Timing

I clicked on his life,
again, wishing
that keyhole was blocked
except
probably not
it's less often now
he commented, "Couldn't be happier."
but that's not true,
he knows it, too
his smile doesn't reach his eyes
you could be right here
no excessive driving
no regretting
no cud to chew
except
you can't
disappoint the hometown folks
So
you go see your parents
knowing she's nearby
Sunday suppers, guns, your old bronco, maybe church 
a stones-throw of limp convenience
6 hours away
you said she can't communicate
except
she lets you forget
all those fun drugs you love
the tattoos in your passport
the halls of fame and fans
she knew you
before before
and I met you
when we laughed about it, 20-something years later
as you ordered us that wine, watching me
we, slurping oysters
you, staring at my mouth
except
I wish I'd never known
what it means to feel found
because now
Life laps at your ankles
passive, mostly whispers
although,
you told me predictability starves you
you don't even think
to block my keyhole
I wasn't a seasoned memory
So,
go smoke your cigarettes together
go fish with her kid
and when you call, I'll leave my life
except
I can't forgive you
till that's true

My Storytellers

I recently got my first tattoo.  It wasn't an impulsive choice; I've been scribbling on myself with a sharpie for over a year to be sure of the look and placement.  Deliberately on my forearm, near the crook of my elbow, force feeding me my purpose, the final bolt on the door to my demons.  It's the 10 year anniversary of my brutal rape, the cord-cutting of a destructive, long-term yoyo relationship, and a commemoration of a separate journey, the reclamation of my body from a shame spiral of years of booze and self-destruction.

The first time I intentionally drew blood, I was 13.  I had a small wart on my thumb that I would dig out with a pocket knife every time it grew back; I loved to watch the blood run down my arm and pool in my elbow.  But, when I was 16, I became intoxicated by the raw blade against my forearm, a scarring sear that instantly birthed what choked me.  Marking, cutting, carving, scarring, mutilating, branding, marring; they all bide the same result, but that result is rarely (if ever) about death or suicide.  Cutting on yourself is like breathing extra deeply.  If oral pacification (alcohol/food addictions) is suffocating ones emotions, then this is the direct opposite.  It's a purifying emancipation of your feelings, and its own addiction.  You can almost hear the rushing of demons from the flesh like bats from a cave as your eyes roll back and the high washes over you.

Though naive in the beginning, I'd studied suicide enough that I knew what not to do: Do not slit across the tendons if you want to die slowly, slice, using a sharp blade, vertically along each side of your carpi and digitorum to release the veins without paralyzing your arms (leaving the job half done).  But I never really wanted to die, instead I carved on myself with a dull, serrated steak knife, handle brittle from years of dishwasher abuse.  Dragging the jagged steel back and forth, across and over, I bullied the soft, rosy flesh inside my arm.  It was a hack-job, but my perfectionist self almost wanted it to be; I needed it to tell on the damage inside.  For as stuffed full of pain as I was, I was that same free the instant I saw the mangled lines prick up little bubbles, tiny blossoming buds that flowered then spilled.  I kept going, and the more stinging and burning I felt, the deeper I could breathe. And once you find the drug that cuts through the molasses-thick pain, you are a junky, hinged to it for what you believe is survival.

I'll never forget the smarting brand of that first carving session and the scabs that pinched my arm for weeks.  I did it in winter, too, when I could hold my secret smugly, burning inside my long sleeves.  My high school boyfriend cried the first time he found the crusty dark lines, made me promise to never do it again.  I agreed, of course, but being a proper mistress, the knife would seduce me in my darkest moments, promising purity, release from the curdling cries of my pain.  And like any good addict, I would fall into her when I couldn't stand on my own any longer; a hard reset unlike any other.  It worked, too.  I'd have a carving session, bleed a little, scab a lot and then feel relief for months, sometimes even years, finding temporary solace in other addictions until I simply could not quiet the betrayal trapped in my body.

The last time I cut on myself was May 2013.  I took a very dark spiritual trip with my former Dom down a deep well of sinister intentions.  The experience deterged me by fire, but it's not one I would wish on my enemies.  He held my head under the emotional current until I died a death of my former self.  It was acutely repulsive and then brilliantly profound.  I never realized how heavily shackled I was until he drug me under, and then suddenly, I could breathe alone.  The well of my darkness became instantly shallower, and I could see the light at the top in a way I can't remember ever knowing.

I've never been quite able to access my darkness since then.  I try to slide down, along the inside of the well, and my feet hit an early bottom.  I feel around, convinced of a trap door, but this is my new bottom, a bottom that can see the top.  And since I can see the light on my own everyday now, I no longer fear drowning under the weight of my demons.  I stomp around, securing that the new base is sturdy, leaving me one final hatch to seal.  A seal of compassion and forgiveness and peace, a permanent cross over the door of my past, demanding reverence for the ghosts and clearance for the next.

I used to fear losing my rawness if I released my darkness, and in some ways, I have, but when I look down at the fresh, fluid green script, all I feel is hope.  The calming knowledge that I have a new skill, the ability to tackle fear and the awareness that nothing can suffocate me again because, now, there are so many ways to breathe.

"She had not known the weight until she felt the freedom." - Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter

JN

If Your Bitch Smell Like Fish... (aka: Mythbusting: Health Class is in Session, part 1)

Ok, Boys and Girls,

This is an exigent post about the innermost workings of our female sexual parts.  For those of you who were too busy passing notes during Health class, see this as an overdue reminder about why it's imperative to scrub one's fingernails before digging into our delicate mucus membranes, as well as why we do not perform oral sex with cold sores and why absolutely everybody must wear condoms even though absolutely nobody likes them (yes, pre-cum can spread disease even though it rarely spreads pregnancy).

So, let's talk about the BV Monster: Bacterial Vaginosis (aka: Why Yo Bitch Stank Like Fish) because this is, without a doubt, the number one question I get asked the most frequently, from men and women alike.

SITUATION: Your female partner's vagina reeks of king mackerel, or some equally fetid oceanic organism, namely during intercourse/penetration.

MYTH: She's a dirty girl and/or been fucking around and/or _______ (awful derivative in your insecure brain that assumes the worst possible everything-fill in the blank).

TRUTH: Her pH is jacked up and her insides are very unhappy about it.

Our girl parts are a delicate balance of chemicals and consistencies which can be irritated and upset by everything from the fabric of our clothes to the soaps we use to the foods we eat and the medications we take.  Most of you are familiar with a "yeast infection", which causes itching and a thick, lacteous discharge, but this nasty (usually stand-alone) fish smell is actually the reverse of a yeast infection.  The female body is naturally acidic and the male body is naturally alkaline; when our bodies become overly acidic, we get a yeast infection (and usually major heartburn/acid-reflux), and when our bodies become overly alkaline or basic, we get  BV-Bacterial Vaginosis.  I don't know how much you remember about basic and acidic from Chemistry class (remember in school when we dipped litmus papers into substances, and they turned red or blue?  It's like that.), but fundamentally, those Secret commercials about being "formulated for a woman's pH" are no joke.  Our pH's (not just our moods) are incredibly temperamental throughout our bodies and fluids.  A stressful week, a new bathing suit or too much coffee can sway our pH is unfriendly ways; we all know girls that get yeast infections every time they go in the ocean or take antibiotics.  BV is the other side of that same pendulum swing and can be cleared up with a quick cycle of medication, either orally or vaginally to re-balance, but, just like a yeast infection, but it has virtually nothing to do with your partner's extracurricular sexual activities, so stop assuming the worst!

Now, that being said, one of the quickest ways to upset your partner's pH is to introduce something foreign and/or alkaline into their bodies like condoms, sex toys, a new partner's fluids and especially semen.  I say this because if you are in a relationship and have had sex a few times in few days, with or without condoms, this can very simply disrupt a lady's pH rapidly.  I know from several of my readers and friends that are trying to conceive, holding several days of "deposits" up in you can easily disturb one's pH, but, at the same time, DO NOT DOUCHE.

(This is where I could go on a tangent about why douching is unhealthy, but if you don't know, just ask Google.  So, unless it's up your ass, don't do it.)

If you are concerned about whether or not you have BV or a yeast infection, call your doctor.  Sometimes, they can call something in for you without you having to go all the way into the office, but if you do go in for an office visit, I make it a point to ask for refills just in case this happens again (for me, the summer is not an especially friendly season for my pH).

Next Monster Myth: Designer Vaginas (aka: Look Like a Peach, not Roast Beef).  The vagina is actually inside (can't really be seen), but the vulva is the whole outside, consisting of the inner and outer labia, the clitoris, the clitoral hood and the urethra (basic diagram here).

SITUATION: A woman has dark or protruding or excessive labia lips, sometimes referred to as roast beef and other such gamey vulgarities, because her inner labia extend past her outer labia and may be darker in color.

MYTH: Her pussy looks like this because she fucks/been fucked too much.

TRUTH: After going through puberty and especially childbirth, all of our lady parts go through changes.  The inner and outer labia develop differently for every woman in the world, namely through hormones and genes, and that development includes size, length, color, texture, etc.  The sad part is that, due to the prevalence of porn, women are going under the knife at a younger and younger age to "make their pussies pretty" because they experience and fear ridicule, judgement and rejection.  It's not much different that an American male being uncircumcised (or so I've been told).  Now, there are occasions where women get their labia trimmed up because of pain and/or discomfort (also like the need for some adult circumcisions), but here I'm addressing more of the aesthetic perceptions.

Finally and most importantly, STOP WITH THE JUDGEMENT!  If you run into either of the above issues, either with yourself or a partner, please be kind.  Assumptions and judgement have no place in the bedroom.  Make it a safe, welcoming environment that you want to be in and others will follow suit.  The Golden Rule also applies to sex, ladies and gents, so keep it in perspective.

Stay clean, jellybean! 

JN

Hercules and The Wagoner

I have failed you, dear readers, but moreover, I have failed myself, for I had lost the courage to blog.

I never realized just how much courage it takes to fully open up and tell my stories to the world, but it requires much more than I realized.  My paralysis was so prolific that I'd even stopped writing for myself.  The more I knew I needed to write, the more I clammed up; I barely even journaled.  It was as if I had been blindly walking a tight rope across a ravine for ages, never thinking anything of it and then I suddenly looked down and completely froze.  Last year, I even took a creative non-fiction course to try to get some traction around my book chapters, but I barely participated!  To make it worse, the class was being led by one of my favorite and most respected authors, yet I couldn't put one letter in front of the other.  Such a coward.  I was so afraid of my stories being read out of context, without proper representation or explanation from me.  I was afraid of being misunderstood, of being judged, perhaps even pitied, in some cases, that I became completely frozen with fear.

The worst part of all of this was that I didn't even realize I was being cowardly!  I went through the standard "too busy, no time" blahbitty blah blah horseshit horseshit excuse excuse, but it wasn't until I read this essay by the very same favorite teacher/author that everything came together and punched me in the gut: Essay-A Kick in the Butt from Melissa Febos.  I realized I was my own worst enemy, my own hinderance, by lying to myself about why I wasn't writing.  I saw that I had never and will never be able to control the flow of information; I've never been able to give context to my stories or explanation for my actions because sometimes blogs are single snippets, read only once by one person and never again and never in order.

So there it was.  The big, hairy, ugly truth that I'd been dodging for months, maybe years: I had become a turtle, hiding in my shell, a complete chicken.  And what's even worse is that I'd become something I never ever even knew I had in me--risk-adverse!  I suddenly was giving a shit about what people thought of me?!  Of my choices, of my life?!  How did this happen?!  Talk about a shame spiral.

Since then, I've been weaving my way through my many fears, the semi-unknown, somewhat unactualized.  All this gut work should translate to real words on the page so that now, hopefully, I will have even more of myself to share with you, if I can muster up the courage to do so authentically.  Vulnerability is no joke; it takes a shitload of courage.

The other primary factors at play have been multiple career changes and, most importantly, the relationships I've been navigating around, two of which have been the most metamorphic in my adult life.  In my 20's, I had so many opportunities to meet and date a cornucopia of individuals, many of whom, I am grateful to say, are still in my life in varying capacities, but two very special people from these past few years have changed my mind, my heart and permeated my soul in unique and profound ways, some of which I will share with you.

Hanging on my mirror is this reminder for me, a quote by e. e. cummings: "It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are," and this is what I am learning to do, and in doing so, I know I will be even more authentic here, to all of you, for better or for worse.

jn

2013-The Year of the Snake

Ok, ok, OK!  Alright already!  I get it!  I realize I have left all of you alone as I've been down for many months too many! I AM SORRY, dear readers, but no excuses.  I'm going to do my best to pick up where I left off, if at least to avoid anymore (unnecessary?) punishments at the hands of my adored.  I have committed to writing regularly, and I intend to keep my commitments.

So, after sifting through piles of emails and other lusty commentary, I'm putting together some very important posts, both informational and anecdotal (as necessary) for 2013.  If it's any indication by how 2012 went down, I have a strong feeling that 2013 is going to be quite the year, especially here on this blog, ladies and gentlemen.

And like Heinz always used to tell us (before the brilliant invention of the squeeze bottle), "Good things come to those who wait..."

Yours,
JN

"For last year's words belong to last year's language, and next year's words await another voice." - T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets

Delinquency...

"How did it get so late so soon? It's night before it's afternoon! December is here before it's June. My goodness how the time has flewn! How did it get so late so soon?" - Dr. Seuss

Dearest readers, I am incredibly sorry that I have neglected you and my writing for the first half of 2012.  I am always working on several entries at once, and the months have just gotten away from me!  I'm going to publish several in the next few weeks, post-dating back to January and adding about once a month, as originally promised, in keeping with the natural progression of occasion and time.

I hope you can forgive me and be excited for some new entries and lots of reader feedback!

Always yours,

JN

Love and Black History Month

Here it is, the ever promising, always chilly month of February when the world (and Hallmark) take every chance to remind you to appreciate your loved one and respect the African-American heroes of days past and present.  So, as a tribute to entirety of the month, I'm going to combine them and appreciate a different kind of loved one: the Big Black Cock. 

Oh, yes, I said it.  And, if you've never had one, you absolutely must!  You really must.  It's like never trying proper New York style pizza or southern cooking or a crisp sunrise or the ocean lick your toes!  It's an experience for the books.  Now, I never discriminate on race, creed or gender in my bed, but as there is no other racial appreciation month, I thought I'd just illuminate this one with a story of mine.  One of many, but certainly one of the most unique and enjoyable...

*************************************
I had spent all evening with my friends and co-workers...and, as we tended to do, we proceeded to bar hop our way back to our hotel...
After about three bars and several wines, I'd hit my max and decided to cash out and split out on my own. Leaving my team at the bar, I grabbed a cab and quickly found myself in the company of a very dark, esoteric driver. I'd been wearing my sexy stilettos all evening, and my poor feet were extremely unhappy with me. Once in the cab, I tossed off my heels and let out a few moans as I stretched out and wrung my aching feet. The cabbie, watching me intently in his rearview, offered to massage me in his deep Ghanaian accent. I repeatedly declined until the pain (and his accent) got the best of me, and he convinced me to put a foot through the partition so he could offer me some sweet relief.

While paused at the stoplight, I slipped my foot through the opening and into his strong welcoming hand. After several minutes of massaging ecstasy, he smoothly suggested that he could do a much better job in the backseat with both hands on both feet. After some duress, I acquiesced, but only if he promised to keep his hands on my feet and nothing else. He pulled us alongside a well-lit hotel (for my peace of mind and safety), and let himself into the back seat, across from me. Our backs pressed against opposite doors, he pulled my legs onto his lap and got to work on my feet. I lulled off into a seductive trance as he plyed out my aches, from my ankles to my toes, stroke and tug after glorious stroke and tug for what felt like hours. I was so relaxed in my half-drunk, massaging euphoria when I was jolted awake by a very sudden warm, wet and squishy sensation. Oh god. My eyes flew open, only to realize that my toes were, indeed, in this strange man's mouth. After my initial alarm, and somewhat wary reassurance to continue, he coaxed me back into a sensual relaxation I have never known. He confidently licked and kneaded, from ankle to toe, one foot then the next, as I became increasingly aware of his urgent arousal. He gripped my heel fervently, stroking me into his mouth as I felt his cock swelling under my calf. With an easy rhythm, he'd pull one foot to his mouth and push the other along his bulging cock, throbbing inside his slacks. I was suddenly very curious...I had never gotten a man off with just my feet before...could I actually do that?? I could see where this was going, but I felt safe and uncompromised in every way. I was fully dressed, in jeans, naked only from the ankles down and intrigued, if not intoxicated, by possibility. I silently decided I was game, but feet ONLY, I promised myself. He dutifully continued with the alternating cock and foot massage until he gestured if he might take out his big black cock for more direct stimulation. I smirked and nodded. This man had magnificently milked so much pain from my feet, I felt equally compelled to milk the desire from him.

He gently pulled out his glorious black cock, as incredible an organ as I'd ever seen, and allowed me to roll it between my soft, moist feet. He'd suck one foot as I stroked his smooth dark cock with the bottom of the other. Every part of me resisted my carnal instinct to reach out and touch it, stroke it, wrap my lips around it and worship it properly; I was determined to do this with feet alone. I rubbed one foot alongside the shaft while resting my toes, ever so lightly, under the head and making quick, deliberate strokes, trying to mimic two handed stimulation. He let out a long gutteral, encouraging moan, and leaned back to let me work. I stroked with one foot along the bottom of the shaft, and one brushing lightly under the head, then one foot on each side, working separately, then together. Finally, I slipped one foot between his stomach and his hard cock, while using other foot to press up and stroke up the entire shaft, coaxing out a loud, urgent and glorious release all over my feet. After a few moments and several satiated deep breaths, he seductively lapped up every drop of himself from between my toes. With a big sigh and several thank yous (from both of us), he rearranged back to the front and deposited me at my hotel. The meter read $53.12, but after our hour or so of pleasure, I just blew him a kiss and headed upstairs to sleep.  Alone.
***********************************
Sometimes the most simple acts can be the most intimate (e.g. foot massaging).  Something to consider before you come pawing at us in your uni-directional horniness next time...

With a lascivious sigh,
JN

Don't Ask, Don't Tell

Ok, as it's a new year with new resolutions, and in my ever-fervent effort for full disclosure, I must admit something, out loud, to all of you...

I fake orgasms.

I have always taken great pride in never having to remember stories or secrets, what I told to whom, or if I omitted details, because I simply do not lie in my daily life, especially about myself.  My motto has always been: "I'll answer any question you have, just be sure you really want to know the answer."  I never want to be punished for my honesty through over-disclosure, but I don't generally arbitrarily volunteer information either.  And, yet, here I am, confessing to this gorilla of a lie, the biggest, hairiest, meanest one of them all: If you and I have ever hooked up, in any capacity, I am here to tell you that I have faked at least one orgasm with you/on you/for you. Even if you're convinced I haven't or believe you're the exception to the rule, I promise you, I have, at least once, but more likely, multiple times.

And while my admission is a truly tragic one, it has recently come to my attention that we ladies are ALL faking, and with more and more frequency...and I say this with a deep sigh and huge regret...that somehow, somewhere, we women let our insecurities get the best of us, and we decided it was easier to just fake it.

Men always want to know WHY we women fake, but it's not that simple, and it's not necessarily for the same reasons.  The primary reason I fake is because rarely am I asked what it's gonna take to get me off (nor do these men convince me they are particularly interested).  Men jump into bed and assume that we women, like cars, have similar mechanics with standard assembly line parts that they can jiggle and twist until something will just pop into place. (And, although, some women are at fault for this too, it's on a much smaller scale and not without craving our partner's instruction.) I fake because there's an epidemic of "assistance is insulting" going around.  How come it's hot and acceptable to use a vibrator for masturbation purposes but not as a helper during actual sex?  I've dated both men and women who take any assistance to their abilities as an insult, but it's really much more (for me, at least) about taking the performance pressure off of them.  Since I am especially familiar and comfortable with my body, I'd much rather focus on sharing the experience, the moment, and enjoying their presence as the pleasure catalyst.  If you're really into the connection and enjoyment overall, why would you NOT want any and all resources at your disposal?

The problem I've found is that so many partners want to appear very "GGG" (GoodGivingGame-a la Dan Savage), but they also fear that the toy will be a needed/wanted all-the-time kind of thing...so we fake rather than rock the boat by talking about it.  It's just easier.  We make sure to milk the times we're allowed to have toys in bed and then try to stroke our partner's ego all the other times when we're faking our heads off.  I say "we" and "our" because I conducted some impromptu studies among my female friends, (single/dating/married/21-50/all walks of life) and was horrified to find that even more women are faking and more frequently than I originally thought.  Almost every single one of them fake an orgasm on a regular basis.  Men, you should see this as a testament to how much we actually give a damn about your precious egos.  We don't want you thinking you're inadequate, and because partners before us haven't "needed" vibrators with you (allegedly), and we're not trying to make ourselves look difficult, but, the truth is...nobody--not them before, not us now--are getting off with just your magic penis during old-fashioned in and out penetration.  This is not to say we don't LOVE your penetration, because we do!  But, it, by itself, isn't going to get the job done. (disclaimer: if you are one of the 4% of men that have a large and spectacular cock AND can talk deliciously dirty, then maybe you're the occasional exception...but every woman still needs help sometimes, even with a delicious donkey dick.)

The number ONE reason for faking orgasms comes from...(you ready for it?)...lack of communication and fear of discussion/rejection (usually paired with lack of confidence)!  We would honestly love it if our partners were confident enough with themselves to allow us to be open and honest about what's going to get us there.  A vibrator is just a helper, it's in no way a replacement for our partner's body and taste and touch and smell.  Fact is, our clitoral tissue, stretched end to end is actually longer than most penises and wrapped around far deeper inside our bodies.  Because of this, incorporating vibration helps reach those deeper nerve endings, and combined with everything we are experiencing with our partner, we can have a much more satisfying climax.  We don't want it to be either/or, we just want it to be a natural inclusion in the routine!  Having a vibrating bullet between our bodies allows us to relax into the act rather than anticipating and fearing we're not going to cum or how we're going to fake or why the hell you didn't go down on us first.  We want you to be confident in your abilities as our partner, but if you truly care about our pleasure, then please be comfortable with whatever it is that's going to get us there.  And, the only way to know what's going to get us there is by ASKING (and being truly invested in hearing the answer).

Being able to talk about sex with your partner is a necessity for intimacy, and generally, talking about sex when you're not having sex is the most comfortable and safe time to connect.  Too often, we wait till we're in bed, all naked and vulnerable, striving for what may be an impossible (if not misdirected) orgasmic goal, while casually attempting to give subtle directions like a sexy GPS, all while our partner may not be open to much guidance.  We all say we want to know what our partners want in bed, but when it comes down to it, are you actually having the conversations?  I find for those more timid people or when you wanna test the sex talk waters with a partner, electronic conversations can be the way to go; they allow you the safety of saying exactly what you want without the other person's reaction being in your face.  The most important part of this exercise, of course, is finding a partner that is actually very interested in your pleasure, if even for their own gratification.
We know that (almost all) women CAN physically have orgasms; however, most of those orgasms occur with clitoral stimulation coupled with some kind of penetration (vaginal/anal) and other breast or body contact. In all my years of living, I've only had those whole-body, deep, vaginal-only orgasms with 2, maybe 3 partners. The biggest problem I run into is the ever-present lose-lose situation: men don't want you to use vibrators on yourself during sex because it makes them feel inadequate, so you don't pull them out and subsequently wind up perpetuating the problem because, well, without that little extra kick, they are actually going to be tragically inadequate in a strictly penis-vagina intercourse situation. It's such an unfun vicious cycle.

After collecting all my orgasmic research, I've realized this is not unlike the LGBT community's movement: "We are each just one woman faking one orgasm, but together, we are contributing to the bigger problem of men not knowing between what works and what doesn't."  Together, we women have perpetuated this problem by not demanding that we get what we actually NEED in bed.

So, women, today, I urge you to start imagining what fulfilling sex would look like, feel like and sound.  And, men, I encourage you to put your egos aside, realizing we are still choosing to have sex with you, and ask what might make it that much better for us.  If we can at least get to working on the "trying" part, we'll be getting that much closer to the actual "doing", and soon, we can all be legitimately cumming all over the place.

Good luck, everyone, and keep me posted on your journeys towards authentic sexual pleasure!

Yours,

JN

Put Out or Pay Up

Something I’m always reading about, researching and exploring is Sex Work, and not just the idea of Sex Work (which is to say some sort of something in the sex industry, involving turning people on and getting them off), but the actual ‘doing’ of the Work.

I have a deeply held philosophy that is really very unpopular: I actually believe that everyone pays for sex in some form or fashion.  Most adults have gone through the motions of dating, and, in doing so, have purchased (at minimum) drinks, meals, entertainment, travel, personal items, etc. for the privilege of spending time with someone.  In most cases, one party is always paying for more than the other, perhaps due to cultural reasons, preferences, or general laziness, and it's usually men paying for the company of a woman. The only downside to this is that regardless of how much money a man spends on a woman in the dating arena, there is rarely the guarantee of sexual payoff.  However, when it comes to Sex Work, the exchange is always inevitable, and when something is inevitable and pre-negotiated, there are no unanswered questions or gray areas, which means less room for any confusion and disappointment all around (tragically, UNlike dating).  And, like porn, we expect to pay something for it, but when we can it find it for free, it's an extra bonus.

Now, I am a big proponent of conventional dating, I’m just not a proponent of fiscal inequality.  I love going on dates, but I just can’t stand the feeling like they are running a tab.  And maybe I am a total cynic, but I believe that guys get to a point where they either stop paying or start to resent paying if they aren’t getting their needs met in return. (Tragically, ladies, you may never know this happens because they stop calling you before they get to this place.)  Perhaps this is just my personal fear, but I believe there comes a dollar amount where I feel like I have to either put out or pay up, and I detest even the thought of this.  When it comes to my current dating life, I very rarely put out in the first three months (contrary to the dating habits of my 20’s), so I work very hard to contribute to a more reasonable financial balance until we really get to know one another.

There is, however, an exception to this rule, and that is Sex Work, or Sex(ual Satisfaction) for Cash Money. To me, the idea of being paid, not just for sex, but to fulfill and inhabit someone’s fantasies gets me crazy wet. I can’t help it.  Part of me simply craves new experiences, and the other parts of me relish turning people on and getting them off in incredibly satisfying ways.  When you are hired for Sex Work, you are hired to do a job, just like any other type of employment, and I take that wanton charge very seriously.  Although, I know I take it a bit far at times since I’d (generally) rather get hot and nasty with a partner talking dirty while stuffing hundreds in my stockings than the one that takes me to dinner and makes friendly conversation in hopes of a handjob, although, to be honest, may I have both, please?  In the same person?  That’d be ideal.

I have absolutely no problem with traditional gender roles, in fact, should I ever grow up and get married, I’m very happy to play the submissive wife role to a man or a more dominant wife role to a woman, depending on their needs, but when it comes to men, the only way I feel really comfortable being ‘kept’ is by being their absolute female fantasy.  I can’t imagine ever not working or financially contributing to my household, but I absolutely would consider it if I were with a strong alpha male that wanted a wife at home to keep the household and knew exactly what he wanted from her everyday: somedays a 1940’s vision, others a sultry vixen, or a dominatrix, or a complete linen ‘n’ lace submissive that shoves a giant dildo up his ass.  Any and all of it works for me.  Otherwise, I’m afraid, I’m just about the equal-pay-for-equal-work kind of relationship, which generally turns fewer people on, but is much more practical.

Until I find that, though, I have a lot of excellent outfits and accoutrements for these various roles, so hit me up if you know what you want and aren’t afraid to pay for it, preferably combined with detailed instructions, a plane ticket, and the promise of a proper spanking...but, then again, this is about your fantasy, isn't it?

"He asked me if I wanted to dance...I said I might take a chance...and then he kissed me..."

The last time I saw him, I shattered his heart.  We were on a secluded beach in the Caribbean when I finally confessed to him that I was in love with another woman.  It was emotional, not physical, infidelity, but it was infidelity nonetheless, and it was devastating.

A year or so later, I'm sitting in his driveway with nervous excitement.  He's invited me for dinner and to see if there are any remnants of "us" worth salvaging.  It's now or never.  I take a deep breath, grab the wine and head towards the front door.

I knock and wait.  He answers, and we are alone.  I'm anxious for him to kiss me like he used to upon meeting: wrap his arms around my waist and pull me snug against him, lean in and press his closed full mouth against mine, eyes shut, breathing me in.  Even when the kiss was over, he'd keep his eyes closed, smirking and savoring, waiting for me to kiss him again, soaking me in.  Sadly, I haven't yet earned that kind of relishment, but I still get a hug with that "do we kiss or not kiss?" moment of hesitation.  No kiss.

He's prepping the vegetables and meat for dinner, so I go ahead and crack the wine, smiling and making small talk; our tension palpable.  We briefly toast to possibility before easing back into our roles with one another, him cooking and me entertaining.  I walk around to refill his wine glass when he finally touches me; he slides his hand down my back, to my waist, pulling me to face him when he kisses me softly, then intensely.  We can't stop, we're starving for each other.  He urges me toward the sofa and pulls me on top of him, never loosening his grip.  We are gentle yet frantic with each other, mouths, hands, arms, heat, flesh, legs, devouring.  Like a drowning person desperate for air, we are for each other.

He flips me on my back, gets on his knees, yanks my jeans off and buries his face between my legs as I gasp in delight.  He pulls my panties to the side to take a good look and a few teasing licks before sliding them down my legs.  Wrapping his arms under my thighs, he presses his mouth into my pussy and lovingly devours me, repeating only how much he has missed my taste as I swell in his mouth.  He is phenomenal with his mouth (to his credit, he's done his homework with Nina Hartley), and he knows I'll cum all the harder when he slides two fingers deep inside to coax it out of me, slowly...steadily...then just barely faster.  He's a tease, coaxing me, lapping at me till I'm just at the brink, pleading, begging him not to stop when he'll retract his tongue, his warm mouth still enveloping me as I throb and scream for him not to stop!  He smiles at my frustration and urgency, suddenly thrusting his fingers deeper inside me and making his tongue wide against my swollen, throbbing clit, making circles around my whole pussy till I explode in his mouth.  As I am still shuddering, he stands over me, dipping his tightly swollen cock in my mouth 3, 4 times to get it good and wet then stuffs it inside my pussy, stroking slowly first, then rocking faster and faster as he gets harder and harder inside me, and I know he's gonna cum.  I beg for it all over my tits, so he swiftly pulls out and explodes all over me as I rub it around my nipples, then lick my fingers.  Out of breath, we both collapse with giant smiles on our faces. 

God, it was so good and so overdue.  There is really nothing so good as reuniting sex with someone you loved, but, then again, there is NOTHING like in-love sex.  Nothing.  Even the best sex with someone you care about is never as good as average sex with someone you love.  There are just not enough words.

I've been open-hearted enough to have been in love (and have the subsequent amazing in-love sex) at least 4 or 5 times in my life so far, and for that I am immensely grateful.  I know it's life-enhancing, possible and probable if you can open yourself up to the emotional risk.  Yes, pain and heartache are equally as possible, but how else can you fully experience being alive?  I'll take the possibility of pain for the probability of pleasure any day.  And, although my ex (from this story) and I did not stay together, I will always be grateful for our times together.  For me, it's not about forever, it's about not missing opportunities in the present.

Just a little temple worship for your Sunday...or as Chelsea Handler said this week, "Men would get a lot further if they'd slide into third base face first!"  My thoughts exactly.

JN

Go Fuck Yourself (and I Wanna Watch)!

Oh for fuck's sake. What is the deal, people???

From everything I know and have experienced, everyone I have ever asked enjoys watching (or the idea of watching) their partner pleasure themselves. Everyone! Yet, of all these people, many of them are admittedly not comfortable enough (or even willing to entertain the thought!) of rubbing one out in front of their partner! Where is the disconnect??? (and I assure you, only a handful of these participants were actually raised Catholic.)

What is with so many women a) not willing to masturbate in front of their partners or b) allegedly not having masturbated at all? In their whole life? And men, what's the hangup about not wanting to jack off in front of your partner? Someone is going to have to help me understand this unfortunate phenomenon.

I guess I'm mostly just bummed that this VERY pleasureable act is not being extended over a party of one. Help me understand. Most everybody does it, if you're a human male, you likely do it with porn and/or your "highlight reel". (spoiler alert: every man watches porn...even if he tells you he doesn't, yes, even yours, yes, even if he's very CSI about it). As a woman, I can only masturbate about partners I've actually had; I was never one who could get off thinking about Jonathan Taylor Thomas or DiCaprio or someone random when I was young, and I think, for the most part, most women are much more specific. Men can generally get turned on by a stranger and imagine fucking that stranger and that's sufficient, but I don't know many women that operate like that. It's much more personal for us. Which is why, especially for me, phone/text/cyber sex can be very fulfilling with a partner I actually know and desire. Maybe I'm oddly unique, but one of my biggest turn on's is watching a guy stroke his own cock till it cums, especially if I'm his stimulus. So. Fucking. Hot. And, yet, I have a very difficult time getting partners to do this for me! WHY??? I just do not understand.

Problem #2: how many people have run into the guys that can't have an orgasm during intercourse...? I'm hearing about this more and more (and tragically dealt with it myself). So, here's a link to an awesome article by the great Dan Savage about the "death grip" problem:
http://www.thestranger.com/seattle/SavageLove?oid=10817
Basically, he says that if you train your dick (or pussy, for that matter), to only get off in a certain position with certain pressure for years and years, you will have to work very specifically to recondition yourself. This is also why I tell women that can get themselves off with only their hands to NOT start using vibrators because they will desensitize you over time. I am jealous of women that can get themselves off without a vibrator, as I am not one of them, but I can urgently cum under the delicate coaxing of a warm mouth and soft tongue or a great cock and lots of dirty talk.

On a side note, many years ago, I went out with a guy that used to hump his pillows to masturbate. This was one of the most unique methods I had ever heard of at the time, since I thought all guys just used their hands. I remember going to his house once and accidentally tripping over this..."fuck buddy". Let's just say he was clearly not a proponent of safe sex with his pillows. It think it actually crunched when I tripped on it. Gross.

That's enough for today, but write to me more about your issues surrounding masturbation, and if you don't listen to Dan Savage's free podcasts on iTunes or read his column, I suggest you do, especially if you're as interested in and facinated by human sexuality as I am.

A smack and a kiss,
JN

Fetish, Fantasy or just Preference?

First things first. Everyone needs to listen to this link; it's just 3 minutes and explains the differences between Fantasy and Fetish. (and, no, I don't like Oprah, I just love Dr. Laura Berman)

www.oprah.com/oprahradio/Fantasy-vs-Fetish-Audio

What I'm going to dissect, though, is far more of the gray areas in between. I hate to even call it a Fantasy or a Fetish, I'd rather call them Preferences. Most of what I have encountered/experienced/studied, is more of a Preference: not something required to get aroused or reach orgasm, but something desired to make sex hotter some of the time/most of the time/occasionally/ideally.

Everyone talks about "Fetishes" but mostly incorrectly. Foot fetishes, hand fetishes, choking, biting, beating, spanking, flogging, golden showers, anal play/penitration, cock rings, piercings, stockings, heels, lingerie, white cotton socks and panties, cross-dressing, sex outdoors, sex in public, sex in uniform, and the other ten thousand turn-ons people have are mostly just Fantasies or Preferences. The real difference between a Fetish and a Fantasy is whether or not the person MUST have the object or scenario in order to actually reach orgasm. At that point, the point of necessary, it becomes a Fetish that can isolate and impersonate your partner. Sex becomes about the need, not about the interpersonal experience. And while there is ALWAYS going to be something in your partner's Preference/Fantasy category that makes you squirm (if they trust you enough to tell you), it can be an awesome opportunity for intimacy if you allow yourself.

Lately, I know of a few people that have taken Preference and feared it into Fetish, only to realize that they are afraid of what it could become, not what it actually is. For example, a reader described her partner's Preference for being dressed as a woman when they have sex. He's not gay or closeted; he's simply very aroused by the nurturing, welcoming, feminine penchants of womanhood. Now, he doesn't need to be dressed up in order for sex with her to be marvelous, he would just like to incorporate it every so often, and if she's uncomfortable with it, then he'll gladly take care of his own needs when she's not around. She would prefer that this Preference of his simply not exist, but even more so, she'd prefer that he feel serious shame about this desire, too. The biggest problem has been that she's gotten to where she's almost afraid to talk about it with him because she hopes that by ignoring it, maybe it will go away, fade into the past and not be part of their future together. Maybe he'll just forget that he was ever turned on by that in the first place! Bollocks. By not addressing it, openly, in the daylight and with acceptance (even while afraid and uncomfortable), she's slowly shutting the door on the trust they've built; she's showing her partner that it's not safe to talk to her about his deepest desires and fantasies. She's showing him that she doesn't trust his boundaries, his ability to make it safe, keep it personal, keep it honest. And that's why there's a shame spiral... If you cannot safely talk about absolutely anything with your partner AND trust their reaction and willingness to hear you, then that's probably a good place to begin the work.

As we've discussed before, opening up about your Fantasies is all about trust. Everyone can talk about the "socially acceptable" Preferences, it's when you get into the sticky and the dark that you stir up your own opportunities for growth in your discomfort, together with your partner and on your own. Not that everyone is going to pop open the wine and delve into the darkness right away, but when you do, or when your partner trusts you enough to open up, I encourage you to resist the urge to gasp or snort or make that disgusted, horrified expression and instead, just listen and ask honest questions. Don't shame your partner for their desires, embrace them for trusting you, and if their desires cause you fear or spark your insecurities, just be aware that that's coming from inside you, not inside them. And...most importantly, just because they are talking about what turns them on, that doesn't necessarily mean that they're going to jump off the deep end or open some giant Pandora's box of wild and crazy shit. If their desires start eating you up inside, seek third-party help if you want to maintain the relationship. The worst thing you can do is try to change your partner (or shove them back into the "perfect mate" mold you had previously bound and gagged them in). You can only change yourself and manage your reactions; please don't punish your partner for triggering your own insecurities.

Take a deep breath. Connection is why we're here; achingly trusting, open, possibility-for-judgement-and-likelihood-of-pain, real breathing-bleeding connection is what gives life meaning. It's our only real reason for existence, it IS the meaning of life, but it cannot occur without sincerity and trust and that takes extreme courage. I encourage you to grab your balls and open up to possibility...no one regrets taking the leap of faith, they just regret having waited so long to jump.

I'm curious to hear about your conversations and what bubbles up...

With a bite and a smack,

JN

(As always, send me your questions at: north.jillian@gmail.com with "JN Blog" in the title, and I'll reply personally and/or incorporate your questions into the anonymous discussions.)

"But...what if my Dark Chocolate is your Vanilla?" (Prelude)

First of all, Dear Readers, thank you so very much for all your feedback. I welcome it, relish it and take it to heart. If only you are entertained, I am happy, but it's all the more fulfilling when I can address things you are experiencing and actually care about.

The nice thing about being the sexually open and adventurous single friend is that all my friends--married, LTRs, live-ins, gay--come to me to talk about their sexual concerns and curiousities, so I can honestly say, you are not alone, no matter how outlandish or allegedly dull you think your sex issues are. Many others are dealing (or not dealing) with the same issues.

Recently, I have been hearing some, "Oh, but my sex life is pretty boring...being married and all" or "I've only had a couple partners, so I'm not that interesting..." I want to be extra clear, while the haphazard and sometimes random sex that I can detail for your entertainment is certainly entertaining, it's not the majority of what's going on out there. What's going on are your real lives: sleeping in the same bed and (hopefully) having sex with the same person night after night and wondering if other people are having any of the same kinds of conversations or issues you are. I am here to assure you, they absolutely are. Unfortunately, many of them are not talking about them, though, some are just hoping they go away if ignored... These connections with your partner, if you allow them, can be incredible opportunities for you both to stretch and grow yourselves, both individually and together. Sadly, though, when not properly addressed, they can be extremely isolating and just perpetuate the shame spirals, driving you further apart.

Recently, two issues have been coming up more and more: cheating and fetishes. For now, I'm going to address fetishes, but both are loaded and intense topics that I could write on over and over again. Cheating is a very gray topic that we'll save for (I'm sure) many posts down the road. Feel free to start sending me questions now...

As for fetishes, therein lies my title and alluding to your so-called "boring" sex lives. While I may have had the sporadic dark chocolate moments (which make for great storytelling), most of my sex life falls somewhere between vanilla and a whipped pistachio (for color). Some of you have partners that are pushing your comfort zones into the dark chocolate each and every time, and this is where so much of the fear comes from.

In my previous post, I touched on the revelation of true intimacy which stems from a man opening up about his sexual shame, and it's from this shame that fetishes and unique desires have bubbled up to become the various-sized monsters they are.

(onto Fetishes: Chapter One)

The Art of Closing the Deal

I'm in sales. Obviously. And regardless of what or where you sell, the reason we are in sales is because of how it feels to win the deal. The extreme giddy high we get as we leave the customer with our contracts signed and order ready is our EVERYTHING. The possibility that we could get a nibble of that high is what gets us out of bed. You can sell a great product or complete shit, but all that matters is that you believe in it enough to convince a stranger. It's the Pilgrim's Progress of negotiation: you begin with their perception, power through the reality, holding onto your patience, all while gaining their trust. Once we gain their trust, the rest of the deal falls into place. It is absolutely a delicate dance of teasing, foreplay and a steady hand. With that consistent and steady stimulation, we encourage them to let go, relinquish control and let us takeover from here. We then coax them into the close with a lusty urgency. A little push, a little pull and a rush towards the finish. We sales people are in it for the win. The magnificent, euphoric, engulfing, orgasmic rush of the win.

I feel the same way about blow jobs.

(I'm sure I could/will feel the same way about cunnilingus, but I'm not quite as skilled at that yet.)

Giving impeccable head is all about getting the win: the excruciatingly explosive, hard-reset, you-don't-give-a-fuck-if-the-world-combusts-this-instant-type of orgasm. Luring them, urging them, drawing out every drop of energy as they hurdle up the hill, towards the finish line, pummeling towards the point of no return. Going down on someone as only a kind of intermission, or worse, duty, reminds me of chores and subsequent procrastination. Don't even bother. Seriously. Don't. It's not sexy.

Due to the unfortunate anatomical circumstances of my last long-term partner, he did not particularly enjoy my face below his waist for prolonged periods of time. This is like telling a pastry chef she is suddenly violently allergic to sugar! Oh, he'd let me get in a few strokes, maybe a lick or two, but no long-term stroke-lick-suck rhythm. This is the tragic result of sexual shame, and I find so many men just get their's all over me.

It is terribly unfortunate and downright sad that men have been told by any female or partner that their desires are wrong or dirty, and as such, have shoved them in their proverbial locked box under the bed, only to pop out when their amiable loving partner least expects it. Poor girl is usually so terrified that both partners run away screaming. It only takes one frightened response for men to believe that what they want in bed will scare off the good girls (read: potential mates). So, they then consciously or unconsciously, learn to save that stuff for the fuckable rather than the dateable. More often than not, men believe they must sacrifice their most raunchy desires in order to keep the peace with their precious Madonna. I get more calls/emails/texts from women who are completely shocked by what their husband/partner is now "suddenly" into and what should they "do" about it? I assure you, ladies, this is not something new, but at the most base level, it is a very deep gesture of trust. When a man opens his sexual shame pantry, he is choosing to expose himself to your potential rejection. Please, "do" tread lightly. If they trust you with this, they trust you with their guts.

But I digress...back to the lost art, and appreciation of, fellatio.

So, in addition to the internal issues interfering with fulfilling men's desires, there are always external issues. You cannot properly suck a dick if there is not a proper dick to be sucked (see previous post). And today, I am just so happy that I finally got to make mad sloppy face love to a proper man dick. Thank GOD. I can go without intercourse, if I must, but I am formally opposing not properly using the big juicy mouth God gave me anymore. The next day, I practically bounced out of bed, savoring the events from the night before. I longingly licked and lovingly sucked every last thick drop of juice from that yummy cock. I lightly grazed my fingernails across his balls, up the insides of his thighs, up and down the shaft...lingering, sweet pauses to enjoy every throb of desire swelling in my mouth. There is no better satisfaction than making a man come so hard, so fervently by your own doing. Proper fellatio, for me, is infinitely more wholly satisfying than ordinary intercourse. I get to do the work, the negotiation: navigating their fears and perception, the slow buildup past reality, pushing through my patience, then eagerly rushing towards the finish for the win. An authentic win-win situation.

All in a day's work...

JN

"Sex is like snow...

"...you never know how many inches you're gonna get or how long it will last."

In light of this being the holidays and all, I would like to express my gratitude for something that often goes unappreciated: the average penis.

Recently, I found myself naked, excited, on my back and begging for it, only to reach out for what appeared to be, quite possibly, a thumb...? Surely not. I leaned up to address my very aroused partner and where a throbbing and somewhat normal-sized member should have been, there was...an acorn shaped stump of a penis!

Now, as we all know, I've seen every kind of penis from every country--giant, tiny, yellow, purple, crooked, uncut, etc., but this experience thrust me back into a brief and drunken encounter in college. A friend and I had hooked up with these two guys during a football game; they were in town as alumni of the opposing team. We took them back to her place and proceeded to divide and conquer. Although I was drunk, I know a penis when I see it, and I'm quite sure that what I saw was the finger of an infant. Surprisingly, this virile young man proceeded to have no fewer than four intense fluid-filled orgasms over the next 30-40 minutes, all the while telling me about the girlfriend he was in love with but not quite sure if he was ready to marry. I assured him that if they enjoyed sex with each other (especially she with him), he should absolutely marry this woman. I knew that no other woman in her right, devirginized mind would ever give him a second thought.

In the years since this encounter, I have gone back and forth as to whether or not he should even be counted in my "number" since, technically, I think I was fingered, not fucked. But, if it comes down to technicality, then I guess it should count. What's even funnier, was that the next morning after the boys left, my friend emerged from her room and expressed her great disappointment in her lover's equipment. "I'm not any kind of size queen, but, Jesus, that was a poor excuse for a man dick if I ever saw one." I could only chuckle and regale her with my own story; perhaps they hung out together so they could feel good about themselves? I was most confounded that my partner had zero performance anxiety at all! Had no one ever guffawed at the sight of his naked body? Asked him when he was gonna put it in after he had finished? I do feel badly for these men who have been dealt an unfair and unfortunate hand, but of all the tiny penises I've seen, not one has been attached to a man with any shame about it! That, to me, is the true phenomenon.

So, in the spirit of the season, and my recent tryst with an infantile penis, I would like to express my gratitude for all the men on the small scale of normal who have had shame or performance anxiety about the size of their member. I assure you, you are above average and much appreciated.

Happy Holidays,
JN

All Eggs in No Baskets...

I've been having some fantastic dreams lately, mostly involving my first female love and fantasies that never materialized but seem incredibly tangible and true. It's not rare for me to have intense sexual dreams where I can almost climax in my sleep; I usually wake up and don't remember them, but something later in the day or the week will cause me to recall it with fierce clarity. The colors and the smells and the scenery from my false reality will come flooding into my conciousness, and I catch my breath and smile...a quiet, appreciative smirk.

Dreams like these remind me of the realities I've encountered: the beautiful, the risky, the adventurous, the painful, the discontented, the exhilarating, the sad. The older I get, the less interested and willing I am to engage in illicit affairs. I've dug to the roots of my willingness and need for such private validation, being someone's secret makes you feel special and set apart. A belonging that creates a bubble around your partner and yourself, a private secret world. Unless you have had an affair with someone you admire and respect, I really cannot describe the rush you get from being their "Chosen One". It's such a supreme validation, yet, in its own way, it's also the ultimate insult. You're good enough to fuck, to visit with and date privately, but not good enough to risk it all, out loud, to be chosen for the world to see, all eggs in one basket. As it is, you're their other basket (or possibly one of several); at some point, they had put all their eggs in the wife basket, but now, they're feeling neglected or adventurous (or you've grabbed their facination and boosted their ego), and they're willing to divide their basket, little by little, cautiously at first. Something that I find facinating about this exercise is how frequently men are betrayed by their mistresses, in the public eye, yet, they choose to risk it all and trust you when you tell them you will keep their secrets as you embark on this very private adventure together.

I'm facinated by all of the (recent) buzz and sensation surrounding illicit affairs and the great lengths that seemingly reasonable, rational men have gone to in order to juggle all the versions of themselves and their lives and the intense compartmentalization that must take place for it all to co-exist so seamlessly for any length of time. What I find most humorous, that amidst all of this, they call us, females, the dramatic ones. Seems to me that they thrive on that drama like fuel for their psychological engines. I will always prefer to be the one on the outside looking in, the third party, but not again from the inside looking out. Each experience, though, each person's reality treats you to a new spectacle, a new mirror to hold up to yourself and a viewpoint you might never have stumbled on if you were always the one in control.

In the words of a seasoned philanderer I know, "Valentine's is the day most all cheaters get busted. They get busted because it's the only day they are required to show love to all their women, and when there are several, they are guaranteed to get themselves in trouble."

Just a little enticement on this Valentine's Day...

Temple Worship

I love the thought of the body as a temple. A while back I was talking to a friend of mine about her marital sex life and if/how/why it worked. She said it like this, "Because Sundays are spent with him worshipping at the temple of my body." Ahhhh....this makes sense because it takes time and build-up and actual effort and focus in a relaxed environment to have those delicious, repeated rolling orgasms, especially after having been with the same person for ages. Yes, we can engage sexually most of the time, but knowing you have all the time you desire and can nap afterwards makes it that much easier to focus on your minute-by-minute physical pleasure.

Additionally, I thought I'd throw in some C.S. Lewis food for thought on this day of worship (from Mere Christianity).

"If anyone thinks that Christians regard unchastity as the supreme vice, he is quite wrong. The sins of the flesh are bad, but they are the least bad of all the sins. All the worst pleasures are purely spiritual: the pleasure of putting other people in the wrong, of bossing and patronising and spoiling sport, and back-biting, the pleasures of power, of hatred. For there are two things inside me, competing with the human self, which I must try to become. They are the Animal self, and the Diabolical self. The Diabolical self is the worse of the two. That is why a cold, self-righteous prig who goes regularly to church may be far nearer to hell than a prostitute. But, of course, it is better to be neither."

Enjoy your Sunday, with all your selves...

Narcissism

I'm going to embrace the belief that blogging is rooted in complete narcissism. I mean, honestly, who REALLY wants to read all the shit that you've deemed important going on in your life at any given time?

This is why I choose to write about sex--that's much more interesting, for everyone. And even if they don't care, they're still interested.

I saw a cartoon in Playboy not too long ago; a woman and man are mingling at a party, and she is looking at him saying, "Oh no no, I prefer to keep my sex life and dating life separate." I busted out laughing because I actually do this. Not that it's good, but it's simpler.

Recently, I was attempting to date a man from out of town and as the pseudo-relationship was crashing and burning, we got into a conversation about sex and dating because his insecurities were eating him alive. He asked if I had been dating other people, and I said yes, and I volunteered that I'd also slept with others, too. But I was quick to point out that both activities involved different individuals. He was horrified and angry, and I had to laugh because it sounds as funny writing it as it did saying it then. But, it's true. I'm dating a few people that I actually LIKE and wouldn't want to complicate it with sex just yet, whereas I can have sex with someone who I used to like, but have no future, and it's all just safely compartmentalized. I don't know what's funnier: his outrage or the reality.

Sex Work--preface

"Now I can accept that having been a stripper means I may always be an easy
target for ridicule. Act cheap, reap the cheap shot, right?
[But in my evolution] I'm less distracted by outsider derision and insider
propaganda: the slut-baiting, the proselytizing, the rationalizations.
I'm learning to examine the chaos of my past yet remain in the present.
I'm learning to repress less and discriminate more.
Through this account-settling and inventory-taking, I may be "better".
Less angry. Less defensive.
I'm more realistic about what can't be wished, or litigated, away--the burn
rate, the danger, the market demand for novelty, youth and beauty.
And I'm more concerned with my quality of life than my shelf life.
I'm definitely more balanced.
But I'm nowhere near finished.
And I'm nowhere near Zen.
Honey."

- excerpted from Strip City by Lily Burana

Getting Started...

After years of watching "Sex and the City" and now "Secret Diary of a London Call Girl", reading about sex, sex workers, strippers, dating debacles and human sexual interactions, I've finally gotten to my inspiration point and found my niche. Year after year, my best friend gives me a journal and says, "Please write everything down; someday I'm going to publish it. I would never believe the shit that happens to you...except that I know you, and I know it's true."

And so...that's how I'll begin this log of stories.

A little about me: I'm 30-ish, have a wonderful life, am eccentric and lively. I have a very conservative day job, and I generally keep my work life very separate from my private life. I had a serious boyfriend (almost 20 years my senior) for four years, and he helped shape much of my attitudes about relationships and sex, and certainly not for the better. He was darkly handsome, charismatic and had the most spectacular cock. After we split, I started serial dating, mainly through online outlets, and it's from those experiences that most of my stories originate and bring us to the present.

And so my stories begin...

- JN