Receiving Head

If anyone, even Mr. Scott, asks “How can I pleasure you?” I’m likely to answer, “Get me a glass of wine and some chocolate chip cookies and leave me alone to watch an episode of West Wing.” A couple years ago I read a blog post by a woman who said she also dreaded those words even though she loved oral sex. (I wish I could remember where I read that!) It made me so happy to know I wasn’t the only woman like this.

This is one area of my sex life where I want someone to take charge (in a trusting, consensual way of course). Grab me and pull me to you. Put your hand in my pants and feel my wetness. Pull my underwear off. I want to lie back and let you do what you have learned through careful research are the things I love. (Mr. Scott seems to really enjoy doing all that research.)

I like a lot of things and it’s tricky to find the right combination sometimes. I know how to get myself off in about five minutes when I need a maintenance orgasm but working this out with someone else, even a long-term partner who knows me well, isn’t always easy.

I love having my clit worked over. Sometimes lightly. Sometimes firm pressure. Sometimes rubbing hard. Wide tongue lapping (although not like a slobbery dog), deliberate tongue tip flickering.

I love having something inside me. Fingers hitting my g-spot. The surprise of a cold, large, stainless steel dildo. A small vibrator delicately inserted. I often close my eyes and don’t know what Mr. Scott is up to until I feel it.

When I need something specific I’ll say so. If something is uncomfortable or for any reason not working I’ll say so.

I know this isn’t exactly a precise road map to my oral pleasure. I don’t have a lot of patience if things aren’t going right but I’ll put a stop to it and suggest trying something else if it’s not working. It takes a lot of patience on my partner’s part and the ability to read me and a willingness to learn about me. But once you figure it out, take charge. Be enthusiastic. Let me relax and enjoy myself. Because once I hit the zone I’m not going to be able to say much, or do anything other than lose myself in the moment, and you’ll be on your own for a bit. Carry on with whatever you’re doing until either orgasm or further instructions.

I was listening to Louder than Bombs this morning while I took a break from writing this post to have breakfast. When this song came on it made me smile, bringing my mind back to this topic. I really do like to stretch out and wait.

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Sinful Sunday: Giving Head

I wish I could wax eloquently about giving head. I read descriptions from women who love it and I think, “That’s nice for them.” I don’t love doing it except for one thing. I love Mr. Scott’s reaction. It doesn’t give me a sense of power or control. Sometimes it turns me on but mostly I’m concentrating so much on Mr. Scott that I forget about my own satisfaction for those few minutes. (I get plenty of my own satisfaction when I need it and want it.)

I love him. I love that he loves when I give him a blow job. That’s all there is to it.

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Sinful Sunday

 

See You at the Park

“I’ll be at the southwest corner of the park at a quarter past two this afternoon,” I told him and then hung up before he replied.

By ten past, I’m in my usual spot, sitting on the ground. I admired my legs, stretched out before me, long and tan after the summer of running. The grass smelled sweet and the sun was warm. It was a perfect afternoon to be in the park.

I look up at 2:15. I spot him running along the path in my direction. He’s wearing my favorite t-shirt. I smile. He looks straight ahead.

He’s running fast today, breathing hard. He must have started late. I love that he worked hard to be here on time for me. I watch his leg muscles slide under his skin, pushing him along.

He stops at a bench about five feet away from me, leaning over the back and panting. He looks around, avoiding eye contact with me. He stands up straight and tall and slowly pulls the t-shirt over his head. I watch his arms, his torso, stretched out in front of me.

He drops the t-shirt over the back of the bench. He rests there for another minute then continues running down the path, not as quickly now.

I sit absolutely still until he’s out of sight around the corner then I scramble to my feet and rush to the bench. I pick up the shirt in both hands and lift it to my face, breathing in deeply. I love the smell of him. Sweat and shampoo and whatever it is that makes him smell like him.

I throw the shirt over one shoulder and decide to stroll home slowly, making him wait for me to join him there, taking my time enjoying his scent.

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Sinful Sunday: Roll in the Rolleiflexes

This idea came from a Twitter acquaintance but it’s also the kind of boudoir shot I’d send to Mr. Scott. These are two of his many antique cameras. I took them out for a little fun while he was away.

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Mr. Scott’s text reply was, “Damn!!! Nice work.” (I double-checked to make sure I noted the correct number of exclamation marks.) With two of his favorite things in one shot — boobs and Rolleis — I’m not 100% sure which he was complimenting first. 🙂

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Sinful Sunday

Sinful Sunday: Running with Friends

Several weeks ago I had an exchange with Exhibit A on Twitter. I’d noticed from his tweets that he’d just come back from running and I had just come back from running, too. He sent me a pic of his running shorts because I have a thing for running shorts. I sent him the following pic back just before I got into the shower.

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I love having friends all over the world who sometimes end up going running at the same time as me, an ocean apart.

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Sinful Sunday

Welcome Home

I was sitting on the porch in my pajamas still, drinking coffee and reading the paper (well, one of the newspapers I subscribe to on my Kindle) and my hand absentmindedly brushed my leg. I was surprised to feel a rough patch along the soft flannel. I looked and didn’t see a stain. I racked my brain for a moment. I’d just taken these pajama bottoms out of the dryer last night before bedtime. I hadn’t had a chance to spill anything on them.

Then I remembered.

An early morning blow job.

Mr. Scott came home yesterday after being gone for several weeks. He woke up early this morning from jet lag. I woke up just enough to realize he was awake.

After, as I snuggled up against him, I felt the cool moisture, the patch of flannel sticking to my leg. But I didn’t move away or clean up. We stayed snuggled in, alternating between dozing and kissing, until we heard our daughter wake up.

They’ve gone out now and I’m still sitting on the porch, drinking my coffee and fingering that little rough patch on the flannel and thinking about what’s to come later tonight.

Sculpture Garden

It’s in the middle of the city but I don’t think many people pay it any mind. Tourists seem to not know it exists. It’s a little too far out of the way for most office workers to visit for lunch.

I’ve kept it my secret but I fantasize about meeting you there, in the sculpture garden. I frequently go out of my way to pass it because of the thrill I get thinking of a rendezvous.

In warm weather the shadows are cool and inviting. In rain a black umbrella in a dark corner wouldn’t be noticed by the few passersby rushing by.

The smooth features of the one sculpture that always stops me in my tracks reminds me of a fleshy jumble of limbs.

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For months I passed by at street level, peeking, until one day I had the courage to descend the steps into the garden proper. Like approaching a crush I’d been too timid to talk to.

Over time I felt welcomed. I began exploring other parts of the garden, meeting its other inhabitants. They drew me back time and time again.

My heart raced when I discovered it. A parting in the ivy appears when you look at Rodin’s “Crouching Woman” from a certain angle, revealing a slight path behind the ivy, a secret welcome for lovers. As if the sculptures had been pointing me toward it, once I’d learn to look at them properly.

I think of sneaking in early, at sunrise. Or at dusk. Darkness would be safest. But I also want to be daring,  at that time of morning after the first wave of tourists has walked by and before any workers break for lunch. In the sun. In the heat of the day. We’ll be looking at “Crouching Lady” one moment, pretending to admire it hand-in-hand as we wait for the garden to clear of anyone else, then we’ll slip away behind the ivy.

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