I’ve never squirted before and have always been curious about it; and right in the moment, I was thinking of the advice they always give you: “Don’t hold back! Bear down like you’re trying to push the orgasm right out! Don’t by shy; it’s not pee!”

Well, you know what?

Sometimes, it really is pee.

…so now, I have to go do laundry at 2:00 am. Crap crap crap.

At least I was sitting half-naked in my chair instead of lying fully-clothed on my bed, so I only have to clean the chair and the towel I was sitting on instead of having to do bedding and clothes. But still, crap crap crap.

That is all.

(an internet photo of the actual item)

My original plan was to wait until I meet someone special before having sex again; and considering that my standards for ‘special’ are pretty high, that might take awhile. Until then, I think that^ delightful little hunk of plastic will sufficiently satisfy me. Hopefully.

Boyfriend: I have a quick question that’s been nagging at me awhile. And you know, I don’t want to be That Guy^TM, but you said that you want me to be honest with you no matter what. So.

Me, thankful that irritation and eye-rolling can’t be conveyed over the internet: What’s the question?

Boyfriend: Who is that guy who always posts on your facebook wall? He addressed you as ‘babe’ the other day on your wall, which made me raise my eyebrow a bit.

Me: He’s my friend. My flamingly gay friend.

Boyfriend: Ok! Well, that’s fine. I mean, now that I know.

Yeah. Now that he knew.

It’s hard to pinpoint a specific moment when I knew that I needed to break up with him; but ^that was a key turning point when I started to wonder whether it just might not work out. And it hurt because I felt so trapped – the relationship was too confining; but the thought of being alone was even more frightening¹, so I stayed far too long.
But after breaking up with him, I quickly learned independence was way more fun than I thought it’d be, and I consciously avoided relationships for a long time, wary of being trapped again. But I’ve tried meaningless casual sex and it (usually) ended up boring me, so I’m done. For now. I think.

That’s not to say that I won’t have sex outside of a committed relationship ever again; but a romantic relationship of some sort is what I’m looking for now, even though I’m not sure what it’ll look like.

It’s exciting to consider all the forms my relationships might take; and I’m kind of all over the place – I could end up someone’s bizarre housewife. Or amass a harem of naked bisexual boys. Maybe I’ll even try monogamy again².

At any rate, I think I’m finally ready to grow the fuck up.

1. Like I said, it was my first real relationship, so it was hard to let go. Plus, I had only just gotten used to the idea that people actually found me attractive – after over a dozen gloomy school years of being the only bespectacled, lisping brown kid with a weird name, you start to feel like a defective after awhile; so the sexual attention I received after leaving Nowhere, U.S.A for college in the city was kind of addicting and new.

2. In case you hadn’t figured it out, sex is incredibly important to me, and was the primary reason my first real relationship failed so massively – basically, the sex was absolutely terrible, and I constantly felt tempted to mess around on my ex because I was so unsatisfied. Plus, he was incredibly jealous and insecure, which made me feel even more resentful and confined. The relationship was my only serious, longterm experiment with monogamy, and I think it left me unduly biased. I’m not incredibly into polyamory in the way other people are – I’m not interested in maintaining multiple romantic relationships at once or anything; I just like having sex, and I often worry that if I were exclusive, I’d be caught in the same ‘bad sex’ trap all over again. But if I were in a sexually satisfying relationship with someone who wasn’t insanely insecure, I could probably make monogamy work. Probably.

• 1 Protagonist – white. male. young. preferably not much fat.

• 1 heaping cup of awkward male (hetero)sexuality.

• (optional) 1 tsp. of heavily-diluted anti-racist or feminist analysis (NOT BOTH. TOO MUCH FLAVOR MAY RESULT) to off-set that bland hetero white dude taste.

• 1/2 cup of crazy. Distant relationship with parents. stupid, spur-of-the-moment decisions. silly illegal activity. frat boy shenanigans. doesn’t matter.

• 3 cups of opposition to authority.

• infinite cans of beer

1. Marinate protagonist in awkward sexuality & beer all night long. Should be smooth, soft, and pliable by morning.

2. Slowly, gently knead in the crazy with your bare hands & firmly pound in the opposition to authority with a blunt object.

3. Boil, boil, boil until you’re left with a shapeless mass the size and consistency of an elephant stool. Sprinkle on the analysis as an afterthought, if desired.

Can be chewed up, painfully digested, and shit out into 200+ pages of unadulterated poo-poo in which nothing much happens. Ages poorly, yet the expiration date is seemingly non-existent – makes enough for thousands of 9th grade English students to consume for decades to come.

Exactly why a story about a spoiled, wealthy prep school kid who doesn’t do much in particular beyond fuck up resonates so deeply with other people is unknown to me. Holden Caulfield is worse than unlikeable – he’s uninteresting. If a nasty character is nasty in an interesting way, I’ll want to keep reading, if only to see what awful thing (s)he’s going to do next.

Whenever I bother re-reading Catcher and try to latch onto his character, though, I’m left with that same frustrating throb in my temple that I get when I gaze hungrily into a refrigerator empty of anything but a carton of curdled milk and a bottle of ketchup. I feel deprived.

All of Holden’s attempts to be introspective end up looking like meandering jumbles of text that come off as sappy at best and cringe-inducing at worst. Here, an original parody made all the worse by the fact that it could easily be real:

“So, I met this girl Edith at my uncle Jimbob’s cocktail party last Christmas. She was such a phony; she really was. She was the sort of girl who would tell you that she doesn’t want anything for Valentine’s Day and then get in a lousy mood when you don’t buy her anything. I still wanted to give her the time, though, because she had a pretty face. She had the sort of face that makes you think of pure American stuff like Jesus and baseball and Easter eggs – all soft and pale like a loaf of Wonder bread. She had on some of that pastel-colored eye gunk that girls wear, except she was wearing a whole lot of it. It killed me. At the end of the party, I got her out on the porch and was sort of trying to stare down her sweater at her knockers, but my uncle came out and ruined the whole thing before I could get sexy with Edith. Uncle Jimbob really is a sonuvabitch. It kills me.”

Eh. I wish something would.

Well, not really. Just temporarily, I guess; and without all the somber religious undertones.

My first real relationship was only a few years ago; and since then, I’ve put up with lots of lackluster sex. Initially, I was completely willing to sacrifice my own desires just to stay in a stifling, unsatisfying relationship, telling myself that the shitty sexual chemistry between me and my ex was as unimportant as a squabble over which brand of air freshener to buy.  After I broke up with him, my standards slowly evolved to something somewhat fairer.

Somewhat. I don’t keep an official tally of orgasms during sex or anything; but if I have some encounter where the guy has an orgasm one-two-three-and maybe then four times and I don’t have one at all, I consider it a bad time. In theory, sexual parity¹ is important to me; but in practice, I usually end up having sex that the boy enjoys a lot more than I do, which feels unfair to me.

After I have sex, if I end up yawning and thinking, “I might as well have just stayed home and masturbated, instead”, or if I feel I’ve just wasted 45 minutes of my life, that’s a problem. I don’t think anyone’s sex life should be that way; but unfortunately, that’s the disappointing direction mine is heading – with only a few rare exceptions, far too many of the casual sexual encounters I’ve had in the past few years have been noticeably inferior to, say, just lightly spraying my happy bits with the showerhead for 5 minutes. Basically, an unexciting waste of time; so I’ve decided to stop doing it², since most of the guidelines I set up around casual sex result in unsatisfying encounters³.

I’m not sure when I’ll start having sex again – could be next week; could be next year. Honestly, it’s most likely to fall somewhere between these two time intervals, which might be a great way to kick off my New Year.

1. Rather, I’m irritated that so many people take male orgasms for granted but don’t do the same for women. In most het sex, it’s just sort of assumed that the boy is going to have an orgasm, and if he doesn’t, it’s A Problem^TM. Female orgasms aren’t treated the same way.

2. And by ‘it’, I mean sex with people I don’t know well enough to consider friends. For whatever reason, it usually turns out poorly. Maybe because they haven’t known me long enough to really explore my body; because unfamiliar people who don’t know my body well don’t care enough to try; or because of some combination of these two.

3. For instance, after awhile of having ‘ouch!’ encounters with penetration, I said, ‘Ok. I won’t fuck unless I have an orgasm first.’, which sounds great in theory; but in practice, it sometimes just means that I end up having some boring oral sex and nothing else.

Since he's hotter than a fox in a forest fire, I'm willing to forgive the overabundant chest hair.

Look at that sweet face. Just. Look.

Unfortunately, there weren’t many photos of him half-naked (or even just shirtless, for goodness’ sake), as there often are with female stars, which made me all pouty for a few minutes before I finally decided to just go sip green tea with lemon and watch some gay porn.

…because I know what that feels like. When someone violates your space, it feels as though they’ve come along and casually dumped a lifetime of garbage onto you that you can never quite scrub off. Some days are better than others, and sometimes you can actually function normally. Until you see a hand gesture, a chuckle, a certain turn of phrase that just feels oily and wrong and undoes all your self-care, and lands you right back in the place where you hurt the most.

So henceforth, I’m going to preface potentially triggering posts with a huge ‘TRIGGER WARNING‘ in big bold red caps, because I’d rather not hurt readers the way other people have hurt me.

Granted, this can get complicated. Some people may be triggered by certain words I use for female genitalia, by my ‘dirty talk’, or anything else. Since different traumas touch across the whole plane of human experience, virtually anything can be triggering; and I’m sympathetic to that. For now, though, I’m going to restrict the trigger warning to specific pieces that involve power exchange, potentially ‘degrading’ dirty talk, and/or pain. If I feel like this isn’t enough or my writing takes a darker turn, though, I may just start putting a trigger warning on all of my erotica here.

I don’t often get comments from people who aren’t already friends with me from elsewhere; but really, don’t be shy – if you read something here that isn’t prefaced with a trigger warning and you feel it should be, feel free to comment or shoot me an e-mail to take me to task for it, and I’ll change things.

1. I’ve seen lots of people use the word ‘trigger’ as a synonym for ‘anything that upsets me’, but I usually use it to describe certain stimuli that make you relive traumatic moments from the past. To use myself as an example: Maybe this makes me a shitty bottom, but I don’t like being hit with foreign objects ever. It always reminds me of being hit as a child, which always terrified me beyond all description.

Point-by-point description of a generic, twue ‘dom’/'master’ photo:

• A bit of facial hair, preferably a goatee or perhaps a full beard.
• Baggy (preferably black) clothes that don’t reveal any skin or even a hint of sex – no muscled torso, no bulge in the pants, nothing.
• Cool, distant, ‘i m srs bsns’ expression that’s supposed to look stoic, but really just looks as though the guy is desperately trying to hold in a fart.
• Arms crossed defensively tight across the chest, discretely flexing to make his biceps look larger.

..and maybe some sunglasses, but this one is variable. Some men have apparently caught on to the fact that if you take a photo of yourself indoors next to your bookshelf full of moldy John Norman novels, wearing sunglasses just might make you look like a tool.

I crouch on all fours and crawl cautiously nearer until eye-level with your crotch; and hooking both thumbs underneath the seams, I lower your briefs deliciously slowly, inching them down over your hipbones, over the first few tufts of coarse hair between your legs. A wedge of the cotton is caught in the fleshy peach cleft of your tight ass, and the imprint from the tight seam zig-zags red and mean across your inner thigh like bite marks. You’re running a thumb back and forth across my moistened lips, slowly working your way into my mouth – thrusting in past the teeth and colliding with my tongue. I run my tongue down the length of you, savoring the salty-sweet taste of your skin. When I peer demurely up at you through my lashes, you reach around to gently squeeze the back of my neck with a warm, knowing hand. We both stop breathing for a moment, the space between us practically humming with need.

In a flash, I yank your underwear down over your thighs, playfully sinking my teeth into the smooth, pliable flesh of your left buttock. Yelping in shock, you’re taken by surprise when I pull you onto the floor with me and sit on your chest, pinning your arms down between my thighs. I rock back and forth against you, grinding my aching clit against your chest through my underwear; and your pretty mouth parts in a relieved, noiseless ‘aaaah’ as you press back up against my sliding cunt. I see the muscles delicately ripple across your torso, and I know you think you’re strong enough to take me, to just flip me onto my back and pry my legs open. But you can’t – your limbs are weighted down by your own desire; all your will reduced down to the white-hot pangs of lust between your legs. You’re mine to fuck; and my cunt warms with need for all the ways I want to take your body.

I slide forward and press my hot wet cunt against your mouth, feeling your tongue swirl around my clit as you taste me. You’re moaning and breathing hard against me, sending happy little vibrations into my eager cunt. Trapped beneath me with your cock straining against your half-lowered shorts, you’re left to explore my body with your hands – firmly kneading a tender nipple with one hand while gripping my lunging ass with the other. You trace the crack of my ass with your fingertips, then gently ease into my tight asshole, your fingers falling into a natural rhythm with your mouth as you kiss and suck on my cunt. My thighs clench and I grab a handful of your hair while I ride your face to orgasm, my cunt clenching in delicious waves against your still-working mouth.

When I finally slide off you,  you look reborn – your face is still slick with my wetness; your eyes are clenched tightly shut; and your mouth hangs slightly open in a startled ‘o’. I lean forward and kiss you deeply, the taste of your spit and my own desire mingling on my tongue.