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.

A very merry un-anniversary

Posted on April 2, 2012 by Epiphany Jordan

Sunday, April 1, would have been my sixth wedding anniversary. Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard all the jokes about how stupid it is to get married on April Fool’s Day, but trust me, it wouldn’t have mattered what day we had gotten married. It was doomed. I was having doubts before the wedding, and even considered calling it off, but I didn’t. This regret is one that I revisited plenty in the year after we split up.

During our Tuesday night tryst, I tell the new boy about the upcoming anniversary, and he offers to come over and help me celebrate my un-anniversary. After I accept, he tells me that he tells my ex-husband must have been the stupidest man in the world not to want to have sex with me, but that my ex’s loss is the new boy’s gain. He certainly knows how to say the right things, though I think he’s just being his sweet self, and is not consciously trying to manipulate me into liking him (as if he needed to do that). I love that he is not afraid to express his desire for me, either verbally or physically. So many men second-guess themselves when it comes to sex, but I don’t feel a lot of hesitation coming from him. Apparently he finds our coupling as compelling as I do.

Sunday morning finds me driving back from Houston when he calls. He has been camping with some friends the night before, and is on his way home as well. I tell him how much I am looking forward to having a long afternoon with him, and that I will have a hard time concentrating on my drive. He laughs, tells me to be careful and that he is looking forward to seeing me in a bit.

I get home, put on a short skirt and a tank top and begin to wait impatiently for his arrival. When he shows up, he is limping – apparently he has overdone it on the jet ski the day before, and is paying the price. I tell him I’m making him take a bath with Epsom salts later on. We sit on the couch and catch each other up on our weekends. Before long I am climbing on his lap, straddling him and kissing him passionately (we seem to end up in this position every time he comes over). He cups my ass in his hands and started teasing me with his fingers, getting them close but never quite giving me what I want. I start shifting around, pushing against him, wiggling and trying to get him to finger-fuck me. He tells me in his deep voice how much he enjoyed teasing me. I try to grab at his hair, which is too short for me to get my hands into and tell him that he has to stop and take me to bed immediately, that if he fucks me now he can tease me later. He agrees to this plan, and we go in the bedroom and strip off our clothes.

I tell him to lie back on the bed since he is in a lot of pain, that I will do all the work. He puts on a condom and I climb on top of him and start to ride. Again, I am amazed at how good it feels to have him inside of me, and I start to cum over and over. While I’m no stranger to multiple orgasms, he seems to hit all the right places, and I’m so wet I wonder if the condom has broken. He is delighted by my pleasure, and tells me I can cum on his cock as many times as I like, and that he’s glad he’s wearing a condom because he would only last 30 seconds if we were skin to skin. I lose any sense of self-control, and continue to moan and writhe above him. He tells me he has mastered the art of having orgasms without ejaculating, and he’s probably had about four or five. Finally, he can no longer hold back his ejaculation, and he comes with a roar. I collapse onto him, panting and kissing him over and over. I realize that I’m very, very thirsty, and drink deeply from the glass of water I have left next to the bed.

I curl up next to him and put my arms around him, absentmindedly stroking him wherever my hands fall. This is the first time in the month we’ve started seeing each other when we’ve had the luxury of lying in bed, talking and touching. We’re still at the stage where flirtation and sexual sparring on email eclipses small talk about our day-to-day lives or more philosophical conversations. I’m attracted to his mind as well as his body, and it’s nice to have a chance to find out more about what’s going on in his head.

I’ve been wanting to talk to him about some boundaries issues since I’ve been seeing more men than just him. Some guys get extremely turned on by the idea of the woman they’re sleeping with being with other men and want all the details, while others do not. I’ve been talking to him a bit about my other adventures, and he seems fairly neutral. At this point, though, I’m developing more of a conscience about him, and want to make sure I’m not hurting his feelings. I wouldn’t necessarily stop seeing others because he specifically asked me to, but I would be willing to make that choice. I ask him how he feels about me sleeping with other men.

It turns out that he is not in the least insecure, and tells me that as long as it’s consensual, I’m free to do what I want. It neither turns him on nor off to think about me with someone else, but it doesn’t threaten him either. He has utter confidence in himself sexually, and with good reason: he’s a damn fine lover. Here I am trying to be considerate of his feelings, give him a bit of say over what I do, and he just puts it all back on me, and makes it completely my choice. That is an incredible amount of freedom to have; I know so many people who would be envious.

While some people say they are polyamorous to the core, and others feel drawn to monogamy, I don’t have any preference one way or the other. I managed to remain faithful to my ex under pretty dismal circumstances, but I also enjoyed having the option of being able to sleep with others later in our relationship. But now I find myself in very different circumstances: while I could easily take advantage of my freedom, I have no interest in doing so. The sex I’m having with this man is so good that it seems like everything else would pale in comparison. At first I thought I would need to have sex with other people because he leaves me horny as hell every time I see him (I’m not pleased about the fact that I won’t see him for another 14 hours as I write this), but I don’t think somebody else would be able to scratch that itch. If everyone in monogamous relationships was having super-hot sex, I’m guessing that far fewer people would cheat. Not sure if this the passion will fade after we’ve been seeing each other a while, or if things will continue to evolve on the upward path of ecstasy, but I’m just going to lie back, relax and enjoy the ride.

After lying around for a few hours, we realize that we’re hungry, and hit a new Vietnamese restaurant for dinner. It’s romantic to be out in public together, and we’re all over each other. It’s been years since I’ve made out with someone in a restaurant. Later we return to the house, get naked and enjoy round 2. Again, it feels amazing, and I can’t stop having orgasms. Since he’s still feeling sore, I run him the promised bath. Around 1 a.m., my eyes start to close, and he takes his leave. I can’t wait to see him on our regular Tuesday night again.

I don’t have much to compare it against, but this one definitely qualifies as the best un-anniversary ever….

Being an adult sucks

Posted on March 26, 2012 by Epiphany Jordan

Warning: unfounded assumptions follow….

One of the benefits of getting older and wiser is knowing that sometimes, doing the right thing isn’t always the same as doing the thing I want to do.

Oh, am I learning that lesson the hard way this week.

Things have been fantastic with my Craigslist hookup guy. The sex, which started out great, keeps getting better. We are well-matched in libido and skill. I’ve never felt so sexually validated in my life. He “gets” me in bed. It’s such a gift to be an overweight, middle-aged woman and have your lover tell you he finds you incredibly sexy and beautiful, and to have him demonstrate it with his eyes, lips, tongue, fingers and cock. Not only do I not have to hide parts of my sexuality, he embraces them and says yes, give me more. Our erotic connection is powerful, and strong, playful and passionate. I know that when we first get together with someone, so much of what we see and feel is our own projections, but I don’t think this is all in my head; he too is drawn by the siren song our bodies make when they come together. I know he’s had a lot of sex with a lot of women in his life, but I also believe he got a bit more than what he bargained for when he answered my ad.

But while things are great in bed, out of bed there are cracks in the facade of his life, stuff that doesn’t add up. A few weeks ago, I discovered evidence that pointed to him being married, and confronted him about that. Now, like having the safe sex talk, it’s important for me to establish someone’s relationship status when I meet them. I didn’t do my due diligence in this regard with this guy – he had me too hot and bothered, I went too fast and forgot to ask questions first. Totally my fault. There are tons of guys out there who want to cheat for a variety of reasons, and I’m not down with it. I have a lot of compassion for them, as I was in a celibate marriage myself and know how much it sucks, but I don’t want to sleep with a cheater. My primary impetus comes from respect for the other woman; most women will be hurt if their husbands have sex with other women, even when it’s oftentimes their own actions that lead their husbands to seek sex outside the marriage. When a woman refuses to have sex with her husband, I don’t know what she expects. But I digress. (Cheating – it’s complicated.)

Dude, you are so busted.

When I confronted him, he instantly told me that they were separated and in the process of getting divorced. After chatting with him a bit online, I was satisfied that he was telling me the truth about this relationship. His situation sounds eerily similar to the reasons I ultimately left my marriage: his wife wasn’t moving forward in her own life, and he has been enabling her in staying stuck. What I believe now, though, is that she is still living with him. And that is a bit too entangled for my tastes (not to mention the fact that she sounds crazy and I don’t want that crazy directed in my direction…or his).

It wasn’t too difficult to figure out. He is acting like a man who has something to hide. He has consistently flaked on me about coming over after work, and has always had a last-minute excuse for not getting together on the weekends. There are few things in the world that are more upsetting to me than falling asleep and waking up in the middle of the night, expecting someone to be in bed with me, and having them not be there. I don’t like being lied to, and I don’t like him breaking promises to me. It’s rude and it’s disrespectful, and I’m not going to continue doing it.

And so I’m going to tell him goodbye. He needs to clean up his previous relationship and move on physically before I will consider being with him. I cannot and will not risk the safety of my body – or my heart – for sex, no matter how amazing it might be. He has started to get under my skin, and I want to be able to spend hours in bed with him, talking and kissing and touching. Pleasure is a powerful, addictive drug that can destroy me, but its influence is also positive. My friend Jeanne, who was also separating from her husband last year, says she can see how things have shifted for me since I got involved with this man. I’m more relaxed, flirtatious, soft and open. I tend to spend a lot of time obsessing about the evolution of the human race and feeling cynical about our prospects; these concerns are starting to recede in my mind. Everyone comments on how good I look. Apparently freshly fucked is a style that works well for me.

The unknown is always the killer. The idea that I may never again feel his lips on mine saddens and terrifies me. It would be so easy to continue to sneak around, keep our Tuesday night and Friday afternoon trysts, and hope that we fly under the radar. But his life is just too messy right now. I have worked too hard to achieve this much self-love and respect. I can’t allow myself to open myself up and make myself vulnerable to someone who lies to me. I don’t blame him a bit; it’s quite likely that if I had known what was really going on, I would have said no. But it can’t work this way.

Still, I’m so glad I have had this experience. Even while I feel my heart ripping apart, I am grateful for what we have shared. I feel more hopeful than I have in a very long time. I have hope that there can and will be more sublime sex out there, that connection and passion and pleasure is within the realm of possibility. Maybe I’ll spend the rest of my life looking for something as good again, forever comparing each new experience and having each one come up short, or maybe I’ll meet someone who rocks my world even harder. Maybe this will be the end, and I’ve had the joy of get to hear his beautiful, deep voice crying out as he climaxes for the last time. Or maybe he’ll free himself from his marriage and make his way back into my bed, without the subterfuge and lies.

(Postscript: she really wasn’t living with him. And we kept seeing each other. More to be revealed….)

Riding in cars with boys

Posted on March 15, 2012 by Epiphany Jordan

It’s Tuesday night around 9 and I’ve gotten lost four times in North Austin. As a general rule, I try not to go further north than MLK, but the new boy has gotten under my skin like a whole summer’s worth of chiggers, and I have to scratch that itch. Hell, I’d even drive to Georgetown to see him. Fortunately, his office is within city limits. Unfortunately, he works nights, so our time together is very limited. We’ve taken to meeting up on his lunch hour to hook up, and Tuesday is our night. I cannot seem to get enough of having him inside of me, and my inability to remember the way to his office is only adding to my anticipation and frustration.

I finally manage to locate the right street, and drive past deserted office buildings. When I pull in, I call to let him know I’m here. I go and stand against the back of his car, leaning back, smiling to myself, looking at the stars, lost in my fantasies about having his hands on me once again. It’s been four days since we’ve seen each other, and that’s about 3.5 days too long to be apart at this early stage in our courting.

He comes out with a glass of cold ice water for me; I know that I’ll be very thirsty by the time we’re done. He hugs me and gives me a kiss, and tells me the office cleaning people are gone, so if I’d like to come in and get bent over and fucked on the conference table, we could do that. I smile at the thought, look up at him and ask him what he wants. He opts for the car. I can’t blame him…it’s fun to act like teenagers. I climb into the front seat next to him, and we start driving. When he casually puts his hand on my knee, my body shudders a bit.

We drive behind the deserted warehouse that has become our spot, and check to see if there is anyone behind the next building over. We didn’t realize people were there last week; if they saw or heard us, they must have gotten quite a show to go along with their Lone Stars and bad Mexican schwag. Tonight, though, we’re all alone.

If this car’s a-rockin’, don’t come a-knockin’.

We smoke a cigarette, and he leans over and starts kissing me. It’s a bit awkward with the console between the seats; heavy petting in cars must have been much easier when there were seats that went straight across. My knees flop open (ooops, forgot my aspirin tonight), and his hand travels down my back and around the curve of my hip to rest on my knee. He pushes my dress up my leg. I slouch down in the seat a bit and throw my right leg up on the dashboard. He pulls away, and looks at me. I’m wearing a black and white striped dress with cleavage for days, and a pair of gold cowboy boots with very pointed toes that showed up earlier in the week in a big box full of shoes from a girlfriend in California. I love getting dressed up for him, and will do anything to turn him on and make him want me more.

“You have an amazing ass,” he says, as he continues to stroke my leg. “And beautiful breasts. And an incredible pussy.” With this, his fingers begin to caress my labia through my underwear. I begin wiggling, trying to get him to move his fingers so they are touching my skin. My panties are tight, though, and it’s impossible for him to push them aside, though he doesn’t seem in any hurry to do so. I marvel at his self-control; I have none. I feel like I’m going to explode if he doesn’t get down to business soon.

Normally when I meet him, I wear thong underwear, which he loves. I had been wearing a brand-new pair earlier in the day, but they proved to be too small, and I changed into a pair of little white boy shorts that ride up on my ass cheeks. I like the way they look on me, and hope he does too. I tell him what I’ve done.

“Perfect,” he says. “Bootie shorts are my second favorite after thongs.” He begins kissing me again, and I grab his hand and guide it under the top of my shorts. His fingers graze over my clitoris gently, and I push my pelvis up, trying to get him to stick his fingers inside of me. As usual, I’m drenched.

“Mmmm, you’re so wet,” he says. “I’m pretty sure that’s all your fault,” I tell him, gasping a bit. He laughs. “Okay, I’ll take the blame.” We continue this way for a few more minutes, our kisses becoming more frantic. Finally I tell him we need to climb in the back seat. We pull apart, and I walk around the corner to empty my bladder. My PC muscles are contracted tightly, and it takes a minute to relax my body enough to piss. On the way back to the car, I pull off my dress and throw it in the front seat. I walk around the side of the car wearing nothing but my gold boots and white underwear.

He’s finished moving the seats forward – we have quite a bit of room in the back of his small SUV – and he’s sitting in the back seat, taking off his shoes, socks and pants. I open the door, and turn around so he can get a better view of the little white shorts riding up into the crack of my ass.

“Goddamn,” he says. “Okay, those are a tie for first place with the thongs. But then again, I think your ass would look great in a potato sack.” My cellulite is quite appreciative of the compliment. I hop into the back seat with him, throw my arms around his neck and begin nibbling on his earlobe. His cock is starting to get erect, and I grab at it through his underwear. After a few strokes, he removes his underwear to give me better access. I kneel sideways on the seat, lean forward to take his cock into my mouth, and begin sucking. He starts moaning. A couple of days earlier, he has emailed me to tell me how good my blowjobs were, and I intend to do him proud. His cock is a bit smaller than what this size queen is used to, but it’s more than adequate, and I love that it’s easy for me to take the whole thing in my mouth. The more turned on he gets, the hornier I become. Finally, I stop, and look at him pleadingly.

“Will you please put on a condom and fuck me,” I beg. “I need it really bad.”

“I think we can arrange that,” he says, and reaches for the condom he has coveniently set on the console within easy reach. He puts it on, and sits back. I pull off my underwear, but leave the gold cowboy boots on, and ask him to move more toward the center of the car. Once he does, I straddle him, and lower myself onto his cock.

Because I’m so wet, no lube is necessary, and it’s easy for him to slide into me. As I start riding him, the energy in the car changes, it feels more solemn and raucous at the same time. It’s electric – he’s put the plug into my socket, and my nervous system lights up like a stadium. I can’t believe how good it feels to have him inside me, how responsive I am to his every thrust. I put my arms around his neck, and start bouncing and grinding on him. Within a minute, I feel the first of many orgasms begin – I can come practically the entire time he’s inside of me. I put my arms around his neck, and he buries his face in my breasts. I ask him to move forward a bit so I can get a better angle. Somehow, I can’t possibly be close enough, or have him deep enough. I kiss him over and over. His arms wrap around my waist to pull me toward him. Our moans fill the car, and float out of the open sunroof. The temperature begins to rise. At one point, he stops, and begins talking to me about a sexual fantasy he has, but he has yet to climax, so I kiss him to shut him up and start grinding again, moving my hips back and forth. Speed, friction, moans and urgency increase until he finally climaxes. As I hold him tightly, panting, I feel like I want to cry. I’m filled with peace, and my heart is expanding. The chatter in my brain has calmed, and is marinating in a lovely cocktail of dopamine, oxytocin and endorphins. Years ago I lost count of how many men I’ve slept with, but this is the good stuff, what people write songs and poems about. Breathlessly, he repeats, “oh my god” several times. I must agree; it’s pretty fucking divine. Not sure if it’s chemistry or skill, but damn, do we work well together.

He looks at me, and asks if I thought that was even better, more connected than the first time we had sex in the back seat of his car. I concur – the sex has improved every time we’ve fucked. I wonder what it might be like when we’ve been sleeping together for six months or a year, and know each other better. We talk about our plans for the weekend. I tell him I think I’m falling for him, hard, and he smiles and kisses me. I’m glad he approves; wild horses couldn’t peel me off his dick right now.

While I could have gone for rounds 2, 3, 4 and 5, his lunch hour is unfortunately over, and we get dressed for drive back to his office. I throw my panties in the front seat, knowing that sometime in the next couple of days, he will drape them over his cock and masturbte into them until every inch of them is coated in cum.

We arrive at his office, get out of the car, and he kisses me goodnight. I look at him, and realize he has put his shirt on inside out. I point it out, and start jumping up and down with my fists in the air. “Yes! I made you orgasm stupid!” I say triumphantly. He doesn’t seem overly concerned.

Reluctantly, I say good bye and let him go back into his building. I hop in my car to drive home. I’m sleepy and smiling, and this time I don’t get lost. And while I can’t prove it, I’m pretty sure that my gold cowboy boots are shining just a little bit brighter….

Pussy Power

Posted on March 6, 2012 by Epiphany Jordan

Sometimes, despite careful analysis, research and logic, the universe surprises the hell out of me. The year that has passed since my divorce has been eye-opening on the relationship front, in a very depressing way. As I had been hearing from the women around me, there is a definite dearth of decent men out there. Or maybe it’s just that men seem to want different things from relationships than women. Whatever the case may be, I was feeling like there was little hope, and that I had missed the window of opportunity that might have allowed me to have a happy sex life. While I rarely watch TV, I had, apparently, bought into the media’s idea that sex is something for the young and beautiful, and therefore not me.

Be careful what you ask for, because you just might get it, and it might come from an extremely unlikely place. I mean, usually when people place/answer an ad on Craigslist Casual Encounters, they are looking for sex, but what are the odds of actually meeting someone who interests me AND getting laid?

Not good…but every once in a while you hit the jackpot.

My past experiences with Casual Encounters had not been great (though I did have a somewhat successful hookup while I was still married to my ex-husband). This time, I wasn’t expecting much when I placed an ad. There were a couple of men in the stack who seemed willing to engage in a conversation with me. One in particular sounded really nice, and understood my desire to establish a rapport and meet in person before considering anything sexual. He followed my instructions to the letter, and provided me with exactly the information I asked for. We exchanged a few emails, and discovered that we had several things in common outside of the bedroom. I ended up chatting online with him the night I ran the ad, and we had a very pleasant conversation. He was smart and articulate and engaging. I hopped off the computer feeling like perhaps there was some hope.

The next night, I spent a bit more time chatting online with him. We had a more sexual conversation, and I liked the way he described himself and how he liked to have sex (a man who spends his 20s sleeping with women in their 50s gets major points in my book). He described himself as being an ass aficionado, and I sent him a nude picture of my back. His response, “I so want to fuck you,” was deadpan perfect and flattering. We finally agreed to meet for dinner on Saturday night. The next morning I got another email from him saying he had mixed up his days, and could we meet on Sunday night instead? I had made a coffee date with another fellow for Sunday afternoon, but figured I could do both.

Sunday afternoon I went to meet my coffee date. He was surprisingly handsome, with thick, blondish-brown bobbed hair, a yoga-toned body and incredible blue eyes. We chatted for a while about our lives, our kinks and what we were both looking for. We were close to my house, and decided to continue our conversation in a more private setting. Our afternoon ended with some hot mutual masturbation. I had decided that I wanted the guy I was having dinner with to be the one to break my long sexual dry spell – I don’t like to sleep with people I don’t know at all. I was happy and bouncy when I started getting ready for dinner.

Right before I left the house, I checked my email, and discovered that my dinner date didn’t know exactly where to meet (there are two restaurants in my neighborhood with similar names). As a result, he was extremely late. When he walked in, he didn’t look exactly like his photos, but I still recognized him. He was big and tall, with short-cropped reddish-brown hair and beard, and a sexy low voice. While I’ve slept with my share of men I’ve outweighed, he made me feel physically small, and those primal instincts that wire women to look for a protector kicked in. We ate, and talked about California and Texas and quantum physics, and I discovered we had even more in common than we originally thought. He was a good listener, and a fun dining companion. As I suspected, I was attracted to him. I told him that I had turned down an offer for sex earlier in the day because I wanted him to be the first guy I slept with post-divorce. We paid our bill, and he followed me back to my house.

We were talking, and I finally leaned forward and kissed him. His lips were soft and full, and he was a really good kisser. We began making out in earnest. I stood up, and he followed, put his arms around me and ran his hands down my back until they cupped my ass. He smiled when he felt my underwear (he had told me how much thong underwear turned him on, and I had no problem obliging his request). I pulled away from him again, and began undressing as he watched. When my skirt came off, I turned my back to him and walked toward the bed, smiling at him over my shoulder. I bent forward over the footboard, and stuck my ass in the air so he could have a better view. He inhaled sharply. “Wow. Your ass really is incredible.” He walked over to the bed and began running his hands over it, pushing his body against mine and pulling the thong up a bit to rub against my swollen labia. I spread my legs a bit, and asked him to push his fingers inside of me. He did not oblige. I began to push back against him more frantically, trying to reposition myself so he would touch me. Finally I reached behind me and grabbed for his cock, which was starting to get erect. He backed off to remove his pants. I spun back around to face him, and fell on my knees. I teased the head of his cock with my tongue and my lips, and finally took him into my mouth.

There are few things in the world I enjoy more than having a man’s cock in my mouth. I know a lot of women don’t like it, but it feels so natural to me. I’m not sure if it’s the trust implied in allowing me to put a man in such a vulnerable spot, or if it’s a replication of the sucking I did as a baby, but I take great pride in my work. Well, it could also be as simple as knowing that soon after said cock has been sucked, it will likely be in my vagina. “You are amazing,” he moaned. “You really like this, don’t you?” I looked up at him, and smiled. “Oh yes I do, very much,” I said, as I continued. After a few minutes, I was squirming, and wanting more. I stopped, climbed on the bed, spread my legs, and asked him to fuck me. Instead, he began going down on me.

Normally, having a man go down on me is pretty meh. I have a very small clitoris and a large g-spot, and most of the time oral sex is just too intense (such a huge concentration of nerve endings in such a small spot). But this man had a very talented tongue. I think I may be converted to the cult of cunnilingus yet. It didn’t get me off, but it was much more arousing than normal. If his goal was to rachet up the sexual tension, he was doing so quite successfully.

He finally capitulated to my begging, and started to fuck me. While I may come across as a man-hating bitch at times, I love having sex with men. This is how I crave to experience masculine energy: channeled into me through the end of their cocks. In the yin-yang symbol, the masculine and the feminine each have a piece of the other inside of them, and my pussy is definitely where that little part fits into me, physically and spiritually. Or maybe it’s just that I get off so well from penetration.

Whichever it was, the masculine energy coming at me from this man was strong, primal and wholly unapologetic. One of the complaints more traditional men have about men who couple with feminists is that many modern men are emasculated. I think that men who are really kind and sensitive in this day and age are wary of traditional masculine traits or behaviors, because so many times over the ages they have been used to hurt, dominate and oppress women, and they don’t want to be that guy. This man had no issues about that whatsoever, and clearly enjoyed his sexuality. Or maybe he was just enjoying watching me have orgasm after orgasm. He had skill, size and stamina, and fucked me in a way I had fantasized about, and craved, for years. I’ve had some great sex in my lifetime, but wow.

I had waited a long, long time, to consecrate my temple, the space that had been created to facilitate sex and pleasure. The construction of the temple destroyed my love for my ex-husband, and ultimately it killed our marriage and the dreams I had of bringing my vision to life. I had fooled around in there before, had several self-administered orgasms, but I had yet to have sex with another person. It was definitely worth the wait to find the right time and the right person.

Why you so afraid of a little pussy?

Somewhere in the middle of being fucked, I felt myself stepping into the archetype of the temple priestess, she who walks the universe to the intersection of sexuality and spirituality. I have spent many years thinking about her, talking about her, writing about her, studying her and – after my divorce – telling her I was finished with her. Apparently, she is not finished with me. I don’t know how I might manifest her in the future with others, but this Inanna has found her consort, her Dumuzi.

“Oh my god – where has this pussy been all my life?” he asked incredulously, as he was watching me sitting on him backwards, frantically reaching for another orgasm. About 20 minutes in, his thrusts became more insistent, and he came loudly and decisively. So many men are quiet (a friend theorizes this comes from boys furtively masturbating in their bedrooms as teenagers so their parents won’t hear). Afterwards, both of us lay on the bed, kissing and panting and smiling, asking ourselves what the hell had happened. Not sure, but I know I want more of that.

I. Am. So. Dick-whipped.

And he is so in trouble.

Living in a porn film

Posted on March 1, 2012 by Epiphany Jordan

Apparently my life has turned into a porn film. I have a potential new lover, one I met in a very x-rated flick kinda way. He showed up on my doorstep to deliver me a pizza. Quick: turn down the lights, cue the cheesy music and let me get my clothes off so I can fuck him.

Of course, that’s what everybody thinks when they hear how I made his acquaintance, even though it didn’t go down that way. This boy caught me completely off-guard, and when I first laid eyes on him standing on my front porch, sex was the furthest thing from my mind – I was starving and wanted some dinner.

Oh, you brought me a pizza! Let’s fuck!

Not only did he pursue me, but he did so quite patiently. He didn’t even try to kiss me until the end of the third date, gave me time to talk to him, allowed me to get to know him and feel safe with him. There was a flurry of text messages, and then I left town for a couple of weeks. We still haven’t had sex (at my request…it’s more fun to drag it out and torment each other for a little while, allowing the sexual energy to build), though the sexting has been hot and heavy, and the night we spent fooling around was extremely erotic and left me wanting more. I invited him out, got way dressed up and took him to dinner. His eyes popped out a bit when I walked up to the restaurant. Which was exactly what I wanted…. Telling me that the meal I prepared him was better than what we ordered in the restaurant was a nice touch (my cooking skills leave a lot to be desired).

He’s a 5th generation Texan, and has the gentlemanly behavior, sweet southern charm and nice manners that come when a boy is raised in the Lone Star State, but with the extra benefit of having lived on the west coast for a while. He is handsome and boyish, with brown hair, blue eyes, a scruffy beard and a soft, round belly. He has almost no hair on his chest. He’s just shy of 6’, which is a bit taller than I prefer, though I could almost look him in the eyes when I wore platform shoes out to dinner. He’s almost 20 years younger than me, though it doesn’t make much of a difference. In the bedroom, we seem to be well-matched, with high libidos and mutual wicked imaginations. I’m actually more than a bit surprised that I don’t intimidate him. When we were making out on the couch after dinner, I looked at him and said that most men were scared of my sexuality. He laughed, kissed me again and told me I had been hanging out with the wrong guys. Okay, you don’t have to convince me – I want to know where to find the men who say “yes, gimme more.” For the moment, though, I’m happy to have found one of them. It feels really good to have someone appreciate my libido, instead of treating me like I should be ashamed of my sexuality.

When I was married to my ex-husband, I would be climbing the walls because our sex life consisted of about five minutes, start to finish, once a month. He would get resentful and tell me I was a sex addict because I wanted to have sex with the man I had said “I do” to. It occurred to me, at the time, that perhaps it was better to find someone who wanted what I wanted rather than for him to convince me to live in his world (which I did, for the better part of five years), or for me to wait for him to live in mine (something that never happened, regardless of how patient and understanding I was). Neither sex life is better or worse, and people deserve to have sex how they want and when they want it, but when sex drives are that badly mismatched, nothing good can come of it. I was a cranky bitch most of the time, and couldn’t figure out how to shift the energy, make him want me, or even get him to tell me what it was that he wanted or needed. In retrospect, I was just way too much for him – he needed something that more resembled an old Ford truck, and I was a Lamborghini.

The new boy, though…I think he’s driven a sports car a time or two, and knows when to accelerate around the curves, and when to put on the brakes. I’m enjoying learning how it feels when his arms slip around my waist, the softness of his tongue sliding between my lips when he kisses me and watching him jump when I bite his extremely sensitive tiny nipples. I loved watching him masturbate to see what sort of strokes he used (and filed the information away for when I wanted to get him off with my hands), and delighted as he quickly became erect when I sucked on him. I kept coming back to his cock, torturing myself by allowing him into my mouth but not into my cunt, where I really really wanted him. I think he likes the way I squirm…he’s quite up for playing this game.

I have no idea of how our relationship might develop – I don’t really have much interest in having a boyfriend at the moment. But having a lover or three, that sounds like a damn fine idea. Nice to have a willing victim.

Women can always get laid

Posted on February 24, 2012 by Epiphany Jordan

Last week a friend and I went to see Shame, a new movie about a man who has lots of casual sex. The protagonist, Brandon, has almost no relationships, though he manages to have a lot of sex. He jerks off at work, tries to pick up women wherever and whenever he can, hires sex workers, watches tons of porn and generally avoids human contact that doesn’t involve fucking. His fortress of casual sex is compromised by his emotionally fragile sister, Sissy, who comes to stay with him. He becomes borderline violent when she tries to get close to him. His sexual adventures escalate as he tries to escape her neediness.

I had read a criticism of the movie saying that it was an inaccurate portrayal of casual sex, but it rang true with my own experiences of men trying to find a sex-only relationship. Perhaps it’s just that society has a default script for what a “normal” relationship looks like: a couple meets, dates, becomes exclusive, (maybe) lives together, gets married, buys a house, has kids, and grows old together. Though that script often breaks down somewhere after the “gets married” part, we don’t seem to know how to do it any other way. On the other end of the mating dance we have the porn model, where a woman will hop in bed with men with at a moment’s notice, and that is all of their relationship. It’s hard to find role models or good examples of what alternative relationships may look like. (The only other relationship that is well-scripted is the affair, which often ends in sadness for all involved parties.)

In my mind, having a relationship that’s based primarily on sex is still a relationship. But most men can’t deal when I try to establish the ground rules for that. I’m not a fan of one-night stands – I want to know the person I’m sleeping with, even if I don’t intend to have a full-blown, meet-the-parents kind of romantic relationship. I find it impossible to be erotic on that level with a total stranger. I am clear about what I am looking for, but they will always try to convince me that I want something that resembles their fantasies, not mine. While men often say they want women who are more sexually open and assertive, when they are faced with it, it scares the crap out of them. I suppose there is too much honest and intimacy for them in my model.

You can’t have it both ways!

It seemed to me that many of the men I have encountered are looking for something that resembles seeing a prostitute without having to pay for it. It has often been said that regardless of the form your relationship takes, be it seeing a sex provider or being married (or anything in between), the man has to pay. Well, duh. If he’s not paying money, at the very least he has to pay attention. And I think that’s hard for a lot of men. (Staring at my breasts doesn’t count.) After reading rants over the years from men who feel duped by dinner whores – women who go out on a date for a free meal – I decided to either always pay for my own meal or, even better, buy the guy dinner. If I go home with someone after a date, it’s because I want to sleep with him, not because I owe him. As is more often the case, I don’t have any interest in seeing him again, let alone sleeping with him, and I can walk away with a clear conscience that the guy invested nothing more than an hour of his time. I’m not fond of dinner whores myself, and am happy not to perpetuate the stereotype.

I related to Brandon’s cravings, even though I choose not to resolve these cravings with casual sex. I haven’t had sex in almost a year, and the last sex I had was of the lackluster variety with my ex-husband. It’s been six months since a man has kissed me (and that ended quickly and badly). I have spent most of my life being sex-starved and crave physical contact beyond the hugs I get from my friends or snuggling with my cat. I dated a little for a few months after I separated, but my heart still isn’t ready.

Woman + cats = lonely (or so they would have you believe)

They say it’s easy for a woman to get laid if she wants to, but the options fucking suck. I could pick up the phone right now and call one of the emotional cripples or alcoholics who have made their intentions known, or track down a certain ex-lover, but I know that will be unsatisfying. Sometimes I peruse the casual encounters (the two men looking for threesome ads always get me…oh, how I crave getting fucked like that), or contemplate running an ad myself, but the thought of the sorting process just makes me tired. I have varied interests and fantasies, some of which might appear in porn scripts, but most of which don’t get revealed right away, and certainly not with someone who can’t even be bothered to have a cup of coffee and some conversation with me before hopping into bed.

I am, sadly, not bisexual. If I was, I would have started dating women years ago. I am well aware that comes with its own set of problems (lesbian bed death, anyone?), but it would certainly give me more options.

I love Annie Sprinkle’s analogy of different sorts of sex being like categories of food: you have your nutritious sex, your gourmet meal sex, your junk food sex, your weeknight meal sex, your dessert sex. After years of tiny, monthly portions of something that resembled prison food, McDonald’s ain’t what I’m craving.

Would you like fries with that? (Not really, thanks.)

It may be years, if ever, before I meet a man whose values and interests match my own. Fortunately for me, I’m an expert at masturbating, and am capable of giving myself mind-blowing orgasms; unfortunately for me, my wrists are fried from too much typing. I will undoubtedly be investing in a Sybian sometime within the next year. It won’t do anything to provide emotional or spiritual intimacy, but it will scratch the itch for penetrative sex.

Valley of the dolls

Posted on January 3, 2012 by Epiphany Jordan

Last week, I went to a new friend’s house to discuss an idea I have for a website. I showed up at the appointed time, knocked but got no response. The door was unlocked, so I went in. I hollered a loud hello, and heard a “back here” coming from his office. When I walked in, he was sitting at his computer, naked. Since he was expecting me, this was clearly for my, um, benefit.

I was a bit shocked, not by the nudity (I’ve logged hundreds of hours sitting in hot tubs with naked people of all sorts of persuasions) but because of the context. He and I had met about a month before, and had only socialized on two occasions. I don’t know if we had even hugged, or had any other physical contact. I had enjoyed talking to him, there was an overlap of interests and social circles. I had no idea he was interested in me sexually, nor had I indicated any overt interest in him. The second time I saw him, he was flirting with every girl in the room, myself included. I certainly didn’t feel special or singled out.

Fortunately, he knew enough about me and my predilections to know that this wouldn’t offend me. I appreciate boldness, honesty and forthrightness in a man, but I would prefer to get them from a man wearing pants. I must have looked embarrassed, because he apologized, and started asking me about my project. I excused myself to use the bathroom, stayed in there for a few minutes, and when I came out, he had gone to get dressed. When he came back in, we had a productive time discussing our project over dinner, and nothing more was said about our initial encounter that afternoon.

While it’s true that men and women are turned on by different things, I believe his come-on followed a pattern of one of the most common male fantasies: the Valley of the Dolls Syndrome.

Trust me, it will take a lot more than Valium to get me naked in five minutes flat.

This term, coined by polyamory blogger Pep-o-mint, refers to the lightning speed with which men can get women into bed without any effort, and it goes a little bit like this: “Oh! You’re the plumber! Let’s fuck!” Works like a charm, every damn time, and takes nothing more than a knock on the door and a stiff dick. There’s no need to chat a woman up, ascertain that she’s interested in him, or spend any time getting to know her. She’s merely an object, a prop in his fantasy, ready to fuck, anytime, any place. While men claim that they know that porn isn’t real, I’m constantly surprised how many men seem to have bought into this illusion. (Actually, this is a fantasy for women as well; Erica Jong famously wrote about it in Fear of Flying in 1973, but it is much more common for men.)

I have a friend who has been trying to sleep with me for years. He stopped by one night and met a friend of mine who was visiting. When I turned him down yet again, he told me that he was considering going next door to ask my friend if she wanted to have sex. He had talked to her for less than a minute. Did he really think that would work, or was he just lonely and desperate? Another time, I posted an ad on Craigslist Casual Encounters and specified that it would take much longer than 5 minutes to get me into bed, because it was important that I be comfortable with a man before sleeping with him. One guy wrote back that was fine, but that he expected we would be fucking within the hour.

His response was immediately deleted, and that was the last ad I ran. I just don’t have much interest in casual sex these days. Or porn, or romance novels. My libido is high, and getting higher by the day as I start working out again. I crave sex, but not of the sort that is nothing more than a quick fuck with no intimacy, or one that includes no actual touching or kissing. Wait, I take that back – I love quick fucks, but they have to be with someone I already have a connection with. And I like casual sex as well when I’m in a relationship; I fall much closer to that end of the non-monogamy scale than full-blown polyamory. But right now? Not so much. My heart is still tender from the divorce, my confidence in my capacity for intimacy is shaken and I grew tired of being the girl you’d hook up with but have no interest in dating years ago.

Is it possible to have sex with someone five minutes after you’ve met them? Sure. I’ve seen it happen at swingers clubs and play parties, but more often than not, people who play with each other in those situations have already established a friendship, either at other events or in real life. I have no problem with casual sex; I’ve had more than most men and women I know. But even if a relationship goes no further than the bedroom, it’s still a relationship and I expect to be treated with respect. I want the men I sleep with to have integrity and good communication skills, because quite frankly, a liaison that’s based primarily on a sex requires a lot of maturity.

There is only one way I know to get a woman into bed within five minutes of meeting her: hire an escort and pay her to have sex with you. Short of doing that, establishing a connection the good old-fashioned way of talking and building a rapport is still the best way to go.

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….