poeticdesires

Drunk Blogging December 23, 2013

[FYI: I’m writing this while tipsy. My apologies for any spelling or grammatical errors. Yes, even when I’m tipsy, I worry about these things.]

I was going to name this blog ‘Size Queen’ but since I’m tipsy, I wanted to keep up with the drunk blogging tradition. I publish about one or two of these a year. I wonder if anyone actually reads them.

A few days ago, a friend of mine got three of their fingers in my ass. Tonight, at a company holiday party, I bowled with my Ex. He was on my team along with two other people. He was the first person to ever fuck me in the ass. My first ex tried, but he didn’t do it right and it hurt, so I stopped him. My Ex did it right and fucked me in the ass and it was kind of awesome.

I want someone else, well actually many someone elses, to fuck me in the ass. I have this fantasy I might try to make happen at Fusion where many someone elses fuck me in the ass. They’ll be wearing leather. It’ll be totally hot.

My friend who got their fingers in my ass thinks I’ll be able to get a fist in my ass eventually. I learned two great terms from some of my friends. ‘The Impossible Dream’ is getting fucked in the ass with a cock or strap-on cock while the cock/strap-on owner is also fisting your cunt. ‘Bridge and Tunneling’ is getting fisted in both the cunt and ass. I want both of these things to happen in my future.

Lately, I’ve been quite ass focused. It wasn’t til recently that I realized how much I love being fucked in the ass. In my most recent masturbation sessions, I’ve started with putting my butt plug in, which only takes a few minutes now (pats self on back), and then riding my Hitachi. I’ve cum harder with just my plug in my ass and my Hitachi on my clit than I ever thought possible.

Did you know orgasms start from the sacral nerve? Know where the sacral nerve is located? Near your butt.

I already have a Tardis cunt. I love my Tardis cunt. And people love fisting my Tardis cunt. But could I develop a Tardis ass too?

To be fair, one of my friends already has a Tardis ass. His anal skills far surpass my current abilities. I am quite envious of his ass. But maybe, with practice, I could come close to his level.

People who fuck me: Please go for the ass more. I would be so appreciative.

That is all.

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The List December 18, 2013

I forget how we even got on the topic. We were sitting around chatting after a rather fun day and the subject came up. What was everyone’s number? How many people had each of us had sex with?

I honestly didn’t know mine. For the past few years, I simply stopped counting. Sitting there in their living room, I couldn’t begin to guess.

I began recalling names, ticking them off on my fingers. My first ex. My rebound. My Ex. My first fucks in the scene.

But then I had to clarify. What was our definition of sex? Did oral count? What about fisting? Strap-ons? I ended up creating the definition myself to suite my needs. Everyone else followed along.

Sex was penetration of a hole (pussy, ass, or mouth) with a penis or penis-like object, as well as fists, and any oral sex.

I opened up my phone, pulled up the Notes app, and began writing. 1, 2, 10, 20…

I started with just the men. Some names easily came to mind. Others brought smiles or less than pleasant memories, though not usually centered around the fucking. Quickly, I had a double digit number.

But then I kept remembering more names.

The guy who I invited to my old apartment. He wore women’s underwear as he fucked me. He was the first ass I ever explored besides my own. He called himself a faggot as I fucked his ass with three of my fingers. I never invited him over again because he annoyed me in our text exchanges afterwards.

The guy who fisted me at that event. I had been feeling down. He was a friend. He asked, not having ever done it before. The experience brought me back to a happy event head space, and he truly enjoyed it.

The guy from work I fucked once. He was crashing at my place for the night. I made him a drink and we talked outside in the back in the dark. And then he kissed me. We fucked in my basement and he fisted me too, the first time he’d ever done that. I never told anyone about it because he asked me to keep it quiet.

One after another, more and more encounters popped into my mind. Each time I recalled another experience of pleasure, I cursed (“Son of a bitch!”) and added a new name to the list.

As my friends started to talk about their lists, I decided to start my second list, this one with all the women I’d slept with. My men only list already surpassed the other lists in the room, but at that moment I wanted to honor the depth and breadth of my sexual experience.

My second list was about a third as long as my first.

I didn’t talk much as the others in the room spoke about their sexual experiences. I simply sat back and marveled at how I, who had lost my virginity at 22, had come so far in eight years. (Pun not intended.)

With a few days of this information marinating in my mind, I’ve come to better understand it when I whole-heartedly identify as a slut.

I love sex is its varied and wonderful forms. I love to fuck multiple people in different circumstances. I enjoy momentary encounters as well as long running connections. I seek out new sexual experiences, as well as work to increase my prowess in the skills I already possess.

More than once, I’ve been told I was sexually intimidating. Because of my up front and honest views on sex. Because of my assertions of what I want. Because of my experience.

It wasn’t until I, just a few days ago, consolidated that experience into a varied, and quite sexy, list of names that I truly got why some find me intimidating. And also why I happily identify as a slut.

I can only hope that my list continues to grow as more new and fulfilling experiences come my way.

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Beautiful December 13, 2013

I didn’t understand it, I didn’t truly see it, until I saw her.

She was taller than me. Her skin was darker than mine. She was bigger than me, probably a few dress sizes larger. But her body shape was the same as mine. And she wore a dress like one I own.

As she danced, her hair out and wild, her body moving with full abandon, I saw it. I saw the thing others have seen in me.

I saw why people find me beautiful.

I was tired. Exhausted really. I’d worked for fourteen hours the day before and only gotten three hours of sleep the night before. I managed a short nap before this particular gig, and I was buoyed with the knowledge that it was to be short.

Except it wasn’t short. The times had been mixed up. This would be a long gig as well.

I felt deflated, almost ready to cry. My only solace at the moment was that my favorite work friend was with me. At least I would have her company as we waited out the party.

Because of circumstance, I found myself near all the action. My moving light board was sandwiched in between the bar and the DJ. I had to be able to see my lights and hear the music as people danced.

The crowd was slow to pour in, slow to get themselves out onto the dance floor. I stood by my board and began ticking off the minutes til we could pack up and leave. But then a small crowd formed, and she was among them.

As I watched her move, watched her let her body go to the rhythm and be fully herself in the moment, I remembered times past where I felt that. A smile plastered across my face that hurt from its intensity. A rush of endorphins as every nerve on my skin tingled. Glee in the moment, the hot lust in my body, the abandon of just being me.

Logically I know I’m beautiful. Logically I know I’m attractive. I’ve fucked enough people who I find to be utterly gorgeous to know I stand among them, at the their level. But I don’t always feel beautiful. I don’t always feel sexy, hot. I don’t always know why people want to be with me.

But, standing there behind my light board, watching her dance, I saw in her what others had seen in me, a reflection of my true beauty as another reveled in her own.

I ended up dancing alongside my coworker as we enjoyed the DJ’s skills and fed off the energy of the crowd. What I thought was going to be a horrible evening turned into one of my most enjoyable gigs ever.

And I learned a valuable lesson that night: To be one’s self, wholly and completely, without reservation or hesitation; that is beautiful.

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A Perfect Spring day December 11, 2013

~ a story ~

He was gentle when he kissed her, pushing back her hair behind her ears and cradling her chin in his hands. He was gentle in the way I remembered, the way I still think about before I fall asleep at night.

It’s been six months since our last kiss, since the last time he pushed my hair back behind my ears, and cradled my chin in his hands, and I got lost in his lips.

I saw them across the quad on my way to class. It was a beautiful Spring day, the first really good day we’d had in months. I could have enjoyed it if I didn’t have a paper to turn in, an exam to study for, a project to work on, and a professor asking me to look into internships because I had such great potential.

My backpack was overfull. My arms juggled coffee, and my lunch bag, and rolls of drafts I needed to work on. My brain was overfull with everything I needed to do that day, and in the next week, and for the rest of the semester.

And then I saw him. Saw them.

I stopped. For a moment, it felt like I couldn’t breathe.

The Sun was shining, and the fucking birds were chirping, and everyone around me was smiling and making their way to class.

And I just stood there, as my Ex embraced a beautiful girl on a perfect Spring day.

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Hair, Down There? December 8, 2013

I hadn’t heard about No Shave November til there was random mention of it on my Twitter feed a few days into the month. A few of the people I followed were participating for various reason.

Since it was only (I think) the 3rd, I thought about what body hair meant to me. Should I try the challenge?

I viewed shaving less in a feminine light and more in a basic grooming practice scope. I don’t like the feel of my legs with hair, nor do I enjoy the scratchy tickle of my underarms with hair. I shave those areas as much for myself as for the people I wish to see me naked.

But my pubic hair…

When I pondered my relationship with my pubic hair, much came to mind.

I recalled a passing line in Story Of O mentioning how Sir Stephen pulled O towards him by grabbing her nether locks. O later silently lamented, worrying how Sir Stephen would react after she was required to shave her pubic hair.

In How To Be A Woman, Caitlin Moran describes how her pubic hair is a small bush that, when patted, has a bit of a bounce to it.

I once had a conversation with my Ex while we were in the middle of our relationship. He didn’t want me to shave my crotch anymore, at least not every day as I had been. He didn’t like the look if it so bare, but was perfectly fine with a little stubble.

For a time, shortly after college, I tried plucking my pubic hairs. It hurt so badly, yet I often removed at least a third of the hairs before I fell back on shaving the rest. I didn’t realize I was a pain slut at the time, but it is one of those instances I look back on and realize kink for me was less chosen and more just a part of my brain.

With those and other thoughts meandering in my mind, I tried it. For the month of November, I did not shave my pubic hair. This was a semi-significant change for me. I attended two separate events where I knew I would play with people who knew my grooming habits, or at least had seen my cunt relatively enough to possibly notice the difference.

I made this decision with some trepidation. How would the people sticking their fists and dicks into my pussy react? Would they find it unappealing? Not care? Or, indeed, find it hot? Would anyone mention it? Could this one grooming choice spark a conversation on sexuality, or maybe open up a new way avenue for our sex?

Much to my surprise, my grooming choice was met with nothing. Nothing changed about my scenes or the sex. No mention by anyone was made of my choice. I almost wonder if anyone noticed. I was fisted and fucked, having a grand ole time, with no difference in our interactions.

What I did find, much to my surprise, was how much I liked not shaving my pussy. During masturbation, I liked gripping the hairs and pulling my lips. I liked the feel of playing with the hair, twisting the strands. My pubic hair has gotten quite long, about a half inch at its most lengthy.

Having spent the month of November with a furry pussy, experienced getting fucked and fisted, as well as pleasing myself with my pubic hair, I’m left with a few thoughts to ponder. But the one that’s stuck in my mind, the one that’s the reason for the this post, makes me cock my head to the side and give a small smirk.

Maybe I will keep my hair down there.

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e[lust] #52 November 18, 2013

Photo courtesy of Secretly Sensuous

Welcome to e[lust] – The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at e[lust]. Want to be included in e[lust] #53? Start with the newly updated rules, come back December 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

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Monday Evening Fun November 12, 2013

~ erotica ~

“Hi.”

He’d just gotten home from work, his three piece suite wrinkled from his long day.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me. The short skirt of my strapless dress barely covered my ass. My heels accentuated my rump even more so.

I leaned up against the wall, glancing at him over my shoulder, a perfect view of my rear for his pleasure. His eyes fell on my ass as I had hoped.

He looked tired. I knew he must’ve had a rough day; Mondays usually were.

“Missed you while you were at work.”

I purred my words, then swayed my ass to an imaginary beat.

He put down his briefcase, not acknowledging my show, but his eyes never left my rump.

I continued to pop my hips, moving my ass back and forth, back and forth.

He took off his jacket, drapped it over his desk chair, his stare fixed on my rear. His vest joined his jacket.

I decided to be bolder. I bent my knees, eased myself down towards the floor. His eyes followed my ass. Low to the ground, I began popping my ass up and down.

I watched as he loosed his tie, unbuttoned his cuffs, and rolled up his shirt sleeves.

“Did you miss me while you were at work?”

He looked up at my face, making eye contact for the first time.

“Yes,” he said. “I did.”

In a heartbeat, he had me. He grabbed my hair and pulled me to standing. I bobbled a bit, grabbing his arm. He brought my face to his. My eyes would not look away from his gaze.

He took my previous place against the wall, leaning back and looking at me, his pet.

He used his grip on my hair to pull me into him. My hands found the wall for balance, but I didn’t need it. My cheek rested on his right shoulder. His right leg was against my crotch.

His free hand reached down. My skirt was already half up. He pulled it the rest of the way, revealing my ass for his view.

He gripped my right cheek, grinding my crotch against his leg. I couldn’t help but sigh. He squeezed my flesh, then rubbed my ass.

This was my favorite part, the anticipation. Waiting for the first strike. Knowing what was coming. I felt as my wetness soaked his slacks.

The first smack was hard, the sound echoing through the room. I gasped. Most often he started with a few warm-up hits. He hit again, then gripped my flesh. My body responded, writhing against his leg.

I decided to push a little more. My hands slipped down the wall, onto his lower back, then onto his ass. He smacked me again. And again. With each hit, I ground against his leg, gripped his ass, and pulled myself more onto him.

My breathing increased. Gasps no longer escaped my lips. My sounds turned to moans as the tension in me grew. Again and again, with each new hit, I panted my pleasure.

He started grinding into me, writhing against my leg. I could hear his pleasure build in his exertion. His cock grew hard. We both built towards crescendos.

I started cursing, then begging him to let me cum. He bent my head back, looked into eyes, a wry smile on his face. He never stopped his cadence of hits.

“On the fifth hit, all of which I will count, you can cum. You know they will be the hardest. I don’t make anything easy. Easy is too boring for us.”

I returned his grin.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

Hit. “One.

Hit. “Two.

Hit. “Three.

Hit. “Four.”

He stopped.

His hand let go of my hair.

He stood up straight, brought his leg out from my crotch. He walked towards his closet, picked up his jacket and vest, and hung both up.

“I. I.”

He looked back at me, his wry smile even bigger. He pulled off his tie, hung it up too.

“What?” he said. I stood there, dumbfounded and disappointed.

I walked to my side of the bed as he continued to undress. By the time I sat, he was down to his undershirt, boxers, and black socks, each disrobed article put away in the process.

I turned away from him, kicked off my heels next to my end table, and pouted.

He bounded across the bed. His grip in my hair turned my body and pushed my face into our sheets.

Hit. “Five.”

His cock entered me less than a breath after his final count left his lips.

I came with him inside me, fucking me hard, the start of our Monday evening fun.

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Hate Fuck November 7, 2013

I don’t want to get back together with my Ex. I DON’T want to get back together with my Ex. But there was this moment recently.

About a week ago, I had an early morning gig. The Sun wasn’t even up before I had to start work. And, me being me, I arrived early. My Ex was there already, too. He drove the truck with the equipment.

I saw him in the truck, walked over, and asked if I could hop in. It was cold and I wanted shelter from the chill. He didn’t mind my presence.

Since it was so early, and I was still sleepy, I lounged back and closed my eyes. I started blabbering, as I sometimes do when I’m fatigued.

“Ssh, you’re suppose to be sleeping,” he said. I quieted myself.

I could feel his arm as he outstretched it on the back of the seat. His arm wasn’t behind me at all, just elongated out.

Then, for some reason, my mind flashed on a series of images. His hand on my chin, turning my face. His lips to mine, kissing me. My crawling into his lap. More kissing.

Someone pounded on my Ex’s window. We both jostled awake. It was the lead for the gig. Random thoughts ended.

I don’t want to get back with my Ex, yet that fantasy still emerged during my tired state.

The last time my Ex and I had sex was in the early afternoon on a weekday. He had borrowed my car for work. His job has roughly regular hours and that particular day I didn’t have a gig.

I had taken a shower and then proceeded to lounge across the bed still in my robe. He came into the apartment and into the bedroom. I wasn’t expecting him. It was maybe 2pm.

He knelt down, opened up my robe, and began to eat me out. This was kind of a big deal. During our entire relationship I was never comfortable giving him head, so I often didn’t want it in return. In my brain, it didn’t seem fair. But I’d already broken up with him, so I no longer gave a shit.

As I writhed with his face between my legs, I no longer held back. All pretense of him being my dominant, of him being in charge, was gone.

“Take off your pants,” I said.

“What?” He hadn’t quite heard me, being occupied and all.

“Take off your pants so you can fuck me.”

He immediately dropped trou.

As he fucked me, I didn’t care. I didn’t care about his pleasure, didn’t care about what he wanted.

At a certain point, I had a vibrator against my clit while he fucked me bent over the bed. I remember cuming and not screaming. I wanted the orgasm just for me. I didn’t want him to know I’d cum, didn’t want him to feel pride or any joy at my sexual pleasure.

Our last fuck was a hate fuck, at least on my part.

Occasionally I felt bad for the way I acted towards him in the end. He became highly emotional, more emotional than in the entirety of our relationship. I didn’t respond to his sad stares, his pouty behavior, his occasional temper tantrum.

No, I did not want to cuddle in the early morning. No, I did not want to be around him or his mother while in our apartment.

He called me cold. I wasn’t cold. I just didn’t care.

When I remember why I broke up with him, and why I don’t want to get back together with him, I no longer feel guilty about being something other than the girl who forgave him for so much.

In the end, I ended our relationship because I needed someone other than him. And that still holds true today, random fantasy or not.

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New Rule November 5, 2013

OKC boy texted me a video on Saturday. He was lying in bed, t-shirt on, but naked from the waist down. His cock was in full view. He lazed back on his bed watching porn while masturbating.

I watched the video, noting how I was somewhat turned on, yet also somewhat turned off.

The thought that came to mind as the video ended: I need a break.

I didn’t respond to the video.

Later that day, he texted, ‘Did you get that?’ I didn’t text back.

I promised myself, as I crashed from a long day of work Saturday night, that I wouldn’t do the shitty thing. I wouldn’t just ignore him. I wouldn’t do The Fade Away. I would be adult about it. I would talk to him.

On Sunday, he messaged me again.

‘Busy?’

‘No. What’s up?’

‘Did you get the video?’

‘Are you in a place where you can talk on your phone?’

‘Yes.’

I called him. After the pleasantries, I baby-stepped my way to my concerns.

I prefaced my explanation, noting that I needed to explain how my brain worked, and then I’d talked about what I needed, and then I’d ask how he felt about it.

I reminded him how, from the beginning, he said he just wanted to be friends who fucked. Also I spoke about how I had said I would be open to more than that, if he wanted. But, until he says anything different, we would just be friends who fucked.

Then I spoke about how, the more I interact with him, the more I like him. The more feelings that one would have for someone who is more than just a friend keep emerging, growing.

To me, it is obvious that I like him more than he likes me, and that’s okay because we’ve established the parameters of our interactions. I can keep my feelings in check if we stay within our script.

However, when looking back on all of our texting, it has almost always been initiated by him and it almost always revolved around sex. I told him how I felt uncomfortable with this. The implication in my mind was that he only wanted me for sex, and that made me feel shitty. Where was the friend part of the equation?

Henceforth, I proposed a new rule: I wanted a texting timeout. He could send one sexy text per day, to which I would respond, and that would be it. One text; one response. If he sent more, I would not answer.

Then it was his time to talk.

He reaffirmed his desire to be my friend. He enjoyed our sex, but wanted to point out how much he liked me as a person. He cited our time at Ren Faire as one instance where he felt we were cool together.

He made a counter offer: one sexy conversation and one non-sexy conversation per week. I felt that was fair, and agreed.

We went on to talk for another fifteen minutes about our lives, sans-sexy stuff. He spoke about his new job, settling into his new locale. I spoke about school and how well it’s been going. The conversation was pleasant. I then bid him adieu to go for a run on my roommate’s treadmill.

He texted me this morning.

‘Good morning.’

I didn’t respond.

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Fuck You November 3, 2013

~ a poem ~

I thought it was you out of the corner of my eye.
I thought you were walking up to me, a smile on your face, a whitty line ready to fall from your lips.
I thought I’d turn to you, bewildered, yet hiding my pleasure at your presense.
I thought I’d try to hold myself back from flirting, but knew I wouldn’t be able to resist.
I thought…

I miss you against me.
I miss the smell of you.
The way, when we fucked, we laughed and played.
Yet, at times you pushed me, made me take more than I thought I could.
God, I loved our fucking.
I miss you inside me.
I miss you inside me.

I miss you.
I hate that I miss you.
Fuck you.

Fuck your perfect cock and the way you always knew how to make me cum.
Fuck your smile and the way you’d flash it every time I came over.
Fuck your body, your hot hot body; your perfect arms and perfect abs and perfect ass.
Fuck your success, your smarts, your almost-at-my-level intelligence.
Fuck your suits and polished shoes and pops of color.
Fuck your eyes, the way they drew me in, yet hid so much of you from me.

I miss you.
I could’ve loved you.
But fuck that.
And fuck you.

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