me off. He pushed me. I let him.

“I don’t think you ought to do that,” Amy warned.

He laughed. “What are you going to do? Call the cops?”

He pushed me again. I took two steps back, but other than that, I didn’t react. If it came to violence, I wanted him to hit me first. I wanted him to give up his civil rights, because I knew that if we had to call the cops we’d be calling an ambulance too.

It all happened very fast—it always does. He came at me. I turned to the side, placing one foot behind me for balance. I’d been here countless times before, and even more often than that in sweat-soaked nightmares. I could see he was untrained. I was relaxed and ready. He was one step away from being dead meat. And then, in that instant between rest and explosion, I saw that I wouldn’t need to touch him. Amy was moving forward. I stepped out of her way. She turned sideways, and with twenty thousand practice kicks behind her, she drove her foot like a pile driver into his knee, following through just as I had taught her. It was a sideways blow, but it wouldn’t matter. I heard a satisfying crack, followed by a scream and a thud as he fell to the ground, holding his knee and writhing in pain. He turned white. After about thirty seconds, he passed out.

I looked at Amy and saw that she didn’t share my glee. Her mouth was open, and her eyes were horrified as she stared at her ex-boyfriend lying unconscious on the ground. She was trembling. I knew the reaction. I took her home, laid her down, and covered her with a blanket before I called the police and gave them a brief rundown on what had happened. I held her and tried my best to comfort her. The cops came. One of them was a woman. She interviewed Amy, and a policeman interviewed me. I was glad I could honestly say I never touched him. I didn’t think he’d ever walk right again, and who knew what charges the cops might have leveled against me.

***

It was a long time before Amy came to my bed again, though I tried my best to deserve her. Compared to what happened to me, her brush with violence was minimal, but it gave us something to share that went deep. That helped me open up a bit more.

On her birthday, I gave her a party. I invited two vet buddies, and she invited two women co-workers. They made unlikely couples, but there was enough harmless flirting for everyone to have a good time, and no one expected more. After they left, I gave Amy her present. I had embroidered a campaign ribbon for her. It didn’t look like one—I didn’t want it to, but that’s what I told her it represented. I explained it was what soldiers wore on their uniforms to show where they had fought. It was the only time I ever embroidered, but I’d sewn plenty of ripped clothing. I took my time, and I picked thread to match her eyes. It came out pretty.

After her shower, she called me to her room. She’d lived with me long enough that it was warm and feminine. She stripped me naked and laid me on her bed, and then she took out clothing she thought I’d like best: a knit dress that clung to every curve; a bra that hid everything, but barely; a string bikini that came to just above the trim of her hair; and stockings and a garter belt that showed beneath the knit dress, but who cared? We weren’t going out in public.

She dropped her towel and watched me as she dressed. I gently stroked my hard-on, but not enough that I’d waste anything I had for her. After she dressed, she dried and brushed her hair and tied it in a bun. She put on makeup and a dab of perfume and topped all of it off by pinning on her campaign ribbon. She gave me her camera and had me take a picture of her.

Then she took it all off—in reverse—one slow step at a time.

I was so hard I felt as if I would burst my skin. “I see you’ve got another present for me,” she said.

“Ohhhh,” I groaned. “Please. Let me give it to you.”

“I don’t know. One present a day seems quite enough.”

I flashed on a whore I met on R and R, back when I was a kid. She pretended to love me, she got me excited, and then she asked for money. I walked out. But with Amy, it was different. It wasn’t about money, and I wasn’t walking out. I knew what she wanted; I knew I was going to give it to her.

I put my head in my hands and closed my eyes. I couldn’t do what I had to do and look at her naked, standing in front of me, waiting, but I tried not to see too much of what I didn’t want to remember. “I killed men… with my bare hands… more than once. I had to.”

She came and put me inside her without delay. She knew I needed it quickly: not to forget, but to honor those I killed but never hated. I could just as easily have been them. They could just as easily have been me.

CMNF — Clothed Males Naked Females

February 8, 2011 9 comments

Winner--don't know of what--but she's a winner in my book.

I had an Internet girlfriend who was obsessed with CMNF, not only the idea of it but doing it in real life. She went to art school and loved being a model. Later she almost got in trouble being naked in a castle in the UK. I wrote a little about her in my post: A Castle Riddle

She started a CMNF web site where friends of hers would contribute photos, artwork, and stories based on the CMNF theme. I first wrote the story The Quarry for her. But the original version of The Quarry, the one I gave her, was not the one posted in this blog, which was only loosely based on the truth.

The true story was that a fifteen year old girl came to the quarry with her twelve year old brother, and the girl stripped in front of my brother, four friends, and me (we were in our twenties), and then she went swimming. Man, she must have been wet. And No, none of us ever touched her. None of us would ever touch a woman that young, not that we wouldn’t be tempted. We’re not that kind of guy. In fact, I believe any one of us would have given his life to protect her, if it came to that. That’s the kind of guys we are. But it didn’t come to that. We asked for nothing, and she showed herself to us, willingly, more than willingly, and we didn’t run away. The memory of her is burned into the neurons of my consciousness.

Mardi gras, New Orleans, Before katrina

It’s not the beads that gets her to lift her shirt for every guy with a trinket to offer. It’s their admiration, their lust, and having an excuse to stimulate herself without guilt, doing something usually forbidden. “But Mom, it was Mardi Gras!”

Yes, we humans are rationalizing animals, the female perhaps even more than the male, though the consequences of male rationalizations are far worse: murder, torture, war, genocide, rape…

And while were on the subject of rationalizations, what about PETA girls? I sympathize with their cause, though I’m an omnivore, and I applaud their sincerity, but come on: “Hey girls. Let’s go to the park, take our clothes off, and lock ourselves in cages. That will make people stop eating meat.”

Christmas Romp in the Snow

I  love this cute girl. She seems to be having so much fun. And what a figure!

Girl Having Fun Near Two Blind Men

Fashion Show Nudes

February 7, 2011 1 comment

Fashion by Jenny Packham

I must confess: I’m addicted to fashion news. I’m addicted to pictures of girls on the runway, nude or partly so, showing their bodies to so many men. There’s a genre about that: CMNF–clothed males naked females. Of course, once again, it’s all about power–who has it, men–and who has to submit to it to make a living, women.

I’m sorry, but I feel the need to be defensive. This is just my fantasy life. In real life what turns me on is giving to women, not taking from them.

A fashion show, 2008

This year in London the designer Charlie Le Mindu took fashion to a new level. I mean, it’s well known that in bras the less cloth the more expensive the garment, but this is ridiculous. Note the man near her. I don’t think he’s looking at her hat or purse. I got to admit: nice breasts. Wish I could see the rest of her.

Fashion by Charlie Le Mindu. Less cloth equals more profit.

You’ll note that this next model is not naked, and even though I’m not a fan of piercing, the photo and the girl are so startling I can’t take my eyes from her.

A Startlingly Attractive Model

Categories: Bodies, Fashion, Nudity, Photography