Women seeking unicorns

Posted on February 5, 2015 by Epiphany Jordan

When we returned to my house from a fancy birthday dinner at Olivia, he looked and said, “there’s an envelope on the door. It’s for you. Go look at it.” I opened it. Inside was a letter from his kinky role-play persona to mine. (No, I won’t tell you what it said – my mom might be reading this!) It instructed me to go inside, follow the trail of clues to the next envelope. It also said there would be treats for me.

A reasonable facsimile of my bedroom the night of my birthday.

I unlocked the door, and stepped into a dark house. The floor was covered with a trail of rose petals, candy and electric candles (thoughtful of him not to burn the house down). I picked up each of the candies as I went through the living room, the office, down the hallway and into the bathroom.

I turned on the light in the bathroom, and saw another envelope taped to the mirror. When I opened it, it gave me instructions to change into the clothes that had been laid out for me, and then proceed to the bedroom for the next envelope(s). I found the outfit that corresponded to the role-play scenario he had chosen for the evening, along with two pairs of stockings. I couldn’t decide which one I was supposed to wear, so I put on one of each.

The rose petals and candles continued to the bedroom, which was also lit with candles. As my eyes adjusted, I noticed that several of our toys had been laid out, and the sex swing had been hung. There was a bottle of wine with two glasses poured on the dresser. I opened the first envelope on the bed, as instructed. It directed me to stop reading after the first paragraph, and open the second envelope. In it was a birthday card that said, “I love you. You are the center of my universe.” Going back to the letter, I was instructed to lie down on the bed, put on the blindfold, and wait for him to come in.

Yes, they did taste just as good as they look.

Our role play was punctuated with him feeding me chocolate-covered strawberries, and offering me sips of wine. At one point, he told me that I must be a witch, because I continue to get more beautiful every time he looks at me. Eventually, the role-playing gave way to round 1 of fantastic sex. After a break, we continued with round 2 of role playing (the punishment phase), followed by more hot sex. After, we talked, we kissed, we snuggled, we laughed, we listened to music, we drank wine. Hours later, we curled up together and fell asleep with smiles on our faces.

By now, I’m guessing that many reading this blog post think that I’ve been mainlining 50 Shades of Abuse Disguised As Romantic Fantasy and that it’s wishful thinking on my part. But no, this really happened, a few days after my 51st birthday. He had been telling me all week he had a big surprise planned, and only a couple of people knew about it. He had enlisted the help of two of our girlfriends, but all they knew was that they needed to show up at my house at a certain time. After we left for dinner, they arrived at the house. When they got inside, they found an explicit step-by-step list of how to set things up (there were over 30 items). To their credit, they followed it exactly. IP information He had told me during dinner that he had a big client project he was tracking that would require him to be on the phone. In reality, he was texting back and forth with our friends, giving them clarification, telling them where to find things, etc. The set-up of the house took most of the two hours we were at dinner. They left a few minutes before we got home.

He’s quite charming, once you get to know him….

While many men seem to be missing the romance gene (one of the many reasons I offer the Design-A-Date service), they are out there, though you wouldn’t know them on first glance. I had no idea that my sweetie would be the flowers-and-candy type when I met him. Most of the women I know who desperately want a boyfriend like him wouldn’t have given him the time of day had he answered their ad. Hell, it was a bit of a fluke that we even started having a conversation: he wrote a brief initial email that I normally would have ignored, but I disagreed with one of his statements and ended up replying to him. And he is a completely different man from the one who shuffled in to our first date 20 minutes late with a sad expression and a horrible shirt. He definitely didn’t step out from his horse-drawn carriage, in a tuxedo, tossing rose petals in his wake. Yet women will ignore the guys who might have that potential all the time, instead wanting the fully realized version. It used to be that a staple of fairy tales was that sometimes the frog or the ogre would turn into a handsome prince, but that seems to have been forgotten. Transformation is the cornerstone of the Hero’s Journey.

I cannot take responsibility for the person he is today – he did that on his own. He often says that he took a chance with me because he had lost so much by the time we had met that he felt he had nothing left to lose. Accepting someone, and appreciating them for what they do bring to the table, might inspire them to grow and change.

Hey, ladies, would you like to see my horn?

A friend recently said that looking for a decent boyfriend was like searching for a unicorn. My unicorn looked like an old, tired nag that was about to be sent to the glue factory when I met him. But he had good teeth, and good hooves, a strong heart and several years of life left in him. I took him home, gave him some food and water, untangled his mane and – lo and behold! – there was the horn, peeking out from under his forelock. I’m guessing he’s not the only guy out there who doesn’t look like a great catch on first glance, but who turns out to be exactly the sort of guy women are dying to date. Perhaps it’s worth hitting “reply” next time a guy who doesn’t seem to be all that sends a message to you from the dating site. Who knows? Perhaps you could find yourself walking into your house and finding it transformed into a romantic fantasy.

(NOTE: The day following the publication of this blog post, I came across this article on the history of the unicorn. Apparently the unicorn was the product of a game of telephone that transformed the lowly rhinoceros into the mythical beast. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere….)

It’s always something.

Posted on January 27, 2015 by Epiphany Jordan

It’s 6 a.m., and I awaken to the sound of my boyfriend’s alarm going off on his phone in the living room. It goes on for a solid five minutes. He hasn’t hit snooze because he’s sleeping so soundly. Fortunately for me, he’s sleeping on the couch: he has horrible sleep apnea, and if we had been sleeping in the same bed, he would have woken me up with his uneven snoring (don’t even get me started about the constant sweating, another side effect of the apnea).

Look, Ma, no wallet!

I climb out of bed a few minutes later because my own alarm has gone off. We are up early because we have to catch a plane at 8 a.m. He’s sleeping heavily, so I start shaking his foot. He has only been sleeping for three hours. The previous night we had gone to visit friends in San Antonio, and the next morning I got a panicked text message from him telling me that he thinks he’s left his wallet there, and can I make sure it’s where he left it. Yes, the wallet has been found, and I spend a couple hours working out the logistics to get it back. I cannot manage to find a friend who is heading up to Austin, so he spent three hours driving there and back to pick it up.

Dude, give me just 5 more minutes.

To say that my man is not a morning person does little to convey the difficulty of waking his ass up. If he had his druthers, he would be up until 3 a.m. every night. When we were living together, I would spend about an hour gently trying to wake him. I would kiss him, shake him, whisper silly questions in his ear….lather, rinse, repeat. I marveled at his ability to fall back to sleep so easily. While he never reached full-on anger when I insisted he get vertical, he frequently resembled a polar bear who had had his winter hibernation interrupted.

This morning, though he doesn’t have an hour for his brain to come online. We are on a tight schedule and need to scramble. In the process of putting his last bits of stuff into his suitcase, he discovers he can’t find the stuff sack for his sleeping bag, and pushes its fluffiness onto an already bulging pile of belongings. When he goes to zip it shut, the zipper breaks. Quickly he retrieves two smaller suitcases and starts stuffing his belongings into them, all the while grumbling under his breath. We finally make it out the front door.

As he is packing, he discovers he’s out of cigarettes. He stops on the porch to grab a half-smoked one in the ashtray, but it’s disappeared (that was my fault). His nicotine-starved brain panics. Since there are no cigarettes at the airport, we stop for some. The minutes are ticking by and I am worried we will miss our flight. I had planned to be on the road at 6:30, and it is now 6:50. Things are not looking good.

Running through the airport: it’s what’s for breakfast.

We get the car parked, grab the shuttle and run to the baggage check. We may have missed the cut-off for our bags. We have a few minutes to spare, but there is something wrong with his name in the computer. We go in to the counter, get the name thing sorted and surprise – unexpected luggage charge! Boarding passes in hand, we head outside for a final cigarette. As we are rushing to security, suddenly he realizes he needed to pee. (I’ve never understood this about him; my bladder tells me it wants to be emptied long before I’m about to pee my pants.) Security kills another ten minutes; the boyfriend absolutely refuses to go through the microwave scan and has to be manually patted down by a friendly TSA agent every time we fly.

We make it to our gate right as they call our names for the final boarding call. He falls back to sleep as I type this. Of course.

It was an annoying, unnecessarily stressful morning. I do not like to travel this way.

This is how I do like to travel: I’m a morning person, and know how to wake up and hustle out the door, regardless of the ungodly hour. Air travel is one of the most annoying rituals of modern life, but I have come to a place where I accept the adversity, grit my teeth, deal with discomfort, and stoically get through the unpleasantness to put my ass in a small seat so I can go see people, places and things that rock my world. I do my best to be efficient, upbeat and kind (I swear it’s gotten the counter agent to take my luggage after the cutoff period more than once.)

Over the past three years, I’ve learned that we have different ways of dealing with getting to the airport, and usually we end up doing it his way. Because I have been paying attention in therapy, I did my damnedest this morning to let him have his emotions. I didn’t try to cheer him up or tell him to look on the bright side. I lost my temper briefly. All in all, things went much better than our previous trip when he almost passed out due to low blood sugar and I snapped at him because we were running late and didn’t have time to grab him a snack. (That one goes in the Girlfriend Hall of Shame.)

Your chariot awaits, but it’s not taking you where you think you’re going….

At this point, the average single woman is shaking her head and saying to herself she’d never put up with a dude like this. Not only does her mythical soulmate not smoke or overpack or lose his wallet, but he has been sitting at the gate for at least 15 minutes before they begin boarding. He will hold her hand on the flight and order champagne to celebrate the beginning of the fabulous trip to a romantic destination of her choice (of course he’s picking up the tab). Traveling together will be a joy, a grand adventure, and absolutely perfect…like everything else in their relationship.

Ladies, please, by all means, keep on fantasizing. Because you know what? There’s always something. It might be something small, like he doesn’t know that socks go in the hamper (he may not even be acquainted with the large, rectangular box in the corner of the room), or something large, like you’re a morning person and he’s a night owl. Quite likely it will be both…and dozens more somethings. When two full-grown adults partner, they move through the world in different ways, and this causes all sorts of friction. Even when there are enormous amounts of compatibility, there will always be something.

One of the most bullshit parts of the romantic myth is that you and your soulmate are going to be completely and utterly compatible. It says that your political views, your taste in music, your favorite brand of toilet paper, your favorite album in college – all these things will neatly line up in a symbiotic, sychronistic, cosmic, serendipitous way. Because your soulmate is THE ONE, the peanut butter to your jelly, the alpha to your omega, the perfect person, the guy whose previous relationships were only a dress rehearsal for your amazing, glorious, peaceful union. What could POSSIBLY go wrong?

The struggle. It’s real.

The good news is that when you fall in love, you get to enjoy that fantasy for about three months. The bad news is that fantasy usually collides with reality, and you find out that your prince charming hates tomatoes, is consistently late for dinner, plays video games late into the night and sees no reason why he shouldn’t continue to do these things, thank you very much. Sometimes, it’s just too much to handle, and you return him before the 100-day money-back-guarantee trial period is over (minus the $50 restocking fee, of course), or you decide to keep him and go about trying to change him and mold him to match the perfect picture in your head. Then, the power struggles begin. And somewhere in universe, a thousand therapists are rubbing their hands gleefully and thinking, “I’m going to make a lot of money off of these two.”

What if your perfect guy was the one who was there not to passively fulfill your every wish and desire, but had shown up to sand down your rough spots where you find it hard to practice compassion, patience, empathy or forgiveness? What if partnership’s primary purpose is self-growth, and love is a by-product of that process? What if you find out that People Magazine isn’t lying, and that partners are people just! like! us! They shop! They are distracted! They make mistakes! What if instead of trying to make your partner change himself, you set the alarm 30 minutes earlier, put snacks in your bag and make sure you have several packs of cigarettes on hand to make the morning go more smoothly, because you are much better at organizing and planning than he is?

A balanced relationship contains good and bad.

Balance. It’s hard. But you can’t have it without the good and the bad.

In the short term, in the moment, shit like getting on a plane with him drives me nuts, stresses me out, makes me angry and puts a big frown on my face. In the grand scheme of things, though, the positive far outweighs the negative. I know he loves me deeply, is devoted and kind, makes me laugh, and will be there for me when life is beating me to a pulp. Hell, I’ll put up with a lot of nicotine meltdowns (and cigarette butts in his pockets that don’t get discovered until after I do the laundry) to have a steady supply of yummy, orgasmic, heart-connected sex. Not only will I put up with it, I’ll walk to the fucking store to get him cigarettes to keep his annoying ass around because I love him so much, and wouldn’t trade him for the world.

Because he loves my annoying ass, and wants to keep me around too.

Mister Fister

Posted on January 17, 2011 by Epiphany Jordan

(This piece was originally performed at Bedpost Confessions in January 2011. It was a bit strange to get up and tell such a vulnerable story one week after I had asked my husband for a divorce, but hey, I apparently like to live on the edge…)

Friday evening, and I was bored. Earlier, I had met a guy at the Jackalope who had chatted me up online that morning. We had a couple drinks, sat in his car on 6th street and smoked a joint and went back to the bar. I walked in the bathroom, walked back out and told him I was going home. I had no idea that I was going to do that until the words came out of my mouth, but there it was. I could have easily taken him to bed, but it didn’t seem worth the effort.

Wanting some amusement, I decided to put an ad on Craigslist Casual Encounters women seeking women section. Now, I am sadly, inexplicably and hopelessly a straight girl. Don’t get me wrong: I absolutely adore women. Sometimes i’m even sexually attracted to them. But when we actually start kissing, it’s kind of like two magnets repelling each other. There is, however, one sex act where women are the logical choice: fisting. Because their appendages are usually smaller than a man’s, they are hands down better (pun intended). So on this particular Friday evening, I put up an ad, with the headline, “Fist Me. Please.” I described myself, explained that I was straight and why I was seeking a woman.

I checked my hook-up email account 30 minutes later, and found half a dozen responses…from men. Apparently women in my city don’t spend much time on Craigslist Casual Encounters, and who could blame them? My past forays in Casual Encounters had netted me dozens of clueless bottom feeders. I’d love to find out how many of them have had Angelina Jolie show up at their houses at midnight on a Friday after she answered their ad.

Well yeah, but can we get to know each other a bit first?

I perused the answers, and sent a short email back to some of the guys. What is your experience level with this activity? Can you host? Are you willing to meet in a public place? Will you respect my boundaries? Several of them responded well, but then started asking me for other things. Nope, sorry. I’m not interested in reciprocating, and no, I don’t want to have sex with you. I want this specific fantasy fulfilled, and that’s about it. One guy seemed pretty nice, but he wasn’t available on Saturday afternoon; naturally he asked if I would come over immediately. Um, NO.

Saturday afternoon I got a couple more new emails, and tried to avoid getting into prolonged conversations with these guys. At this point, I was feeling fairly annoyed by the whole process. Perhaps I should have fingered my delete button a bit more.

On Sunday, I got an email from a guy who said fisting was a huge fetish of his. He was coming to town on business that week and was happy to host, and he didn’t want me to reciprocate. He was friendly and nice, and had good communication skills. I wrote him back, asked a bit more about his experience level, and sent him the requested photo of myself.

And then, he did the most amazing thing: he sent me a picture of himself, with his clothes on, and NO PENIS anywhere to be seen.

Please allow me a brief rant here on guys trying to hook up. Despite how many times they read that women don’t want to see pictures of their dicks, they insist on sending them. My theory is that they strike out so often that this is the only way they will ever get a woman to see their penises. Don’t get me wrong – I love dick, and have been known to fall on my knees and drool when a man unzips his pants and reveals a beautiful cock, but honestly, I’m much more interested in what your other head looks like. I’m not a porn watcher, and am unlikely to be turned on by the mere sight of your throbbing manhood. But alas, they just don’t seem to get it.

End of rant.

I’ve decided that I like this fellow, and we get out our respective calendars and agree to meet the following afternoon for lunch because he wants to make sure I’m not a psycho. I call to make the arrangements. On the phone, he suggests that perhaps if we like each other, after lunch we can climb into the back of my car and I can pull up my skirt so he can have a little look-see. Nice!

I show up at the restaurant, and he is sitting near the window. We greet each other, order our food, and sit down at a quiet table. He tells me he is surprised that I showed up.

The first thing I notice is that he’s wearing a wedding ring. I myself am married, but my husband and I are openly non-monogamous. I don’t do cheaters, though, so I grill him about the status of their marriage. He has told his wife about contacting me. I tell him that he must get her explicit permission, and that if she says no, the deal is off.

The second thing I notice is that his hands aren’t exactly small. The last male partner I had who was able to fist me was a little guy. My husband has tried, repeatedly, but his hands are about the size of the Texas panhandle, and there’s just no way it’s gonna happen. I’m skeptical about my new friend, but he assures me that it is possible with the proper combination of time, lube and relaxation.

We talk more about our past experiences with fisting, discuss our respective STD histories, and swap info on our relationships. He’s a sweet guy, and seems honest. By the end of our lunch, I’m ready to spread my legs and let him stick as many of his gloved fingers inside of me as he can manage. I have tentative plans for the evening, but cancel them. He texts me and tells me he’s gotten the go-ahead from his wife and we arrange to meet up after work.

The remaining couple of hours of my work day are filled with nasty text messages and emails. I ask him if it’s okay masturbate when I get home, and he say yes, but send some pictures. It’s difficult with the camera phone to get the angle right without being able to see it, but I manage to send him a few beautiful shots of my genitals with my pyrex dildo sticking out from them. Finally, it’s time to head for his hotel.

He’s gotten a room with two beds; I suspect that by the time we get done, things will be messy. We chat for a few minutes, and try to establish our boundaries. Because there will be no intercourse involved, it doesn’t feel appropriate to kiss or snuggle. We are about to leave for dinner, but instead he pulls down the sheets on one of the beds, throws a towel down, stacks up some pillows for my back, puts on a glove and asks me to lie down. I oblige, and he sits down between my open knees and begins sliding a couple of fingers in and out of me, looking into my eyes. I moan and wiggle, open my legs further, trying to accommodate more of him. He pours more lube out, and continues to try to push more of his hand in, working four of his fingers and part of his thumb into me. I’m feeling very turned on. And then, he stops, pulls off the glove and tells me it’s time to go get dinner. I try not to pout. I want him to keep going, and he knows it.

We grab a light meal. During dinner, he tells me about some of his own experiences of being fisted. He has spent years working to stretch out his rectum to accommodate a hand. It makes me feel better to know that he has been on the receiving end of this sort of extreme play. We’re laughing and joking like old friends by the time we head back for the hotel.

It’s been a hot August day, and I want a swim, so we suit up and head out for the pool. My friend pulls me close and starts gently rubbing my crotch through the swimsuit and tweaks my nipples while we’re talking. Suddenly I’ve had enough of swimming, and suggest we get out of the pool. Now.

In the room, we adjust the A/C to make it a bit warmer, strip off our clothes, and assemble supplies: towels, gloves, three different kinds of lube, pillows, my trusty Hitachi Magic Wand with its “God Masturbates” sticker on it. I lie down on the bed with my knees apart, and he sits between my open legs again. He pours huge quantities of cocoa butter lotion on his hands and my genitals, and starts working his fingers into me, first two, then three and four.

Love is a fist!

A big smile comes over his face as he works on me. “I love doing this,” he purrs. “I could do it all day long, every day.” His fingers twist and push as he tries to get me into that space where I’m both aroused and relaxed. He starts going back and forth from hand to hand, putting one set of fingers in while the other is on its way out. His hands are sideways, and as they meet it looks quite a bit like he’s praying. I suppose, in a way, he is. He continues working me open with both his hands like this for about 30 minutes. I lie back, eyes closed, enjoying the sensations, willing my muscles to relax more.

He squirts more lube on his right hand, curls his thumb into his palm, and presses and twists. I yelp in discomfort, and he backs off. But the relentless pressure is causing me to loosen up some, and he presses his hand in again, trying to get it past the second knuckle of his thumb.

He has been staring into my eyes, staying very present with me. We are engaged in an act that is, in many ways, much more intimate than intercourse. I have long held the belief that every man should get fucked up the ass at least once (by a woman with a strap-on, of course) so he can understand what women feel like when they allow a man to get inside their body. So much trust required to cross that particular boundary. This one seems to get that.

As we get closer, he begins to talk dirty to me. “When I finally get it in there, I’m gonna fuck you with my whole hand, and you’re gonna come so hard. You’re gonna love it so much, I’m going to turn you into a fisting slut. You will be begging me for it.”

I moan, and start rubbing on my pubic bone, stimulating my g-spot from the outside. “Yes, please. You can tell how bad I want your whole hand in there.”

He pushes some more. “Yeah, I know you want it. Don’t worry, we’ll get there.” He gives a really hard push…almost. The pressure is too much. I gasp, and he backs off again.

I grab my vibrator and tell him I’m going to get myself off. He continues moving his hand back and forth, pushing up so that i’m getting g-spot stimulation from both the inside and the outside. I feel my vaginal muscles tense and begin to contract. It’s a wonder I don’t break his fingers. I come quickly, and switch off the vibrator.

Perhaps this wasn’t the best idea. The orgasm has made me sensitive, and we decide to take a break. I empty my bladder, and grab some water and a snack.

We start back up again after 15 minutes. My pussy is feeling sore and swollen, and the latex from the gloves is beginning to rub me raw. I ask him to gently massage the sides and bottom of my vagina to get it to relax. He puts his hand in as far as it will comfortably go, and holds it still. I can feel tiny little orgasmic tremors as my pussy starts talking to his hand, but when he tries to push any further, my body says no.

He removes his hand. “You’ve had enough for the night,” he says, while taking the gloves. “Your pussy needs some time to think about what it’s experienced.” He comes back over to the bed, and kisses me on the cheek. “You did really well.” He hands me some chocolate.

“Thank you,” I murmur. He lies down on the bed next to me, and we face each other, bodies apart. I put my arm over his side, and ask him if it’s okay to touch him like this. I know I’m feeling a bit distant, having a difficult time bridging the gap back to being strangers in a hotel room, and suspect he feels the same.

Next time I’m just going to buy one of these famous lesbian fists….

My body begins to feel a little shocky, and it’s a school night. My friend needs to call his wife and baby and say goodnight before it’s too late. I walk through the hotel lobby, carrying my gym bag full of goodies, smiling to myself and hoping the desk clerk doesn’t notice me leaving.

We got together and played once more, but after he got home, I got a nasty text message from his wife. It turns out he had lied to me about having her blessing, and that was the end of that.

My husband has continued to try to push his extra-large hands inside of me. It’s fun, but still unlikely to happen. I will wait patiently until I find my Mistress Fister. But that’s a story for another day….