I stood peering at myself in the mirror, wondering if I looked the same as I did the last time he saw me, three years ago.

Nah, I thought, I actually look better!

When I’d lived there in California I had been the quintessential party girl. He knew me as that free-spirited, unrestrained, kindafuckedup woman. Since then, getting sober has pulled me together – it helped me drop a considerable amount of weight, compelled me to stop smoking and allowed me the energy to get to the gym regularly. I am three years older, yes, but I definitely look better now than I did back then.

Plus, I’ve learned who I am which means that I am comfortable in my body. Grounded, rooted even, inside of it.

Well … usually, anyway.

He had seen me the day before. We’d had lunch and as he sat across the wide, black-laquered table from me, it was clear that he was appreciative of my appearance. But he hadn’t seen me unclothed, exposed, vulnerable, wanting. He had yet to unwrap the package of me, and relish gifts of comfort, diversion, satisfaction. And while we certainly had a past, what had once been between us had fallen, unnoticed, by the wayside; littered remnants of sweet but distant memories. The possibility that lie between us existed inside a quiet hotel room across town.

My phone lit up – Here, his text read.

I collected my purse and walked out the door towards his car. We made small talk on the way to the Hilton, about what I don’t remember, it is a bit of a blur. I do remember that the receptionist at the hotel didn’t blink when I asked for a day use room, maybe because I have reached a point in my life where the possibility that a hotel clerk might think I’m a slut has become wholly inconsequential to me, and so my confidence in asking for a room to fuck in for the day has reached its utmost peak.

Plus I was beyond horny.

Beyond.

We took our time getting to the room. Slowly we walked from the elevator down the hallway, he holding my hand behind his back in a gesture of temporary ownership. It is his style to go slow in the beginning, let the moments build upon each other in fevered anticipation of what might be next. It is also his style to lay temporary claim to me during the time that we are together, a practice to which I completely conform. Happily even. And it didn’t take long to recognize that we had come together completely empty-handed – no vibrators, no dildos, no booze, no weed, no ties, no blindfold, no lube. Condoms were our only accoutrement, and they, like sweet memories, went unnoticed.

Almost.

Inside that hotel room, the one across town, occurred a primal blur of bodies, steeped in longing so deep that it bordered upon compulsion.

You are absolutely perfect. With you I will fill my cup, he whisper-spit at me in one sweet breath, laden with greed, tinged white-hot with need. He took me then, made me his – in one motion flipped me violently onto my back and threw my legs with a grasp so tight my eyes stung, up towards the flat-white ceiling; thick, drenched tongue found my cunt after it ran primitively down the entire side of my body. My sigh, the sigh that wrote more than words could ever render, was audible. Palpable even.

I had returned.

The blur continued through to the afternoon. Cups were filled. Giving was taken, received, spit out like watermelon seeds seeking solace in the soil. And taking what was given? That was a given.

It was, after all was said and done, the most perfect afternoon – a splendid combination of worship and abuse.

What more could one ask for after a three year absence?

The fact is that I never did.

But I got exactly what I wanted anyway.

Porn is such a fascinating subject.

I’ve been thinking a lot about porn lately, as I’ve seen a few of my feminist friends, via my Facebook news-feed, take decidedly anti-porn stances. Their position is stalwart, and from what I gather this is because of the perceived harm porn does to the women involved in its production, because a woman’s participation in porn is assumed to be coerced, and because porn consumption can give men a very damaging notion about what it is that women want from their sexual experiences. Not all of us want to be pounded without passion like much porn appears to exhibit. Not all of us want to be  dehumanized or degraded or tied up or tossed around like an old sock.

But some of us do.

Yep. I’d even venture to guess that lots of us do, even.

And likewise, some of us really need some clit play, something that I don’t see much of in straight porn (although, I rarely watch this type of porn, I am more of a gay porn kinda girl.) I myself love me some clit play, in fact I require it. But not everyone does. Which speaks to a very simple point -perhaps it’s simple to the point of being naive, and I totally realize it doesn’t fully justify the issues that the anti-porn feminists are raising, but I will make the point anyway- some women like their sex rough, others like it romantic, others somewhere in the continuum between… and beyond even! And? The same can be said for men.

As a male friend said to me yesterday, Porn is just animals screwing. 

Yes, this is very true. And a lot of people, animals, all of us, really like to just screw. Other’s don’t.

I am one of those people who like to just fuck sometimes. But at the same time I am also a person who really loves making love. Slow, romantic lovemaking that transcends and transports. Body moving, face softening, chest heaving, romantic sex. And I find it rather gorgeous that we animals have this dichotomous capability to enjoy both the base as well as the passionate and romantic aspects of sex. It’s a humanizing facet.

So isn’t it unrealistic, and perhaps even dangerous, to make sweeping assumptions about an industry that survives and in fact prevails in what is becoming an increasingly sexually aware society? Isn’t there some middle ground, a happy coupling of feminism and pornography?

I hope so.

I was having dinner last week with Lillith Grey, a doctoral student in the field of Psychology who also teaches classes in feminist studies at a University here in Texas, and who is also an amazing burlesque dancer. I asked Lillith her opinion on the matter, for she has seen the research that links certain kinds of porn to sexual aggression, and the sex-positive feminist in her feels very conflicted on the matter. Because on one hand, the high number of women in porn who are in the business voluntarily, on their own accord and volition, value the opportunity for free and sovereign expression of their sexuality. And many women porn performers outright resent the notion that they are victims, and they don’t much care to vilify men simply because they with their dangling appendages are products of a sexually-repressed culture fighting for the opportunity to bring sexuality out of dark taboo.

Nina Hartley, an inspiring woman whom I’ve had the pleasure of meeting twice, had this to say in an article she wrote for Counter Punch several years ago (this passage has been edited by me for contextual relevance) -

“[Why] defame male consumers of pornography with the same broad strokes used to stereotype the experiences of female performers[?] Do [we] really believe that the average man cannot tell the difference between a movie and real life? Do [people] really think that young people’s difficult times with sex are more attributable to porn than to the enforced ignorance resulting from twenty years of abstinence-only “sex education” and anti-choice propaganda? Does anyone seriously harbor the idea that individual conceptions of intimacy and sexual pleasure are shaped more by exposure to pornography than by the examples parents set for their children? … And to confabulate the images on a screen, which are created performances, with the actual experience of the performers themselves, would be laughably literal-minded, were it not so profoundly insulting. Sex performers, like the products they make, vary greatly in taste and temperment. We are much more than the characters we play. Like it or not, many female performers enjoy what they do, including things [others] find repellent. If we are not to choose what forms of sexual expression we find appropriate for ourselves, who is to do the choosing for us?” (emphasis mine).

I agree with Nina, but I also get that, like all media, porn can be influential in ways that could prove maladaptive. It often does eroticize sexual aggression, and a lot of it fetishizes the male dominant/female submissive dynamic. But not all of it. And doesn’t the impact of porn wholly depend upon who it is that is receiving the messages being sent and how it is they process those messages? I think so. Why try to suppress an entire industry (fighting is futile, when will we learn that?) when we can just discuss exactly what porn means to different people? Surely the messages are different for all. I think if we did that, naive as it sounds, then we might view porn differently.

And yes, I mean that in a literal way as well as an abstract one. There must be a better way to bridge the gap between feminism and porn without capsizing the First Amendment rights of anyone, especially consensually contracted sex workers who are operating out of personal agency.

Did you know that there is feminist porn being made and is readily available for mass consumption? Yep, Porn made by and for women of all sexual kinds. Which of course means that this porn (like all porn) will mean different things and carry different messages for different people.

It just depends upon how they receive them.

It hasn’t been all dour, draining, exhaustive relationship efforts around here. Sure, Scott and I have been spending multiple hours each day working on our issues, really paying attention to the triggers that send off the signals to return to old communication habits, being acutely aware of how we are interacting each other. Asking ourselves why we feel the way we feel, how we may have arrived at the feelings, what we can do to neutralize intensity of them; staving off, hopefully, a barrage of future ones.

Blah blah, relationships, blah blah blah….

Let’s talk about something sexy.

I’ve actually had a little fun in the last couple of months. I had an encounter in the park that inspired this tweet, and Dominic and I have resumed the strictly sexual part of our “friendship,” after I finally decided to answer the perpetually nagging question Why the fuck not?

Because, really? Why the fuck not?

But a notable experience was with a boy called Dean. And I call him a boy because he sort of is a boy (compared to me, anyway, who is fourteen years older than he is) but also because I like the sound of it. Okay, maybe more because I like the sound of it. I enjoy the way “boy” rolls around inside my mind, a slick marble on freshly finished bamboo floors, as I contemplate all the wonderful things I did with (and to) this boy one Wednesday night a few weeks back.

I’d given a friend (a co-worker of Dean’s) my card to give to this adorable boy after I’d watched him pour drinks from where I sat behind the dark mahogany bar, my feet propped up on brass stirrups, my cunt’s compass forcing my eyes in his direction. I was captivated, it seemed, by a somewhat shy but still confident allure. A characteristic I am certain serves him well.

She wants to fuck the shit out of you, is what my friend later said to Dean as he handed the boy my card, after I’d paid my bill, hugged my friend goodbye and left. I hadn’t instructed my friend to say that to him. But it was certainly true. No doubt it was true.

When Dean and I met for drinks and a chat several weeks later he was nervous. I’ve never done this before, he said. And I was surprised. I suppose, though, I hadn’t either. Many men I had met for drinks under the presupposition we were vetting each other for sex. Men I had met online but with whom I’d at least had an IM conversation with in an attempt to determine our compatibility. Men I’d met in bars several years back when I was drinking, but only after there had been an exchange of names and a vibe reading, as well as some general banter and a mutual agreement that we each found the other fuckable, before I’d follow him back to his home. But this was indeed the first time I’d been so bold as to announce my desire -and let me tell you it was a very strong desire- to fuck a boy I had just laid my eyes on. Whose name I did not know. Who I had not even spoken to. Whom I was not certain, save a lingering glance or two in my direction that night, might have any interest in fucking me.

But as we sat and spoke, it became clear that there was indeed interest. He was there, after all. He had an idea about what he might be stepping into. But in those first moments I had become unclear about whether or not I was still willing. He was cute, yes. Fuck was he cute. But he had also been thirty minutes late. It was a little while before I was able to let that particular grievance go, but once I did it was a distant concern.

After about an hour of chatting I looked at him, Shall we go back to your place? He nodded. We were out the door thirty seconds later.

His place was cute, a little bungalow that, I was shocked to learn, was situated right around the corner from my own house. It felt strange to be so proximal to my little family who were by then curled up on the couch watching TV, but the feeling melted away as Dean and I stood on his deck, kissing. I felt his mouth with my own, and learned with my hands the contours of the small of his back, the landscape of his chest, the sinewy, furry nape of his neck. We retreated inside and into his room where we undressed and landed together on the bed.

It is always slightly awkward having sex with someone the first time, particularly when that person is someone you hardly know. I had spent only an hour with Dean before we were naked together. In that hour we had discussed hobbies, family, jobs, and our views on sex and relationships, but I didn’t really know him, nor he me. But sometimes? Sometimes bodies know. Sometimes bodies more than personalities or minds create a kismet that might have never been realized had clothes not been removed. Bodies not allowed the freedom to discover the fantastic things that they can do together unless given the chance. This was an opportunity of such regard. Our bodies, it seemed, were  like old friends, coordinating with each other a camaraderie that only such status would acknowledge. His body, my body, together we moved, rhythmically, lyrically, as we jockeyed position – he on top, me on top, his cock in my mouth, my cunt on his mouth, and my favorite of the evening- me at the corner edge of the bed on my knees, he splayed out across it in front of me willingly, receptively, eagerly, my fingers shoved as deeply into his ass as was structurally possible.

Loving. Every. Minute of it.

Both of us.

Yes. It was a lovely evening, this was certainly true.

No doubt it is true.

Will there be an encore? I do not know. Nor does it matter.

Because it is a memory, a memory in my body, in fact. And one that I will enjoy, regardless.

I’m popping in today so that I can participate in Lady Porn Day. Wanna see what other bloggers are participating? Go over to Rabbit Write to see the list!

I was almost 25 before I ever laid my pervy little eyes on a porn movie. A movie just so happened to be streaming loudly from the TV of the guy I was fucking at the time. He had booty called me. How did we do that back then? Telegram? Smoke signals?

Actually I think he paged me.

When I arrived I purposely ignored the scene that was playing on my fuck-friend’s television. I found it slightly unpleasant, the cacophony of moans and grunts amid the flailing of limbs, cocks and tits, capriciously weaving their way through the vast and interminable maze of pubic hair (this was 1992). It wasn’t until I had my fuck-friend’s cock in my mouth that I decided to actually take visual part in what was being shown on the television, and I was so glad that I did. Because what I observed was wondrous and erotic, an absolute awakening to my porn-virgin senses~

Girl. On. Girl.

I’d never seen girls fuck each other before. I hadn’t even let myself participate in the fantasy of it before that moment. But watching two beautiful, soft-lipped, confident, sexy fucking women grind their bits up against each other, their furry mounds feverishly pushing their way toward collective ecstasy, I wondered how in the world I had been denied the complete and utter pleasure of witnessing such unconstrained beauty. And with that, I climbed right on top my friend’s cock and rode him hard and fast. My determination bordered on impulsive as I was suddenly overcome with an immediate urgency; an instrument of pleasure my friend had suddenly morphed into. His cock became a simple tool for me to use at my will, and so I did. My back arched, my cunt dripped, and my head pitched toward the television as I watched the women fuck while I came.

So my first time watching porn was also my first experience masturbating to porn.

But I discovered fairly quickly that porn wasn’t made with women in mind. Although I responded to that scene and others like it, that porn was made for exactly who was watching it just prior to my arrival – a dude – and had very likely been the catalyst for the booty call I’d received (what number on his call list had I been? Number 1? Number 3?) Men, not women, are catered to in the porn industry, and for good reason – because they are the primary consumers of it. But we bitches like porn too.

I love porn.

I really really do.

Even today, 17 years later, I enjoy girl on girl porn. And luckily, today, the variety is SOOO much more substantial and much of it is made with women in mind. But ya know what I’ve really been getting into lately? What the fuck rocks my lower insides until they scream with a raucous pleasure generally reserved for roller coaster rides and tickle fights?

Guy. On. Guy.

Yep. It’s the truth, I *heart* guy on guy porn. It’s not something I can explain, it just is what it is. I liken it to the reason that hetero men like girl-on-girl porn so much, because chicks get their dicks hard. Men are my weakness, they are the erotic rousers, the lowdown teasers, the totally torrid trippers of my brains’ pleasure centers.

BOTH of my them (the brain on top… and the one below).

And watching two men together – muscles sinewy, cocks erect, jaws clenched, hands splayed – while I’ve got a dildo in my pussy and a vibrator on my clit? Well, let’s just say it incites a reaction. One that makes me go …. fuuuuuuuuuuck.

Yeah, like that.

Want to know what I like to watch? Well alright then, Go here

And here,

here

Oh… and here!

Wanna know what I like to use when I watch?

Either the Hitachi magic wand with the G-spot attachment ~

Or my lovely little bullet vibe and a realistic dildo ~

(Or, a fuck friend)

GO SEE RABBIT WRITE, Y’ALL, AND CHECK OUT THE REST OF THE PARTICIPANTS OF

LADYPORNDAY

Join the TWITTER Conversation

Tuesday was National Coming Out Day, where people were encouraged to own and announce their sexualities and for allies of these gay, lesbian, bi and transgendered people to stand up and be counted as folks who embrace sexual equality.

It occurs to me that coming out shouldn’t stop in the queer community. I think there could stand to be some coming out for people to do in all areas of sexuality, completely regardless of orientation. And I don’t even think that it has to be public, I’d be quite happy to know that healthy people from all walks of life and identities are walking around simply for themselves owning, knowing, and being comfortable with exactly who they are sexually.

I came out as a SLUT on Tuesday because I had hoped that folks might join me in identifying themselves as anything beyond what society deems normal and/or appropriate. Sluts still get a bad rap, which is so fucked up because, lets face it, most people are sluts in some way or another. But like the term queer has been reclaimed as a perfect descriptor by the very people who identify as such, I hope we can do the same with SLUT.

Step one of owning slut is identifying as a SLUT.

But no one said much about me coming out as a SLUT. Probably because it’s not really new information. Anyone who reads this blog knows I’m a slut and that I embrace my sluttitude. But I would be willing to put money on the fact that there are a lot of people walking around who are still hiding an aspect of their own sexuality. And I’d be willing to double down that cash on the fact that they are not just hiding this very important piece of themselves from their partners, but that they are keeping it from themselves, too.

Sexuality is such an incredibly large aspect of who we as humans are. How can the thing that not only propagates our species but sets us apart from other mammals in that we fuck for purposes beyond procreation not be? But somehow sex and sexual preferences are still something to be ashamed of, a silent secret meant to be kept behind the doors of those directly involved (or in the quiet recesses of one’s active imagination.) I think this is damaging. If we can’t find comfortable footing in who we are, how will we ever be really truly happy? (And isn’t that the ultimate mark of freedom – happiness and acceptance of who we are or are becoming?) We’ve been brainwashed to believe that anything beyond heteronormative sex is perverse and unnatural by the very people who engage in the perverse and unnatural acts that they condemn. This hypocrisy is telling. We strive for the perceived decorum of normalcy… when such a thing doesn’t even exist.

It’s futile to be “normal”. Really.

So, I’d like encourage anyone who is questioning or perhaps even denying an aspect of their sexuality, be it an extreme kink, a simple penchant for long-haired hippie boys, a desire to be tied up and beaten by your cousin, or whatever, I encourage you to explore that part of yourself. To identify it, confront it, and affirm it so that you can be true to yourself and who you are and who you were meant to be.

Proclaim it here to the blogosphere, announce it to your partner, or simply just come out to yourself. Just do it.

Believe me, you will be so happy that you did.

As you can imagine, I regularly receive all sorts of questions about all sorts of things pertaining to all facets of sex and sexuality. This exchange I had with a reader last week is, I think, worth sharing.

It is printed here with his permission~

Subject: Sex Question

Sadie,

I wanted to check a fact with you. I read on a blog that semen releases testosterone, which is absorbed into a woman’s body following ejaculation. This testosterone releases chemicals in the woman’s brain, similar to oxytocin, and which creates bonding between those partners. Is there anything true about this?

You’re the only sex expert I have on speed dial. Couldn’t find any verification myself.

Hope all is well.

J.

Dear J,

Was this blog post written by a man?

Gah!!

As if the only way for a woman to release oxytocin is if she gets good and jizzed in, by a MAN. That’s just…. fucking annoying.

The answer is NO.

Oxytocin is, indeed, a “pair bonding” chemical, but is released in the female by hugging, caressing, kissing, touching… or even just a look across a scrabble board if the person she is looking at is the object of her affection (oxytocin plays a huge role in how mothers bond with their babies). There doesn’t need to be a sperm within a thousand fucking feet of her for her brain to secrete this hormone.

xo~ Sadie

It was stated by a man. And now it was corrected by a wiser woman. Isn’t that the way of the world.

Thanks, truly.

Cheers, J

Thank you, J, for asking me to clear this up. It seems you were thinking that this (sexist) viewpoint was skewed, and you were spot on. While sexual activity does indeed encourage the secretion of oxytocin in women, it doesn’t have anything to do with male ejaculate. I don’t know what other hormone this blogger could be referring to that is similar to oxytocin, but women secrete oxytocin on their own (without the help of man-spooge). In fact, according to the Healthy Choice Compounding Pharmacy in New York, “while men and women produce oxytocin in relatively equal amounts, when it comes to the emotional effects, there are strong differences. Testosterone seems to mute oxytocin’s bonding effects, while estrogen enhances them. This explains why it seems so much easier for women to bond with others — and why sex, which releases tons of oxytocin into the body and brain, seems more likely to make women fall in love”.

So, the lesson here is simple – while women can’t do everything that men do, and men can’t do everything that women do, and neither gender could possibly exist without the other for very long, sometimes it doesn’t hurt to remember that in many instances, either gender could function quite successfully for at least a little while… on their own.

OR – a woman doesn’t need a dude to come in her in order for her to want to cuddle.

The two of us stood eyeing the summer sandals on display; the rows of open-toed, strappy shoes a gentle reminder that the Texas temperature was climbing and we would soon be struck by the summer heat and thus reluctant to wear anything besides the cute, comfortable, slinky sandals splayed out in front of us. I reached for a pair of silver slingbacks. As I did, my daughter spoke ~

So, I think I’m ready to hear all about what sex is now.

Now? I asked, peering suspiciously around the store before I looked down at her and into her beautiful blue eyes… the ones that were meeting mine nervously.

I put the shoes back up on the rack. Baby, I said, you know that I am more than happy to talk to you about sex, but I think now is really not the best time. How about when we get in the car after we’re done here, okay?

Okay.

And with that, we were back to shoe shopping.

Later, when we were tucked within the quiet insulation of my little car, I embarked upon the informal soliloquy I had composed in my head just moments prior. I didn’t get very far, however, because she interrupted me in the middle of the second sentence ~

Umm… I think I’ve changed my mind mom. I’m not ready to know yet. I thought I was but I’m not.

Okay honey, I replied. You know you can let me know when you are ready, don’t you?

Yeah. I guess I need to wait until I’m ten. That seems about the right age, doesn’t it?

I think ten sounds just about right, sweetie.

She turned ten a month ago. And just as the heat has appeared… and lingers relentlessly still, so has my daughter’s inquisitiveness about a complicated, complex concept. I’ve had many opportunities since that springtime afternoon in the shoe aisle to revisit our conversation. But every time I ask, are you ready to talk about sex yet? I am met with a steadfast, but cautiously curious, No. Not just yet mom.

Knowing my daughter and the relationship we have, I can’t help but think that she will decide she is ready very soon.

But I will leave it up to her to decide exactly when that will be.

“Do you want me to come before we’ve even had sex?” He was looking down at me from a seated position on the sofa when he asked this. I had his right testicle in my mouth, wholly engrossed in sucking it while I stroked his cock steadily with my right hand.

So, I took that as a sign that my new fuck-friend Andrew found my blowjob skills to be proficient. But, of course I wasn’t ready for him to come. I had only moments before traipsed through the doorway of his apartment while talking on the phone to a friend. I immediately stepped out of my sandals, unbuckled my belt, pulled down my jeans, stripped off my top and then went to work on his clothing, kissing him quietly. All the while, my friend on the other end of the phone was chatting lightheartedly to me, unaware that I was preparing to suck the cock of a hot 24 year-old the very second I hung up with her. His cock, in fact, had already found it’s way into my hand.

So, when he intimated that he was getting close to coming, I stopped my sucking and stroking and got up off my knees to straddle him and kiss his soft lips. It was only a few minutes before we were fucking, and we then proceeded to spend the next hour doing so in a myriad of positions, as we flipped around the living room sofa and floor, finding the right groove.

It was FUN!

And, it was sweet, too, because Andrew is a thoughtful, attentive lover, an excellent kisser and an eye-contact-maker, which is a killer combination for the sensual sensibilities of Sexie Sadie.

So, that makes two fun-filled fuck fests for me and Andrew last week. I am definitely getting my groove back. And, lest you think that Hubby is getting the short end of the stick, not to worry. He hooked up with two of his women in the span of 12 hours last week. So, you see, Hubby’s not hurting for fun.

1. On a scale of 1-10, how satisfied are you with your sex life?