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I walked out of the bathroom and saw Jekyll and Hyde lying in bed like an old married couple waiting for a butler to serve cups of tea. With Hyde off-kilter from a head cold, he had cuddled into Jekyll for body heat as I fussed about preparing for my surprise.
I looked at them with a mix of lustful leering and motherly urges to snuggle Hyde to good health. Simultaneously I felt two pairs of eyes scan my naked form and leather bondage accoutrements from top to bottom, and return to the feathered black halo perched atop my head. They giggled wolfishly at the sight of the already-defiled angel before them.
Their “don’t you look cute” comments soon turned to malice-laced plans about how to corrupt me next.
“I want to come on her,” Hyde said.
Jekyll smiled. I mock-frowned.
“I think that’s a bit porny,” I said, not that anyone was listening.
“We’ll both come on her,” Jekyll countered.
I did a boys are gross eye roll as they cheered their creative brilliance.
“No,” I said, to no one in particular. “That’s so trashy.”
“Let’s do it and take photos with come all over her,” shouted Jekyll.
“Yes!” I said, “Now we’re talking proper trash.”
Quicker than the speed of sound my upper body was bolstered on pillows and the formerly-lounging men were on their knees, busily wanking over my stomach.
I looked at the masturbating bookends and thought this is great ogling and even though I don’t get the lure of the money shot to men, they’re having fun so lay back and enjoy the view.
Hyde came almost politely on my chest, not spilling a drop. Seconds later, Jekyll’s first spurt careened up one of my nostrils and in a glob over my eye. I made the mistake of gasping with astonishment and gagged on the inhaled semen. Thankfully, amongst the blindness and choking, survival instincts kicked in and I blew my nose, snorting the white splodges from where they entered. My unexpected Battle of the Sperm caused Hyde to topple laughing while tears rolled down Jekyll’s face as he tried to complete his ejaculation with more style. His aim didn’t improve and I felt more warm goo spatter my cheeks and seal my eyes further shut.
I couldn’t move (or see the photo) until they had re-gained blood flow to their legs, stopped laughing, taken happy snaps and wiped my face with a damp flannel.
I have been bursting to reflect upon and write about the 12-hour sexual odyssey with Jekyll and Hyde during the week, but my orgasm keeps interrupting so it’ll have to come first (oh, how I wish).
The University of New Mexico has published results of research into the effectiveness of Viagra for women on anti-depressants experiencing delayed orgasm. Almost three-quarters of the women studied experienced improvements in sexual function after taking Viagra.
I can’t describe the frustration of finding an anti-depressant that’s provided a cushion from mind-breaking crashes but also turned me into the sexual equivalent of a neutered housecat sleeping in a sunny window. It’s when the ability to orgasm was dulled that I learned a harsh lesson of how important sexual release is to clear the mind, refresh the body, connect with a partner and forget about everything else in life for a while. It might sound trite to someone who’s not experienced the condition, but sometimes the only thing that can hit the ‘stop’ switch in an over-active mess of a mind is to flood it with the body’s own feel-good chemicals. But at 2 in the morning and the knowledge that a five-minute self-fix has been turned into a 45-minute marathon just to get off, it gets frustrating. Oh my god turns into About fucking time. Every fucking time.
And when I’m in a room with two attractive, skilled and attentive men and it takes 10 hours for my body to finally let go, I’m ready to chuck the medication in the bin and consequences be damned. I am tired of physical pain in my abdomen at times, and explaining that, “It’s not you, it’s definitely me and this is how my body works at the moment.”
Any longer-term trade-offs and decisions are ultimately mine but I am going to see my doctor about conducting a little Viagra experiment to try a best-of-both-worlds approach.
In the meantime, has anyone reading this experienced the same problem and dilemma? Had sex with a woman who has taken Viagra? Are a woman taking Viagra? Had success with other techniques, medications, anything? Please drop a comment, or e-mail thedirtyblonde at gmx dot com for private correspondence.
ArmyDude (creatively-deficient alias for the married man co-worker soon-to-be-subordinate who saw my online ad and used to serve in uniform and I rather want to see him in it ordering me about like a recruit while ignoring the professional concerns I have. The bad angel is winning the battle of commonsense), um, yes, him, just got distracted for a moment. I’m back.
He sent a text message asking what the highlight of my sexual life has been so far.
Great question. I flicked through a mental Rolodex of experiences and couldn’t recall any flashes of brilliance that stood alone more than two decades after throwing my virginity to a local boy. That memory jumped out of the pack but half-naked writhing on the carpet of my parents’ lounge room and nearly being caught was a first, but hardly an introduction of things to come, so to speak. I can’t remember specifics about the first orgasm with a partner or other firsts like oral sex, or the joys of a 69, or anal sex, or anyone so spectacularly compatible or skilled that everyone else pales into insignificance. Every experience has had a reason and contributed to a life lesson or accumulation of knowledge.
The first time with Jekyll and Hyde lives fondly in my mind, but its temporal freshness might wear and meld with dozens of other experiences in years to come. Returning my sad and confused form to The Drummer from the trip to meet MB isn’t a highlight as such but an anchoring moment of significant depth and meaning. Among this reminder that things don’t always turn out for the best sits a smile thinking about the rawness of being pushed on my stomach and entered roughly by MB while his teeth were latched onto my ear. Concealing laughter when M1 ordered me to piss on myself as he did the same when I realised my bottom had covered the shower’s drain and I was bathing in a rising tide of our hot and stinking urine was darkly humorous (but not physically memorable or enjoyable enough to request a repeat). I’ve had two un coup de foudre experiences when an accidental brushing at a party and eye locking outside a bar led to unspoken let’s cut the crap because we both know what’s going to happen surges of electricity. All good fun but not the stuff of a balanced sexual meal.
The real, lasting highlights are more prosaic. Having the strength to break up with my first live-in boyfriend after several heart-splitting reconciliations, and finally knowing deep down I’d survive. Learning not to be intimidated by shallow perfection — I let someone go when I realised he never went down on women because they happily put in all the effort to please him, turning him into a beautiful but mono-dimensional sexual bore. Discovering some ugly chinks in my personality when The Drummer and I separated and having the maturity to evolve rather than move on and maintain the safety of the same behaviours and attitudes. Speaking up to The Drummer when there were visions in my mind of domination and submission that I couldn’t comprehend and he didn’t understand but I had the courage to pursue. Not being afraid of judgement because my life is my own to live and accepting who I am at this moment is one of the greatest gifts of freedom I can give myself.
I sent a reflective response that said it probably wasn’t what he intended, however, my highlight has been finally understanding what I like and not to be scared of my own sexuality. It seemed to capture everything.
His response was similar — it will be interesting to sit down one day and share. I’ve rarely discussed intimate details with anyone because I have always held my cards tightly to my chest. These days I don’t know if any of my long-term friends would be interested in or repulsed by my newer physical life and it could be nice to have someone else who’s on a similar curve of discovery.
Drafting the last post prompted me to think why I didn’t ask for or desire sexual attention from The Drummer.
I tend towards the visual rather than physical in the days before my period and don’t mind if sexual activity involves penetration or not. At ovulation my body screams fuck me fuck me fuck me while the pre-menstrual voices yell fuck with me and I’ll kill you with a detached smile.
My fantasy mind is active in a clinical sense and pondering scenarios for the next meeting with Jekyll and Hyde. I remember an e-mail from Hyde saying he wanted to punish and fuck an angel, and Jekyll jokes that I lost my halo a long time ago and it clatters on the ground when I walk. Yesterday I found a black feathered halo at a costume shop and will team it with leather collar and cuffs, cream and black lace underwear, black stay-up stockings and stiletto-heeled pumps for a fallen angel look. Emerging from the bathroom with a riding crop between my teeth might be overkill but I’ll consider it on the night depending on the mood in the room.
If my period decides to start soon instead of bloating my belly like a human watermelon, I think I’ll be ovulating during our next threesome. The cerebral will be pushed out of the way by the physical and I’ll be demanding Hyde rip the damn clothes off and do depraved things. Now.
Balance has been restored to the universe temporarily, though in my usual diet-soft-drink-in-one-hand-and-chocolate-cake-in-the-other way of overcompensation.
The Drummer and I passed in the hall between the kitchen and loungeroom and our eyes locked.
He said I could suck his dick.
I said I could if he said please.
He said please.
I like it when he’s assertive.
The next few minutes blurred but I remember telling him to get on all fours. I parted his bottom cheeks and buried my head in the cleft, aiming my tongue at his anus. I realised two design issues in quick succession: he is larger in all areas than Jekyll, including the depth of his gluteal muscles; and my nose is proportionately longer than my tongue, making access to his hole a challenge.
The Drummer rolled on his back to try a different angle. I managed to lick, probe and flick without wedging my nose too far where it wasn’t intended and heard a few “That’s fucking fantastic” murmurs in appreciation. Give me a new skill and I’m dangerous — I’m afraid Jekyll and Hyde have spoiled me forever and I’ll never have sex with anyone who’s not into anal play. I have a tongue and I’m not afraid of over-using it.
“But wait, there’s more,” I said as I jumped off the bed to the toy drawer. I found the vibrating butt plug and lube and fucked his anus as he masturbated. He usually comes quickly when masturbating but the arse play and side-effect of medication held him in an almost-meditative trance between wanting to come and not wanting it to end.
He finally hit saturation point and flipped me on my back – in his mind I could see I was a porn vixen in scanty lingerie begging for a money shot, while in the real world I fell back in my flannel pyjamas and knitted socks, my hand covering my eyes as I realised the only place he could come was on my face. He laughed when he snapped out of his orgasmic reverie and saw the mess he made of my pyjama top, neck, face and hand. I laughed in tune through my sticky hand and waited for his legs to recover enough strength to fetch tissues and tidy some of his handiwork.
He promised to wash my pyjamas.
One of the most striking realisations of late is the amount of thought and work to hold everything together when the very nature of successful relationships is introducing and managing change to keep love and lust alive – our open situation merely comprises more sets of desires and needs that need to be juggled. No one – as far as I can predict — will interfere with the solidity of my primary relationship but that isn’t an excuse to take others for granted or be neglectful of their wants when I am feeling out of balance and crave time out.
And I am probably less stable than the people in my orbit. At the moment I feel I’m undergoing an imagined early mid-life crisis, as if the looming biological forces of sagging skin, drying vagina and social invisibility are urging me to live physically with abandon while I can. The internal struggle of recklessness against my inherent sense of guilt and need to please others tears me down the middle at times.
I could have the married colleague under my desk in a heartbeat but repercussions need to be weighed against my growing interest in him. Lust won round one when I saw his muscular contours teasing against a body-hugging jumper, but commonsense is fighting back in round two to think of the practicalities of sneaking around during and after business hours. He is relaxed about my concerns but I also need to consider the times he is available because he has a life and commitments as well. Every reward has risks and I can only laugh at those who suggest an open relationship is a ticket to non-stop sexual variety without consequences.
I spent a couple of hours yesterday with Jekyll in his car, chatting and flirting and going as far as we could while other visitors to the park went about their leisure time. I probably should have been with The Drummer to visit his relatives from interstate but I chose my own wants veiled in flimsy work-related excuses. He encouraged me to do my own thing and accepted my conciliatory gesture of collecting him from the train station with more generosity than it was worth.
We haven’t spend much time together lately because of conflicting timetables and we’ve been tired and content to cuddle on the couch before kissing goodnight and doing it all again the next day. It’s safe and mutually agreeable for now but the comfort of hugging still needs interruptions of danger and instability to keep the sexual tension alive.
I had pencilled in to meet someone tomorrow from the online dating site. In facing my waning enthusiasm I had to acknowledge his e-mails were more filled with promise than my increasingly delayed and run-of-the-mill replies and I’ve been too polite to cease contact. I can’t string him along until I have more time and energy because, like anyone else, he doesn’t owe me any favours.
Any discontent at the moment is, of course, a result of my actions and feelings. I’ve had a run of exceptional experiences recently but it’s time to slow the show and pick up the balls before juggling them again. It’s lunchtime and The Drummer is still sleeping off a night shift and I am happy to wait for him.
I finally felt in control of my online dating destiny with the implementation of personal rules: have no qualms about blocking persistent fuckwits who don’t listen, enjoy flirting but be mindful of others’ emotions and expectations, policemen are capricious man-tarts and should be avoided regardless of their beauty, step forward and take a chance if everything seems right but listen to the inner voice and run for the hills if it doesn’t.
With the benefit of hindsight, I also needed to consider the implications of a personal preference: publishing a profile photo will invite more interest and reduce approaches from those who aren’t initially attracted, but the downside is the risk of being identified. By someone I know. At work. Who will be my subordinate soon. There is no word to describe the earth please swallow me up now because this man knows of my after-hours predilections sinking in my stomach when he sat at my desk and held his mobile phone before my eyes. My brain, playing out the slow-motion falling of my house of cards, saw a photo. Of me. That has only been used on the dating website. And he has it. On his phone. Therefore he must have read my profile. And knows what I do in my nocturnal hours. And plan to do with bisexual men and bondage and arse play and fickle men in uniform if they stand still for more than a few minutes.
Fuck. Always a risk, but still, fuck.
When the internal flashflood of embarrassment, shock and horror abated and I was able to breathe, I asked for his story. He had seen my ad a week earlier and thought it was me but couldn’t reconcile in his head the workplace professional with the online tart. Only when he visited my office to talk about his transfer to my team did the pieces of my identity fall into place – later he told me he ran to his car to do a cross check against the photo and saw the identical backdrop. I blushed again with the realisation that he had my secret and I was blissfully ignorant for so long. Then I rushed home to check *his* profile.
He said he spent days pondering whether to say something or let sleeping dogs lay, but I think his interest in tonguing my arse won the internal struggle. He has more at risk: a wife with no idea of his extra-curricular desires. I valued his honesty and conviction that an affair would be discreet but the degree of difficulty seems too high right now.
The good angel on one shoulder is whispering that he’s married, too close for comfort and a risk to my position at work. The bad angel on the other shoulder is shouting that he’s attractive, local and wants to lick me until I pass out from the pleasure. Both need to shut up until he’s finished his time as my employee.
