Just a Thought

Because I am, above all, a narcissistic motherfucker, I've been thinking about starting a new blog. I'd like to continue writing about sex and relationships, but in combination with my experiences of depression.

It will be big blocks of words that will amount to nothing but a bunch of navel-gazing, but hey, I was born in 1984. I like to think of it as a generational thing.

Would any of you that still pop in to check on my confessions be interested in reading this kind of thing? Leave a comment or email me at Smashanna [at] hotmail [dot] com.

Sex Blogs Go Dark All the Time

I haven't checked my stats counter in awhile, but I can assume that most have stopped checking in on my Confessions. To those of you who do click on my link occasionally, or have not removed me from your feed reader, hi.

Here it is: 2008 is coming to a close, and I am doing the end-of-the-year-what-does-it-all-mean thing. During the second half of this year I have dealt with a couple of deaths, a deep depression which resulted in a traumatic hospitalization, and a month ago, Nick and I split.

I did not choose this break up, but Nick and I had been fighting it for months by the time he finally called it off. My sexuality, our sexuality, played no small part in our break up. As I piece it all together, or pull it all apart, I'm not interested in parsing it on my blog.

And yet, I'm not ready to give up Anna Smash. I am still having fun adventures, still musing about sex and sexuality, and still narcissistic enough to think that other people might be interested. While I decide what to do with the blog, I encourage you all to follow me on Twitter. In between the mundane, the trite, and the cryptic, I may have something thought-provoking or at least humorous to say.

As I wait impatiently for 2009, I am cautiously optimistic, if only because the other option is to wait for things to get worse. Recently, I have been reminded that not only am I still capable of being in love, I am still capable of being loved. That is no small thing.

If that is not enough reason to be optimistic, I will close with a story I picked up during my holiday travels.

Like countless other people this holiday season, I found myself stuck in an airport a few days before Xmas. While standing in the two and a half hour line to speak with a ticketing agent so that I could re-book my flight, I struck up a conversation with the woman ahead of me. Coincidentally, we were supposed to be on the same flight. She was headed to her hometown, the city I currently live in. Our conversation wandered from local landmarks, to our current careers, and on to our recent break ups.

Like me, her boyfriend had broken up with her a bit before Thanksgiving Day. We commiserated with each other while we crept along in the line.

"I'm not marriage material? Me? Seriously?" I vamped.

"Oh no no no. Check this out," my new friend said, "A few weeks after my boyfriend and I broke up, I went out for some drinks with a friend. We went to a bar that is pretty well known as a pick up spot. As soon as we walked in I saw my ex's best friend, so I knew that he was around somewhere. I told my friend that I was going to go to the bathroom, and that we should take off when I was done.

"When I got out of the bathroom, there he was: my ex. He looked at me and then stuck out his hand. 'Hi, I'm Henry. Nice to meet you,' he slurred.

"I was stunned," said my airport companion, "I just looked at him and said, 'I know your name is Henry. I went out with you for two years, you drunk motherfucker!'"

Yes, it's true. Her ex was so drunk that he didn't realize that he was hitting on his ex-girlfriend.

Keeping this little anecdote in mind, I am approaching 2009 knowing that there is so much further I could fall, and that I probably won't.

And By Awww I mean Ewww

The interwebs are all aflutter with Valentine's Day stuff today, and while I was planning on ignoring the whole thing, because I just don't care, (about this holiday, or just about any other) apparently I can't help myself.

Nick, as usual, is out of town and this morning he sent me this text message: Will you be my valentine?

I replied with: Can I be your fucktoy instead?

His response?

"You, my dear, are always both."

Awww. (And it's totally OK with me if that made you throw up in your mouth a little.)

This little exchange both began and ended my Valentine's Day, except for the great pleasure I've been gaining from reading the comments on this Jezebel post. A large percentage of my music collection is represented in the comments, which probably makes me a mopey bastard, albeit, an in love mopey bastard.

Crush! (And A Crushing Weight)

I first heard Buck 65 on that bastion of all things cool in the music world: the college radio station. "Way Back When" and "1957" were sufficiently catchy and clever hip hop tracks to get my attention. They stuck in my head enough that I finally got the entire Situation album last week.

Turns out that the clever wordplay and catchy backing tracks are a standard Buck 65 feature.

It was the track "Shutter Buggin'" with its tale of a pornographic photographer and the clever chorus (Flashy flash/watch the birdie/trashy trash/watch the dirty) that really got me hooked enough to do a little research into this Buck character.

A short look around his official website and now I officially have a crush.

I mean look at him. He pushes all of my skinny, scruffy, artist/musician buttons. I can just imagine us lying in bed after hours of slow, sweet fucking,(for Buck 65 I would learn to like slow and sweet fucking) smoking cigarettes¹, and talking about books, music, and films. He would say dirty things to me in French, and I would reply in my best Marianne Faithful voice to make him laugh. Buck and I would pretend to be Sartre and de Beauvoir, without any hint of pretension. We would talk about the fucked up state of hip hop today and how, at the same time, it's our only hope. Of course, his voice is deep enough to suggest that when he is feeling particularly misanthropic, he just gets distant instead of whiny, and that kind of masculinity is soooo hot.

I've had a lot of time to dream up these fantasies, because as of of late I've been too fucking depressed to do much else. I've got multiple unfinished files of fresh smut for you all to read, but as my ADD (or whatever) makes it difficult enough for me to finish writing them even when I do feel like doing something other than crying, well...it just isn't gonna happen any time soon.

What is going to be happening soon (like, next week) is Nick and I kicking it in the Bay Area/Wine Country. Although the thought of getting ready to travel (laundry, packing, remembering all that stuff I have to bring) is overwhelming at the moment, the reason that we are going there is fabulously absurd. I can't go into details because of concerns regarding anonymity, (and Nick keeping his job) but it should be super fun, and may possibly involve a hair band musician. And you know, there will be hotel sex. So maybe things are looking up.

1. I'm actually quitting right now. (I hope.) Which is THE SHIT when you're depressed because basically I'm just too lazy to go to the store to get cigarettes, but it feels like I'm really doing something healthy and productive and good for me.

Hotel Sex

I was in the hotel bathroom brushing my teeth when Nick popped his head around the corner.

"Hey honey, I didn't want to say anything last night because you were about to orgasm and I didn't want to distract you, but we broke the bed."

Huzzah! That's the second bed that I have had a hand in breaking in the past year.

Yeah, I'm a pro.

Where to Find Me, or How I'll be Spending the Next Month

I've always enjoyed the "Jet Sex" feature over at Sexerati. In part because I like to pretend that I am glamorous and hopping on planes with a pair of Jackie O sunglasses and a Birkin bag for a few days of debauched sex, and in part because in the last year that sort of has been my life. (Only, you know, with my Timbuk2 messenger bag and my toiletries crammed into a one quart Ziploc bag.)

It began with my trip to Jefferson's in January, which led to a couple of follow-up visits, and since Nick and I have been dating, I've been using his hectic business travel schedule to my advantage, using up his frequent flyer miles and making a proper mess of the company-funded hotel rooms.

This weekend I'm off to spend some time with my baby, nicely breaking up his three week long business trip. Nick is pleased too, as booking my tickets has bumped him up to "Silver Elite" status. I can't really complain about his ulterior motive though, as I'll be flying first class.

Unfortunately I'll be arriving at 9 am Friday morning, which will leave me with an entire work day of observing Nick (and undoubtedly annoying his colleagues) before I can fuck him. Oh, and there will be some fucking.

Earlier this week Nick sent me a text message at 12:41 pm that read: I'm going to need the riding crop this weekend. Also some restraints.

I replied with: Argh! I was hoping to get away with just a carry on.

Bring the flogger then. The straps won't take up much room, he replied.

Note to self: allow extra time to be hassled by the tsa, I wrote back to Nick.

Nick sent this final message: Bring the big dildo too!

Christ, the man was born to be a dom, what with his inventive humiliation tactics and all!

The rest of the year will be filled with a flurry of holiday related travel. A tentative schedule has Nick and I making the trek to my parents' house for Christmas proper, after which we will be hopping a plane to somewhere south of the Mason-Dixon line to visit with Nick's family(!). That excursion will be followed by a few days in Washington D.C. to party with friends and then finally, a plane back home to spend New Year's Eve with the Buddhists.

During the first couple of weeks of the New Year, we'll be returning to the air, as Nick is headed to Miami on business, and I'm taking advantage of the situation in order to get my pasty ass to the beach.

Anybody want to get me stylish new luggage as an early Xmas present?

Just Like Any Other

As you know, I'm a girl that fucks Jefferson and I drink bourbon. Blah blah blah. Clichè. So I read this NYT article with interest. It was, as you can imagine, pretentious and ridiculous. And Maker's Mark did not come out well in the blind taste test.

Dumb, I say, as my recent trip home for Thanksgiving was made rather incomplete when the bartenders looked at me with bewilderment when I ordered my usual "Maker's Mark on the rocks, easy on the rocks."

I have never wanted so badly to be in the south, I texted Nick.

Haha, he wrote back, I'm on my third Maker's with my grandmother.

By the time we reached the third bar, I gave up and just ordered a beer straightaway. When the bartender asked me for me ID, I gave him an incredulous look.

"Hey, I gotta ask everyone," he said.

"No, no, I understand," I said, pulling my driver's license out of my wallet.

Turning to Lil, I whispered, "You'd think that he wouldn't need to look at my ID, seeing as the dude's dick has been in my mouth."

It's true, several years ago, I had given the bartender a blow job.

After I ordered my third beer, I slid a bill across the bar for the bartender to make change.

He waved it away.

"No, no," he said, "This one's on the house. I didn't realize who you were before."

I win!

I Should Really Check My Stats More Often

I just realized that I had a post picked up on Fleshbot's Sex Blog Roundup last Tuesday.

Thanks, Always Aroused Girl!

How to Make the Gay Boys Leave You Alone So You Can Prepare For Your Impending Threesome

I was lying down trying to sober up a bit before the boys came upstairs when my phone rang.

"Hey Atticus, what's up?"

"John and I are hanging out at his place. You should come over."

"Um, I already have plans for tonight."

"So? Come hang out with us instead."

"I'm not at home. I'm all the way over at Lake and 86th."

"Whatever. Just come over."

"Atticuuuus. I'm expecting two boys for a threesome in a minute."

"Tell her to quit whining and come over," John yelled in the background.

"John says that you need to come over," Atticus informed me.

"Look, Atticus, ask John if he's gonna stick it in. 'Cause if he's not, I think I'll stay here."

Atticus relayed the message to John.

From the background I heard, "Ewwww. No way!"

"So, yeah, I'll call you guys later," I said.

What A Tease!

Last night I demonstrated to a boy just how ineffective ball gags can be at keeping a person quiet. Today, my ass is purple, which coincidentally, is the same color as the ball on my gag.

Fragments of a Love Letter

I've been struggling in writing this post for awhile, but I figured I should get my shit together after Lily posted her version of the events that precipitated the occurrences I wanted to document. Or something.

Anyway, it's a state of the relationship post!

***

Nick grabbed me and pushed me against the kitchen wall, his hand squeezing firmly around my throat.

“I have not been severe enough with you this week,” he said, “Just wait until we get back here tonight.”

He removed his hand from my throat and slammed his closed fist against my chest to punctuate his statement.

My knees went weak and my pussy throbbed. Suddenly, the movie that we were going to seemed significantly less interesting.

I looked up at him with big puppy dog eyes full of love and wanting and submission.


In case it wasn’t made clear from Nick’s story, which was written this summer, our relationship has something of a d/s element to it.

It wasn’t something that we really discussed, but I had never withheld information about my sexual preferences. I wanted him too much to pretend that group sex, non-monogamy, and kink weren’t important aspects of my sexuality. He wasn’t entirely inexperienced in those areas, and more importantly, both of us were ready and willing to experiment, to do what felt good without a whole lot of discussion.


I was on my stomach, my knees pulled up underneath me, my face pushed down on the bed. Nick was fucking me hard.

“You know what I like best about fucking you like this?” He asked, rhetorically. “I like that I can pretend that you are anyone. That I am fucking any girl I want to.”


We were cruising along, quite happily, with a little bit of pain, a little bit of bondage, a little bit of domination and submission, and a whole lot of fucking. That is, until (You knew there was going to be an “until,” didn’t you?) Nick saw me getting caned.

When he came back into the darkened bedroom, I was alone, still coming down from the endorphin rush, still experiencing the euphoria of such a vulnerable place.

“I can’t deal with this; I’m going for a walk,” he told me.

He had tears in his eyes, and I held his gaze as tears filled mine.

When he came back, a couple of hours later, I was sleeping and he curled up in bed next to me.


“Eh, I’m done with that hole now,” Nick said as he pulled his cock from my pussy.

He stood up and walked over to the dresser on my side of the bed. Opening the top drawer, he rooted around and produced a riding crop. Returning to me, he smacked the crop down on my right ass cheek, the distinct, crisp sound, mingled in the air with the faint scent of leather.

After administering several sharp smacks, to the right side of my body only, he grew tired of this activity as well.

Repositioning himself so that he was kneeling in front of me, he shoved his cock into my mouth. As he fucked my face, I could smell my pussy on him and faintly taste the blood of my recently begun period.

Following his orgasm, I was sent back to my homework, my satisfaction put on hold until I was finished.


Following the caning “incident” Nick and I spent a lot of time talking. As he sorted through his feelings he went from being disgusted at this totally “unhealthy” action to admitting that seeing me get caned had opened up a world of “dark” desires that he had long been trying to suppress.

While Nick and I sorted out our relationship, Jefferson and I were also in close contact as he became my sounding board for the whole thing.

Jefferson knows me as a masochist, but as he told me during one of our discussions, “not particularly submissive.” Jefferson, however, had noticed the d/s element in the stories that I told him about my relationship with Nick.

It was true, in fact, that I’d staked much of my sexual identity on being a bottom or a masochist, but I was resolutely NOT a submissive. For me “submissive” conjured up images of women that got off on cleaning bathtubs in nothing but a collar, slave contracts, and incorrect capitalization, even as I knew that that wasn’t all there was to it.


“Shut up. I don’t want to hear another sound from you,” Nick commanded as he held my legs back in order to fuck me deeper.

I whimpered and was rewarded with a sharp smack across the face.

“I told you to shut the fuck up,” he growled.

My eyes grew wide, and I tried to suppress the moans that resulted from having Nick’s cock so deeply inside of me.

Hoping that I would be rewarded with another slap, I quickly stopped trying so hard to be quiet. Unfortunately, Nick caught on, and instead clamped his hand over my mouth and kept fucking me, sans face slaps.


The realization that I was submissive to Nick and that I was getting off on it, fairly rocked me. I had spent enough time grappling with “unconventional” aspects of my sexuality in the past, so it wasn’t so much the fact that Nick was dominant to my submissive, but rather that our relationship had this whole other element to it that I hadn’t been fully conscious of.

During our relationship talks, I mentioned this to Nick. His grown-up hippie, Buddhist self had been uncomfortable with the violence and the seeming lack of equality in our sexual relationship. I assured him that this was new territory for me too, but that we weren’t crossing any boundaries that I didn’t want to cross.

But still, it was kind of unsettling to be embracing a part of my identity that I had been so insistent that I didn’t have. It didn’t help that my sex life was beginning to involve elements of the BDSM scene that had outright turned me off and that I had considered kind of cheesy.


Nick held me close as I worked my clit. His lips were close to my ear as he spun a tale to aid me in my masturbation.

“When Daddy and his friend are done with you you’re going to have to go sleep on the futon. We won’t need you anymore and we’re not going to have you taking up room in the bed. You’re just a piece of trash.”

I was helplessly, hopelessly turned on as I rubbed my clit faster and my breathing grew shallow.

“Maybe if you beg, though. Maybe we’ll let you come back to bed. Of course, you’ll have to crawl across the floor on your hands and knees. Little sluts like you are meant to be on the floor.”

My brain felt like it was exploding when I came, shaking and shuddering.


Recently I realized why I had been so resistant to identify myself as a submissive, and why I get off so hard on being submissive to Nick. The high-powered executive, the woman that has it all together, the alpha female that loves to be dominated in bed is a ubiquitous figure in d/s land; she is always so in control that being able to relinquish control in certain settings is a pleasure. But for me, well, I am so far from being in control, and while it may come as a surprise to some, I am really kind of shy and unsure of myself. When I am experiencing a depressive period I have serious social anxieties. Much of my life is spent making a serious effort to be assertive. Submitting to Nick is a relief. I don’t have to worry about being treated like a doormat or not standing up for myself. Instead I get to be the good little girl seeking approval; I get to be afraid of a disapproving authority figure. I don’t have to fight these natural reflexes, and because it is in a safe place, with someone that I know loves me, I know that these power imbalances won’t be carried further, into other parts of our relationship.


When I looked down I could see the drops of girl cum as they hit the blue yoga mat that Nick had so thoughtfully spread over the hardwood floor. Splat! Splat! My legs were wide apart, held in place by a spreader bar, leaving the juices an unobstructed path between my cunt and the floor.

Nick was crouched in front of me, one hand reaching around to work the purple dildo that was in my ass. His other hand held my new Laya Spot vibrator against my clit. As my body tensed, I strained against the ropes holding my arms above my head.

“Do. Not. Come,” Nick commanded. “I don’t care what you have to do, but you are not allowed to come.”

I whimpered and I pulled on the restraints, but I did not orgasm.

1 New Message

In case you haven't caught on, Nick is soooo the love of my life.

Evidence?

This text message:

You will have many needs taken care of tonight my sweet. We need a place where we can make more noise. By noise, I mean the crack of leather against your skin.
7:56pm 10/10/07

Followed by this text message:

Dinner is in the oven. I will be back from meditation about 9. I will finish cooking then.
8:32pm 10/10/07

Je ne sais quoi

Some of the ladies sleep with Jefferson because he has a reputation as a pretty good lay. And while I suppose that the pussy licking, and the g-spot finding, and the flogger wielding, and the veritable parade of attractive people to fuck are all good reasons to get naked with Jefferson, I'm in it for another reason. No, it's not love, or companionship, or any of that nonsense. You see, I'm in it to soak up that special something that keeps the pretty girls and boys coming back, time and time again. L'essence de Jefferson, one might call it.

It would appear that it is, in fact, working. One of Jefferson's special talents is the ability to inspire people to start writing down their sexy stories so that we can all read them. With this little blog as his impetus, my darling Nick has been doing a little writing. Thus, I am happy to present the very first guest post on Confessions of an Unmanageable Life.

It's hot, it's true, and Nick wants me to let you all know that I will be happy to forward any praise you all may have on to him.

Enjoy!


“Sometimes it has to hurt,” Anna said impishly.

She was clutching, practically spooning my arm as we drove toward the lake, heading to my place. Anna and I were returning from visiting a friend, and as we drove I was describing to her in detail how I was going to use our new, purple, jelly dildo on her tight little ass the moment we got home.

I enjoy getting Anna all worked up by telling her just how I am going to fuck her. Her reactions are so sweet. Sometimes she squirms, sometimes she gasps a little, sometimes she snuggles up to me a little closer. This time she spoke and uttered those sweet little words: “Sometimes it has to hurt.”

“Yes, sometimes it does,” I replied in a calm, soothing tone.

Several days earlier, Anna and I had been shopping at a delightfully seedy sex shop and picked out a vibrating egg and the device in question, an 8-inch purple, jelly dildo. It is conically shaped, a little bigger at one end than the other, with larger protruding rings about every inch or so. It looked like a delightful tool with which to ream her tight little ass. I couldn’t wait.

“Unbutton your pants and let me see your pussy,” I said.

She released my arm and sat back in the big bucket seat. Anna unbuttoned her tight jeans, unzipped the fly and pulled them down just far enough for me to get a glimpse of her pussy. It’s completely shaved, except for a little patch of hair on her mound. She keeps it very neat and coiffed, just as I require.

“Put your fingers inside, and then let me taste,” I directed in the same soothing tone.

Anna shot her pouty little puppy dog eyes at me and bit her bottom lip just a little.

Good girl, I thought as she dug inside herself.

“Make sure to get a good taste for me,” I encouraged.

Maybe she was having a little trouble, maybe she was twirling her clit, but after a long few seconds her wet, sticky fingers emerged. She presented them to me for inspection. I smelled them first, rubbing her slender fingers under my nostrils. Already hard for several minutes, my cock began to throb. I opened my mouth and Anna eagerly put her index and middle fingers in my mouth. They were wet, sweet, and tasty. I got a flash of our session earlier in the day when I held her legs back and devoured her pussy. I licked her fingers clean. She withdrew them from my mouth and brought them to hers. She smelled and licked them a little, waiting for my next directive.

“Now stick them in your ass,” I said.

She groaned a little in that precious, guttural tone she has sometimes.

“You’re so filthy,” she said as she reached her hand down between her legs and found her hole.

“But you love me that way,” I said to her.

“Yes,” was all she managed.

Again, after a few seconds, her slender fingers emerged. This time I got the smell I wanted: that musky, thick smell that I love so much.

She is such a dirty little girl; she pleases me completely.

“I am going to fucking tear that little ass up when we get home,” I said with particular emphasis on “fucking” and “tear.”

“I know,” she said sheepishly, submissively.

When we got upstairs, we wasted no time. I had her strip down naked. As this is a new relationship, we don’t have many rituals, but there are a few things I do to Anna with some frequency that I know she likes. Anna loves to be violated. We talk about it and tease each other with just that word. It’s a turn on for us both as it suggests domination, submission and all things naughty and nasty.

As she stood in front of me, I spun her 90 degrees so our bodies were perpendicular to each other. I positioned myself right up next to her so that I could use both hands to quickly and, with some amount of force, find my way inside her slender little body. On some level, that slender little body naturally resists this violation, even though her pussy is dripping wet and craving me.

But her ass is a different story. Her puckered little hole is tight and requires a bit more force to access. I decided to lick my fingers to help the process along, and it worked. Simultaneously, I thrust my left middle finger into her pussy and my right index finger into her ass. She was going to get a pounding tonight and she knew it.

After a few minutes of finger fucking and dirty talk I directed her to get on the bed. Anna accepted my command. At the bed, she laid down on her back and asked, “How do you want me?”

My cock was dripping wet and I needed to shove it in her mouth. Again not yet a ritual, but a position we both desire. On my knees I moved myself so that I was in front of her on the bed. She turned her head to receive me. Immediately, I shoved my cock into her mouth, feeling it slide deep into her tight, slippery throat. She wrapped her hand around my right ass cheek and pulled me closer, deeper inside her mouth. She craves my cock in every hole she has. This hole is the first, this hole only gets her going.

After a few short minutes of milking my cock, I was ready for something more invasive.

I asked my precious little girl to get on her knees and then lay down. In yoga terms, I had her in child’s pose, a position with her body folded up so her head is on a pillow, her body resting on her thighs, and her ass and pussy ready for mounting.

I wasted no time. I grabbed a bottle of lube and doused the fingers of my right hand. I really didn’t care if she was ready to receive me or not, I was ready and that was enough. Forcefully, I stuck two fingers all the way into her tight little ass, stretching it. She moaned.

My fingers were probing, fucking, stretching her. But even this didn't hold my attention long because I was ready to punish her perfect little body more brutally, and satisfy myself more completely.

I pulled my fingers out and decided that before I stuck the new dildo inside my love, I needed to feel her for myself. Positioning myself behind her folded little body, I lubed my cock and again without concern for her, thrust the entire length deep inside her little ass, grabbing her hips for maximum effect. The sound she made was unmistakable. It was deep, guttural and primal. It was half pleasure and half pain for her, and pure ecstasy for me. Holding the back of her neck down with force against the pillow, not allowing any amount of resistance, my cock was hammering her tight little ass. The only thing that could be better would be to fuck her with the huge dildo.

I pulled my cock out of her ass. I hoped for her sake she had been broken in a bit, because the next violation was going to be extreme, more than I would be able to take.

“You ok, baby?” I asked and saw her head nod.

I took this as permission to take it to the next level. I grabbed the purple dildo, put a condom on it and applied a generous amount of lube on the tip. I directed Anna to put a couple of pillows under her tummy, forcing her ass up in the air a bit, making access to her easier for me. With my left hand I grabbed her by the back of the neck and forced her head to the pillow, making any resistance or protest difficult. With the device in my right hand, I introduced it to her ass. The tip slid in easily, as her ass was not quite virginal, but the rest proved more difficult and painful. This was fine, because that was what I was after.

“You ready, baby?” I asked out of some small amount of courtesy.

A little nod was what I felt with my hand on her neck. Without hesitation, I shoved that purple cock deep inside her. Her body resisted, but I didn’t care. Forcefully, I pressed on, thrusting it deeper. Her moans and groans only encouraged me. I pulled it out almost all the way then forced it in her ass deeper, over and over. She needed to find my rhythm, not the other way around. This night was all about me and I would see that she would submit.

As I continued intensely fucking her ass with that dildo, my eyes were drawn to the rest of her body. How lovely her soft skin looked. She is so young, so beautiful, so nubile. I have had every inch of her in my mouth at one time or another, but she never ceases to amaze me with her beauty and ability. From head to toe, she is the most beautiful woman I have ever been with. Her hair is so soft. Her breasts are so petite. Her tummy is so delicious. I love every part of her, especially her mind. As she writhed at my hand in the space between pleasure and pain, I was reminded of how much I am in love with this woman, how much I want her, how much I need her.

Deciding to ease up a bit, I pulled the dildo out of her tired little ass. It had had quite the punishment, but had performed and pleased me well. It was time for me to finish this little experiment and put young Anna to bed. I discarded the dildo and positioned myself behind her. I grabbed the lube and rubbed a little on my aching cock. Once again I wasted no time ramming something inside her tight little ass. This time it was my cock, and this time I’m ready to explode inside her.

I grabbed her slender hips and thrust completely inside her. She groaned deeply and I rammed her again. How does she do it? How can she take it so hard?

“Good girl,” I said out loud.

Anna, in a fuck trance, was unable to speak.

I was so worked up and all I needed was a release. I knew that all the stress and tension from the day would disappear once I came, but getting there would take some more time and effort. Briefly, I wondered if Anna could handle it, but decided to press on, deeper and deeper, with only my goal in mind. Closer and closer, my breathing became more predictable, more regulated. Looking down at my subject and seeing how she had totally submitted to me that night, I was overcome with love and appreciation for Anna. Taking my usual three deep breaths, I came and came hard.

I exploded into Anna’s ass and pumped her full of my hot juice. I grabbed her hips and milked every last drop. It was the most satisfying orgasm I have had in quite some time.

As I finished, I laid down on top of her, wrapping my arms and body around her. My cock was still jerking, my body still quaking, my breath still labored. At that moment there was nowhere I would rather have been than inside my baby.

“I love you, baby,” she managed.

“I love you too,” I responded.

Notes From the Trenches

Dear Straight Boys,

Just a bit of friendly advice: Do not hit on girls at the gay bar. Even if a girl is straight, or at the very least, straight-ish, there is a reason that she is at the gay bar. Whether she is with her girlfriend(s) or her gays, she didn't come out to be hit on by men. Even if you are a nice guy (and for some reason, I doubt that you are) by hitting on a girl at the gay bar you inevitably come off as creepy, unattractively confused, and worst of all, an annoying motherfucker.

So knock it off!

xo,

Anna Smash

And a Pinch to Grow an Inch

Today is my birthday. That means that it’s been a little over a year since I split up with The Ex. In the past year my life has grown full of friends and lovers. There have been a few missteps, mishaps, mistakes, and forgive me for being sentimental, but there has been a lot of joy too. I’ve met Jefferson and a lot of great people through him. Gentleman Whore takes damn good care of me.

Most recently, and maybe most significantly, I’ve met my (gasp!) boyfriend, Nick. For my birthday he gave me the Suicide Girls: The First Tour DVD and a gift certificate to our local feminist sex toy shop. My love knows me so well. Never mind the part where he will surely benefit from these gifts too.

Have I mentioned that there has been some amazing sex in the past year too?

My good fortune in friends, lovers, and fucking was well-highlighted by the wedding that Nick and I attended on Saturday.

The bride is a good friend of mine and I wish her husband and her all of the love, luck, and good sex in the world.

Don’t worry, my crew and I made plenty of “think of England” jokes, and we represented on the dance floor as well.

Including Nick, I have slept with four of the guests, and in addition, I have made out with two members of the wedding party.

First there’s Molly. Remember last year’s birthday? Yeah, it has only gotten hotter since then.

“She made me call her mistress and beat me with a tennis racket,” I whispered to Nick.

The two of them danced quite the salsa later that night.

Then of course, there’s Derek. He’s been a bit of a flake as a fuck buddy, but I’ve got no hard feelings.

This leads us to June. She’s slept with Derek too.

To complete this messy little quad, June, Nick, and I had a threesome a few weeks ago. If only we could get Derek to sleep with Nick, we’d be all set.

Rachel, one of the bridesmaids, and I made out during my turn as Anna Smash, Pride 2007 Make-Out Bandit.

Finally, there’s Erik, one of my favorite gay make out buddies. As a bonus, he’s always ready to hear my latest tales from my life as a hedonist. These days he’s got his very own chicken hawk boyfriend. I like to think that I was his inspiration.

Unbelievably, Nick and his friends have even more complicated entanglements, and I’m working my way into their circle too.

For my birthday night I’m hoping to treat myself to a pretty lady, whom I’ve begun to call My Little Southern Spitfire. Don’t worry; I’ll let you know all about it.

The Return of Anna

It was nearly one in the morning when I finally ascended the stairs of the subway on to the streets of Manhattan. I was restless from sitting on the plane, and then sitting while waiting for the train, and then sitting, once again, on the train. It felt good to stretch my legs. I grinned as I bounded through the night, down the streets that were now familiar.

Inside the first doors to the building I paused to look up the code so that I could call up to the apartment, but the doorman let me in before I even had a chance and I gave him a smile as I crossed the lobby.

The sense of familiarity was as exciting as the anticipation. I knew this lobby; I knew this elevator; I knew that it was a left and then a right once I was deposited on the correct floor.

Nervousness has many of the same physical manifestations as arousal: flushed cheeks, sweating, increased heart rate, heightened senses. My pussy quietly awoke, yawning and stretching, as I stood there in the hallway, knocking. My labia, shaved earlier that day, rubbed nakedly against the fabric of my panties as I knocked again. I could feel the moisture just barely beginning to collect at the entrance to my cunt as I reached into my bag for my phone.

“Hey honey. Were you sleeping?” I asked.

“No, no. Where are you?”

“Right outside your door.”

“Is it locked?”

“Uh, huh.”

“I’ll be there in a second.”

I stood there enjoying the last moments of anticipation before the door opened.

When Jefferson poked his head around the open door, I was grinning stupidly.

I stepped inside, into his arms, against his naked body, and kissed him. It was sweet for a moment, and then it was more aggressive, needy, possessive. Our opened lips mashed together and our tongues were fighting, grabbing, grasping.

Barely breaking apart, Jefferson pulled my messenger bag off my shoulder. We resumed our kissing as though we were trying to swallow each other whole, and he stripped me, tugging at the clasps on my pants as I kicked off my shoes. Once nude, my clothes were left there, in a pile, just inside the door, where they would remain for the next three days.

Jefferson put his hands on my shoulders and half guided me, half pushed me ahead of him to his bedroom.

In the bedroom Jefferson practically threw me onto the bed.

Rolling on a condom, he grabbed the bottle of lube from the bedside table.

“No time for foreplay,” he said applying a generous dollop to his sheathed cock, “I want you.”

And like that he was inside me.

I grinned, my mouth stretched wide, practically laughing as he hammered into my pussy. He put my legs over his shoulders and pressed into me. Never before had familiarity been so fucking hot.

Although I was aware of another person in the room, sitting in one of the chairs, I was barely given an opportunity to acknowledge her presence.

My focus on fucking wavered due to the persistent physical need nagging at me.

“Um, can I have a glass of water?” I interrupted.

“When you come you can have water and a bourbon.”

“I want you to fuck me from behind.”

Jefferson got up and stood at the foot of the bed.

He looked at me expectantly.

“Come on, you remember.”

I rolled over and got on my hands and knees, wiggling my body backwards to the end of the bed. My ass was pointed upwards, my cunt was exposed, eagerly waiting. Jefferson clasped his hands around my hips and drove into me.

I felt good; I was happy.

I was tired.

Jefferson worked me, trying to coax an orgasm up and out.

My mind was swirling with excitement and exhaustion. I had been in transit for hours. I hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before.
My hands slid out so that I was resting on my elbows. As Jefferson fucked me I tried to bring my mind back to the task at hand.

My body rebelled and my mind refused to connect with my pussy. Exasperated, I allowed my arms to slide further forward so that I was no longer holding myself up at all, but lying with my face and breasts on the bed.

Jefferson took note of my frustration and relented. He pulled out of me and went to the kitchen to get the water and the bourbon, neither of which I had earned.

Alone, the woman sitting in the chair and I looked at each other. I gave her a big grin, as if to say, isn’t it funny how we find ourselves in these kind of situations?

We introduced ourselves and chatted about my trip and compared tattoos.

Her name was Luxx and she had beautiful, soft breasts. She had matching rings in each of her nipples and her navel, all with a small opalescent bead. Her dark hair was a wild mess of tight curls. When she arrived at Jefferson’s her hair had been perfectly straight, she told me.

“It’s true,” Jefferson confirmed, returning with the beverages, “She had hair like Cher’s when she got here.”

I gulped the water greedily and then sprawled out on the bed to sip on the bourbon. Jefferson sat on the floor so that he was positioned between Luxx and me. I filled Jefferson in on the previous night’s developments with Mr. Almost Forty.

Eventually Jefferson reached up and began kissing Luxx. They moved to the bed, and Luxx made half-hearted protestations that she needed to go home because her kitties were missing her. She was quickly quieted as Jefferson sucked, licked, and fucked her into submission.

Well, she wasn’t exactly quieted. It was more like the noises coming from her mouth became more preverbal than verbal.

Feeling uncharacteristically voyeuristic, I moved myself to the chair that Luxx had been occupying and watched them. A sleepy smile spread across my face as Jefferson’s hair became messy and sweaty, and Luxx writhed underneath him.

Looking over, Jefferson noticed me lazily playing with my clit.

“Would you like to join us?”

I smiled and nodded, setting my bourbon glass down. As I crawled onto the bed, Jefferson moved his attentions from Luxx to me. He fucked me while he kissed Luxx, but Luxx and I had yet to actually touch each other.

Our fucking reached one of those natural breaks and as we lay there Luxx reiterated her need to get home.

But then, almost shyly, she said: “I wanna kiss Anna before I go.”

I had a feeling that her shyness was merely an act—or at least a carefully cultivated aspect of her personality.

I was sitting, she was lying, and I leaned over to kiss her, my hair hanging down across her face.

Our kiss was tentative at first, but quickly grew in intensity. Within a minute we were stretched out on the bed, our limbs wrapped around one another.

We quickly forgot about Jefferson; his presence was no longer strictly necessary.

I held Luxx tightly against my body. One of my thighs was pressed firmly between her legs, and one of her thighs was pressed firmly between mine. I ground my clit against her and she rubbed her clit against me in a slight up and down motion. I was vaguely aware of the spiky end of the barbell in her clit hood pushing into the flesh of my leg.

We came together, her yelps and screams mingling with my moans.

We continued to hold each other as our orgasms subsided, and our breathing slowed.

I’m not sure which one of us started it, but soon we were laughing hysterically. Maybe it was post-orgasmic bliss, maybe it was the absurdity of the circumstances of our meeting, or maybe it was the result of pure exhaustion. In any case, I was happy. I was where I belonged.

Jefferson re-joined us for awhile and several orgasms later Luxx finally pulled on her skirt, fastened her heavy belt, and left for home.

When she was gone Jefferson told me that that had been their first date, and in fact, it had been her first time with a man in years. The next day Luxx emailed Jefferson and we found out that it had been her first threesome as well.

The firsts for the weekend were far from over, however.

Conversations From a Charmed Life

Sorry about all of these short snippets, but, well, it's summer. So, you know, I'm feeling kind of lazy. Something more substantial to come soon.


It was about midnight and it was a beautiful night. There was a whole crew of people sitting out front at Nick's house as I approached.

"Hey everyone," I said and waved.

Someone leaned forward and squinted into the night.

"Oh, it's Nick's girlfriend," he said.

"Well. Some days," I responded.

*

"Look baby, I've got you marked," Nick said and pointed to my name and the flag marking my building on the GPS screen.

"Aww, honey, that's almost as sweet as changing your MySpace status to 'In a Relationship'."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far."

*

It was the morning after a wild night of drinking, dancing, and fucking. June and I were lounging in bed while Nick went to the shop down the street for coffee and bagels. We were holding each other and comparing tan lines.

June and Nick had met for the first time the night before.

"Isn't he great?" I asked her.

"Yeah, he's perfect for you."

"How so?"

"Well, he doesn't really do the whole monogamy thing either, so that really works out for you."

More Filth, Less Romance

It was unbearably early, but our cellphone alarms were going off anyway. We rolled over and hit snooze on our respective phones. We were sleeping again immediately. In the short interval between the first and the second alarm I had one of those very sharp, detailed dreams.

"Ugh," I said, rolling over to face Nick. "I just had a dream that I was text messaging someone. The machines are taking over."

"I just had a dream that you were telling our slave that she must lower her voice; that she was not to talk so loudly."

His Whore

As I came, something snapped.

"I'm your whore. I'm your whore," I spat the words out with my moans.

And in that moment I was. I trusted him completely. I was his.

"Yes, baby," he said, "I know."

Summertime and the Living's Easy

Sorry I've been so lazy about posting these days, but it is Summer, and what is Summer for if not laziness?

It's certainly about ripe fruit with sticky juices, sweat-soaked sheets, and a little extra swing in my hips as I go about my day in a short skirt. Not to mention mojitos and margaritas on rooftop bars.

Summer is also for fucking al fresco, and I must say, dear readers, I've got that covered. In the past few weeks I've found myself risking charges of public indecency more than once.

The first time I found myself in the woods that surrounded festival grounds while a well known country singer played in the background. (Don't ask. I don't understand how I end up in these situations myself.)

Next up was a walk along the river following a delicious dinner with two large Maker's Marks. It didn't take long for my skirt to be lifted up around my waist as I bent over the safety railing underneath a very famous bridge.

Most recently, a very lovely first date with good conversation, good beer, and good tapas, was finished with some very good fucking. Very good fucking in the condo construction site a block away from my apartment building. Some lucky person on the second floor will move into an already christened unit.

This, my friends, is why it is a good idea to always take condoms along when going out.

Right now I'm ready to go out to get some condoms at Pride and later tonight I'll probably be picking up some dental dams at the Dyke March.

As I march with the crowd of women escorted by beautiful butches on bikes, you know I'll be wearing my "Drunk Straight Girl" label with pride. Because if queer, dyke, and fag can all be reclaimed as sources of strength, then I will reclaim the slur that is often tossed in the direction of girls like me.

I explained this to Jefferson a little while ago and he asked, "If you're a drunk straight girl, does that make you a sober bisexual?"

In any case, I'm going to slather on some sunscreen and head over to the park.

Exchange On the Train

It was 5:30 in the afternoon and the sun was perfectly warm on my skin. I was waiting for the train and smoking a cigarette.

“Hey, can I possibly get a cigarette from you?” A guy with dark sunglasses asked.

“Of course.”

I smiled and dug around in my bag.

“Thanks.”

He pulled a Bic out from his pocket and lit it.

“God, I’ve needed that all day,” he exhaled.

We chatted and established that he was headed home after a long shift at a restaurant a few blocks away. A woman threw toast at him that morning because her eggs were cooked wrong. I shared one of my own table waiting horror stories.

We chatted some more and established that I was on my way to the airport.

“Flying out?”

“Yup.”

I revealed no more information than necessary.

“Where are you going to?”

“New York.”

He told me that he has always wanted to go there, and that actually, his roommate had just gotten back from NYC.

When the train arrived we boarded and he sat across the aisle from me.

“So, when are you going to be back?”

“On Wednesday.”

“That’s a short trip.”

“Well, the friend that I’m going to visit has joint custody of his kids with his ex-wife, so we have to plan our trips around his parenting schedule,” I explained.

If he hadn’t been wearing sunglasses, I’m sure that I would have seen him wink.
“Ohh,” he said, “It’s that kind of trip. I see what you’ve got going on.”

I laughed and shrugged my shoulders. There ain’t no shame in my game. Besides, if he only knew the half of it…

A moment later he told me: “I was riding the train home from work last night and these swingers asked me to come home with them. I thought about it, but you know…”

“Were they cute?” I asked.

“She was, but I’m just not really into dudes.”

We were quiet for a minute.

“I don’t know. I mean, I guess, maybe sometime in the future,” he said.

“Well, if you ever get the chance again I would suggest you give it a try. It’s really a good time,” I said and smiled.

Surprisingly, our conversation trailed off after that. Suddenly he had several important text messages to send.

He got off a few stops later.

It wasn’t too much longer and I was at the airport, ready to board my plane.

Conquest

While I was getting ready for the party, I was kind of nervous. It was an apartment warming party for some friends, and there was a possibility that a certain crush of mine was going to be there. I was dressed in my “butchiest femme you know” best: button-down shirt, red silk tie, Converse, and dangly earrings. Before I went I picked up a bottle of red wine as a gift. I was ready.

Once at the apartment, I walked into the kitchen and greeted the hosts, presenting them with the wine, and settled myself with a drink. He was there, leaning casually against the sink. We acknowledged each other before I joined in a conversation with some friends.

Sometimes I’m so cool it hurts.

Eventually I made my way over to him and we began chatting. He complimented both my earrings and my tie. I had a story to tell him, but wasn’t sure if it was a good idea, given the presence of another guest. Finally, in an effort to keep the conversation from stalling, I plunged in.

“So, there was almost a disaster Friday morning,” I told him.

Already used to my penchant for exaggeration and theatrics when storytelling, he replied with a slightly mocking, “Oh really?”

“Oh yes. See, I woke up a little after nine and I had to pee. I figured that since Ruby was already at work, you would be gone too, so I didn’t bother to get dressed when I got up. But then right after I went back to bed I heard you moving around and then I heard Ruby freaking out about being late for work. Shit, that was close!”

All of this was told with dramatic pauses and excessive gesturing, because I was the star of the show, the center of attention, and I would not be ignored: I was flirting.

We laughed, and Ruby, on the other side of the kitchen, joined in.

“Oh man, I’m sorry that I missed that,” Mr. Almost Forty said.

Remember Mr. Almost Forty?

The thing is, I didn’t really fully explain our situation. To make the story as uncomplicated as possible, let’s just say that the two of us fuck roommates. It has happened that he is in one bedroom of the apartment fucking one roommate, Ruby, while I am in the bedroom on the other side of the bathroom fucking the other roommate. Yes, we have heard each other’s sex noises.

And that night in the basement? It was these particular roommates’ basement that we were in.

I guess I might have been bit harsh.

Now, here we were, Ruby, Nick, (Mr. Almost Forty) and I, all at the same party, with alcohol flowing abundantly.

I was in top form that night and I floated around between groups of people that I knew and groups of people that I didn’t, chatting, telling stories, getting fired up about politics, and making people laugh.

At some point, I was sitting on the sofa, talking with some people, when Nick wandered into the room and after engaging in our conversation for a moment, continued his wandering out to the terrace.

I waited an appropriate length of time before getting a cigarette from my pack and going out on the terrace myself.

“I was hoping you’d come out here,” Nick said.

“I was hoping you’d be alone out here,” I said.

It only took a minute for us to begin kissing intensely, each of us with a gin and tonic in a plastic cup in one hand. His free hand was on the small of my back and my free hand wrapped around his shoulder.

We took occasional breaks from kissing to talk.

“I’m sorry I freaked out that night in the basement,” he said.

“It’s ok. I understand,” I said while inwardly smirking about my blog post.

“I’ve been thinking about you ever since. I was so hoping that you’d be here tonight.”

“Me too.”

“I want to go home with you tonight.”

“Mmm, yes, I think that’s a great idea, but I have to get up early and do laundry. I’m going out of town tomorrow.”

“Where to?”

I told him about my upcoming trip.

We decided that we should take our leave separately so as not to start rumors or hurt feelings. Both of us had lost our ability to drive a few drinks earlier so he told me that he would call for a car.

“Hey guys. What’s up?” One of our hosts popped her head out onto the terrace.

“Nothin’ really. Just talking,” Nick said and casually wandered inside.

I smoked another cigarette before going to the kitchen and grabbing a beer.

Nick quietly sidled up to me.

“A town car will be meeting us at one at the pizza joint down the street.”

I joined my friends on the back steps while I finished my beer, rejoining their conversation, and then quickly took my leave with the next day’s trip as my excuse.

It was a windy night and I shivered a little as I walked quickly down the street. I was bleary with alcohol and the traffic signals, neon signs, headlights all mixed together, shimmering and shaking. It was a suspiciously accurate externalization of my internal state.

A few minutes later Nick joined me and moments later we were in the back of the car on our way to his place. Neither of us could have told you the route that the driver took to Nick’s house because we were making out like teenagers the moment we settled into the leather seats.

As soon as I was in his room and naked he had me on my knees on the overstuffed armchair, half bent over the back. He knelt behind me, and spreading my ass cheeks apart, he lowered his mouth to me. His tongue however ignored my pussy and went straight for my asshole. A brave first move.

Fortunately, I was more than happy to have my asshole tongued.

Nick reached down and pulled a condom out of his jeans pocket. Rolling it on, he joined me on the chair. I was still bent over the back, and he pushed his cock into me.

That first moment of penetration, when a cock first starts to nudge into me (or is roughly shoved into me, as the case may be) is always a moment of sharp, heightened-senses excitement. With a new partner, and particularly with one that I want as much as I wanted Nick that night, the excitement increases tenfold.

I’m not sure I stopped moaning the entire time that he was fucking me on that chair.

After he came, we finally made it to the bed where he rolled on a new condom and continued fucking me.

And fuck me he did. My pussy, my ass, me on my back, him on his back, me on my knees, him standing at the side of the bed, my fingers and tongue in his asshole, his fingers and tongue in my asshole, cock sucking, pussy licking: it all blurs together now. It was a little bit like a gang bang for two. In Nick, I may have met my match.

It was dirty and he was sweet.

“That’s my girl. That’s my good girl,” he whispered to me when I came, stroking my hair.

By the time he came in my ass the second time, we were a sweaty, sticky mess, and girl juices and lube were everywhere. It was five in the morning, and the sky was getting light, the birds were chirping.

Nick suggested a shower and I readily agreed. He washed my hair for me and gently soaped the rest of my body for me.

Back in bed, we wrapped ourselves around each other.

“Tell me a story. Something from your past,” I requested.

He did, and that’s how we fell asleep.

We awoke a few hours later and had sex again. Twice. Our mutual condom supply was exhausted at that point and I really had to get home to prepare for my trip.

I rescued my clothes from the floor and Nick cleaned up the condoms from their hastily discarded locations on the floor. Really, it looked like there had been a small orgy the night before.

When he dropped me off at my car he gave me his card and asked me to call him when I got back in town. I happily agreed.

As I walked up and down the seemingly endless flights of stairs between my third-floor apartment and the basement laundry room, the exhaustion was almost overwhelming.

Jesus Christ, I thought, I’m supposed to come home from New York feeling broken, not arrive there feeling broken.

Anna Gets a New Fuck Buddy

By the time I moved out of my hometown three years ago, I had very nearly exhausted my sexual possibilities. Within a decade-wide age span every new fuck of mine was someone’s best friend, cousin, or old roommate. Sex had become a tangled mess of relationships, a mess that at nineteen I had no ability to manage in any meaningful way. I was alienating friends and lovers like crazy.

Shortly after I moved to my current location, The Ex and I started dating. For two years, we were in a monogamous relationship and I was relieved that even as I lost my anonymity in this city, it didn’t involve sexual awkwardness.

Now that I’ve been single for nearly a year, this city is shrinking. Some of this is simply the nature of forming relationships, meeting people through friends, and having daily routines and regular hangouts. But if you remember the story of PunkRock Boy, you’ll remember that our completely random meeting resulted in the discovery of mutual friends.

Tangles and messes are beginning to pop up.

Shortly after I broke up with The Ex last summer I slept with a coworker of mine, Derek. It never happened again, we never talked about it, and we never had any problems or awkwardness at work. Overall, it was an ideal NSA arrangement.

The office that we worked in was a tight crew of people, and after I quit that job in February, I maintained friendships with many of my former coworkers.

These friendships included one with June. She had long harbored a crush on Derek. Sometime after they finally fucked, things fell apart. June maintained that Derek had treated her like shit, although from my understanding of the situation, what had actually transpired was a lack of communication about expectations and June’s refusal to admit that she was hoping for more than a one-night stand.

In the resulting drama, it came out that Derek and I had had sex. June confronted me, we talked about it, and she and I were on good terms, she and Derek were ok too. Derek and I never talked about it, as there really wasn’t any need to.

So, a couple of months later, what did I do? I fucked him again.

It was a Sunday afternoon and there had been a big block party/street fair that a group of my former coworkers and I had attended. Afterwards we went out for drinks, eight of us crammed into a big restaurant booth. I caught up on all the good news: June was in love with a guy she’d met at a festival, Linds’s employer did not have a job for me, and Molly, Derek and I are all still scared of babies. When I left after two margaritas, to head to another party, Derek asked if he could get a ride home. I agreed.

As we walked to my car, he apologized for his role in all of the drama that had gone down. I appreciated this as being smushed between him and June in a booth had been just a little bit awkward.

As I drove him home he began to hint quietly.

“I mean, you have to admit, the sexual tension between us was always fun,” he said.

“Yes, yes it was,” I agreed.

When I didn’t bite, he got bolder: “So, I’m going to be blunt: Do you really want to go to that other party, or do you want to get together with me?”

“No, I don’t really want to go to that party, and yes, I do want to have sex with you.”

“You live by yourself, right?”

“Yup.”

“Then let’s go to your place.”

“Sure, but now it’s my turn to be blunt: my apartment is a complete fucking mess and I’m on the rag.”

“So? That’s fine with me.”

Despite the potentially very un-adult consequences of our hook up, or negotiation was very low-key and breezy, maybe even mature.

At my apartment, I invited him to choose some music while I poured us bourbons.

He put on Beck’s Midnight Vultures.

“Didn’t we fuck to this last time?” I asked.

He suggested that we fuck in the shower, so I excused myself to start the water. When I returned I was wearing nothing but my camisole.

I joined him on my bed and we kissed, our arms wrapped around each other. His lips and tongue were firm and there wasn’t too much saliva. He kissed perfectly for a casual encounter. (Oh god, Craigslist has clearly invaded my brain.)

When we finally made it to the shower, I turned to face him.

“Um, I actually haven’t had sex in a shower since high school…”

My voice trailed off, an indication that I wasn’t sure how to proceed.

He put his hands on my hips and turned me around so that my back was to him. I leaned over, sticking my ass out, resting my hands against the wall. He grasped my hips firmly and stuck his cock in me.

“Oh, fuck,” I moaned.

He was bigger than I remembered.

I adjusted myself for a better angle, placing my hands on the edge of the claw-foot bathtub, causing my ass to stick up even higher in the air.

I like to think that one of the benefits of having a nice ass is that it inspires people I fuck to spank me, although I’m sure that in reality this is just a standard move in most men’s sexual repertoire.

The sound and the sensation of Derek’s hand smacking against my ass was especially exciting with the water mixed in and the sound reverberating off the bathroom walls. I moaned especially loud to indicate that he should continue.

The water temperature in my bathtub is tricky to maintain, and so after awhile it was too hot. We reconvened on my bed without toweling off, and our bodies were slippery and my hair was dripping in Derek’s face as I rode him.

The windows next to my bed were open and the shades were pulled open. I’m sure that the people in the building across the street got an eyeful as well as an earful as I came in loud shrieks, clawing at Derek’s chest.

He slowed his movements as I shuddered around him. Panting heavily and laughing slightly, I laid my head on his chest to relax for a few minutes before I slowly, slowly began to move my hips again, grinding against him.

Derek began with the dirty talk, all “my big hard cock this” and “your tight, wet pussy that.”

I joined in.

“Mmm, you make me feel like such a slut,” I murmured.

He stopped, and looked at me quite seriously.

“But, in a good way, right?” He asked in the most sincere way.

Oh, dear, sweet boy. My heart went ping! at this sentiment.

“Yes, yes,” I assured him, running my thumb against his wet brow.

He insisted that I come again, so I did, and minutes later he came too. I could feel his cock pulsing inside of me, even through the condom, and my post-orgasmic cunt contracted slightly around him.

At this point sweat had mingled in with the bathwater and we lay close to the open windows smoking cigarettes.

“Hi neighbors,” I joked.

Our post-coital conversation drifted lazily with our cigarette smoke, as I told him stories of my recent exploits and we compared sexual experience notes.

“We should do this more often,” he said.

“Yes, yes we should.”

“I mean like everyday.”

“Um, no, my schedule is far too full for that,” I laughed.

“Every other day?”

“Three days a week, tops. And you have to understand that I’ll need the occasional weekend off.”

When I dropped him off at his apartment a little bit later, I looked at the clock. It had been two hours, start to finish, and I had a new fuck buddy.

Let the mess begin.

Quiet Night In

A couple of blocks from the bachelorette pad, there is an excellent video rental store. It is an independent shop, with a prodigious selection.

One of the reasons I love going there is because they mix the regular new releases in with the soft core porn new releases. If, for example, you were looking for the Diane Arbus not-too-accurate bio-pic, Fur, two cases down you would find the even more tantalizing option, The G-String Show, which promises girls both Asian and bad.

Tonight my love for the store reached a new high, however. As I was browsing the cult classics section, I saw shelved there, Annie Sprinkle's Female Genital Massage. In the cult classics section!

I hope that you all have a great weekend. As for me, tonight's going to be a quiet night in with Shortbus and a bourbon.

The Artiste (Part Two)

You can read part one here.


For our celebratory drink we chose a bar that hosts a lot of the local hipster bands. On that Tuesday night, however, it was quiet and almost empty. The Artiste had called a friend to come out and drink with us, but it took awhile for him to make his way there.

I offered to buy us the first pitcher of beer and the two of us headed over to the ATM so that I could get some cash. We talked and joked as we walked across the bar, and The Artiste slipped his hand around my waist and squeezed my hip.

As we perched on our barstools, I couldn’t help but mention my recent breakup.

“You know it’s been so long that I’m not even sure I know how to flirt anymore. I mean, how did I do it before?” I laughed.

Ok, so maybe asking that question while I spun my barstool so that my knees were almost touching The Artistes’ was an answer.

When The Artiste’s friend arrived we moved to the lounge downstairs and huddled up in a booth among the kitschy, hip décor. We chatted about this and that, and ordered another round of beers.

I excused myself to go to the bathroom and The Artiste slid out of the booth so that I could get out.

I went to the alcove near the stairs that housed the well-graffitied bathrooms. When I stepped out again, The Artiste was in the little hallway, about to enter the men’s room. A little bit tipsy already, I moved closer to him than was necessary, even in the small space of the hallway. I steadied myself with my hand on his shoulder and looked up at him. Here, now, it was inevitable.

We kissed.

The sweet, slightly sloppy kisses were made even better by their slightly secretive nature in the darkened back of the bar and the Pop! Bang! Fizz! of a long-fostered attraction finally consummated.

Breaking apart, he went into the bathroom and I returned to the table. It wasn’t much longer before our little group broke up under the pretense that The Artiste and I were going to go to a bar closer to his place so that he could have a few more beers without worrying about having to drive.

It is probably not necessary to mention that once we got to his place, we didn’t leave for more drinks.

Back at his apartment, we didn’t even bother to turn on the lights, and we navigated the messy rooms with the help of the orange-tinted streetlights that poked around the corners of the windows.

While he turned on some music, I took a position on the sofa, kneeling on the wide arm so that I was slightly taller than him when he was standing. From this stance I was able to wrap my arms around his shoulders and rest my head on his. We stayed that way for a little while, with me dipping my head down to kiss him.

And then we were dancing. And then we were on the floor, rolling around, kissing, and giggling. And then we were in his bed.

I have noticed that while the sex may suffer in long term relationships, it is the kissing that is much more likely to go away much sooner. After two years with The Ex, our kisses had become little more than a peck here and there, even on the rare occasions that we did have sex.

Lying naked in bed with The Artiste, kissing was better than I remembered. For a deliriously long time we kissed. I ran my hands over his skinny, taut body, loving that little dip where his stomach curved down on the inside of his hipbone.

“You have such soft skin,” he murmured.

“I’m a girl. That’s what we do.”

“Not the girls I’ve been with lately.”

When he finally entered me, he was sweet and gentle just as I’d expected. He was an attentive lover, checking in occasionally to make sure that I was alright. I was.

The slow, missionary fucking of my first post-breakup sex was a needed antidote to The Ex. Although our sex life had dwindled—to the point that I could no longer accurately answer the gynecologist’s question “When did you last have sex?”—when The Ex and I did have sex my ass rarely made it out of the deal without being covered in a mottled mess of bruises. Some say that vanilla is boring, but I argue that even triple super fudge can become redundant.

I could look into The Artiste’s blue eyes while we were fucking, and I could tangle my fingers in his curly hair.

Eventually, he came in my mouth and I crawled up to the head of the bed where I could rest my head on his chest and sleep.

A few hours later we woke up with grit in our eyes and went to take our exam.

We both passed.

I Am so Fucked

It’s an especially balmy night for May. The windows are open and dusk is descending. I should be out drinking, dancing, fucking, but I have an exam tomorrow morning at eight a.m. As I look over the material I realize that I’m fucked. Why did I skip so many classes?

Since I’m fucked anyway, I decide to take a study break and fuck myself. Lying in bed I take off my jeans and push them to the foot of the bed. My hand reaches into my not- getting-fucked-tonight Hello Kitty panties. My right index finger rubs slowly across my clit, switching sometimes to little circles. I’ve never used lube, natural or bottled, when masturbating with my hands; there’s not enough friction.

I don’t bother forming an elaborate fantasy and as I get more aroused I begin to use two fingers. Images flash in my brain: fingers, tongues, plugs, cocks, invading my asshole; a firm, disembodied hand reaching up to squeeze my neck; a thick cock, also disembodied, shoved deep into my throat.

My left hand reaches up and pinches my nipple, hard, hard, harder and then it strays down, clutching and scratching at my stomach.

I’m close now and the images become mere remembrances of sensations, with no definable source.

When I come I grab at my pussy, pulling on the hair. I imagine being slapped across the face as my orgasm breaks and this time the hand has a face. As my orgasm subsides I miss you in an aching flash.

In my heightened, post-orgasm state I can hear the mingling noises outside my apartment separate and become clear: the cars whooshing by, Thin Lizzy’s “The Boy’s Are Back in Town” playing somewhere, and from an apartment in the building across the street the sound of someone playing a cow bell, for Christ’s sake.

I roll out of bed and click on my iPod, adding my favorite misogynistic hip hop song, “Work That Pole” to the urban medley.

My panties are wet and clinging to me as I pad into the kitchen for a glass of water.

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[Update:I'm not sure how that exam went, but I got an A for the class, so it couldn't have been too bad. Minimal Effort Anna strikes again!]