Chocolate, Cocks, and Carnal Consumption

Walking through the grocery shop, I ostensibly was looking for nourishment for my week.  However, I was also checking out what was on display for more carnal satiation.  There are a few possibilites, but I hesitate to squeeze the tomatoes where I buy them.

As I walk, all I can think about is how rounded my breasts are.  They are big to begin with, and now, they feel full with desire and longing.

They are ripe.  They are ready to be sucked, plucked, and fucked.  They are heavy with wanting.  My body is sybaritic as I stretch and arch my back.   All my senses are heightened, and my nerves are taut.   My pussy is permanently wet, and I only have to cross my legs and squeeze to give myself a mini-orgasm.  This is not like me at all.  Ok, the lust part, yes, but not the intensity.

I’m in a mood where listening to songs like this make me want to grab the next person I see and just fuck him/her:

A friend passed on this song, and I damn near came just watching the video.  I don’t particularly care for J-Lo, but she has a nice ass, and LL Cool J?  He’s fine.  Go watch it and tell me he isn’t!

I am a walking mass of phermones.  My whole body is attuned to the possibility of getting fucked.  I know, I know, it’s not very ladylike to say that, but it’s a little late for me to play the demure and coy ingenue, isn’t it?  I can’t believe guys walk around like this all the time.  No wonder they make stupid decisions whilst in the throes of lust–it’s simply not possible to think while one is like this.  Everything is reduced to reaction and instinct–there’s no room for reasoning and rational thought.

By the way, I’m watching Olbermann, and Larry O’Donnell is on right now.  Richard Wolffe was right before him.  Now, if Eugene Robinson is next, I would win the trifecta.  Then, I will follow it up with the yummy, yummy Rachel Maddow, and I’ll hope that she has Richard Engel on her show.

This is like the fucking All-Star Game.  This time, it matters.

Yes it does.  A whole hell of a lot.

Who’s idea of a sick joke was it to make a woman sexually peak at age thirty-eight?  I mean, really.  It would make much more sense to have a sexual peak in my early twenties.   I was young, thin, surrounded by potential mates, and had an endless amount of energy.  I could stay awake all night and still be sentient the next day.  Now?  I can stay up all night, but I will pay for it sometime down the road.  I’m fat and I’m not really into the clubbing scene any more.  I have more confidence as a lover, but less confidence in the sexiness of my body.  I have better technique, though.  That has to count for something.

Speaking of pushing the boundaries–oh, we weren’t?  Too bad.  That’s what I want to talk about now.  It’s been a long time since I’ve really been able to push my sexual boundaries.  I had, what I affectionately call, my slut years while I was in my late twenties.  I did a lot of exploring, and it was very exciting.  Then, I had long droughts of no sex, and I was in a long-distance relationship, which curbed the creativity.

So.  Now I am left to wonder how much of my past sexual self still exists?  When I was younger, I was into B & D, and to some extent, S & M.  This song pretty much encapsulates my thinking at the time:

It was titillating to explore the darkness and to see how far I was willing to go.  Pretty damn far, as it turned out.  I was a terrible sub, which was one reason I enjoyed doing it.  I learned to be an effective dom at a later date, so now I can do both.  I used to prefer subbing, but it’s pretty evenly split now.

Or it was the last time I tried it.

I really liked the kind of sex that left me bruised and battered the next day.  I liked a bit of the battlefield in my couplings, and I left enough scratches and bite marks to prove that I was worth the challenge.  To me, there was not a thin line between pleasure and pain–the two were intertwined.  The presence of one added to the intensity of the other.  It was also a way of testing my mettle.  It’s not a stretch to say that sometimes, I felt like a gladiator entering the arena when I engaged in rough play.

The thing is, for as much as I love sex, I have enough shit that keeps me from actively pursuing it all the damn time.  I haven’t quite shaken myself free of the guilt that I feel when I enjoy sex.  I was raised Christian, and I ingested the whole, “Sex is an evil, terrible, sinful, dirty thing–until you get married.  And then, it’s beautiful, wonderful, and sacred, as long as you are doing it with the intent of procreating” meme.

I have a devoutly religious cousin who told me that if I never got married, then, yes, I was supposed to be celibate.  WTF?  A whole lifetime without sex?  Why not just kill me now?

I didn’t have sex until I was quite old (twenty), and it was with someone I truly loved.  He was a virgin, too, so it was doubly special.  Or, it would have been except it just hurt at first.  Duh.  Then it didn’t hurt, and it felt good.  It felt really, really, really good.  It felt so good that I couldn’t believe I had waited so damn long before having it.  It was one of the best feelings I’ve ever had in my life, and I couldn’t believe it had taken me so long to have actual cock-in-pussy sex.

This?  This was what was going to send me to hell?  This was the dirty, awful, evil, sinful thing that was going to send my soul into eternal damnation?  Really?  Seriously?  Something that felt that good and did no harm to anyone?  My best friend tried to tell me something similar when we were in seventh grade (different best friend, and it was about masturbation, not sex).  She said, “God wouldn’t have made it feel so good if it was such a sin.”  I didn’t listen at the time, but she was right.

Gaaaah!  Melissa Harris-Lacewell is on Olbermann!  She’s hotter than Rachel.  Sorry.

Anyway, sex was awesome.  And I was really good at it.  Really, really, really good at it.  I should have majored in it, I was so fucking good at it.  Once I didn’t get hit by a lightning bolt for having sex (and let’s be honest.  I was a TV (technical virgin) for several years before that), whatever religion I had (which, admittedly, wasn’t much) fell to the wayside.

So, I began to have sex.  And I enjoyed it.  The problem was, I still felt guilty about it.  No matter how much I liked it, I still harbored a tiny, nagging voice in the back of my head that says, “You’re going to hell, you harlot!”  Ok, so the nagging voice in the back of my head is an eighteenth century scold, but you get the drift.

I have never been able to completely give up the guilt.  That’s not uncommon for me as I am the Queen of Guilt and Shame, but it’s starting to get annoying.  I actually believe that as long as the sex is with consenting adults and no one is harmed (coerced), it’s all good.  However, I can’t fully embrace that.  I can’t stop that voice from chastising me over and over.

In my slut years, I had sex with a couple.  At the same time.  I expected myself to be wracked with guilt, shame, and “Oh my god, I’m going to hell!” thoughts.  I hunkered down for it, and–nothing.  I felt no guilt.  I felt no shame.  I didn’t even feel like I was going to hell.   That was very telling for me, but alas, it didn’t last forever after.  No, my moral upbringing kicked in and started haranguing me again.

Oh, it didn’t help that my second relationship was the truly awful, horrible, no-good, rotten relationship in Thailand that made me feel like shit about myself.  I felt worthless and deserving of being abused.  I know it’s not an uncommon feeling, but thankfully, that never extended to me hating sex.  It could easily have done so, but that was actually part of the problem.  I was so conflicted between my upbringing as a good, moral Christian girl and my very carnal, very animalistic desires that I tried so hard to smother.  If I had been more clear about what I wanted and what I would and wouldn’t do, for my own sake, not for anyone else’s, then I might not have been in that situation in the first place.

Anyway, back to my current dilemma.  I still have trouble impelling myself to go out and get laid.  I’ve joked that I would love to pick up the phone and call “Dial a Hunk” and have a guy delivered to my house.  However, I’m not going to pay for sex.  As an Asian woman with big tits and long hair, I shouldn’t have to pay to play.

So.  I guess it’s back to the personals for me.  Now, I just have to force myself to follow through.  That’s not my strong point at all.