Horror-mones

I was going to post this privately a few weeks ago but my physical life is impacted directly. Here goes.

I have been dealing with a side issue since last year that interferes with this part of my life and its potential lifespan.

My cycle used to be a reliable 27 days and has changed in duration from 21 to 50 days, depending how much it wants to fuck with my diary. This surprise factor was tolerable with the Country Boy as he understood if I postponed meetings at short notice because my period arrived unexpectedly or, if I wasn’t too crampy and cranky, I’d meet him anyway to keep up momentum and find ways of using other parts of my body. He always repaid the favour another time and we built some good feelings of reciprocation.

New men I’ve been meeting won’t have a history of knowing my usual honesty and reliability with catching up and I’ll probably lose one or two along the way if they don’t trust me and my situation – people who don’t know each other well usually postpone at short notice to pursue better offers and I don’t know how much detail new partners want about the vagaries of my female happenings.

Months ago I toddled along to the doctor’s with a list of dates scrawled on a yellow sticky note and I underwent a range of tests (I did not know the pelvic ultrasound included a special bonus bulbous plastic wand up the vagina – the things you learn).

I don’t like the feeling of being torn when I know I should be grateful for good health but frustrated there is nothing wrong when my cycle and mood swings tell me otherwise. My doctor now believes I’m in the early stages of menopause and I had to fight tears when she broke that news. It’s the first time my past-middle age, implacable Iron Curtain medical practitioner walked around her desk and gave me a hug. I think she’s escorted a few of her lambs to the path of muttonhood and knows that denial involves being harangued for more tests before the stage of acceptance arrives.

Apart from not understanding all the reasons why a natural function of life is headfucking me so intensely, I made the decision on her recommendation to go back on the pill (after years off it) to see if my cycle regulates.

And, after two months of artificial hormone management, ladies and gentleman, I understand why the pill is one of the main reasons modern-day women cannot be bothered having sex; the chemical leader of the sexual revolution is also its two-faced, stealthy enemy. The peaks in my cyclical libido have been pummelled into submission and going to bed early with a book holds more appeal than surfing the web looking for sexual partners. There’s still a little flicker of sexual thoughts in the day prior to my period arriving but the hormonal surges of ovulation are dead; I miss the feeling of still being me but edgier and aware and in want of lustful behaviour rather than waiting and needing others to generate those sensations in me.

The pill I’m on isn’t suitable (bad skin, worse moods including new melancholy) but I am going to take a break before trying another. I want to see if I can tolerate the erratic cycle and bad temper again now that I know the trade-off.

Type

I’ve been holding the seed of a thought from an e-mail months ago about perceptions of my type of man, and I initially thought that I don’t have a type. It’s like art or music or many other things: there’s no essential requirement or characteristic that captures me, but rather the overall impression or unpredictable un coup de foudre I learned in French classes a million years ago. I wish I hadn’t lost my e-mails in the unscheduled wiping of my account recently because I can’t recall the specifics of the perceived type, except that I remember laughing while not agreeing.

All I know for sure is that I like a healthy man who smells clean, and possesses good manners on the outside that conceal a devilish streak running to the core. Respect, enthusiasm and curiosity are also important, and I can’t tell you how refreshing it is to meet men who genuinely appreciate and encourage women’s sexual appetites. As far as looks, I’ve cavorted with locals and those from other countries, cultures and colours, younger and older, taller and shorter and with vastly different appearances. But all have shared the look in their eyes that indicate something extra is going on beneath the surface that I want to know about.

I was taken on a walk-around at a job interview a couple of weeks ago and my eyes honed in on a tallish man with slightly scruffy dark blonde hair, clad in overalls and showing some impressive backside while bending over a piece of equipment. Even with the limited view, my first thought was stand up and turn around so I can check you out and then would I be getting my own office? He didn’t receive my psychic telegrams to face me and I (as I should) focused instead on the discussion at hand.

I was called back recently for a second interview and was in the reception area closing the (positive — hurrah) meeting, and the subject of my previously surging hormones was outside checking out at my car. To my delight he came inside the building to look for its owner and he joined us to exchange a few pleasantries. He would almost be the Country Boy’s mischievous twin in looks, except the new version before me had piercings and a more blatant aura that misbehaviour wasn’t a new concept to him. Perhaps I am becoming predictable and have a type.

Keep your fingers crossed. For the job, of course.

PS: I’m not looking to trade in the Country Boy or anything (although I’ve had one or two or 20 thoughts of office threesomes with both of them if I end up working there); after weeks of idle people watching on public transport, it’s just remarkably uncommon to sight someone who mutes everything in my mind without knowing or trying.

Orgasm

I orgasm quietly. Always have, and more likely than not I always will.

I don’t know if our sexual expressions are ingrained naturally or if they’re learned with the encouragement (or discouragement) of partners. Perhaps I never lost the secretive silences of self experimentation while living in the family home, or I just internalise a lot of my pleasure like I internalise a lot of my non-sexual thoughts and responses.

Young Lion has asked previously, that when we meet, I should shout when I’m about to come and yell his name at the moment of release. I delayed my response to those messages because I was torn: he was only telling me this because loud demonstrative behaviour turns him on and I’d like to please him in this way, but if I am being truthful and authentic with my own sexuality, the moment I start having to think about my behaviour leading to orgasm, the less likely I am to come. The natural order of things is thrown out of balance when I interfere with its patterns. I don’t mind if I don’t orgasm when that’s how things (don’t) roll at the time, but I most certainly do mind if an orgasm is within reach and withers away or is sabotaged.

The Country Boy knows when I come if using his fingers on my clitoris as I shove his hand away when I become too sensitive. But sometimes he’s asked after penetration if I’ve orgasmed because my internal wild rollicking and crashing and thunderous finale apparently isn’t obvious to the man inside me. I have to remember to communicate with him.

Words weren’t necessary the other day. I was laying on my back with my arms outstretched at a perfect 90 degrees and my legs apart in the air like an open pair of scissors. He entered me and we fucked lazily as we watched his ivory fair, blue-veined cock slid in and out of my swollen, dark pinky-purpley labia. I think I have a fetish for veins: Country Hottie’s striated forearms had my mind racing at lunch before we had sex for the first time, and the Country Boy’s cock has at least half a dozen visible veins that pulse blood to his heart for recirculation and feel like they’re splitting me in half sometimes. And I’ll have to post a photo I saw on the web yesterday of a man’s veined abdominal area that captured my attention. Or, I should concentrate and finish this post.

He brought my legs together vertically so I couldn’t see his face, nor watch the action. He thrust more deeply to the point I almost couldn’t tolerate his size, and in that haze of pain-tinged pleasure, my body decided it was time to come. And come. And keep coming. And a few more times for good measure. I wanted to shout to him then but the only vocalisation I was capable of was something like a strained yowl with a few gurgles thrown in.

Afterwards I was dazzled with endorphins and the part of the brain that manages language was disabled, so I told him, “You know that thing with my legs together and you were driving me through the wall? Yeah, yeah, that. I had like four million orgasms, couldn’t stop, fucking awesome, wow. So good. No idea what you did but holy fuckaroly. Can we do that one again soon?”

I wish I did orgasm more loudly so my partners could be saved from such awful discourse.

Desire is never balanced

I was thinking about the balance of desire and realised of the casual men in my past, I have mostly wanted them more than they have wanted me (sorry, today is one of those need a grammar fairy by my side days). I don’t know if this is because I don’t open easily to others and I give more wholly when I decide to trust, or if I tend to become involved with low-maintenance, self-sufficient types and thrive on the frustrating challenge of winning them. The see-saw of desire with Mr OMG would see me seated on one end of the plank on the ground with him hoisted in the air (even though he sent some lovely photos today), but as much as I leave him alone with a convincing air of nonchalance, I still run to the phone when he calls and put on some theatre that it’s a wonderful surprise to hear from him. The “treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen” ethos runs true for me when it suits.

And I become turned off with astonishing speed when someone has become more attached to me than I feel is innately acceptable. It hasn’t happened much: the last time probably occurred during some moments with ArmyDude when the intensity was becoming untenable — I backed away rather than show the courage to discuss and manage the situation with him.

Jekyll was the most consistent as far as being involved equally and maintaining his boundaries and, without realising, he taught me a lot about compartmentalisation in all areas of my life. He was the victim of terrible events in his youth and learned to isolate himself mentally during physically abusive episodes. Decades later, I could listen to him managing work situations on the phone and put the issues away mentally within a second of terminating a call, deal with a family problem and file it almost literally in a box on a mental shelf, discuss sexual fantasies with me with complete focus yet five minutes after we parted I know I’d be filed away for next time (in a positive and respectful way, of course).

The reason for these thoughts is that I think the Country Boy desires me more than I desire him, and sometimes I look over my shoulder to see if a thundercloud of my own making is approaching. I know he’s still chatting to women occasionally on the web site because he told me (he doesn’t seem to be faring too well as he tells them he’s already seeing me; I’m sure at some stage he’ll learn to not tell the whole truth). While my selfish side doesn’t like to share, I’m glad as the potential competition for his time is keeping me on my toes (and the number of psycho hose beasts on the web might make me look like an even better proposition).

For a while I was starting to fret that things were too smooth and easy and I would lose the rawness of desire for him. However, when he sent a text message saying he was a spanking virgin and wanted me to be the first, I leaped at the opportunity. I didn’t care if he was telling the truth or not; it was one of those proclamations that I decided to be true.

There shall be sex in the next post.

Some things I have learned

These are generalisations only.

Women are too fussy. Men are not fussy enough.

The quicker someone makes contact and pleads startling levels of mutual compatibility and urgency to meet, the quicker the person will flee after sex.

Both genders lie about their true intentions, but for different reasons. Men often want less than they promise, and women conceal that they want more.

You can only hope — but never control — how someone will treat you.

Men will tolerate long periods of text message questions, pleading and anger to end contact rather than end definitively with the risk of confrontation.

Penis size can never be predicted accurately from other bodily measurements. The short, skinny, wiry men often pack generous gifts between their thin legs.

Gut feel, intuition, call it what you will, is almost always right but the reason for the warning bells needs unravelling before sense can be made of a situation.

One of the most confronting sexual encounters is with a new partner who undresses and his children’s names are tattooed on his body.

The longer a couple is together, the less likely the partners are to confess new sexual desires or urges to each other. The dangerous scenario of an affair perversely offers a more comfortable situation to create a new sexual identity without preconceptions.

Men don’t want women to take the lead during the courting/meeting stage, however, they want women to display more obvious clues.

As a personal quality, honesty is only valued by the honest or a person deceived.

The less notice given by someone seeking a booty call, the less satisfaction is guaranteed for the person being called.

There are few feelings more intensely pleasurable than the moment of realising a mutual attraction.

Men masturbate one to four times a day on average when they’re home alone off work. I have the photos.

Breaking The Bachelor is a lot of fun

The Bachelor copped it last night. Our meeting wasn’t confirmed until about an hour beforehand as it’s his company’s busy time of year, but he organised a workaround and kept his word. Again, there’s been nothing but refreshing frankness and honesty in dealing with him. He barely had time to shower when I arrived and he answered the door wearing only a long t-shirt. My eyes widened and I said it was a very good idea to answer the door without pants. He stuck his tongue down my throat in response and said we had been vertical for too long.

His legs were sore and he was tired from days without a break but he found the endurance to get on all fours and go down on me. I was squirming happily as he inserted fingers in both holes and licked my clit, and he held his fingers in position when he launched up to kiss me and share my taste. We kissed a few times until he proclaimed he had to go down again (another fine idea) and returned to work between my legs. I can’t remember the last time I orgasmed clitorally with a partner but his fingers worked a treat inside me and I spasmed around them twice until I was a giggling puddle on his sheets.

I think I managed to say thank you before laying back and hoping for a quick recovery so I could jump him. He took advantage of my weakened state and stuck his cock in my mouth. I licked the long trail of pre-come and gagged somewhat contentedly as he thrust in my mouth. My lust stirred again as his legs were tiring and I positioned him on his back and rimmed him. I probably should have placed a pillow under his rear to gain some elevation as I was lying almost on my side with my legs flailing at odd angles trying to find a comfortable position, but I was having so much fun I didn’t want to interrupt the tempo. I occasionally looked up and saw his hand massaging his cock and thoughts of fucking entered my mind. He must have been thinking the same thing as he said, “I think it’s time I gave you a hard fucking.” He was full of good ideas.

When I was packing a bag before I left, I read instructions on the lube bottle that said it could be applied inside a condom. I thought now there’s something I’ve never tried and put the idea away in the back of my head, wondering curiously if the condom would stay in place. I used the opportunity to slick some lube along The Bachelor’s cock to bring him to full hardness and rolled the condom on and rode the man like an unbroken horse. I leaned forwards, sat upright, leaned back, towered over him and gripped the bed head, and bounced until my legs were crying with protest. He grabbed my hips and started thrusting from underneath and we fucked in a mis-matched, messy sweatfest that was an amazing amount of unco-ordinated fun. He was flinging sweat up at me and mine was dripping on him and our hands slid haphazardly across each other’s bodies. I haven’t a clue how long we lasted but we crashed together until neither of us could speak from exhaustion.

We agreed sensibly to a break and he flipped off the condom — it had lasted the distance admirably with lube inside but I forgot to ask if there was a difference in sensation for him. We sprawled in a heap on his bunched sheets and talked a while in the dark. He was tired and hadn’t come and I started brushing my fingertips along his inner thighs and penis to bring his erection to life again. My touches turned into firmer massaging and soft moans crept into his conversation. He took over masturbating and he responded positively when I lubed a finger and inserted it into his anus as we were kissing. As his breathing became deeper, I finger fucked him in tempo and kissed him with more intent. Unlike the frenetic bursts of activity earlier, we merged in the darkness and moved together to bring him to orgasm. It happened on an unexpectedly intimate level and we didn’t feel the need to talk after that.

He wore the t-shirt again to bid me goodbye and gave me another long kiss. It was a shame he needed to work in the morning as he had re-activated a new source of energy inside me and I reluctantly slipped into the night.

Self-squirting

I grabbed some popcorn and watched a video, tried for myself and made a horrendous mess — I wasn’t expecting quick success but within a minute I had ejaculated with my own two fingers. In the next ten minutes I racked up another four squirts before I saw the moat of wetness I’d surrounded myself in and thought I should give it a rest for a while.

I was having only weak orgasms each time I ejaculated; I’m not sure if this is because my technique needs perfecting or my fingers aren’t long and I could only catch the edge of my g-spot. Not to worry, now that I’ve done it I’m somewhat underwhelmed and am ready to move on to the next big thing. Just need to work out what it is. But in relation to the video, working the fingers in the up and down movement to get the thwuck thwuck thwuck sound is the key — I recognised the sound immediately from the presumably-gone Country Hottie’s initiations and knew I’d hit the right button, so to speak.


The body still surprises (or, my arse rocks the house)

A similarity between the non-sexual and sexual compartments of my life is that I am driven largely by the push and pull forces of curiosity and learning. Sexually, the greatest lesson last year was when Jekyll fisted me for the first time. A human hand fitted inside my body and it took two days for me to dare look at the photo because of the shock at my body’s hidden capability. This year Country Hottie sent my sense of comprehension reeling when I squirted for the first time. I was tied up and expecting a simple spanking scenario but the torrents of liquid running down my thighs told me that another bodily secret had been unveiled. I don’t necessarily enjoy the sensation but it could make a fun party trick when I work out how to do it myself.

Mr OMG has caused probably the second-most surprising moment of the year. He called a few mornings ago at an unexpected time that only birds and tradespeople (and me, now) are going about their business and all he wanted to say was how full his mind was with sexual thoughts. I’m not sure what’s behind his increased attentions of late but who am I to do anything but encourage more? We organised to meet on his way home from a Christmas party but I didn’t expect him because I thought he was too optimistic in the time he could leave. However, he called half an hour earlier than he had guessed and was 10 minutes away if I wanted him to drop by. I was in bed reading a book and sleepy enough to desire being draped around him lazily but alert enough to launch out of the covers, strip my clothes and greet him naked.

I left the bedroom door wider ajar than last time to bathe more of his lean body in light from the loungeroom. We mock argued about who was going to devour the other first, and he capitulated after the briefest of jostlings and laid on his back. I used my mouth from the head of his cock past his balls, with the sensation of my wet tongue brushing along the perineum making him shudder like a skyscraper in heavy wind. I wondered how long it had been since someone had adored attention on him there so I made a few passes that caused guttural sounds to escape from deep in his throat.

I flicked and twirled and rolled my tongue around his hole but he reacted most strongly to my tongue diving in as far as I could reach. He wanted deeper penetration and lifted his legs to allow me freer access. I snuck a look up and thought I saw his feet, hands and head in a perfect horizontal row; I’ll have to ask him to do that again when I’m less aroused so I can appreciate his range of movement (and think deviously about other positions that make full use of his flexibility).

He became too charged sexually to tolerate more foreplay and went down on me before we fucked with him on top. It was my turn to make guttural noises from who-knows-where each time his cock sank deeply. He tested the water and said coyly that he had thought again about fucking me anally — in a classic case of reacting before thinking, I squeezed my muscles and ascertained that I felt clean and empty enough to try. Before I gave myself the chance to talk myself out this hasty consent,  I grabbed a tube of lubricant out of the drawer, smeared a generous cold glob over his cock and rubbed the surplus between my legs. He winced at the initial chill but shuddered again and almost toppled from his kneeling position as I masturbated the slick fluid along his length — I suspect he’s never had a lubed hand caressing his cock and I plan teasing him to madness another time when he is unfettered by protection.

He laid me back on the bed and lifted my legs so they rested on his shoulders. Before I could ask him to move slowly and not allow the head of his cock to escape, he was half way in and thrusting. I don’t know which of us was more surprised by the smoothness of his entry. We checked each other’s welfare and were both feeling fine. I propped my head on a pillow so I could take in the view of his cock shifting in and out and felt tingling waves of goodness emanating from my centre. He pushed with more determination a few times and said he was all the way in and asked if I felt all right. I muttered a perplexed, “I do, I feel fantastic actually.” His noises told me more than enough about the joy he was experiencing.

He came and withdrew while he was still hard and we collapsed together — in released pleasure for him and thrilled surprise for me. My body accepted and enjoyed his cock with more ease than a finger or a smaller penis and I felt lighter than air. He didn’t understand my sense of wonder but he didn’t have to; memorable moments are often gifted by people who never realise the magnitude of their benefaction.

I was glad I gave him this pleasure and I felt good, too. If there is a next time, I’ll ask if he wants to try doggy style so he can watch the show as I suspect he’ll enjoy that very much.

On hormones

A while ago a woman I used to work with was undergoing tests prior to a course of IVF treatment. I took barely a clinical level of interest apart from my concern for her wellbeing because I’ve always known that I have never wanted children, but the first piece of paperwork with her hormone levels captured my attention instantly.

Mapped out on the papers were the natural swings in reproduction-related hormones like jagged and deadly mountain ranges. I had to bite my tongue to stop from saying, “Holy fuck, it’s amazing more women aren’t out killing people with these fluctuations to deal with every week of the year.” I’ve known from early sex education about follicle stimulating hormones and ovulation (and at a guess I have about 80 more cycles before menopause, so I’m trying to make the most of those times I have left) but the body’s multiple shifts in natural chemicals both frightened me and highlighted why I’m attracted to someone one day but not the next, want to fuck anyone or many anyones for about 12 hours in the day before my period, forget the urges ever occurred as they slip away as quietly as they arrived, and crave clitoral attention some days but nothing except being stuffed full with cock will suffice on others.

Fulfilling sex to the point of hormonal overload turns me into a softer, pliable version of the ecstasy-fuelled young things at dance parties. After the second fisting episode with Jekyll in the relaxing confines of a hotel room and I had almost levitated from the bed with pleasure, I almost shouted that I loved him. Thankfully self protection kicked in before opening my mouth and I saved myself an explanation, but I think Jekyll would have coped with the declaration in its context because he enjoyed pushing my limits and seeing the unpredictable results. After the role play with Country Hottie, I was so whacked with feel-goods that the words almost escaped from my mouth again, and not in a sexual oh-my-god-I-love-you-keep-doing-that kind of way, but with fully-felt conviction. He wouldn’t have given allowances for being lust-fucked and would have run out the door without pants and driven far, far away.

This morning I masturbated and was in tears as I came. The stream flowed quickly down both cheeks and pooled in my ears until I wiped my face in confusion. My mental state at the moment is passable and probably only a small contributor, but I think there’s a couple of days after my period and before the fuck-me-nows of ovulation kick in when the hormone milkshake gets stirred wildly with a simple orgasm.

The promise of sexual release will inspire many men to behave oddly but I become the strangest of creatures afterwards.

Little oddities

I get more nervous meeting men for the prospect of sex than I do meeting interviewers for the prospect of employment. I have no idea how to interpret this.

On average I spend more time preparing myself to meet a man than to meet an interviewer. The latter is easy: shower, make-up, hair, teeth, paperwork, address which I’ll find without checking as I know all the business districts, car keys, phone, water, leave 15 minutes before I think I should. The former is: shower with skin scrub, depilation, pumice feet as I have a thing about smooth heels, make-up, hair, teeth, bag or bags of tricks depending how well the person knows me, address or hit the web to locate a meeting place, draw a map on a sticky note of meeting place as my sense of direction is awful and I can’t use the GPS thingy on my phone to save myself, car keys, phone, mints, water, portable food, pace the house a few times and double check the bag of tricks, triple check the watch, run to the toilet because my bladder and bowel often go crazy when I’m nervous, wash again, check time and finally leave.

I am close to offer stage with three full-time roles and a couple of short-term contracts where the projects are interesting but the dates aren’t aligning. There are no sexual activities scheduled for this weekend when I’m starting to relax. I’d give up one of the job prospects for a few hours of naked man time.

I watch very little porn. I have some of the Fucked and Bound bondage videos because I like the ropework, but the same turn-off applies with most porn: I can’t stand looking at overly made-up women with long red fingernails, horrendously fake non-stop moaning at the silliest times and the perennially open mouth with the bottom teeth jutting forwards look that’s prevalent these days. I suppose I’m too detail oriented and literal to appreciate commercial clips. I’m the same with amateur porn as I take note of the cheap motel rooms or personal items in people’s bedrooms that they’ve forgotten to move out of camera shot rather than look at the action. Mr OMG rang today and I mentioned I had surfed the web for gay porn earlier to try to focus my mind with something pleasant and I could almost hear his eyebrows raise through the phone. I don’t think watching men fuck each other is one of his masturbatory interests. I thought watching one tattooed Latino man hammering another Latino dude bent over a table was pretty hot.

I couldn’t sleep last night and ended up thinking about my sexual history. I have had almost as many sexual partners in the past two-and-a-bit years as I’ve had in the remainder of my life. I have no desire to write about my past though, even though it’s all contributed to the present. Maybe one day.

I may have had close to a dozen sexual partners since our relationship opened, but I probably have less sex than most people. The Drummer and I haven’t fucked for months and my other life is bursts of action and drought. I think the variety of experiences I’ve had is probably greater than many people’s, though.

There have been no women for me since opening our relationship although I closely identify with bisexuality. I think it’s more the practical side that I don’t read women’s signals very well and I’ve had next to no luck finding free-spirited, adventurous women whom I’ve had the patience to pursue — in early communication I’ve had to take the traditional male role and suggest meeting, and then deciding when to walk away when my patience has waned. We are a tricky bunch to deal with. The lesbian web site I tried was full of 18-24 year olds so I killed my log-in.

Mr OMG is on my hit list as a reward next week if I am offered the job I want. He learned again today that I’m not terribly good at phone sex, but neither is he. To fill the gaps in conversation I asked him questions about fantasies or what he’d like to be doing, and he said, “Oh, anything really.” Not a lot to work with. And I kept pausing to listen when I could hear his breathing change as I found imagining what he was doing erotic.

I took a photo of what I was doing when he hung up the phone. I might post it next week if I get the job I want.