It Ain’t Always Easy

Filed Under Ruminations | 1 Comment

Let me tell you how it isn’t always easy for me to come. Let me tell you that I spent much of my early twenties absolutely faking it. Let me tell you that it has taken almost thirty years of having sex with men, with women, with men and women, for me to realize that I can come relatively reliably, if indeed that is something I want to do. Let me tell you that I am no major goddess in the orgasm department, nor am I a minor deity. I am probably pretty much just like you, or if you’re a dude, like your girlfriend or wife, or at least the majority of women that you’ve fucked and who neither never came nor who came like all the time. I am, let’s face it, average.

In the interest of backing up my assertions of total orgasmic mediocrity, I want to give you some facts, some figures and some evidence. My lover and I see each other at the most three times a week and at the least one. I’d say we have sex about 1.5 times per week. Often we are too tired to fuck. We hold hands and watch television or we go out and eat, and by the time we get to thinking about sex, we can’t. We do make time to do it when we can, but we don’t always. I’m not particularly happy with how often we have sex; I’d like to more often, say maybe three or four times a week. I will not ever be the kind of woman who needs to have sex every day, nor for that matter will I ever be the kind of woman who wants to.
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Yesterday’s Orgasmic Flavor

Filed Under how to turn me on | Leave a Comment

cydytame050.jpgIt was either the spring of 1978 or the spring of 1979. I was seventeen, and I had therapy every Wednesday afternoon after school. I think my friend Anne Marie dropped me off-I can’t really recollect how I traveled from my high school that was a good twenty-plus miles away to my therapist’s office. Maybe Anne Marie drove; maybe I got one of my parents’ cars. I doubt the latter; they were never very forthcoming with the wheels.

At any rate, every Wednesday afternoon, I would go to my therapist. She was trained as an art therapist, though we never did any art projects. We just sat around and talked. Her couches were tan, a color I’ve noticed over the years is much favored by the therapists of the world, or anyway the color unites the ones I’ve been a patient of. Her office had a lot of kid things: tiny desks, floppy dolls, construction paper, heaps of crayons. It had the affect of a hotel lobby having a clandestine tryst with a kindergarten. I found it both a tad disconcerting and a bit soothing both at the same time.
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Beth the Little Bit

Filed Under afterglow | 3 Comments

cydytame044.jpgI’d met Beth online because a mutual fuckbuddy of ours wanted to have a threesome. We both independently considered him a tool, but a fun sort of tool, like maybe a rhinestone setter. Perhaps you don’t need or want a rhinestone setter everyday, but when you have the sudden desire to bedazzle a garment, it’s a good thing to have.

Brad was a Bedazzler, though not a bedazzler.

And he wanted a threesome with us. So we met, just li’l Beth and I, one evening at a bar near my house. It was a beautiful summer evening, and we sat outside. Beth, who crests 5′0″ in her stocking feet, was wearing this Mae West parody of a Ladies Who Lunch suit-all big hot pink and black herringbone with a skirt just barely long enough to tuck under her ass when she sat.

Our mutual Bedazzler Brad had a predilection for women with big breasts. I have big breasts. Li’l Beth has enormous breasts. She also has a little Jewish kewpie doll face with blue eyes and curly blonde hair. So when she perched on the chair, her tan legs tucked demurely side by side, sipping her Diet Coke, she looked like a 40’s pin-up, like something that a fighter plane would have had painted on its side.

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