Aliens Among Us

Posted on April 17, 2014 by Epiphany Jordan

(This piece was written for/performed at the April 2014 Bedpost Confessions.)

Take me to your leader….

Esteemed members of the Xelara grand counsel, thank you for allowing me to report on Project Propagation. As you know, Xelara is always on the lookout for fresh blood to interject into our population. Interbreeding has allowed us to thrive; we are one of the most envied races in all the galaxies, and not just because of our incredible taste in footwear and ability to bilocate. Unfortunately, if we don’t find a new humanoid race to breed with soon, we will deteriorate into a race of inbred dullards. Like you, I was very excited to discover the planet referred to as Earth in a solar system about 10 galaxies away. On first glance, its inhabitants seem ideal for our purposes – they are physically beautiful, with well-developed brains and an advanced civilization. But when I walked among them, and observed their customs and practices with regard to mating, well, I realized that I cannot recommend that we interbreed with them. This report will outline my findings.

I gathered my information during a 3-month stay on the planet. I chose to embed myself in a city in the northern hemisphere known as Austin, Texas. Texas is the second-largest state in a country known as America, and Austin is its capital. The weather is hot for most of the year, and people often socialize outdoors while scantily clad. It is also home to the University of Texas, the largest institution of higher learning in America. Much of this report comes from observing its students, who are amongst the best and brightest in the country. Unfortunately, their formal education regarding mating is woefully neglected, and they learn about sex from their media. They spend most of their time with their eyes glued to electronic devices, even when they are studying or visiting with friends.

Counsel members. Scary doesn’t even begin to describe what these children learn, and how it manifests in their sex lives. I was shocked, and saddened, by their attempts to mate. Please allow me to elucidate.

I first turn your attention to the females. From the time they are born, girls are bombarded with the message that their worth is based solely upon their appearance. Through the thorough application of the color pink, they learn that to be female is to be soft, demure, agreeable and – above all – pretty. They are told tales of princesses whose faces are so fair that every person and forest creature in the realm loves her, and that their beauty will attract a handsome prince. This prince will be her soulmate and it is their destiny to be together. (tried as I might, I could never figure out what sex had to do with shoes?) Both of them recognize this connection from the first moment their eyes meet, and finding the prince means the princess will live happily ever after. (Apparently soulmates agree on everything and never argue.)

And they lived happily ever after…not.

As these girls grow into women, they spend more and more time obsessing about their appearance. They constantly battle with their weight, and despair when they gain a fraction of an ounce. They are expected to reach an ideal of physical perfection that few possess naturally, and when they don’t, their self-esteem crumbles away. (This made no sense to me, an intelligent mind is the most erotic feature of a female.) While hormones rage through their bodies, they are told to abstain from sex, that it is something so special that it is reserved for their one and only soulmate. But they must wait for him to appear, and remain chaste and pure. If they don’t, they will end up being as worthless as a piece of previously chewed gum. (I know, I know…previously chewed gum is considered a delicacy on our planet!) When the prince does appear, he professes his undying love with an extremely expensive piece of rock for her finger so that everyone will know that she is worthy because this man finds her beautiful. The battle cry of the princess who has yet to meet her soulmate is “put a ring on it” or rather, put a ring on it (whispered).

The mating ritual that comes next is called a wedding. Everything a girl has done has led to this magical moment, and many girls spend years fantasizing about the ritual and the dress. (Rarely have I seen so many ugly dresses in all my life; the brides often looked like they were sitting in a pile of sugar.) Never mind that the girls have yet to find their soulmates; that is a minor detail that will come later on. Of course everyone can see how eternal, perfect, amazing and beautiful the couple’s union is, and their commitment will be both monogamous and lifelong.

After the ceremony, finally, the two of them mate. It is the female’s first time being sexual. Even though she has been given no opportunities to explore her own sexuality, somehow her prince magically knows just how and where to touch her, and their first night together results in a passionate union. She allows herself to fully flower as a woman under the strong, masculine guidance of her prince, and of course they reach their climax at the same time. It is as amazing as every story she read promised her it would be. And she just knows that this is only the beginning, and that their sex life will only continue to get better and more intimate. She and the prince will be utterly, passionately devoted to each other until they are in their old age, and they sit contentedly holding hands, surrounded by their children and grandchildren. The story always ends in happily ever after. Maybe they never die?

This story is in great contrast to the one the males are told. From an early age, they learn that to be a man means they have to lock up their emotions and their hearts. The men on earth often have higher sex drives than the women, and during puberty their bodies appear to vibrate with pent-up sexual tension. Because the girls are not supposed to have sex with the boys, the boys often satisfy themselves with visual entertainment and self-pleasure. There is a huge market for sex videos; it is one of the biggest industries on the planet, and men learn about sex from watching them. In these videos, the women were uniformly attractive, devoid of genital hair and had large, round, firm breasts like balloons. They always wore very tall high heels; perhaps these were the shoes that indicate whether or not a woman is a man’s soulmate?

Because every boy deserves the threesome of his dreams….

From watching these films, the males learn that they are entitled to have sex with any woman they choose and that within five minutes of meeting her, she will pull her clothes off and be available to them. (Most of the time she will bring along a friend as well and the man can watch them have sex too.) It seems that the only function women serve is to satisfy men sexually, and the women have no life or identity outside of that role! In many of the movies, they didn’t even have a name. Apparently on earth, conversation is not an aphrodisiac.

The sexual acts depicted in films are frequently degrading, and they are devoid of any emotion or connection. The women tended to scream very loudly, though I couldn’t tell if it was from pleasure or pain. While it is possible that some of the women in these films are enjoying themselves, many of them have glazed looks in their eyes, and their enthusiasm appears to be faked. When the man is satisfied, he will pull out and spill his seed over the woman’s body or face. (perhaps this was some sort of special skin treatment?) The popularity of these films led me to believe that men who are fathers would be very proud to see their own daughters appearing in such films.

Xelara Grand counsel members, I can see by your faces that you are as shocked as I was. There were many times I wondered how this race survived and replicated itself. It is almost as if the males and the females are from two different planets, speaking different languages. In contrast to these contented images the media portrayed, I saw anger, frustration, sadness, pain and loneliness as young people learned that their fantasies and expectations rarely matched up with the reality. Reproduction is often unplanned and accidental, and done without consciousness, and the family unit frequently disintegrates, leaving the children heartbroken and yearning to create their own ideal fantasy relationships. And thus the cycle starts all over again.

As you know, our race lives to be about 200, and we have collectively decided that each person should be allowed to have one child. As such, we make sure that when we do choose to breed, the child will be planned and the product of a well-matched couple. Our race is known across the galaxy for our prowess in sexuality. Sex is always a gift, something beautiful, wondrous and fleeting to be cherished and remembered. It is an honor and a privilege when another allows himself to be naked and vulnerable in front of you, and we take that responsibility very seriously. We spend years cultivating connections with others, and passion and intimacy flourish in all sorts of configurations. While it is possible that two individuals will commit to each other for a lifetime, we recognize that people’s wants and needs change, and that the spark of eroticism might lead us into the arms of others. As we age, we develop a network of close, sweet friends and lovers who nurture us and expand our capacity for love and pleasure.

Sex that involves hearts and parts tastes delicious.

The only thing better than to know oneself sexually is to know another sexually. It can take a lifetime to find the right people. We can spend years getting to know a person. We take our time and let the attraction build prior to acting on it; with 200 years, there is never a need to hurry. When you meet someone, there’s usually one physical thing that attracts you: the deepness of her voice, or maybe his soft belly. But most important is how a person smells: when we hug another for the first time and put our faces in the nape of their neck, we are seeking those whose scent is as intoxicating as a field of spring flowers in bloom, and we want to drown in a bathtub of that perfume. We want someone whose arms fit perfectly around our waists, and whose heads rest under our chins, like our bodies are two puzzle pieces that fit together. Sex is our playground; it’s the place where we can exchange our everyday archetypes, masks and personas for different ones, where we can laugh and giggle, tease and experiment. We look for the people whose bodies, hearts and souls combine to give us pleasure that overwhelms and shuts outs the rest of the world, who make our nervous systems light up like a Christmas tree with every touch. As women, we seek the cock that fits like a hand in a glove, and will hit that special, tender spot that is so intense it feels like it’s tickling our soul. We cling to our partners as if they were the last person alive, every cell of our bodies seeking to get closer, trying desperately to merge into one. Our souls overflow the boundaries of our bodies. The friction builds, and the pleasure becomes almost unbearable, washing over us like waves until they finally reach the shore. And when we’re done, and we hold each other, laughing, crying, sweating, sighing and smiling, we can look into each other’s eyes, and see our reflection, and know we are animal, humanoid and divine.

Xelara Grand Counsel Members, it is my greatest wish that the people of Austin, Texas would stop listening to the lies their media tells them. Great sex isn’t about the hottest girl doing the most outrageous thing, or how beautiful a woman looks on her wedding day. Great sex is as individual as a fingerprint. Perhaps these children will untether themselves from their electronic devices, learn to follow their noses and – most importantly – think for themselves. Let’s hope for their sake that someday, they do.

Thank you for allowing me to present this report. I am happy to explore other planets and species that might be good for Project Propagation. Surely, somebody out there must be doing it right.

Your loyal servant, Xensana

Womansplaining

Posted on December 17, 2012 by Epiphany Jordan

(This piece was performed at the December 2012 Bedpost Confessions. My boyfriend was working in a fairly public role at the time, and he attended the show in drag. I love that man….)

Womansplaining

Oftentimes my man will tell his fellow geek friends stories about our sex life, and they will get quiet and stare at him open-mouthed. They will say shit like, “Dude, you’re living in a porn film. Teach me how to do what you do.” But it’s not really anything that he does. It’s more about the perspective inside his head and how he treats me. Apparently they think there’s some software that will get a woman to have super hot sex with you if you just have the reg key.

Guys, let me give you a piece of your own advice: Read the Fucking Manual. Oh, wait – you can’t find the manual? Well here, let me help you out. I’ve decided to write down what it is I appreciate about him that makes me give him everything that he wants in bed. Hopefully, this will give you a few bread crumbs about how you might get the sort of erotic relationship you want. Well, here it is: Womansplaining: The Manual.

Introduction: Light My Fire.

The time to hesitate is through, no time to wallow in the mire.

My man and I met on Craigslist Casual Encounters. He was one of dozens who responded to my ad. I wasn’t expecting much – I’ve spent hours reading inarticulate, badly written porn scripts, oh, I mean, emails, and deleting dick pictures from guys who can’t follow instructions. I have had dozens of conversations with guys who stopped communicating the second they saw my picture and realized that Angelina Jolie was not going to be showing up at their house and having sex with them at midnight on a Friday. I have had guys meet me and tell me bald-faced, bullshit lies to get out of having to tell me that they aren’t attracted to me. On rare occasion, I’ve had some mediocre sex. But this time, it was different. This guy turned me on from the get-go, and hasn’t stopped since. I have been ecstatically, orgasmically surprised by how this man has exceeded all my expectations. Not only is a fantastic lover, he’s a genuinely kind person. Hooking up with him was kinda like getting a royal flush on the dollar slots at the airport on my way out of Reno.

You must be thinking that this guy is some sort of cross between Steve Jobs, Stephen Hawking and George Clooney, but that’s not the case. He’s not drop-dead gorgeous. He’s not rich. He doesn’t have flawless social skills. He doesn’t drive a sports car, have a huge cock or ripped abs. These are the things that men think matter to women, and that without them they don’t stand a chance. In all honesty, these things don’t carry much weight with women who aren’t shallow, and they will do nothing to compensate if they are attached to a man who treats women like dirt. Status symbols are the sort of things that may attract a woman in the short-term, but they will not keep her. These days, you gotta work for it.

So, what is it that does turn me on about this guy?

Chapter One: R-E-S-P-E-C-T

R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me!

My man respects me as a person. He understands that I have hopes, dreams, fears, likes, dislikes, and a million galaxies worth of thoughts inside my head. He respects my intelligence, my drive, my creativity, my ambitions, and my accomplishments. He treats me like I’m his equal, and I reciprocate. He understands that my life and where I’m going is every bit as important to me as his is to him. In other words, he pays attention to the person I am when we’re not having sex. He gets that what makes me good in bed is much, much more than what I look like.

This is a huge contrast to how many men behave, especially when they are trying to have casual sex. In their minds, women should exist only during that space of time when they’re fucking them, and that during that time it’s a woman’s sole purpose to be hot, wet, ready and obsessed about having anal sex, followed by cum all over her face. It’s as if nothing else about her life matters – they have no interest in the fact that she might have had a bad day at work, or that she’s fighting with her best friend (unless, of course, said best friend can come over for a threesome). I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat across a table from a guy who talks about nothing but himself – all he wants is a hot chick to serve as his groupie. Newsflash: women do not exist solely as sex objects. Sometimes we like to be treated like sex objects, but we like that sort of shit with men who respect us as people and are role-playing that we are dirty little sluts. Guys who actually feel that way about women are called misogynists, and they tend to scare the shit out of me. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to fuck one.

Look, I don’t need love in order to have sex with someone. But if you’re not giving me love, you sure as hell need to be giving me respect. I know this statement probably places me in the territory that many men seem to despise – feminist – but hey, that’s what a lot of women are these days. Most of us make our own money, pay our own bills, have our own careers and exist in the world of men. We would like to be treated as human beings who participate fully in society. And honestly? Sex between equals is much more interesting than fucking someone who thinks you’re nothing more than their plaything.

Chapter Two: The Pleasure Principle

And oh my meters running so I’ve really got to go, it’s the pleasure principle oh oh, oh hoo

A lot of guys love pussy. My Man loves women. He totally gets off on getting me off. He loves making me come with his cock and his hands. When I told him that I only get off from penetration and not oral sex, he spent the better part of six months trying to figure out how to get me to come with his tongue on my clit…and he succeeded. The look of astonishment on his face when I have an orgasm is a beautiful thing to behold – he has so much reverence for the unlimited capacity for female orgasm. It’s kinda like a little kid unwrapping presents on Christmas morning – he loves every last one of them. I have never in my life felt so worshiped. And trust me, after he makes me come several times, you can be damn sure that he gets his. If I could, I’d spend all day every day enjoying the exquisite sensation of feeling his cock slide in and out of me, hitting my g-spot over and over. When we’re having sex, my pussy is the center of the universe, and he’s more than happy to orbit my sun.

So many guys seem to be rolling along with their own sexual agenda and expect women to be nothing more than a prop to fulfill their fantasies. Last year, I dated a guy briefly who showed up on our third date with a very large butt plug that he wanted me to wear all night. He didn’t even bother to ask if I liked anal sex, or if I was interested in having it with him. As you can guess, there was no fourth date.

At this point, a lot of guys are probably asking themselves why it’s important to put a woman’s pleasure first. According to a recent study, only 11% of women reported getting off in a first-time hookup. In another study, 64% of women got off in their last sexual encounters, compared to 91% of men. That’s pretty damn sad, and follows the mainstream model of what sex is: put penis in vagina and thrust until man reaches climax. Female pleasure doesn’t even enter into that equation. What would the world look like if we put women’s pleasure first? I’ll tell you what my world looks like these days: after having multiple orgasms for 30-60 minutes and giggling incessantly, I am a happy woman. A VERY happy woman. My friends always comment on my positive attitude, my glowing skin and my shit-eating grin. This is a far cry from the angry, bitchy woman I was a few years ago when married to a man who had sex with me once a month, if I was lucky. If a guy can make me come over and over, I’m going to happily indulge his fantasies, play every role he wishes and feed his fetishes…then serve him breakfast in bed. And while having frequent, orgasmic sex won’t solve all of your relationship issues, it will make a lot of the small stuff seem unimportant.

Chapter Three: Foxy Lady

Move over, Rover, and let Jimi take over….

My man is constantly telling me that he thinks I’m beautiful. He tells me that I’m so sexy that it stuns him, and that my ass would look great in a potato sack. His emails and text messages always refer to me as a hot girl. He complements my breasts, my eyes, my tattoos, the curve of my waist, my feet. He tells me that I am the most beautiful woman he’s ever slept with. Every time I get dressed to go out, without fail, his eyes light up when he sees me, and he tells me that I look in-fucking-credible. He has told me repeatedly that I am perfect just the way I am, and that I never need to lose weight to look better.

Look, it’s no secret that men are visual creatures. It’s also no secret that most women in the United States have huge body image problems. We magnify our flaws, and are generally unhappy with our bodies. We are constantly bombarded with images of what beauty should be, criticized for not being pretty, skinny or young enough. Every day, everywhere we go, we are reduced to nothing more than our appearance. A friend of mine recently told me that her husband’s ex-girlfriend would break dates with him because she had gained 3 pounds and didn’t want to be seen naked. After getting it out in the world all day, it really sucks to have that negative burden added to by our lovers.

I don’t get that from this guy. I can confidently spread my legs and beg him to fuck me. I’m not worrying about it because earlier in the day he told me that he thought my thighs were too fat. I find it easy to be naked around him and I’m comfortable in my own skin because I know he thinks that skin is beautiful.

Chapter Four: Walk the Line

Because you’re mine, I walk the line.

My man respects my boundaries. I specifically said in my Casual Encounters ad that I needed time to get to know someone before we jumped into bed together. He had no problem obliging me, and chatted with me online for several hours before we met. When I sent him a nude of myself with my back to the camera, his response was, “Oh my god. I so want to fuck you,” and then he went back to non-sexual conversation. He also made it perfectly clear that while he definitely wanted to sleep with me, if I said no, he would respect that decision. Our first meeting in person, we sat across from each other at the restaurant, and enjoyed a conversation about dozens of subjects, none of which had to do with his cock in my pussy. When I finally told him that I wanted to sleep with him, he said, okay, paid the bill…and then took me home and fucked me vigorously for over an hour until my head was spinning. And this has continued. In every encounter we have had, I know that I always have a choice to say no, and am confident that my no will be heard. I know that he will always honor my choice, no matter how hot or how crazy things are in the moment. As a result, things routinely get very hot, and very crazy.

Our liaison is a kinky one. It turns me on to give up control, to be ordered around, tied up and whipped. I know many men wish for that sort of arrangement and dream of having a woman do their bidding in bed. If a man wants this, he absolutely must create trust. I think a lot of men don’t realize how vulnerable a woman makes herself when she takes a man into her body. That vulnerability increases tenfold if she’s tied up and immobilized – it would be very easy to beat and torture a woman who was in that position. If a woman doesn’t think that you will respect her limits, she’s not gonna be your sex slave. In my travels, I’ve run across many, many misogynistic guys who call themselves sexual dominants who seem to think that translates to, “I can do whatever the fuck I want because you’re a doormat, um, I mean, a submissive.” I may be many things, but a doormat isn’t one of them. I love exploring the edges of erotic experience and sensation, but if it doesn’t feel safe, it ain’t gonna be fun for either one of us. Everything in a successful sexual relationship comes down to choice v. force, from the first flirtation to penetrative sex. An honorable man always stays on the side of choice.

Chapter Five: Just a Little Tease

She’s a femme fatale (and, apparently, so is Lou).

My man doesn’t always give me what I want when I want it. When we first met, we worked completely different schedules, and often saw each other for an hour during lunch. We were both horny and wanted to fuck, like, five minutes ago. Still, he acted like he had all the time in the world, dragging his fingers excruciatingly slowly down the inside of my thigh, bringing his fingers to rest lightly on my labia without giving me the penetration he knew I craved above all. Even though he doesn’t have to work to get me aroused, he seduces me and teases me every goddamn time, and is rewarded by an even higher level of wanton desire and openness. This strategy has paid off for him hugely. He has never had to badger or pressure me to get me to do anything in bed. It took me three months of asking to get some anal sex, and five months to get the hard spanking I wanted.

Several years back, I appeared in a production of the Vagina Monologues. There is one part where the M.C. asks all the women, “If your vagina could speak, what would it say, two words.” The scream, in unison: “SLOW DOWN!” This is useful at every step of seduction and sex, and is a major key to female sexuality.

So many guys I’ve fucked in the past have had their eyes on the prize, and want to shove it in as fast as they can, after a few minutes of kissing, maybe an ear nibble or two, a quick grope of the breast and a bit of finger banging if I’m lucky. They’ve got the condom on while I’m still dry and not even remotely turned on, either physically or mentally. I can totally understand why men want to get there so fast – it feels amazingly good. But I promise, if you take your time, hold back and let her come to you, make her want it, you can’t go wrong.

Chapter Six: Do You Feel Like I Do?

Must have been a dream, I don’t believe where I’ve been.

And lastly, this man not afraid of emotions, either mine or his. We have cuddle calls instead of booty calls. Snuggling is just as important as sucking. There are times when we’re fucking, and things are nasty and dirty and slutty, and there are times when we can’t stop staring into each others’ eyes, kissing over and over, and being sweet and tender.

I have many single girlfriends who talk to me about their experiences of dating in the 21st century. I hear over and over again about guys who hold back, shut down and seem scared to death when presented with an opportunity to have amazing sex, deep love, and solid partnership. These guys are often scared of losing control, of being swept away in the feelings they are taught to suppress, the feelings that are province of women, the openness and vulnerability that makes other men call them weak sissies. When he and I met, he was in the process of extracting himself from a very painful 15-year marriage, and had a badly broken heart. There was no commitment between us – I made it clear I wasn’t looking for a boyfriend right then. But instead of shutting down and trying to protect himself, his response was “fuck yeah, give me more.” The sex was just so compelling and powerful that he could not walk away.

I love love love when we have raunchy sex. There is nothing in the world that makes me happier than having my feet and hands tied above my head, giving him complete and total access to my pussy. But woman cannot live by smut alone. And you know what? If you are having hours of mind-blowing, earth-shaking, multi-orgasmic, wake-the-neighbors, sweating, moaning, melt-the-bed hot fucking sex…it’s probably going to get intimate.

Conclusion: The Mystery Dance

She thought that I knew, and I thought that she knew, so both of us were willing, but we didn’t know how to do it.

I’m guessing that a lot of men out there will scoff at my suggestions, say that they’re doing just fine and that my advice only works when ball-busting women are looking for weak pussy guys to fuck. But it’s obvious that many men aren’t getting laid. Whether it’s Craigslist, OKCupid, FetLife or even Facebook, there are thousands and thousands of men who are seeking casual sex without giving anything in return. (An aside, here, guys: if you really just want to get fucked by a hot chick five minutes after meeting her, there is only one way to do it: pay her. Seriously, save yourself a lot of trouble and go hire an escort.)

On the other hand, I have talked to many women who are open to having a sexual relationship but feel frustrated by the shitty treatment they receive. Unfortunately, this is a gray area that both women and men are unsure how to navigate. But there has to be something in between anonymous sex and full-blown commitment. It’s pretty simple: if you’re having sex with someone more than once, you’re having a relationship with them. It may not be the sort of relationship that is intended to lead to marriage and kids, but it’s a relationship nonetheless. Personally, I think it takes more integrity, honesty and communication skills to be fuck buddies than it does to have a girlfriend, and that this sort of intimacy is precisely what many people are trying to avoid.

Maybe, though, my man is onto something here. Perhaps subterfuge, head games and making women feel insecure is not the best way to get laid. Maybe treating women kindly and with respect will result in super-hot sex. Might be worth giving it a shot. Honestly, though, it really doesn’t matter to me. If the way you’re doing it is making you happy and getting results, by all means, please continue. In the meanwhile, I’ll be showing up at my guy’s office after hours with dinner for him, and then fucking his brains out in the back seat of his car.

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….