For all my horror nerds out there: A bit of darkness amid your summery sunshine.
Photo courtesy of Cammies on the Floor
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I understand the benefits of pretending to be someone else; being able to act out your fantasies in a safe space is a powerful thing. The reason I loved reading as a child is because I got to imagine myself as a character in a world wildly different than my own. I got to go on adventures, be courageous, and do things I could never do in real life. This is one appealing factor of Dungeons and Dragons, LARPing, cosplay, the Ren Faire, and Halloween parties.
I will gladly don a costume and get into character for one of those activities, but when it comes to sex and kink, role play is a big “meh” for me. I chalk this up to the fact that I’ve done professional sessions as both a domme and a sub, and the roles that my clients prefer me to play (student, nurse, cheerleader, maid, secretary, interrogator…) always feel so cliché to me – like I’m in a bad 1970s porn. Don’t get me wrong: I have SO much fun playing these roles (oh my god, so much fun!!!) in the same way that I have a great time at costume parties – but the dialogue, characters, cues, and tropes make me laugh rather than turn me on. I get into my character’s head space and make an effort to be as believable as possible in session because to do otherwise would be a disservice to my clients, but for me, it’s make believe. A game of pretense that doesn’t feel sexual to me even in an overtly sexual space. Even when my clients allow me to be myself in session, I’m not me. I’m the character they see on the website, a woman of a different name, a flawless minx. Add role playing, and it becomes a dream within a dream.
Perhaps because I’ve had to perform roles for work, it doesn’t work for me in real life. I’d much rather be myself and play with my partners as themselves, because they are the people I choose to be with. The Engineer doesn’t have to be anyone else other than exactly who he is, because he’s the person I love. And I don’t want to be someone other than who I am, because who I am is pretty great, and because, well – it feels like work. I want to be spanked and flogged and caned not because I misbehaved or got bad grades or made a typo, but because I like it. It feels good. I want him to tie me up and use me for his pleasure because it makes me happy. Because it makes him happy. Because it turns us on. Because it’s him doing it.
It was one of those nights when the city sweltered. When drops of sweat ran down glasses and dogs would lie in front of cars rather than get up and move. My roommate and I had just run out of Modelo, and I drew the short straw. Coming in from the fire escape produced pearls of sticky perspiration that would soon be pasted to the tank top I threw on. He tossed me the keys as I lumbered toward the door, dreading the two-block walk to the bodega.
I never got used to being in the stairwell of our building. Being in there alone – the utter silence punctuated by rare echoes of slamming doors, the unsettling atmosphere of automatic lights that didn’t always function – kind of unnerved me. When I turned the first corner and failed to be assaulted by a sudden flash of dull yellow, I assumed that the light was broken. The second corner of darkness made me think otherwise. You may find this ridiculous, but when I heard the door open two flights up, my first thought was that a serial killer had cut the lights and was coming for me.
Shoving this notion aside, I shouted up, “Careful! A couple of the lights down here aren’t working.” “None of them are,” came back a cheerful, semi-familiar voice. “There’s a city-wide blackout.” Ah. Perfect timing. I stood still and listened to the rapid patter of her light footfalls tripping down the rigid, worn surfaces of each stair. She stopped on the landing above me. “Where you headed?” she asked. “Was headed to the store to buy beer, but who knows if they’ll be open,” I replied. “Oh,” she said, coming down to meet my voice. “The blackout might not last for long. They usually don’t.” She felt around in the darkness until her fingers grazed my forearm.
“How is your skin so cool?” I asked, awed by how refreshing her grip felt on my melting skin. “I’m always cold,” she replied with a shy laugh. “I like how hot you are.” She drew closer to me; I could feel her other hand an inch from my torso. “It’s like waves of heat just radiate off you,” she said. The sheer fabric covering her breasts brushed my arm as she moved even closer; I could feel my cock start to stir under my shorts. “It is literally 95 degrees,” I said, not daring to move.
“If you’re so hot,” she continued in a silky wolf voice, “Why are you still wearing clothes?” “I – I mean, I was planning on going outside,” I stammered. “Stay awhile,” she directed. The smell of oranges drifted from her lips as she raised onto her toes to find mine. She felt like buttercream. Not just her mouth – her everything. I relaxed as she slid her hands around my waist and her tongue between my parted lips. I swung her around so her back was against the wall and lifted the skirt of her sundress, dropping to my knees, preparing to slide her panties down – but finding none. “If you’re so cold,” I said, “Why aren’t you wearing more clothes?” “It’s the only part of me that’s hot,” she replied.
She was right. Her labia warmed my tongue; my moist breath floated around her lips as I circled her clit. She grabbed the back of my head and eagerly held it in place while I lapped at her, her cream smearing my chin. “Hold on,” she said suddenly, pushing me back and dropping down to grope around the stairs for her purse. “Ah, gold!” she exclaimed upon finding a condom. She dragged my shorts down, and my cock sprung out to meet her waiting hands; she took me into her mouth for a wondrous minute before tearing the wrapper open and rolling the condom on me.
She faced the railing and leaned over it; just as I started to slide inside of her (god, that first thrust is always so glorious), we heard a door open above and heavy footsteps start to proceed down the stairs. I put my hand over her mouth, picked her up, and backed up into the corner. We stood there silently until the other tenant was out the ground level door. I pushed her against the wall and gripped her hips as she pushed back onto my dick in long, even strokes, both of us panting and sticky as hot buns. Her stifled groans echoed throughout the sealed stairwell; I cupped her breasts and steadied her as she rocked back and forth against me while touching herself. Finally, exhausted and soaking, she tiptoed up and off me, turning to face me.
“You didn’t come,” she said. I leaned in to kiss her; her cheeks burned, and her hair was plastered to her face. “Sometimes it takes me a while,” I said sheepishly. “You feel amazing.” “Come see me after you get that beer,” she said, squatting down to feel for her purse. “7C.” With that, she leapt down the steps into the darkness, rendering me no longer unnerved by the empty stairwell and its echoes.
When I was young and foolish (Ha! “When…”), I made a grave error in judgment. I had a friend with a great dry wit and a masterful use of language on whom I suddenly and out of nowhere developed a crush. Not Serious Feelings, but a fun crush with a side of pants feelings. When we started spending more time together and hooking up, I made the assumption that he felt the same way I did. I was very honest from the beginning about the fact that I was also dating other people and in no position to be attached to anyone. And while that was a true sentiment, I specifically wasn’t super attached to him.
Over the first couple of months, it became apparent that he had a real, serious, deep, romantic attachment to me that I didn’t reciprocate. While I earnestly cared for him and felt a lot of intimate affection for him, I didn’t feel the same way he did… but I continued to date him. I finally asked him to coffee five months in and broke things off with him, afraid of hurting him more than I already had. He later told me that he was in love with me, and that I had been careless with his heart. He was right – I had been. He cut off communication with me, and I lost a good friend.
For years, I never understood why our friendship had to end just because we stopped dating. I couldn’t see past the end of my nose. “But we had such a great connection!” I thought. “Surely, that’s worth saving?” Because I hadn’t had the excruciating experience of being in long-term love with someone who was in a short-term relationship with me, I couldn’t truly empathize with the fact that he needed to stop seeing and talking to me in order to preserve his mental and emotional well-being. Now, I can see how if we’d stayed friends, every time I brought up a significant other who I had a deep, long-term, and loving commitment to, it would have killed him.
Some say that when it comes to exes, you can either be the type to burn your bridges or fortify them. For the longest time, I tried to be one of those people who could be friends with all of their exes, no matter how hurtful that friendship was to me. I would put a huge, Frozen Smile of Enthusiasm on my face when meeting an ex’s new partner, even if I felt like an earthquake was ripping through me. I thought that in order to show how cool and strong I was, I had to push through my panic and self-loathing and try to be a good friend. The older I get, however, the more I realize: I don’t have to do that. I don’t have to do things that make me unhappy just because they might be what other people want.
I’ve only recently come to realize that it’s okay to let go of a friendship when it doesn’t feel good. I am genuinely friends with some exes for whom I have a deep and abiding platonic love. I like their partners and feel grateful for the value that their friendships add to my life. With some of them, the transition from dating to friendship was easy; with others, it took the work of giving and receiving sincere apologies, forgiveness, and empathy. Once in a very great while, though, the most simple and kind thing for me to do has been to release myself from a friendship that’s not working for me – just like my friend-turned-lover did so many years ago. Each time I have, it’s made me saner, more confident, and more joyful. Sometimes, letting go is a necessary act of liberation and self-preservation.
Side Note: I wrote this after receiving a lovely email from an ex with whom I’d cut off contact; he wanted to send me a piece of post. I spent an agonizing 45 minutes crafting the wording of eight short sentences telling him that I’d made the right decision, and I didn’t want to stay in touch. I laughed after I sent it, realizing that the reason it took me so long to write this email is because I didn’t want to hurt the feelings of this boy who absolutely fucking crushed me. That’s what women mean when we say we’re socialized to please others.
The very first thing out of every mouth of every friend of mine here in the States to whom I tell I’m dating an Englishman is, “Ooh – does he have a sexy accent?”* I often tell friends from Ireland and the UK that the whole bit in Love, Actually about a young Brit coming to the US to get laid is realistic. They think I’m joking, but there are soooooo many Statesiders who become instantly aroused upon hearing a British accent – even when the word snog is used (that word crawls under my skin like the word “moist” does for some people).
I was never one of these people. I’ve slept with people from many states and countries with many accents and was never particularly drawn to any specific one… until Banger. It’s funny how a pattern of arousal can develop because of a strong emotional attachment. Sometimes, you see someone who looks like an ex, and you immediately want to fuck them. Or you hear a song that brings you back to a hot encounter, and the first person you see becomes much more attractive. Or you develop a kink with a partner and every time you meet someone associated with that kink, you feel yourself swell a bit.
Until this guy, I thought English accents were lovely, but not particularly arousing. But after he left, his voice stayed with me. I could hear it drifting around my head for months, an echoing will-o-the-wisp. Being in London last summer was jarring at times; I’d hear someone say something exactly in the manner in which he would say it, and I’d swear it was him, only to turn my head and find out that his way of saying that word or phrase was just common in London.
The sex we had was so exquisite that British accents became an element of my schema of lust – a piece of unexpected kindling.
While I didn’t have an attraction to accents for the longest time, I’ve always had an attraction to languages. When someone speaks to me in another language, especially if they’re fluent in two or more languages (and especially if I have no idea what they’re saying), I feel weak in the knees. This has everything to do with being a sapiosexual and not much to do with any particular language. I know this because it doesn’t have to be a foreign language; it can just be a jargon specific to a vocation or field of knowledge with which I am unfamiliar. When someone starts talking about string theory or calculus or speaks in legalese or medical jargon, it has the exact same effect on me. I just love a person who loves to learn and knows their shit! That’s sexy.
*Yes. Yes, he does.
Photo courtesy of submiss34f
The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #107? Start with the rules, come back June 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!
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