Tag Archives: sex

Time Stood Still

31 Dec

 d48348ca6cddeeef5803ac11c0b46dc0They say the way to stop time is kissing. She stood under the shower, warm water streaming down her face, and she imagined their wedding. A Hollywood themed wedding, with R.S.V.P. cards that looked like theater tickets, guests arriving on a red carpet and metal film reels for centerpieces. He loved movies, she thought.

She tried his last name on. Could work. 

No, maybe not.

Of course, there would be no wedding. She had no interest in getting married again. But she imagined it, just because. Because she’s a woman. She did this with everyone she dated; tried on their last name. She just did.

Not with the redhead. There wouldn’t be any wedding, real or imagined. Because he was already married. She knew she should feel bad about dating a man who was committed, but she didn’t. She just didn’t.

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She’d known him fifteen years. He was barely twenty-one years old when he arrived from a small farm town in another country. They sat across from each other on the frigid concrete floor in a dim locker room in snowy Pennsylvania, and he averted his eyes, polite, but intimidated. They faced each other around the ring, meeting the first time as fighters, and later as lovers.

He remembered what she’d worn that night. 

She walked through the entrance and the host pointed to his table without asking who she was meeting. He embraced and kissed her, then she slid into a seat, once again sitting across from him. Now he was a man, with the confidence of someone who had been through the rigors of life and ended up on top.

She studied his face, which was no longer familiar. He looked like the professional athlete and fighter he’d become. His thick, muscular physique was covered in tattoos and his nose looked like it had been broken more than once. His unruly auburn hair was shaved into a punk style and he was attractive in an unconventional way. He looked like he stepped off the set of Vikings. They had common views and values, yet he knew little about her. None of the deep stuff. None of the illness. None of the things she struggled with. And that was fine. He was a fun distraction. It was genuinely light. After the heavy mess she’d gone through the year before, something sweet was welcome. 

She rarely connected with people, but something felt right about him and she didn’t know what it was. They were cut from the same cloth – that’s how the host knew. He was familiar. They knew all the same people, they traveled all the same paths. He felt a little like home. 

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He made her feel things she hadn’t felt in a long time. Elated, euphoric. When he texted, which was frequently, she smiled. He was there as much as the other wasn’t. He was warm, sensual and animalistic. It wasn’t mental with him, it was physical.

She wanted to rip his clothes off and bite him, feel him pressed against her. He told her his dreams of her, how he couldn’t wait to see her in a few days, he wished he could fast forward. 

She had never been attracted to vapid or stupid, no matter how pretty a package it was wrapped in.  He was bright, not afraid to say exactly what was on his mind or ask for what he wanted. They never ran out of things to talk about, but there were no profoundly deep conversations. An avid reader, he asked about her writing, which fascinated him. He didn’t probe for more about her life, and she was grateful. He texted to say he was thinking of her, morning, noon and night.

She liked him.

I’m into you, he said. I like being with you, around you. You’re easy to talk to. I want this to keep going…if you’re OK with it. I knew we’d be right. I haven’t been wrong yet.

And they were, but in a different way than she was right with the other. She wondered if the redhead was like her, crazy. Game recognizes game. He laughed when she suggested it. She appreciated crazy. She appreciated redheads. She appreciated tattoos. She appreciated kissing.

Anticipation. Waiting to do things they weren’t supposed to be doing. It was utterly intoxicating. He brought out the best in her. He brought out the worst in her. He brought out her, the person she knew for a lifetime, before the bipolar diagnosis and stabilizing medications.

He will never be mine, nor me his. It’s fleeting. Safe. I know exactly where I stand with him. He was honest; never afraid to say how he felt, never holding back. They agreed to that from the start, brutal honesty. He traveled distance to be with her, driving several hours after a day rife with flights, appearances and filming.

It was temporary. Dangerous. Was it the illicit element? Living in the moment?

When he stopped on the street lit sidewalk on that first chilly night and pulled her into him, people stepped around them or stared as he wrapped his hands in her hair, his lips on hers, and neither of them cared. 

Maybe eight minutes passed. Maybe thirty. He pressed her against the brick building, and with his hand still wrapped in her hair, he pulled her head back and his full lips were on her jaw bone, down her neck…he came back up, parted her lips with his, and bit one, holding it gently with his teeth. His blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he grinned devilishly down at her. It was an audition. An invitation. He never once touched her anywhere else.  He didn’t have to. This is what I can do for you…if you let me. The glow of the street lamps glinted off his dark ginger beard as they sized each other up.  He brought her hand to his warm lips and kissed it softly, then tucked her arm under his for the remainder of the stroll. He wasn’t wearing his wedding ring. It wouldn’t have mattered if he was. She already knew the answer, and so did he.

Time stood still.

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She rarely felt the child-like excitement about things she used to when she was off her medications. No matter how much effort she put into Christmas, vacations, food, it wasn’t there. It bothered her. She was so goddamn sane and rational. Here was a deadly taste of that hypomania she missed so much…that drug…her drug of choice.

The drug, that ever pervasive drug, from which she managed for so long to stay clean. 

There it was, seeping its way into her life again.

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Chapter 22: Pull My F*cking Hair

6 Sep

(Warning: Explicit**See Below.)

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The subject of rough sex was broached at lunch. My friend – the epitome of the conservative girl next door – gritted her teeth and said, “YES. Yes. I want someone to pull my fucking hair.” As we all nodded in total agreement, she paused and wondered aloud, “I wonder what that says about us. Psychologically, I mean.”

I thought about that for a while and decided to find out.

Women have long flip-flopped between wanting to be with a nice guy who treats them like a princess and dating that arrogant prick everyone hates. We’ve all shaken our heads and thought, “Jesus, that guy is such a douche bag. Why is she with him?”  

You can’t change men (Men Are Like Shoes- https://aprilhunterblog.com/2014/05/09/chapter-20-men-are-like-shoes/) so these relationships with bad boys nearly always end badly.

However, our heads still turn when we see the guy with the loud, fast car or the motorcycle. We want tattooed, muscled and pierced. He’s ex military, in a rock band or a crazy surfer. We want that because, quite sex467561949071b426f6cafcf1850ef176honestly, he looks like trouble. Trouble means he will probably throw us down and ram us hard from behind, while pulling our fucking hair. (Read: Not yank. Pull.) We want to be nipped at, tied up, spanked, and told what to do. We want you to hold us down and lick our pussy until we can’t take it anymore…and then we want you to do it again with your fingers teasing our ass at the same time. If you won’t, we’ll eventually find someone who will. At least once. That’s just how it is.

Some women have a hard time saying it like it is. Perhaps they’re afraid what their partner might really think if they tell him what they really want.

Sex is fantastic. Romantic sex is absolutely wonderful. But sometimes you just need to get slammed up against a wall and fucked.

There. I said it.

 

The most common sexual fantasy for women is rape. (That’s not to say women want to BE raped.) I think you get what I mean when I state this fact. In a fantasy, you can enjoy the idea of being coerced without any real danger. That said, you can understand psychologically that we females have an innate desire to be told what to do, held down and fucked. Sex researchers suggest that one reason for the prevalence of aggressive fantasies isn’t so much the rape itself, but rather the desire to feel a loss of control. Women make a lot of decisions every day. We have to remain in control in order to get things done. Part of the pleasure of sex is giving up or taking that control to another level, so it’s vital to find a partner who balances you sexually. Two submissive people together are going to make for a lazy marriage that lacks heat. Neither will feel like being on top. Two dominants will constantly be in a power struggle that may spill outside the bedroom.

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Rape or near-rape fantasies are the main theme in romance novels. Often called “bodice-rippers”, a handsome man becomes so overwhelmed by his attraction to the heroine that he loses all control and must have her, even if she refuses–which she does initially, but then eventually melts into submission, desire, and ultimately fulfillment. Rinse, repeat and rename it Fifty Shades of Grey.

“Before I know it, he’s got both of my hands in his viselike grip above my head, and he’s pinning me to the wall using his lips … His other hand grabs my hair and yanks down, bringing my face up, and his lips are on mine…” -50 Shades of Grey pg 78.

This is part of our core animal nature. We like to believe we’ve evolved into something superior to being animalistic, but it’s revealed in certain basic situations. We overeat when we’re not hungry because we’re genetically programmed to store food for the possibly stark future. We sleep more in the winter because it’s cold and dark. And yes…there is an ingrained sexual aspect to us that’s undeniable. Yet, despite sex being as natural to both animals and humans as eating and sleeping, some still try to deny it.

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From Psychology Today: “This study is part of a growing body of research unveiling women’s dueling desires. On the one hand, women express wanting a relationship with a loving and committed partner for the long-term. Yet on the other hand, they demonstrate an attraction to men with darker personalities, typically for the short-term. It is important to recognize, however, that this dynamic has been shaped by the demands of evolution. For the women who fall for bad boys—and the men who love them—these insights may help untangle this paradox.”

 

The three most populated places on Earth:

  1. China
  2. India
  3. The Friend Zone

Every nice guy has bemoaned to anyone and everyone within earshot (and on every social network) how all women only love arrogant assholes.

Word origin for ‘asshole’: Latin. Meaning: contemptible person”. Dated: mid-1930s. – *I wonder what these types of people were called in 1892?*

This only loving assholes thing isn’t exactly true. Most women – the ones who aren’t completely damaged, that is – struggle with finding a balance. We want a nice guy. This man loves his mom, won’t run around on us (we hope) and calls on the way home to ask if he can pick anything up from the store. He tells us we’re beautiful, kisses our neck and remembers things that are important. He holds the door open, does laundry, cooks and enjoys the same movies. He may even remember to put the toilet seat down.

And, we want someone who will pull our fucking hair. With Bad Boy Syndrome, narcissism suggests confidence and dominance.  Women respond to this sexually without even realizing because it’s ingrained into us for reproductive reasons. We want a strong male who will provide strong offspring and be able to protect us.

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 “Stupid women say all men are the same. Smart women stop dating the same men.”

With age comes wisdom. With more wisdom, I’ve gravitated more towards the “nice guy”. I always thought he was vastly under appreciated. After all, I’m trouble enough for two and as long as he is a ‘think outside the box’ captain and not part of the crew, I’m perfectly fine with it. However, despite appreciating decent, sweet men, I’ve still found myself staring at obvious bad boys with sleeve tattoos, facial stubble and vascular forearms. Why? I’m smart enough to know not to date that type, yet I still find myself occasionally drawn to it.

I’ve come to the conclusion that men aren’t the only ones who want a lady on the streets and a whore between the sheets.

As I’ve gotten more comfortable in my own skin, I’m not afraid to say that sex is very important and I am not willing to compromise on that in a relationship. You can be wonderful, funny, good looking and rich. But, if the bedroom action is bad, boring or one-dimensional, it’s just not going to work for me. Life is too short to suffer from bad sex. That’s my own opinion, but I’d reckon others feel the same way.

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Any woman can understand what I mean when I offer up this example:

What is more innately attractive?  There is a tall, dark haired man. He’s handsome with broad shoulders, full lips and high cheekbones. He is also a certifiable nice guy. He pulls up in a Prius or a Scion. It has an automatic transmission.

Now, that same nice guy steps out of a sleek BMW Z4 or pulls alongside you in a rumbling convertible Ford Mustang.  By the way, both the BMW and Mustang happen to be stick shift – and he takes control of his car like a champ.

It’s not rocket science. This isn’t materialism. It’s a show of testosterone and confidence. I’m using cars as an example. You can work it any way you want. Nice guys don’t always finish last – not if they don’t want to.Sex_1

My point is this: women don’t love bad boys. They’re just attracted to them. Their confidence. Confidence is a big one.  This is something even the nicest boor can own if he tries. Spice it up with little danger or masculinity. Pin her down and give it to her hard every now and again. Women want variation. Be raw. Romantic. Rough. Teasing. Sensual. And incredibly dirty and nasty.

Pull her fucking hair.

Stay decent.

Personally, I’ve noticed that men who are close to their moms or were raised well by a single mother tend to have a completely different (and positive) view on strong women than the norm.  I’ve used that as a marker for my friendships and how to choose my dates rather than an Alpha vs. Beta vs. Omega debate. In the end, I think a sign of a good relationship is someone who is your best friend – he is the person you respect, share ideas, look forward to spending time with, your partner in crime – whom you want to fuck like crazy and give a blowjob while driving down the highway.

–While he wraps his hands around your hair.

My question to the modern male is this: Can you be both “the lady on the streets and whore between the sheets”? 

If so, you may just solve our paradox and answer that age old question: ‘What is it that women really want?’

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**I’d like to apologize for the copious use of the word “fucking” in this blog.  When it’s being used in the context in which I needed it for, there were few other options in the English language.

Like, none.  

I searched for interchangeable words but “fornicate” and “copulate” simply weren’t cutting it. Going full-on British English gave me even less to work with. “Give your bird a good rogering”, “Go on and get your face full of fanny while playing with her bum” or “Shag her bloody silly” wasn’t conveying the point very well at all.

So, “fucking” it was.

Carry on.

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