4. Revision applies to the gag reflex

Why do we base our self-worth on the amount of suffering we endure? My life had gotten a lot easier recently; why did I have to feel guilt and shame because of that? Is there a contest we’ve all entered, to see who works the longest hours or has the shittiest job or gets the smallest paycheck, that I could now sense I was losing? We feel good about ourselves when we are doing the things we’re really good at. It’s human nature. But why should it matter whether or not that thing you’re good at is a bigger pain in the ass than everyone else’s? Is it a global pity-party? This was not a game show on which I wanted to be a contestant, anymore. So here’s where I came out: Instead of feeling bad about all this time I wasn’t spending at work, I decided to spend that time doing other things that make me feel good, to see if that would hold off some of the guilt and shame. We feel good doing the things we’re good at. Hmm… What am I good at besides my old job? What else makes me feel good? Well, there’s writing, and then there’s cock sucking…

The art of the blow job is worth perfecting. Also, there’s no such thing as the perfect blow job – if you really get involved with your technique, you will afterwards think Oh, I should have done X just a little longer or Damn, I never got a chance to Y, pretty much every time. In that way it’s actually similar to writing poetry; no poem is ever really finished. You stop working on it when it does what you want it to do at the time, but if you come back to it later there will always be more revision. There’s joy in that, though. Here’s something you can be really good at, and still keep doing forever, getting better and better and better. Because it’s worth perfecting, and there’s no such thing as perfect. (What a glorious justification! It’s like permission to eat your favorite dessert for the rest of your life!) With cock sucking I like to think I was always something of a natural, but if perfection is unattainable, that necessarily puts it a long way off, and despite having some skill in the department, I was a particularly long way off because of a pretty decent gag reflex. I could never master the deep throat.

And just like that, I had myself a new job.

This was not the first time I’d attempted to undermine the gag. Several years before I’d read something about simply trying to get anything into the back of your throat, on a regular basis – your toothbrush, your finger, a spoon, whatever. Just try every day, and try to get a little further back, every time. This was a huge, disappointing failure. It should come as no surprise to learn that a toothbrush and a cock have very little in common. It’s not the same experience at all, and the one doesn’t translate to the other. This time I started with my most bendable vibrator. It’s almost realistic, shape-wise. It has no G-spot angle or rabbit attachment. It’s big enough. But here’s the thing: It wasn’t that much fun. This was going to take some experimentation. Again though, know when you have a lot of time to experiment? When you’re unemployed. 

It turned out that what I had to do was insinuate it into everything else I’d been getting to work for me, in this strange new time. I started keeping that vibrator in a bin of bras and stockings that I can reach from my bed, instead of in the big, sex toy chest across the room. This way, when I woke up for the second time on those mornings when someone had earlier cum all over my ass, I could add my practice to an already sexually charged situation. It’s way easier to get a cock – even a fake one – into your throat when you are halfway to orgasm, already. Similarly, when you are about to send a dirty picture to your husband, because you just had one. Assignment to be done in the house? Practice then too. Out of the house? Practice after. Writing a poem about sex? Yup. This is how it started to work. Still, a vibrator is not a cock, no matter how much it’s trying to be. It’s easier with the real thing, and honestly, so much fun that you’ll want to do it constantly. Fortunately, you’d be hard-pressed to find a man who won’t help you out if you say “Hey, I want to experiment with deep throating. Think you could let me suck your cock for awhile?” Commence hours and hours and hours of glorious, blow job luxury.

It really is easy to get caught up in. Make a game of it. Never take a break until a moment when you’ve just been particularly successful (at which point you won’t want to take a break). Which is better for you, facing his head, where you can look into his face or facing his feet, where he can look into your quim? Which is better for him? I’m a particular fan of lying sideways and sucking the head of his cock against his belly, like leaving some of the ice cream on the spoon. Teasing the tip is fairly effective, when he knows that at any moment you can take that tip and swallow it until he can feel it with his own hand at your throat. Try finding that spot that used to be as far as you could go, and playing with the difference, like a mini cock sucking that happens at a new depth. Find out where your vocal chords are, by learning at what depth you can no longer produce sound. Experiment. I can’t say enough how absorbing it is to suck a man’s huge cock into the tunnel of your throat, until there is no more length to take; to bury your face in his abdomen and feel his pelvic bone against your lips… It does things to your head. You will become infatuated with the act. Lost in the lack of breath – that familiar, solitary place that your mind becomes when you are not breathing, because no, you cannot breathe, even through your nose, with a cock closing off the pharynx. It’s a good lost. You will lose track of time. You will need a man with endurance. (You will need to start having sex earlier in the evening, if it’s a weeknight and you want to get any sleep at all.) But like with poetry, there is always something more that can be done. So now that you’ve got a cock impaled right to the hilt in the depths of your throat, what more can you do? In what ways can you move your throat when it’s so full of cock? It knows how to swallow, even when it’s full. What can your tongue get up to, in that limited space? There’s only one way to find out: Practice, practice, practice.

(This one's a little... tongue in cheek.)

(Seriously, I fucking crack myself up, sometimes.)

3. Dusting and public indecency

            I used to fool myself into believing I was non-judgmental. I had to face reality when I realized that if I wasn’t judging other people, there was no way I’d be so preoccupied with worrying that other people were judging me. But it’s still one of those things that doesn’t fix itself when you realize you’re the problem. I DID judge housewives & stay at home moms (don’t even get me started on homeschoolers), and now that I was one of them I had to judge myself. I sneaked around my errands feeling like I should be wearing dark glasses, but you can’t take your car to the shop at 11am on a Tuesday and wait around for it to be done, incognito. It’s no secret in the midday grocery checkout line that you have no job. And every person you have to engage with on those and every other errand, is at work. I felt like I was flaunting my good fortune in people’s faces, but I couldn’t stop doing errands. The fact that I was unemployed had to pay off in the time I could now spend with my husband, since I didn’t have to do all my running around after work and on weekends. Yes, I could do the inside chores without being seen, and in fact I needed to, because one of the things we had to cut out of the budget so I could quit was having someone in to do the cleaning twice a month. Which we needed. Because I am a fucking slob. But there’s a problem with that plan too; did you spot it yet? I had to do the cleaning. I am a fucking slob. I’m as shitty a cook as I am a maid, but even I can see that that’s a recipe for failure right there.

            Inside chores are especially hard because they are so fucking stupid. You start with visions of sitting naked on the dryer and reading porn all afternoon while it rumbles and spins, but it doesn’t turn out that way. Housework is endless. There is no inside chore that is complete once you’ve done it, because the reason they exist is that people live inside & make a mess. The first thing that happens when you finally have all the clean dishes put away is that you eat or drink something and make a new dirty dish. Do you know that you can actually work up a sweat, doing laundry? (Not that way – I told you that turned out to be a myth, like eating bon bons & watching soap operas.) Right, so once it’s finished, the next thing is to take a shower, and just before you do that? That’s right, you strip naked and throw your laundry-doing clothes in the hamper. I once heard someone describe the futility of bed making as equivalent to tying your shoes after you take them off. Nothing was ever so pointless and stupid and still necessary as housework. Finally, I found that I could pick a spot – not a room, just an area – and clean that, without wanting to kill myself. If I picked a different area every day, the house stayed livable and I could focus on the outside chores which I had found a way to handle…

            I’m pretty sure it started when I got a gym membership (that’s one of the things housewives do, while their husbands are at work). There’s a steam room at the gym, and those are always sexy to me. I brought it up to my husband, because we have the masturbation photo rule, but you can’t exactly take your camera phone into the steam room. He came up with a new game, whereby he told me exactly what I could and could not do – or rather had to and could not do, in the steam room. Whether or not someone else was in there at the time was the luck of the draw, I had to find a way. This is a game that I still love. It started with absolute terror underscoring all my sexual tension, at the idea that someone else might be in the steam room while I was tasked with some way of bringing myself to orgasm. Then to my great astonishment, I found that I was disappointed instead of relieved, when there wasn’t. I began to schedule my trips into the steam room to increase the probability of having company, and discovered the pride that comes from having succeeded, and the liberating DGAF that overwhelms me when I’m right in the middle of it and really might get caught. It’s the active prioritization of completing the task my husband assigned me, over giving the slightest shit about what some other steam bather thinks of me. I could get banned from the gym or arrested for indecent exposure and in those moments I couldn’t possibly care less. It would be worth it. Do you see where I’m going with this? Semi-public masturbation cancels out my fear of judgment! What’s that beer commercial where they say “Here we go…”?

            So of course part of all the fun of this is relating every minute detail to my husband, who is adequately enough amused to proceed with assigning me more (and more difficult) tasks. In the parking lot at the dry cleaners there is no judgment I fear from some SUV driving manicure-getter, when I’m mentally daring her to notice what I’m doing down here next to her, in my little Mini Cooper. The grocery store checkout is a breeze, when you just got off in a bathroom stall with a “Please excuse our appearance while we remodel” sign on the door. One of my favorites was having to finish my Target shopping after taking a picture of myself with my fingers in my pussy, under the security camera in the mirror of the men’s department. Terrifying. I would have cum so hard after that, if it had been part of my homework. One time I had a series assigned: I had to bring myself to orgasm within six minutes of the hour, three hours in a row, in three different locations. That was a fun day; I got a lot of errands done.

            It translates, too. When the submissive quality of my nature gets on a roll like this, I can think of an inside chore as just another assignment, with my husband’s arrival home as its time limit. My house is never going to look like June Cleaver’s, but I happily make the bed every fucking day.

(A song for running wicked little errands...)

2. Orgasm #4: Wait, you can access that from where?

             There’s a strange sort of numbness or disbelief that sets in, when everyone but you stops being amazed at the fact that you have no job. It’s like walking around in a really mundane dream. Nobody else seems to think it’s weird that you can make a dentist appointment for pretty much any hour on pretty much any day of the week. Imagine! When did you last make the time to go to the dentist at all? The first time the doctor’s office asked “and when is good for you?” I replied with a very sophisticated “Uuhhh…” followed by such a long pause that I was tempted to hang up, claiming I couldn’t find my calendar and I’d have to call back. All the parameters I’d ever used with which to answer that question were gone. When WAS good for me?? I honestly didn’t know. Well certainly not morning… We all know I’m not going anywhere in the morning… With that thought, I think I said something like “Not too early” and then took whatever appointment she offered next. It might have been the moment I first started scheduling my life around sex. I had to schedule it around something, right?

             I started planning my days in reverse: If we were going to stay up drinking and fucking that night, I’d need to make dinner early… What was something easily digestible?  How long would it take to cook? Maybe instead I would set the kid up ahead of time to be prepared to fend for himself. What was a good excuse for that? Okay then factor in time for a bath – did I have time to go to the bookstore for new porn that day? (I dearly love to read porn in the bathtub, especially the cheap, false historical kind with corsets and petticoats and riding crops. The only thing more fun is going to the bookstore to buy it. I like to peruse each potential volume and make a stack of possibles to scan for the frequency of hardcore bondage or ass-fucking scenes. Or virgins being deflowered, obviously. Go slow. Let your opinions show on your face. It’s important to make it apparent to the people perusing the shelf next to you – it’s usually plays or poetry - exactly what you’re doing.)

            I like ass-fucking in real life as well as in porn. Have since the very first (accidental, tragically unprepared) time. But it only ever got me off under rare, very specific conditions, and it always scared me (admittedly, that’s part of the fun). The thing is though, when you plan your day around something, you’re necessarily going to end up thinking about it all day. Do that enough, and whatever it is you’re thinking about is going to get more… let’s go with interesting, when you finally get to do it. Now my husband is an ass-man, and like many men has never experienced a moment in time during which anal couldn’t be seen as a good idea. However, I’d never really let him rail me like that. I’d probably only let him sink to the hilt a scant bundle of times, and mostly only reached orgasm from it when he had me hog-tied at the foot of the bed. (We’ll get to restraints, later.) Even still, it was always orgasm #2.

Clarification:

·      Orgasm #1 is clitoral. It can be achieved manually or orally or, well, in myriad other fashions. Like most women, orgasm #1 was how I first discovered masturbation as a little girl – in my case I was riding a pillow in an imaginary horse race. La, la, la.

·      Orgasm #2 is vaginal. The vast majority of the time I achieve it by riding my husband’s cock, from above. This is an entirely different experience than orgasm #1, despite the fact that my clit is usually getting stimulated at the same time (unless I’m reversed, facing my husband’s feet, or in the aforementioned hog-tied ass-fucking scenario).

·      Orgasm #3 is a G-spot orgasm that results in what is commonly though unpleasantly known as “squirting.” My husband is particularly adept at this. Skillful enough that I have never run out of orgasm #3 on him; he can make me do it over and over and over again – even after I’ve reached a point where I have sworn out loud that I cannot possibly cum again, he has only taken it as a challenge and proven me wrong.

But like I said, anything you spend enough time thinking about will inevitably become more, well, interesting, and this part of the story is about how orgasm #3 mysteriously transformed into orgasm #4. Ass play has been something I wanted to get better at, for ages. My husband used to give me homework, and I’d buy plugs or those little vibrators that are so small you can’t imagine why people buy them, to practice. The thing about practice though, is that it takes a lot of time. You know when you have a lot of time? When you’re unemployed.

I bought myself a new ass toy. You know those glass or Pyrex ones that are so pretty? I got mine in pink, because I hate pink – I’m blonde and blue and so pink makes me feel like Barbie, which is only anything but heinous when it’s Barbie getting railed in the ass. Then it’s awesome. It quickly became my favorite toy.  Which means it was usually tapped in the evening. Which means I was thinking about it the next day. Which means it got more interesting.

That was the part where I began to get really, truly, good and ass-fucked. (In case you are a curious woman who doesn’t already know, until you get good at ass-fucking, you learn basically by fucking your own ass, using his cock. Do not let him drive. Sit on him like you’re going to ride him, and back up. Slowly. It’s fabulous at the first entry, like a finger in your ass just when you were about to cum anyway. Then just beyond that, there is a moment of panic. You should embrace it, instead of pulling away like your instincts are telling you to, because when you get past that, your world changes. When you get past that, you can ride his cock with your ass like you do it with your pussy.) This is where the mystery lies. See, the easiest way to reach the G-spot for orgasm #3 is by facing a woman, slipping two fingers into her quim, and pressing toward yourself in a beckoning motion. Into the FRONT wall of the vagina… So it doesn’t make any sense that a cock fucking me in the ass, BEHIND the BACK wall of my pussy, would trigger it. And yet.

Orgasm #3 is like having two cups of hot water involuntarily pour out of your pussy. Orgasm #4 is like that, on steroids. It’s like orgasm numbers 2 and 3 at the same time. There is no semblance of control in me. There is no objective perspective standing back from the action. No voice in the back of my head saying “Wait, what do my boobs look like, in this position?” Orgasm #4 makes me thrash; it makes me flail; it makes me forget every other moment, past or yet to come, and every other particle of life that exists outside the bedroom door. Job? I don’t know what job you’re referring to.

("Beggin' on my knees, baby won't you please...")

                            

1. Fuck chicken soup; I need to get laid.

            Logic says that the cure for exhaustion is rest. At the end of a physically and emotionally traumatizing period, we need recovery, we need comfort, we need to be good to ourselves. Allow ourselves a little respite… I submit to you that hours and hours of crazy, monkey sex is a far superior remedy. Don’t “be good to yourself,” get somebody else to do horrible, unspeakable things to you. There is no relief like the kind of sex you can see the evidence of on your body the next day. The cure for exhaustion is better exhaustion. Fuck until you cannot stand up. Trust me: When gravity alone is too much for your pussy to bear, your dehydrated soul will begin to renew itself. When even your reserve tank is dry as dust, fill it with cum. You’ll feel better.

            The first stage of unemployment felt for me like convalescence, as if the impact my job had had on me was an illness. I knew I was going to feel guilty when I didn’t go back to work after all the germicidal residue had been wiped away by the alcohol swab of not getting up at the crack of dawn, but until then I was going to enjoy it. I didn’t know how, I only knew I deserved to feel free without feeling bad for awhile.

I don’t remember if it was on the first night of freedom that I realized the ‘how’ was going to be sex, but I like to think I at least got soundly laid. My husband and I don’t really do half-assed sex. Even when we’re only in it for a quickie or a leisurely sort of lazy fuck, it’s still always good enough to make me have to masturbate with thinking about it, the next morning. But the crazy thing about sex is also the crazy thing about sleep or Chinese food: When it’s really good, getting it doesn’t satisfy your need for it, it only makes you want more. I took to briefly waking up early with my husband and “spooning” by rubbing my ass against his cock until he’d submit to cumming all over me. When I woke up again later, I’d assuage my loneliness at his having gone to work by using his cum as lube with which to get myself off. Eventually he set a rule by which I have to send a picture to his phone, every time I fuck myself in his absence. That’s written in the present tense intentionally, as the rule still stands.

I love that rule. It’s just the kind of thing to keep me unemployed.

(Here's a fabulous song with which to embrace debauchery.)