Archive for the ‘libido’ Category
I am still around, I’ve just been super busy and haven’t had much time (or frankly, much inclination) to write. But I am still performing in and producing BedPost Confessions, which fulfills that piece of my creative spirit. This is a podcast of me performing at the December show, a night that I ended up filling in at the last minute for a very sick Mia Martina. When I was thinking about what I would read (just 3 hours before the start of the show) I picked up the memoir I wrote and opened it to this chapter. It’s called Marshall, and I hope you like it
I know better than to make rules for myself, rules such as: No more men for a while, Sadie, while you figure out not only what you have to give, but what you need in return.
I know better than to create such restrictions. Why? Because doing so only invites a test.
And I suck at tests.
It wasn’t an hour, perhaps two at the most, that I had agreed to commit to this No More Men resolution before such a test had indeed presented itself. The test subject was cute in that approachable way, although I likely would not have even noticed him had he not noticed me. I had quietly erected blinders in order to keep any possibility at bay – effectively cock-blocking my own self. My mind had decided on going on this man-diet and my body was following dutifully along. But wouldn’t you know? It was only moments before I had begun the ardent task of removing them. All it took was a smiling voice from behind me, asking what I was drinking.
See? I really suck at tests.
But how could I resist his interest, especially given the timing? How could I resist the enthusiasm of a sweet stranger wanting to know the stories of me? How could I resist quiet contemplation? What about compliments and long stares and shared philosophies? How could I resist a lack of pretense and an eager curiosity? Or the beautiful vulnerability of really being heard?
I could not resist. So I did not resist, even though I tried. Okay, I lied. I did not try very hard; just enough to assuage any future guilt. Just enough to reconcile my desire against my need to be true to my own word.
But, ultimately I failed the test.
Two naked bodies, one bed and zero expectations. We failed that test together, happily. Easily. Without care of the outcome. We were two people, strangers no more, pursuing the simple pleasures of the self while soothing the crooked, jagged lines of loneliness.
And since I was capable of giving that to him, and he to me, needs were met… all the way around.
Which means that maybe I passed the test after all.
It was day three of Burning Man – it was a typically hot, desert day, the sense of anticipation about what might happen next hung in the afternoon air as intently as playa dust clung to our bodies. Several of my campmates and I had spent a good chunk of the afternoon lounging around doing mostly nothing, or at least I had done mostly nothing. That was until Ben, my beloved Australian buddy, presented me with a gift.
I thought you needed this Sadie, he said to me with a smile, and with that he placed a small, rectangular piece of silver steel in my hand. I pulled this off an old fan that I found in my attic he told me. I looked at it, it had – etched into it – the word “Climax”.
Ben knows me very well.
I squealed and hugged him and remembered I’d seen a length of gold chain in the costume yurt the day before. (We have a very pretty camp, with amenities such as a shipping container that, when it’s not storing all of our stuff between burns, acts as a full functional kitchen. We have an oven, where we bake bread for the hungry masses each morning, we have a shower – which is pretty much a fucking necessity – a public lounge area where people who are passing by can rest their weary bodies, and a huge yurt full of costumes where we all get dressed to go out to play). In that yurt I found the gold chain under a stack of bright green eyelashes, grabbed it, and sat down with a pair of needle nosed pliers; a few minutes later I had a necklace.
The necklace gave me a power I didn’t have just a few minutes before. It propelled me to get my lazy ass off the cushions that I’d been lounging on all day and get out and see what was happening in our beautiful Black Rock city. So, with this newfound energy, I gathered my stuff and headed towards my bike, which was parked in front of the camp. But I never actually made it there. I got derailed from my mission, because standing in front of my bike was a man – a beautiful man with a very short mohawk and tattoos, the likes of which might rival that of Jenn Motherfucking Tran’s – and he looked like he might pass right the fuck out.
I am so hungry, he said to me desperately. Do you have anything to eat?
Yes, yes I do. I have lots to eat, I told him. He followed me back through the camp to the kitchen and I pulled out some things for him to munch on – chips and hummus, some slices of cheese, an orange. I peeled the orange and handed him a few slices; he devoured them. I found some granola bars and stuffed them into the satchel he had slung across his back, and as I did I took a moment to admire his bare back imbued with ink. I joined him in hummus. We chatted. He looked at my boobs. Or at least I thought it was my boobs. I think, now, in retrospect, that he saw my necklace.
Do you want to take a walk with me? He said. I can show you my camp, it’s really cool, it’s a yoga camp, we’ve got 150 members over there. Its a great set up.
Sure, why not?
We walked the several blocks to the camp, which was dotted with lots of small tents, large silver yurts and geodesic domes. He showed me the covered dance floor where they practiced yoga in the mornings and held workshops in the evenings. There was no one in sight. They were all out doing their thing – whatever that was. At Burning Man, just about anything can happen, and does. He pointed towards a huge dome in the center of their camp , That’s what we call “the sensual dome” he said. Wanna check it out?
Sure, why not?
The dome was pretty, swathed in flowy fabrics of bright pinks and purples and muted reds. Futons and air mattresses covered in colored sheets lined the perimeter while an alter sat in the back, an homage to the erotic, with granite dildos, candles, incense and a native statue of a princess straddling her king.
We sat down on the futon and began to kiss. It was fumbly, but nice. After a few minutes, we became more comfortable with each other as hands began to explore landscapes, breaths quickened, eyes shut, boots came off. He pulled back and peered at me through anxious, aroused eyes. I think I’m going to get a condom, he announced.
With my agreement to his proposal, his excitement escalated exponentially. Really? I mean really? Really? Okay. It was the surprise of a child who gets the rare treat of chocolate chip cookies right before dinner.
Yes, I said. Go get it.
He was stupefied. OhMY GOD, oh my god, this is really happening, this, um… okay, OKAY. He quickly pulled on his boots and I think he might have done a happy dance. He looked at me. Are you sure, I mean, are we really going to do this? He asked.
Stop talking and go get the condom, I replied, attempting not to sound too terribly terse.
He stumbled quickly out of the dome – a giddy schoolboy preparing for a field trip.
While he was gone I looked around the room. I spotted a bowl of condoms on the alter. I was relieved . What self-respecting sensual dome would be without one, really? He had obviously not spent enough time in there to know that its creators had the concept of safer sex covered. I leaned back on the futon, pulled off my panties and laid them next to my things. I considered taking off my dress but then decided fuck it, that’s just too much effort. It was so hot outside that it was sticking to me. Leaving it on seemed the path of least resistance.
Upon his return he was even more excited. We are really going to do this! Ohmygod! How exciting! This is great!
How old are you? I asked. I’m 26, he told me. How old are you?
It doesn’t matter.
He pulled off his pants, rolled on the condom and clamored into me. We were off to an accelerated start, he had thrust maybe five perhaps six times before he came, and very hard… at which point he offered, “Oh, yeah, I always blow my load early when I’m excited like this. But don’t worry, I can keep going!”
Alrighty. Let’s keep going then. He pulled off the used condom, put on a fresh one and climbed back into me… he was right, he could definitely keep going. But it was hot, and I was still mostly clothed, so me with my dress hiked up, sprawled out on a futon with a big dusty dude on top of me just wasn’t working for me. I was horny, yes. The sweat, the dust, the heat, the dildo-laden alter, the sheer excitement of this cute guy whose eyes were smiling blissfully and whose name I didn’t know – it was all extremely erotic to me – and I was surprised by that. I had never before had anonymous sex with someone I had just met. I was accustomed to vetting my partners beforehand, to sharing things about ourselves on the pretense of getting at least somewhat acquainted before getting at least somewhat naked. I always knew their name, the vicinity in which they lived, how they paid their bills. All I knew about this dude was that he was at Burning Man, just like I was. In any other context, he would be a stranger, but something about Burning Man bonds people; an implicit kinship forms simply by virtue of being there. Of sharing a simple moment over hummus.
Let’s move over there, I pointed towards a large cushion in the middle of the room. I want to be on top.
He laid down, cock still erect, smile still sitting sweetly on his face. I sat down on him … hard. It felt so good, and in that moment I lost myself. I was everywhere and nowhere at once. The heat, the dust, the sweat, the thumping dubstep from a nearby camp, it all faded into quiet corners of erotic oblivion. I began to move, my hips thrust rhythmically towards him. I leaned down to kiss his parched lips, and that movement, I realized in my salacious stupor, situated my clit on his pelvis in such the perfect way, I knew that staying right there, with my face a little above his, was going to work really, really well for me. So I did. I rocked on him, back and forth. And as I rocked, the necklace, the one that read CLIMAX, began to sway back and forth with me, and each forward motion of mine sent the necklace swinging right into his face.
It was as if the necklace was instructing me. Get off, Sadie. That’s why we’re here, after all. CLIMAX. NOW.
And I did.
It was one of the most forceful, elongated, evangelical orgasms I had had in a very long time. It was one of those orgasms in which the word RELEASE is actually an understatement. Where you really come to understand that your body has its own mind, and can and will take initiative. Where you learn something important about yourself, and where you give yourself permission to access that liberation, not only because you wanted to -and yes you wanted to- but because you needed to.
Yeah, It lasted what seemed like forever, that orgasm. And when I’d come back down to earth, I looked at this man, whose name I didn’t know, whose temporary Burning Man residence was the only one I was privy to, and said, That was great!
And now it is time for me to go.
He would have liked to have kept going, but I didn’t. We both got what we came for, after all.
And so I put my panties and boots back on and he got dressed. We sat chatting for a few minutes and then I gathered my things. He invited me to stop back by any time during the week but I never did. I don’t like to make plans while I am at Burning Man, I prefer to see where the dusty wind blows me.
And I was content and certainly satisfied to have been blown that hot afternoon towards a massive climax with a dusty stranger in the sensual dome.
Because, really? Why not?
There is, sometimes, a subtle difference between want and need.
I don’t need to spend idle time fantasizing about an hours-long romp with the person I spend an hours-long romp with every couple of weeks or so. It’s just that I do sometimes harbor such singularly base, almost bestial thoughts about him. Or parts of him anyway. I don’t have any need to consider the placement of his body parts, body parts that I hadn’t otherwise given much thought to beyond their function, body parts that I’ve suddenly come to believe might fit perfectly and exquisitely inside my…. well, you get the idea. Toes, for instance. And elbows. Who wants to think of toes and elbows in such a way? I do, it seems. Want to, that is. I don’t need to.
I just … do.
One can’t control one’s dirty little mind sometimes, and perhaps one does not want to when one’s mind is having such fun designing decidedly delicious ideas to nosh on.
And while I don’t need to apprise him – this man who is the delightful focus of my mental machinations – no, I don’t need to apprise him of my fantasies, since delivering such insight might inadvertently appear manipulative, I often want to. And so, occasionally, I do. Only sometimes, mind you. And I don’t do so in the hopes of receiving similar words back, no. Nor do I alert him of my prurient visions in an attempt to provoke erotic reactions. Truly, I don’t. No, I have moved beyond simple strategy in this instance. Here … in this place I sit with thoughts of carnality (a place I am accustomed to, as you know… I am a lustful, libidinous lass, to be certain ) I want to, no, I need to say what I envision.
I need to say how badly I want for him to sneak silently into my bedroom where I lie sleeping peacefully, wake me up with a start and begin, quietly, then forcefully, to do dirty, disgracefully delectable things to me.
I need to iterate how the simple idea of tying his arms taut to the bed and insisting that he watch me play with myself gives me such intense gratification that I almost don’t need to do it. Thinking about such naughtiness is almost enough.
No, I don’t need. No. I want.
Yes. That’s it. What I need is to say.
What I want to is to do.
I enjoy reading books that my friends have written because it offers me a glimpse into who they are. Even a fiction book can allow the author’s perspective to peek through. But a friend’s memoir is the most fun for me to read because it is an accurate account of an interesting period of time in their life, and likely one I was not a part of. Like I said a couple of weeks ago, disclosure is a way in which we form bonds with others. For those of us who speak or write openly about our experiences, we do so somewhat blindly, unsure of exactly who is receiving the information we are putting out there. It creates a sort of one-way connection, which means that the lucky reader gets to feel as if they actually know the person who has written the memoir.
Such was the case with the memoir written by my friend and BedPost Confessions collaborator, Mia Martina. I mean, I already know Mia, she has a popular sex podcast that I listen to… but now I really know Mia.
Mia has written A Year of Sex: tales from New York city’s erotic underground and it is a fascinating glimpse into one woman’s journey of sexual discovery after the heartbreak of a relationship whose end had come. In fact, it occurs to me that perhaps I should try going on a sex-splurge like she did and see if I can find my way back to myself, just as Mia proves is a possible outcome of such debauchery. But I suppose I’ve done that already (and wrote my own book about it), so I guess I’ll have to be contented with reading about Mia’s sexual journey and discoveries. Content I am. Among other things. It’s a scorching hot, erotic tale that is perfectly tempered with sweetness and humor. Here is a passage that I love, and be assured there is more from where it came ~
Reclining in the chaise, I soak up the last titillating moments of this party. I revel in my vodka buzz, the low ambient music, the heavy breathing of the couple, and the faux-fur throw tickling my back. I let a hand tousle my hair, trace my curves, squeeze my breasts—which are exceptionally soft from all the lotion—and travel the length of my body into my panties. My fingers slide down my wet pussy and trace a circle around my opening. Keeping the couple in my gaze, I begin to finger-fuck myself. My finger moves in and out of my smooth, slick snatch. Unconsciously or not, I match the rhythm of the couple. Our breathing is heavy, and we’re all moaning quietly. She tells him she is going to come soon. Their bodies move quickly against each other, the springs of the bed squeak, and their bodies slap together rhythmically. My body tenses, and I rub my clit hard and fast. I hear her climax, then his, and I keep rubbing until I reach mine. Watching them kiss and stroke each other, I press hard on my clit, and when I come, I imagine the two of them kissing and stroking me. Yes, I am single and I am hard up.
Yeah, sister. I feel ya.
The libido is a funny thing, is it not?
For many women it is cyclical, dependent upon hormonal fluctuations, the amount of chocolate we’ve eaten, the position of that goddamned planet Mercury, how annoying the kids have been that day, or whether or not we’ve been told our ass looks super-fucking-hot in the new jeans we just spent a good chunk of our paycheck on. As well as a host of other factors, of course. Women are a complex species of creatures; there’s almost no telling when we’ll be revved up and ready to go, either for an adventure with a partner or just our very own sexy selves.
I was blessed with a fairly active libido, as a result of either genetics (thanks, Mom!) or luck… or perhaps it was the slut-dust that I was blanketed in at my birth? It’s hard to say, but its prodigiousness was one that presented itself, unawares, at age nine (on a bicycle, no less,) and then ran what I can only assume to be a usual path – cycling to and fro into my adulthood, through marriage and childbirth and then petering out almost entirely before it was once again re-delivered to me (unexpectedly yet ohso happily!) after a two-year battle with an autoimmune disorder. It was then that my sex drive went into full-tilt, and continued almost unceasingly for more than five years. The endorphins all that sexual activity produced served, I believe, an important purpose – I stayed in touch with myself.
Yes, in that way too.
But when my husband and I separated, I lost it. My libido that is (although to be sure my mental stability was not at its utmost peak either; cray cray I have felt on more than singular occasion.) My dear drive had gone away; turned cool-blue, frozen embers of my body’s memory, and I feared that the fire might never be lit again. I worried that to wake it up would require more than I had the energy for, or the capacity to achieve. Would I ever have the desire to desire… desire… once again?
In the haze of my missing libido I also lost myself. I began to wonder if I remembered who the hell I was? Divorce has a way of making a person re-assess everything – what was, what is and what may be. Was I not me anymore without this man who had accompanied my libidinous fluctuations the entire way? Was I still me but now this was just a different me? I shuddered to think that libido and I were so inexorably linked that it would even attempt to define me in such a way.
But I care about sex, you know? I suppose many of us do, and in fact I know we do. Sexuality is my business, it’s where I focus so much of my time and effort, trying to pull sexuality out from under the dark shroud of taboo and into the brilliant light of awareness and understanding. But how does one negotiate such a path when one’s own energies in that realm are tamped down to the extent that the ash left in its wake has blown away?
It turns out I needn’t have worried, nor been afraid. Because I have begun to wake up. To feel the surge of urge – and desire – once again. I could point towards that which sparked the blissful ignition, but I won’t. Best just to say I am happy to discover myself back in a place where there is a warmth and a will and a wish … to whack off.
It appears I am back.
And with that happy revelation (inspired by happy satisfaction,) I am off… to replace all the dead batteries in my vibrators that have been sitting, gathering dust, for far too long.
As well as to say a say a quiet “thank you” to my lovely libido-rouser.