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...

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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.
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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

"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

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