11. A uterus and an asshole walk into a blog…

        Okay, so it’s a blog. Crazy. (But points for unprecedented follow-through!) I’ve been having fun reading other people’s, but I’m not sure they really informed my decision about what to do with mine the way I thought they would. Dick n Jane are a ton of fun. It’s like peeking through an intentionally unmonitored keyhole or eavesdropping on a really dirty conversation with a wineglass held to the outside of a bedroom door. They are a lot more complex and organized than I will ever be, though. Dangerous Lilly is hilarious, informative, sexy, creative, smart and all kinds of fucked up. (Jesus, is she the perfect chick?) She makes me want to date her – take her out for decadent desserts and drinking and beg her to take me home with her and show me things… but her blog is more purposeful than I aspire to be. What use really, is somebody else’s journal? Anal Amy is more like a personal story teller – an x-rated Scheherazade lying naked next to you in the dark, whispering her exploits into your ear until you can’t wait to hear the next. Still, her tales are pretty single-minded erotica. I guess there are a lot of blogs out there full of random ramblings, and I guess that’s what I’m doing here, I just can’t exactly pinpoint whatever this is that I’m up to. This thing started as a way to sort into epochs these various stages of unemployment I had been living, but right from the very first paragraph I was writing in the second person. “You ask yourself this question, don’t you?” Who was “You,” before I put this thing online? I don’t know. It’s probably really bad practice, blog-wise, but for the moment I’ve decided not to care. I’ve decided to just go ahead with exploring what it’s like to release all these thoughts onto the electric wind of the internet, and let that be enough, for now. It’s out there. Nobody has seen it, but it’s there. Like some chick coming to orgasm in that little mini cooper you parked next to, but didn’t think to look inside. Whoever You are, I have not yet alerted you to my presence (I suppose it’s possible I never will), but if you get that feeling like you’re not alone, it might be me, telling you mildly interesting things there’s no practical reason you should know.

That being said…

It’s not usually just ass fucking. Before it got so happily out of control, when ass fucking wasn’t even all that frequent, there was an unspoken rule that it couldn’t be first. You had to put something in my pussy before you could put anything in my ass. Actually, it might even have been a spoken rule, eventually. Talking about sex is part of the foreplay in this marriage, so communication is never an issue – even when it is an issue, because one of us has something to say that’s hard to say out loud. (Is it obvious that that would be a moment I always adore? To make myself say a thing to him that I can barely put into words in the privacy of my own mind? Fuck, I love that shit.) But when the ass fucking started to really go off the rails (in the good way), that rule was one of the first ones to go out the window. Soon enough it was sometimes the very first thing of all. Often even without lube. Is it silly that I’m kind of proud of being able to do that? Part of wearing the collar is about being prepared for anything, at all times. I like living up to that. But still, it’s very rare that ass fucking is the only fucking. The first time it was, happened when the anal sex snowball had only just begun to roll. We had been in a state of mental and verbal foreplay all day long, building to a night without the kid in the house and therefore no need for caution or concern. Then the moon and tides came early, and intervened.

Now, I am in no way grossed out by my period. That kind of blood doesn’t freak me out (the other sort kind of does). However, as horny as it makes me, it does not turn me on. Does that make any sense? The hormones and what have you get me all spun up, but the period itself is not at all sexy. It might be weird to call it spiritual, but I can’t be the only one who thinks of it that way. It’s the physical evidence of a femininity that possesses me – I do not control it, I am it, it is me. That’s not about sex. It’s filed in a different folder of my brain. So period sex has historically been about external, vulvular fun stuff, blow jobs, and a tampon. Only that wasn’t going to be enough, on this particular night. So I cleaned up particularly well (by which I mean I prepared my ass to take a cock with no chance of unpleasant repercussions), completed the deep tampon ritual (I cannot understand how some women can own a vagina and not be able to reach around inside it – who can “lose” things like condoms in there as though it’s a fucking underground cave system, who don’t know what their cervix feels like, or can’t use a tampon without an applicator or a dangling string – seriously, it’s not the fucking mystery your pancreas might be, if you saw it for yourself! Are you afraid to look in the back of your throat, too? “Uvula?! Ewww!”), and I told my husband the night was still on. 

Oh, that night went incomparably well. I don’t know if it was in spite of it being ass-only fucking or because of it. Knowing myself, I expect it was the latter. It was one of those sexual engulfings where the inside of your mind splits open like an egg with a whole other universe inside it. Another life that you recognize as your own, but without the cold, darkness and confinement of the everyday. Where you exist in light and wind and know yourself to be the topmost point on the surface of your very own planet. There was no pain, no concern, no anxiety, only wave after wave of that True Love-True Fuck (still looking for a better word than Valentine), where orgasm seeps from every pore of your being and carries you out to sea.

Hard to top that.

So the other night when the moon and tides were hanging around longer than usual, as opposed to arriving early, I was conflicted. Dear gods did I want to try for that pinnacle again, but of course if you want to be disappointed, just go ahead and try to recreate something that fabulous. I couldn’t stop thinking about that other time, and I was definitely feeling the pressure of trying to live up to it. It was a creeping fear of knowing it was going to be nothing but my ass… Well okay and my mouth, because you know I can’t pass up the opportunity for an extended blow job. And that’s when, unbelievably, this ridiculous blog actually reached out and leisurely plucked me out of the tangled whirrings of the front of my brain, and pulled me to the very back, where I belonged. I’d been sucking that magnificent cock for over an hour, plying all my wiles, and in doing so, while lost in that solitary place my brain becomes, I began to consider it as I had written it here. And from considering all the angles and nuances of the sucking of cock as I had explained them and was, at that moment experiencing them, my mind began to travel to the other explanations I had written. And I found myself mentally rereading all the things I’ve more recently written about fear, and recognizing their immediate applicability. The near ninety minute blow job hadn’t eased my creeping fear, and because of the examination intrinsic to the writing of it, because of the journal-turned-blog, I knew how grateful I was that it hadn’t. I  lifted my ass onto his cock acutely conscious of the fear breaking in my chest, watching it, clinging to it, I slid him into me, pushed back until there was no further to go, and I drove. It was a joyride. Orgasm on top of orgasm took over the motion for me, claimed the fucking. I don’t know how long they went on, I only know that I was verbally pleading for this to never, never stop, until they became one, long drenching thing and with the most beautiful timing, my husband came like a dam breaking in my ass.

The after-glow has lasted for two days now. I don’t know who You are, shadowy, maybe imaginary blog-follower, but thank you. 

(What other song could I put with this, really?)