Somehow it always seems like there's so many things that are higher on the priority list or in the way of sex and sex-time around here.
For example! I have turned down sex because I really, really needed to go grocery shopping. Yes right that very minute.
I mean, yeah, we needed food, but it's not like it couldn't have been rescheduled until the next day. We weren't going to starve overnight.
The hell of it is, it always seems like such a good idea at the time, to put off sex. Like, yeah, let me just do this one thing and then I'll come back and we'll pick up where we left off. I need to get some responsible adult on.
We never. EVER. pick up where we left off.
How can we? We're not in the same space and place anymore. I've gone off and distracted myself and Jay and done something else and there's no getting it back.
I fear that if I give in to sex whenever I want it, I will never, ever get anything under the "responsible adult" category done, such as grocery shopping, laundry, or cleaning. And one thing I've learned about myself over the years is that I need to get a minimum level of responsible adult stuff done in order to feel like a functional, healthy human being. (I am fully aware that this is my hang-up, and don't expect it to be anyone else's). Like, if there's not enough food in the house, I freak. out.. I have noticed a distinct correlation between my mental state and the amount of clutter in the house, or dishes, etc.
To be honest, this is really just scratching the surface of why my sex life has been, well, fairly non-existent lately. There was the emergency house re-wiring that took two weeks and tore everything up (including our playroom, and I haven't had the spoons to go up there and clean yet), there's the fact that my job has me burnt the hell out and therefore I could probably go to a psychiatrist and walk out with a Major Depression diagnosis (if not anything else - but again, my hang-ups about getting diagnosed are my own), the fact that we've just been busy. There was not a single night last week where we were home for dinner. Not a single one in seven days. For my introverted ass, that is a LOT. And it cuts down on sex times! There's the fact that ever since my last period, any sort of breast bondage or torture is extremely, exquisitely painful for me, and not in the good way.
The obvious answer is "well then reprioritize", and I'm not sure I want to. I mean, I want to, but, effort, you know? And a lot of what we've been doing I like that we're doing. And overcoming inertia is very, very difficult (physics ftw!)
Just... yeah.
Showing posts with label not cool. Show all posts
Showing posts with label not cool. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
No fucking thank you
So, I don't actually like receiving oral.
Giving? Oh, I adore giving. I fantasize about cocks in my mouth on a regular basis.
Receiving? Not so much.
For the most part I try to be, mmm, nonchalant about it. "It's nice", I say, "but that's about all it is". Or, "I can take it or leave it".
That is more where I want to be, where I strive to be, than where I really am.
Where I actually am is Saturday morning, Jay and I had woken up, and I was feeling decidedly frisky. We started making out, he put his hand on my throat, starting using the paddle on my tits (which have I mentioned? I love), started using it on my cunt. I was sprawled on the bed, legs open, really starting to get in to things and thinking to myself "oh god please fuck me" when he bends over me, puts his face between my legs, and ever-so-gently starts licking my clit.
"It's okay, I'm cool" I practically chanted to myself and laid absolutely still. Yeah, it was cool for about 90 seconds, tops, when it was definitely OHMYGODNOTCOOL and I pretty much freaked.
A couple of things:
We eventually processed it all out (at 3 in the morning, when we both went to bed, wheee!), whereupon I cried again. Jay had gotten blindsided when I freaked in the morning, because one, he had no way of knowing what kind of headspace I was already in, and 2, when we had last discussed this topic and I had said "it's not unpleasant?" I had not made clear that that was more in the way of being a goal than my default state of being.
Having processed and reconnected, we were both feeling better, whereupon he proceeded to apply the new clips I bought at Ikea to my nipples, which, I have to share, was DIVINE. Which will teach him to doubt my purchases! And lo, it was good.
Still do not have any desire to be eaten out, ever though, thanks. Just... no.
Giving? Oh, I adore giving. I fantasize about cocks in my mouth on a regular basis.
Receiving? Not so much.
For the most part I try to be, mmm, nonchalant about it. "It's nice", I say, "but that's about all it is". Or, "I can take it or leave it".
That is more where I want to be, where I strive to be, than where I really am.
Where I actually am is Saturday morning, Jay and I had woken up, and I was feeling decidedly frisky. We started making out, he put his hand on my throat, starting using the paddle on my tits (which have I mentioned? I love), started using it on my cunt. I was sprawled on the bed, legs open, really starting to get in to things and thinking to myself "oh god please fuck me" when he bends over me, puts his face between my legs, and ever-so-gently starts licking my clit.
"It's okay, I'm cool" I practically chanted to myself and laid absolutely still. Yeah, it was cool for about 90 seconds, tops, when it was definitely OHMYGODNOTCOOL and I pretty much freaked.
A couple of things:
- The better I'm doing on a given day with respect to my body image, the easier it is for me to chill out and not freak out when Jay starts eating me out. If I'm already anxious in some way about my body, it's far easier for me to be extremely anxious about the state of my vadge. On Saturday, I was already low-level freaking about the fact that we were due to be going to the beach with friends, and I would be wearing a swimsuit, and my legs were kind of hairy, and none of these friends had ever seen me in a swimsuit before. Yes, intellectually, who the fuck cares? It's my body, my body is wonderful, if they have a problem with it it's their problem not mine blah blah blah etc. and so on. And most of the time, I can maintain that. But unlearning the self-loathing for my body that I've been marinating in for nearly 30 years is a long, arduous process, and clearly is not done yet. It was definitely an "EW NO GROSS" moment. I'm not proud of it, but there it is.
- At the best of times, oral sex performed on me is pleasant and nothing more. It does not come close to getting me off, and doesn't do anything to increase the pleasure I'm feeling. If anything, it decreases it, as it's kind of ho-hum. As you can imagine, this doesn't provide any incentive to get over myself in this area.
- I'm really sick of hearing from various sources, such as magazines and the like, that oral is the end-all-be-all of getting off and that women all looooove oral. Fuck you. By stating that women are a monolith you do a disservice to women fucking everywhere. We all get off in different ways and like different things and that's okay.
- Joseph and I, in our myriad discussions, have discussed oral. Upon finding out that I actually don't like receiving, his reply was "When we get together, I WILL go down on you, and you WILL like it." My immediate reaction was "Fuck you, no I won't". I don't respond well to orders. SHOCKING, I know. But that conversation popped in to my head Saturday morning. It added to the fucked-up-ness, which I didn't appreciate.
- I also hear about all these women who just wish their guys would go down on them, and I wish mine wouldn't. How is it that a woman who despises oral keeps attracting guys who love giving it? What the fuck?
- Jay's and my relationship is such that should he choose to dominate this hang-up out of me, he probably could. In other words, he could order me to like it, proceed to do it to me on a regular basis, and basically train my reaction out of me. He hasn't, and I'm not sure I want him to.
- My sense of smell has been cranked to 11 lately, so I am hyper-sensitive to odors, and have a hard time remembering this under pressure.
We eventually processed it all out (at 3 in the morning, when we both went to bed, wheee!), whereupon I cried again. Jay had gotten blindsided when I freaked in the morning, because one, he had no way of knowing what kind of headspace I was already in, and 2, when we had last discussed this topic and I had said "it's not unpleasant?" I had not made clear that that was more in the way of being a goal than my default state of being.
Having processed and reconnected, we were both feeling better, whereupon he proceeded to apply the new clips I bought at Ikea to my nipples, which, I have to share, was DIVINE. Which will teach him to doubt my purchases! And lo, it was good.
Still do not have any desire to be eaten out, ever though, thanks. Just... no.
Friday, July 09, 2010
On the notion of consent and personal responsibility
Okay, this has come up a lot lately, all over the internets, and I've been leaving a lot of comments about it, so clearly it's time to write an entry about it.
DEAR INTERNETS:
First, go read this entry, so that you have the basic vocabulary you'll need to understand this post. It's okay, I'll wait. (For extra credit, read everything on this page.)
Done? Good.
So let me break this down for you all. The person at fault in a sexual assault, regardless of what that sexual assault is, is the person doing the assaulting.
Additionally: If you do not have clear, explicit, enthusiastic consent from a person you're interacting with, you're assaulting them.
(Cue trolls regarding my tone, also cue trolls regarding taking personal responsibility.)
Here's the thing about taking personal responsibility. Regardless of what personal responsibility I do or do not undertake, I am still not responsible for other people's actions. If you want to do something to or with me, I should be consenting to that. If I'm not, you're assaulting me and need to fuck off and leave me alone.
That goes regardless of what clothing I wear - since clothing can't give consent on my behalf for anything. That goes regardless of what bars, clubs, restaurants, venues, or streets I visit - since the only consent I have clearly given is to be in that place. That goes regardless of what activities I undertake - since the only consent I have clearly given is to be doing said activity and nothing else.
For example! If I am riding the subway, here is the list of things I have explicitly consented to:
If you do ask me to dance, and I accept, thereby giving my consent, here is what I have consented to:
Unfortunately, we live in a culture that gives us lessons like "if a girl's wearing a short skirt, she's a slut", and "sluts all want it, no matter what they say". Please be assured, these lessons are wrong, so wrong, so wrong I can't even tell you. I got the same lessons as everyone else.
But here's the thing. Even though we all were taught these lessons, we are not obligated to follow them. If anything, we're obligated to unlearn them and not follow them, because they're fucking wrong and lead directly to things like rape.
And because of those lessons we all got, I can take all the personal responsibility in the world - never going to a club, never going dancing, always wearing modest clothes - hell, wearing a burka - never walking alone at night, learning self-defense, all of those sorts of things - and it is still possible for me to be sexually assaulted. As in that link I posted earlier, the only way I can ever truly prevent my self from being assaulted is to never be in a room with a rapist or person who commits sexual assault, which is kind of fucking difficult seeing as how they don't all have nice big signs on their foreheads alerting me to the fact that they are in fact the kind of person who would assault someone. Because we teach people that it's okay to rape. It's okay to assault. That clothes can give consent, that sluts are out there and just asking for it, that you're more of a man the more sex you have.
(cue trolls about how well then obviously I want everyone to just never interact)
Here's the other thing. None of this precludes my being asked. None of this precludes you trying to strike up a conversation while we're dancing or riding the subway, none of this precludes your asking me if you can buy me a drink, none of this precludes you asking me if I'd be interested in going home with you, none of this precludes your asking me if I'm interested in making out, fucking, doing anything else. Asking is not the problem. The problem is either, you don't ask, you assume, or, you do ask, I don't consent, and you go ahead anyway.
If you strike up a conversation with me, and I don't immediately jump right in and participate? I'm not consenting to the conversation. If you ask me in the club if I want to go home with you, and I don't immediately enthusiastically agree that's a great idea? It's because I don't think it's a great idea, and I'm not consenting. If we're making out, getting all hot and heavy, and you put your hand in my pants and I don't immediately moan, start grinding, say "oh yes" or otherwise make it really, really fucking clear that I liked that, I'm not actually consenting to that. If you continue to converse with me, or continue to try to convince me to go home with you, or keep your hand in my pants, fuck you, I haven't consented.
If we are dancing, and you figure it's okay to hump me? If we're in the club and you assumed we're going home? If you're sitting next to me at the subway and figure it's okay to just talk at me? If we're making out and you figure that means clearly I want some piv sex? Fuck you. I haven't consented to any of the things you've figured on or assumed. Don't give me this "grey area" or "misunderstanding" bullshit that I see so often. If you are paying a modicum of attention to the world, and are at all a decent person, it should be pretty fucking easy for you to figure out if the person you're doing things with is consenting. And if it is at all not clear? You can fucking ask, and in fact, are obligated to.
The person doing the initiating is obligated to make absolutely sure they have consent to continue before continuing.
See how that works now kids?
Here's the other thing about consent: capitulation is not consent. For example, if someone is attempting to rape me, and I figure I have better odds of surviving and being less physically injured if I just let them rape me, rather than try to fight them off, that does not mean that I have consented to sex with them. It means they are raping me, and I have capitulated out of survival instinct.
And here's the last thing about personal responsibility: the person who needs to take some fucking personal responsibility in an assault is the person doing the assaulting.
LOVE, FRENCH
DEAR INTERNETS:
First, go read this entry, so that you have the basic vocabulary you'll need to understand this post. It's okay, I'll wait. (For extra credit, read everything on this page.)
Done? Good.
So let me break this down for you all. The person at fault in a sexual assault, regardless of what that sexual assault is, is the person doing the assaulting.
Additionally: If you do not have clear, explicit, enthusiastic consent from a person you're interacting with, you're assaulting them.
(Cue trolls regarding my tone, also cue trolls regarding taking personal responsibility.)
Here's the thing about taking personal responsibility. Regardless of what personal responsibility I do or do not undertake, I am still not responsible for other people's actions. If you want to do something to or with me, I should be consenting to that. If I'm not, you're assaulting me and need to fuck off and leave me alone.
That goes regardless of what clothing I wear - since clothing can't give consent on my behalf for anything. That goes regardless of what bars, clubs, restaurants, venues, or streets I visit - since the only consent I have clearly given is to be in that place. That goes regardless of what activities I undertake - since the only consent I have clearly given is to be doing said activity and nothing else.
For example! If I am riding the subway, here is the list of things I have explicitly consented to:
- Riding the subway.
- Conversation. With anyone.
- Being groped or otherwise sexually assaulted, including being flashed.
- Being punched or otherwise hit.
- Being hit on (see also: conversation).
- Being stared at as if I were an object specifically put there for your amusement, entertainment, etc.
- Anything else that is not riding the subway.
- Being at the venue.
- Probably being asked to dance.
If you do ask me to dance, and I accept, thereby giving my consent, here is what I have consented to:
- Dancing with you at this point in time.
- Talking while dancing.
- Being groped.
- Being humped.
- Going home with you.
- Having a drink with you.
- Being surrounded by your friends.
- Dancing with you the rest of the night.
- Having sex with you.
- Taking you home.
- Having sex with you on the dance floor.
- Being touched by you in any way that is not prescribed by the dance (in ballroom, you have to touch in certain places/ways)
- Anything else that is not dancing with you at this specific point in time.
Unfortunately, we live in a culture that gives us lessons like "if a girl's wearing a short skirt, she's a slut", and "sluts all want it, no matter what they say". Please be assured, these lessons are wrong, so wrong, so wrong I can't even tell you. I got the same lessons as everyone else.
But here's the thing. Even though we all were taught these lessons, we are not obligated to follow them. If anything, we're obligated to unlearn them and not follow them, because they're fucking wrong and lead directly to things like rape.
And because of those lessons we all got, I can take all the personal responsibility in the world - never going to a club, never going dancing, always wearing modest clothes - hell, wearing a burka - never walking alone at night, learning self-defense, all of those sorts of things - and it is still possible for me to be sexually assaulted. As in that link I posted earlier, the only way I can ever truly prevent my self from being assaulted is to never be in a room with a rapist or person who commits sexual assault, which is kind of fucking difficult seeing as how they don't all have nice big signs on their foreheads alerting me to the fact that they are in fact the kind of person who would assault someone. Because we teach people that it's okay to rape. It's okay to assault. That clothes can give consent, that sluts are out there and just asking for it, that you're more of a man the more sex you have.
(cue trolls about how well then obviously I want everyone to just never interact)
Here's the other thing. None of this precludes my being asked. None of this precludes you trying to strike up a conversation while we're dancing or riding the subway, none of this precludes your asking me if you can buy me a drink, none of this precludes you asking me if I'd be interested in going home with you, none of this precludes your asking me if I'm interested in making out, fucking, doing anything else. Asking is not the problem. The problem is either, you don't ask, you assume, or, you do ask, I don't consent, and you go ahead anyway.
If you strike up a conversation with me, and I don't immediately jump right in and participate? I'm not consenting to the conversation. If you ask me in the club if I want to go home with you, and I don't immediately enthusiastically agree that's a great idea? It's because I don't think it's a great idea, and I'm not consenting. If we're making out, getting all hot and heavy, and you put your hand in my pants and I don't immediately moan, start grinding, say "oh yes" or otherwise make it really, really fucking clear that I liked that, I'm not actually consenting to that. If you continue to converse with me, or continue to try to convince me to go home with you, or keep your hand in my pants, fuck you, I haven't consented.
If we are dancing, and you figure it's okay to hump me? If we're in the club and you assumed we're going home? If you're sitting next to me at the subway and figure it's okay to just talk at me? If we're making out and you figure that means clearly I want some piv sex? Fuck you. I haven't consented to any of the things you've figured on or assumed. Don't give me this "grey area" or "misunderstanding" bullshit that I see so often. If you are paying a modicum of attention to the world, and are at all a decent person, it should be pretty fucking easy for you to figure out if the person you're doing things with is consenting. And if it is at all not clear? You can fucking ask, and in fact, are obligated to.
The person doing the initiating is obligated to make absolutely sure they have consent to continue before continuing.
See how that works now kids?
Here's the other thing about consent: capitulation is not consent. For example, if someone is attempting to rape me, and I figure I have better odds of surviving and being less physically injured if I just let them rape me, rather than try to fight them off, that does not mean that I have consented to sex with them. It means they are raping me, and I have capitulated out of survival instinct.
And here's the last thing about personal responsibility: the person who needs to take some fucking personal responsibility in an assault is the person doing the assaulting.
LOVE, FRENCH
Thursday, July 08, 2010
Drunken non-escapades
I have this entire week off of work, and oh dear god it is wonderful. I get to wake up at 9 when Jay leaves for the day, kiss him goodbye, and then snooze for a bit. Then I get to do whatever I want. It is extremely awesome and I don't want to go back to work, like, ever.
Unfortunately, I still have not figured out a way to make money without going to work, so Monday's going to suck it.
Over the long weekend - well, Jay's long weekend; he is, as mentioned, working this week - we went to visit some dear friends of ours and stayed with them. There was much drinking, much movie watching, and much video game playing, as it was about A MILLION DEGREES OUTSIDE and none of us are fans of the heat.
Saturday night we made salsa and were drinking mojitos. I would not have called myself a rum fan - and still wouldn't - but oh lord I love me a good mojito. I lost count at 5, which was somewhere around 11 that night. Jay and I eventually went to bed around 3, and, being drunk, that meant I was horny. The problem is, I'm loud. Like, really loud. I am an extremely vocal person anyway, that doesn't stop during sexual activity, and my voice really carries. And we were in our friends' apartment, with four other people, so being loud wasn't an option. Jay being an asshole, he was doing things specifically designed to make me scream, such as trying to remove my nipples by hand (swear to god that's what he was doing). It's a lot more intense, I think, when you have to deal with the pain silently.
This went on for a while, and my control started slipping and I let out a whimper. Jay responded by putting his hand over my mouth to keep me quiet, which was hot as hell for the thirty seconds it took my brain to work out that there was something on my fucking face ohohgodohgodgetitoff. Things on my face - like hands, scarves, masks, etc. - freak me out proper. So I freaked, Jay cuddled me, and we passed out. Dammit.
We did make up for it Monday night when we got home, though, so that makes me feel a bit better. But it was sober, which is a completely different sensation. Ah well. It's good to be home.
Unfortunately, I still have not figured out a way to make money without going to work, so Monday's going to suck it.
Over the long weekend - well, Jay's long weekend; he is, as mentioned, working this week - we went to visit some dear friends of ours and stayed with them. There was much drinking, much movie watching, and much video game playing, as it was about A MILLION DEGREES OUTSIDE and none of us are fans of the heat.
Saturday night we made salsa and were drinking mojitos. I would not have called myself a rum fan - and still wouldn't - but oh lord I love me a good mojito. I lost count at 5, which was somewhere around 11 that night. Jay and I eventually went to bed around 3, and, being drunk, that meant I was horny. The problem is, I'm loud. Like, really loud. I am an extremely vocal person anyway, that doesn't stop during sexual activity, and my voice really carries. And we were in our friends' apartment, with four other people, so being loud wasn't an option. Jay being an asshole, he was doing things specifically designed to make me scream, such as trying to remove my nipples by hand (swear to god that's what he was doing). It's a lot more intense, I think, when you have to deal with the pain silently.
This went on for a while, and my control started slipping and I let out a whimper. Jay responded by putting his hand over my mouth to keep me quiet, which was hot as hell for the thirty seconds it took my brain to work out that there was something on my fucking face ohohgodohgodgetitoff. Things on my face - like hands, scarves, masks, etc. - freak me out proper. So I freaked, Jay cuddled me, and we passed out. Dammit.
We did make up for it Monday night when we got home, though, so that makes me feel a bit better. But it was sober, which is a completely different sensation. Ah well. It's good to be home.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
The day that she left me
I haven't had much sex lately, much less anything kinky, so it's not really all that surprising to me that I wake up dreaming about canes and such. I don't even like canes, I just really want a good beating.
For the most part, Jay and I have been out of town on the weekends, with other people around, so it's not like we can just get kinky. Or do anything, really. I tend to be on my very best, non-kinky behavior around other people, so it really limits the possibilities.
The other night, though I went to bed with a scarf tied around my head, to keep my hair back, as it was bugging me. The scarf fell off, as it usually does, which interested Jay, god alone knows why. He started playing with it, and eventually laid it over my eyes.
My first, immediate, gut reaction was to freak. the fuck. out. I absolutely abhor things on my face or head. I am that person you see outside with nothing more than ear muffs on my head when the wind chill is 20 below. There are two things I can deal with: earmuffs or ear bands, and ski goggles, and the latter only when it is bitterly cold and it's the only way to keep my face warm.
I took a deep breath and didn't freak out, and he eventually took it off, only to put it back on again. I could feel a rising sense of panic, but I thought that I was in control of it, that I would be okay. And for a while, I almost was. I really wasn't though. When he tried to fuck me, it hurt - a bad hurt. My body was clearly saying "Nope, not okay", even as my mind desperately tried to assert the opposite.
Cannot stand things on my face. Pissed off because I have not been put in my place at all recently, and it's way too easy to sit down. Naturally, my mini-meltdown put a halt to any and all activities, so I got to wake up this morning to absolutely brutally brilliant images of being cuffed, gagged, and caned *fans self*.
I am hoping for birthday spankings. Having a social life sucks.
For the most part, Jay and I have been out of town on the weekends, with other people around, so it's not like we can just get kinky. Or do anything, really. I tend to be on my very best, non-kinky behavior around other people, so it really limits the possibilities.
The other night, though I went to bed with a scarf tied around my head, to keep my hair back, as it was bugging me. The scarf fell off, as it usually does, which interested Jay, god alone knows why. He started playing with it, and eventually laid it over my eyes.
My first, immediate, gut reaction was to freak. the fuck. out. I absolutely abhor things on my face or head. I am that person you see outside with nothing more than ear muffs on my head when the wind chill is 20 below. There are two things I can deal with: earmuffs or ear bands, and ski goggles, and the latter only when it is bitterly cold and it's the only way to keep my face warm.
I took a deep breath and didn't freak out, and he eventually took it off, only to put it back on again. I could feel a rising sense of panic, but I thought that I was in control of it, that I would be okay. And for a while, I almost was. I really wasn't though. When he tried to fuck me, it hurt - a bad hurt. My body was clearly saying "Nope, not okay", even as my mind desperately tried to assert the opposite.
Cannot stand things on my face. Pissed off because I have not been put in my place at all recently, and it's way too easy to sit down. Naturally, my mini-meltdown put a halt to any and all activities, so I got to wake up this morning to absolutely brutally brilliant images of being cuffed, gagged, and caned *fans self*.
I am hoping for birthday spankings. Having a social life sucks.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
alive with the glory
Two quick things before it's off to work -
1. I am proud of myself that I managed to have breakfast at home before going to work.
2. I want the sex so much right now - and pretty much all the time. Thanks body, maybe you could be a little bit more distracting? Greaaat.
Jay is highly entertained by the latter, but either unable or unwilling to do anything about it. He and I are not friends.
1. I am proud of myself that I managed to have breakfast at home before going to work.
2. I want the sex so much right now - and pretty much all the time. Thanks body, maybe you could be a little bit more distracting? Greaaat.
Jay is highly entertained by the latter, but either unable or unwilling to do anything about it. He and I are not friends.
Monday, October 30, 2006
On boundaries
Jay has told me repeatedly that he likes to push my limits when he's playing with me. And for the most part, I'm okay with that.
Three weekends ago, he'd brought over his flashlight to use in concert with the metal speculum he'd bought me. We both have a passing fancy for aspects of medical fetishism, and as he said, "I like to check out my pussy once in a while." Silly man, doesn't he know I have professionals to do that?
We wound up not playing at all that weekend - I don't think we even had sex. So he informed me Sunday night that he was bringing the flashlight again the next weekend, and that I and the toys had best be ready.
Being the dutiful sort - sometimes - I prepared the toys as best I could, and Jay came over Friday night.
We wound up not playing until Saturday night, which in retrospect was a bad plan. It was after I'd worked extra late, and was tired, and short on sleep. Oops. I knew he wanted to use the speculum on me though, and I didn't think I was too tired to handle it. It might not be as good as it could be, but it wouldn't be bad, was more or less how my thought went.
And it wasn't bad, not really. Sure, I wasn't overly in to it, but it was nice, you know. I laid back and let the man amuse himself with his flashlight, and with moving the speculum around, etc. and so on, just sort of not really thinking, but aware of the fact that I was staring at the ceiling and kind of rolling my eyes.
Where it all started to go sour was after he'd given me one orgasm, and I was starting to drift off to sleep (oops). I felt him shift the speculum again, and suddenly he is brushing his finger down the very stretched sidewall of my vagina. SO WEIRD. It definitely made me squirm. It was one of those weird "I am so not used to having anything touch me there" kind of feelings, but it was okay - mostly.
Then he shifts it again, and he is examining every inch of the bottom wall of my vagina, like he is trying to actually get through to what is happening in my rectum, and I freak my shit out. What is going on in other parts of my body at this time is so not even close to his business. I flip out, kick his hand out, and then I think he's trying to put it back in, so I kick again. But I'm not wearing my glasses, so instead I completely miss his arm and hit him in the cock. Oops. He's then pissed and takes the speculum out without closing it, and I curl up in a ball, cry, and refuse to let him touch me for a few hours.
It wasn't pushing a limit at that point, it was violating a boundary. I'm not entirely sold on ass play on the best of days, and when I'm tired and letting you play with my pussy to be nice, you definitely don't get to push things like that. Stop trying to see if I have to poop, you bastard, I won't tell you because it's none of your business.
Jay wasn't entirely sure what was going on. I think the not letting him touch me part was the worst of it, for him. But I couldn't let him touch me at that point - he'd just violated me, in a very real, albeit mostly emotional and mental sense, so why the hell would I want him touching me?
It took me a bit to eventually calm down, and I went to sleep. But I was outwardly calm. Inside I was a damn wreck.
The next morning I woke up early, or at least, more than an hour before I had to be at work. Jay woke up when I did, and I could tell by the look on his face that he knew that I wasn't alright. It took me most of that hour to work up to tell him what was wrong, and when I did, I fucking bawled my damn eyes out. At that point, it wasn't just the boundary issue, it was also the feeling that he'd punished me for essentially safewording, which just made the situation worse.
He let me soak his damn chest, and apologized. And just held me there until I felt a little bit better. After getting everything out, I did feel better. I was still shaky, but I wasn't carrying around this awful painful feeling in my chest anymore, and that was pretty rockin'.
I went to work, which irritated me for entirely other reasons, and came home to pizza and sleep, and lo, it was good.
Three weekends ago, he'd brought over his flashlight to use in concert with the metal speculum he'd bought me. We both have a passing fancy for aspects of medical fetishism, and as he said, "I like to check out my pussy once in a while." Silly man, doesn't he know I have professionals to do that?
We wound up not playing at all that weekend - I don't think we even had sex. So he informed me Sunday night that he was bringing the flashlight again the next weekend, and that I and the toys had best be ready.
Being the dutiful sort - sometimes - I prepared the toys as best I could, and Jay came over Friday night.
We wound up not playing until Saturday night, which in retrospect was a bad plan. It was after I'd worked extra late, and was tired, and short on sleep. Oops. I knew he wanted to use the speculum on me though, and I didn't think I was too tired to handle it. It might not be as good as it could be, but it wouldn't be bad, was more or less how my thought went.
And it wasn't bad, not really. Sure, I wasn't overly in to it, but it was nice, you know. I laid back and let the man amuse himself with his flashlight, and with moving the speculum around, etc. and so on, just sort of not really thinking, but aware of the fact that I was staring at the ceiling and kind of rolling my eyes.
Where it all started to go sour was after he'd given me one orgasm, and I was starting to drift off to sleep (oops). I felt him shift the speculum again, and suddenly he is brushing his finger down the very stretched sidewall of my vagina. SO WEIRD. It definitely made me squirm. It was one of those weird "I am so not used to having anything touch me there" kind of feelings, but it was okay - mostly.
Then he shifts it again, and he is examining every inch of the bottom wall of my vagina, like he is trying to actually get through to what is happening in my rectum, and I freak my shit out. What is going on in other parts of my body at this time is so not even close to his business. I flip out, kick his hand out, and then I think he's trying to put it back in, so I kick again. But I'm not wearing my glasses, so instead I completely miss his arm and hit him in the cock. Oops. He's then pissed and takes the speculum out without closing it, and I curl up in a ball, cry, and refuse to let him touch me for a few hours.
It wasn't pushing a limit at that point, it was violating a boundary. I'm not entirely sold on ass play on the best of days, and when I'm tired and letting you play with my pussy to be nice, you definitely don't get to push things like that. Stop trying to see if I have to poop, you bastard, I won't tell you because it's none of your business.
Jay wasn't entirely sure what was going on. I think the not letting him touch me part was the worst of it, for him. But I couldn't let him touch me at that point - he'd just violated me, in a very real, albeit mostly emotional and mental sense, so why the hell would I want him touching me?
It took me a bit to eventually calm down, and I went to sleep. But I was outwardly calm. Inside I was a damn wreck.
The next morning I woke up early, or at least, more than an hour before I had to be at work. Jay woke up when I did, and I could tell by the look on his face that he knew that I wasn't alright. It took me most of that hour to work up to tell him what was wrong, and when I did, I fucking bawled my damn eyes out. At that point, it wasn't just the boundary issue, it was also the feeling that he'd punished me for essentially safewording, which just made the situation worse.
He let me soak his damn chest, and apologized. And just held me there until I felt a little bit better. After getting everything out, I did feel better. I was still shaky, but I wasn't carrying around this awful painful feeling in my chest anymore, and that was pretty rockin'.
I went to work, which irritated me for entirely other reasons, and came home to pizza and sleep, and lo, it was good.
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I'm a 20-something feminist switch who tends toward the sub side, living with my hetero life mate/fellow switch/husband, and just trying to figure out what the hell's going on. This is a sex blog, but not strictly a sex blog, because sex is but a part of my life, even though it all ties together. Since I do talk about sex and other related topics, this blog is for adults only, please.
