On The Pleasure of Marital Sex

Thirteen years ago, I wrote a post On The Pleasures of Adultery. It recounted a tryst I had with a woman in a hotel room on St. Patrick's Day, 2007. The woman is now (and will always remain) my wife. One of our favorite blog comments of all time was brought back up out of the depths of memory in post-coital bliss last night. We showed the signs of age, as we mis-remembered an extra half-hour.  I guess it just  means that it was really great sex if it lasts longer in your memory (two hours) rather than the more contemporaneous recounting of an hour and a half.

 Sideon said...

An hour and a half of fucking and only one used condom?

**blink**

March 26, 2007 at 8:22 PM

Plus, we gave Sideon two blinks instead of one, but maybe we were thinking of the **.

No condoms last night, one of the inherent joys of marital sex. And in a nod to the original post and  to anecdotal scientific evidence that men want to believe is true for promoting their own sexual agendas: men's semen deposited in a woman's vagina has anti-depressant effects.  For my gay brethren, are there any studies showing what the semen deposit in various orifices does for overall mental health?  To watch porn movies, you would think that it has some impact as a face cream, ala Oil of Olay, but for purists like me, I'm all for the scientific baking the cream pie.

And in a further nod to the original post, the logical and probably more likely reason for the anti-depressant effects of semen for both women and men (and why it doesn't work as a face cream), is the anti-depressant effects come not from the semen, but the close, biological physical contact between couples that are close enough to share bodily fluids. So much bunk psychology, so little time.  Causality people.

Clearly, my exhibitionistic tendencies have not abated in 13 years.  I want to pull my fucking out of the bedroom and onto the screen, even if it is only a link I send to Sideon.  I'll leave it up to him to share it. Or maybe my wife will.  There is something about fucking and then sharing the experience that is compelling. Maybe that isn't so strange at all from a Mormon culture that fetishizes marriage as the great sanctioning of fuck.  Nothing is more sexually charged than a Mormon wedding, where if the children have been faithful, you know that a cherry is going to get popped (at least one) and everyone gets in a big group to celebrate.  The couple retreats from the temple, a quick visit to the house or apartment and the cherry is popped, and you go to the cultural hall and everyone celebrates with cake and punch.  No wonder my sexuality is tied to exhibitionism.

A lot has changed in the last 13 years, not the least of which is the shape of my cock.  Early on, a certain vice-like cunt bent the tip G-spot heaven ward. Over the years the cunt has pulled the cock to the left and then straightened it back up, leaving it not only pointing up, but ribbed for her pleasure, albeit a bit shorter.

I also didn't need Red Bull wings to fly and went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth and used mouthwash to cleanse my palate of the brussel sprouts we had for dinner which we ate while watching Knives Out with the 17 year old. I certainly didn't want to imbibe caffeine after noon since it disrupts my sleep cycle and after having invested in a technological marvel of a bed that tracks my sleep and scores me (83 last night since I got to sleep late), I am motivated to monitor those circadian rhythms.

The sexual tension started early in the day when I was at work dealing with corona virus fallout, when a message pops up on my chat screen:

also happy fuck-aversery 

Sexnaversary?

i used to know the name of it

the day we first DID IT almost... 

wow. 13 years ago

lucky number 13

ha.

I love you.

Fuck-aversery.  The celebration (marital style) was on.  Thirteen years was a big deal for both of us, since neither of us have been in a long term sexual relationship that lasted longer than 13 years and last night was the night that we passed that threshold.  Which weirdly brought images of the man carrying the bride through the door.  How had I missed musing on all the sexual connotations of the man entering with the woman?  

I filled the coffee pot and set the timer for the morning.  The caffeine prohibition does not apply to the morning. I did the ablutions with toothpaste and mouth wash, shed my clothes and climbed into bed, partly because it was cold.  I waited for my wife, my woman, my lover, my writing compatriot, to come out from behind the master bath's door (unfortunately not colored green).   And it is quips like the "green door" that enhance and fortify marital sex, because within two words there is a world for the couple.

Part of the world is how I have a piece of writing I did riffing on Boyd K. Packer's talk, "For Young Men Only," on the perils of masturbation.  My wife has read it and I pontificate on how Behind the Green Door is what the temple ceremony would be like if Joseph Smith hadn't been killed, that the masturbation factory for adolescent boys is a lot like Lucy's chocolate factory, and I play defense attorney in an imaginary church court where I point out the rampant sexual hypocrisy.  My wife countered by putting up pictures of green doors all around my office, a visual and sexual image that no one but us (until now, I suppose) knew about.

And isn't that the kind of intimacy that creates great sex? Knowing the other person's sexual quirks, kinks, proclivities, and maybe even more importantly history.  

We have a history that is a much more rich tapestry than even old blog posts can convey. It is a history that penetrates the most inner part of our humanity--the positive, the negative, the guilt, the pleasure, the pain, the shame, the elation, the ecstasy, the laundry, the sheets, the sleep, the dreams, the fantasies, and the realities.

To celebrate, she came through the door, wearing the same (or it could possibly be the same) outfit as 13 years ago.  Since I was already naked in bed, I had her undress for me at the edge of the bed. She slid off her Levi's, the red and black camisole hid the fact that she wasn't wearing panties. She climbed into bed and in homage, we recreated the moments in the car when I had her put my hand on top of hers to have her show me how she likes to be pleasured.  

I should know by now, but the re-creation is also a reminder, that we change, that our needs change, and that sometimes the pressure on the clit needs to be softer, sometimes a little to the left or the right, sometimes the finger goes in, sometimes it does not.  The art of intimacy is the ability to adapt on the fly to what is at hand. 

And our hands moved with each other. And my hands moved on the keyboard. And our hands moved because of the earthquake while I was typing. My hand moved inside her. 

She came. The earth shook. Foundations felt fragile. A flood of motifs-stability, safety, mourning, death, loss, faith, religion, sex, intimacy, selfishness, generosity, greed, charity--all crumbled out of the memories shaken by orgasm and earth. 

Everything moves and the little death reminds us of the big death, but in a bed of 13 years of copulation, there is a stability in the hundreds of thousands of thrusts. The movement and waves of intimacy in and out of the calendar. 

I enter her from the missionary position. I believe. She believes. I want you to know and believe that this is true fucking. Her flesh baptizes my cock and my belly as we bathe in the flowing waters of her River Jordan. Thirteen years later, in the name of the Cock, the Cunt, and our Holy Spirit our sins are washed away and our sins sink deeper into our skin. Fucking combines and joins our sin and our salvation into our bodies. 

After we come, we don't have to get home. We are home. We have been at home for most of thirteen years. We fall asleep feeling each others sacramental fluids as we drift off.  The room the next morning remains unchanged.  The day begins.  I pour her coffee and set it by her desk while she still sleeps. 

I remember and feel chunky this morning.  I wonder if her clit throbbed at all as I fed her breakfast. And the beauty of marital sex?  I think I will just ask her tonight if it did. 

Seeing Red

Well, I have to succumb and write something political. Everyday I look at the Yahoo! Political Dashboard and run my mouse over the "red" states to discover just how red we are here in Utah. Today: 62.7% red, 26.3% blue. No other state is even close. No one else is even in the 60% range. Utah is completely out of touch with what is going on in the rest of the country.

We believe in being subject to kings, presidents, rulers, and magistrates, in obeying, honoring, and sustaining the law.

Oh those Mormons do love to be subject, serfs to the establishment. Subject me, dominate me, make me see red.

I do revel in the ancient rebel Mormon past of telling the federal government to stick it, but most importantly we are clannish. We stick together even when it doesn't make any sense. Take Harry Reid. I can almost guarantee you that the Mormons in Nevada voting for McCain, also voted for Harry Reid. It makes no sense (other than Reid is a political genius for being Mormon and Democrat in Nevada). It would also explain Utah's love affair with Mitt Romney, the former governor of the gay state of Massachusetts.

That said, what follows below is a slightly modified version of a letter I sent to my McCain voting family members (some of whom reside in Nevada).

The Nature of Political Discourse

The nature of political discourse discourages me greatly. Vague end results (with no discussion of the means) and ideological preferences trump thoughtful analysis. Fundamental and foundational questions are not addressed and are primarily avoided. I'm sounding like a professor.

Here is an example:

Issue: Health Care

What is the foundational question on health care? Obama and the Democrats are accused of wanting to socialize health care. McCain and the Republicans argue that the free market should control. This is an age old conflict of free market vs. government involvment that is as old as the Republic. Unless you address the underlying question, however, you are stuck in the "spin" cycle, spinning aimlessly.

The underlying question isn't should we socialize health care, but rather how do we do a better job of it? Once you get past the fact that our health care system is heavily socialized and subsidized already (Medicare, medicaid, even insurance is a free market form of socialized coverage) then the discussion becomes much more productive.

Both McCain and Obama's health care plans offer government solutions to the problem. Neither one does much to address the most critical problem in health care -- the massive health insurance middleman that has to take their share of the medical profits. (I break my arm. I go to the hospital. The hospital charges me. My insurance company pays the bill. Both the hospital and insurance are trying to make money, but only the hospital fixes my arm.) The most logical conclusion to solve this problem is to put the squeeze on the insurance companies. Anyone who has attempted to buy insurance for themselves knows that a group policy is the only way to go, since it makes for smaller premiums. Right now just my insurance premium is close to $10,000 a year. McCain's plan is frankly a pander to the insurance companies by offering tax credits for the purchase of individual insurance plans and doesn't address the underlying problem and as I said before, the insurance company doesn't fix my broken arm or my pocket book. Obama's solution is to create a "national exchange" that essentially allows any one to buy the same insurance as the federal government. At least it attempts to put the squeeze on the insurance companies. Even Utah has actually looked at a similar system for the state and it solves a host of institutional ills (pre-existing conditions, uninsured individuals, bankruptcy, etc.)

I find Obama's argument more compelling obviously, although he probably doesn't go far enough.

THE AMERICAN WAY

As I have been working on this email, I thought a lot about what I believe as far as America is concerned. I think this goes back to the fundamentals and foundational questions that need to be asked. More of our discussions should start from premises that we can all agree on, say "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men and women are created equal." A nice sentiment and an ideal honored more in its breach than its observance, but I think it is one that we should all strive towards.

Take a typical Mormon housewife statement, "the thought of my husband and I sacrificing through years of school and hard times, to see my husband bust his butt and work like crazy, always trying to do better and be punished by having our taxes raised." I frankly agree with everything in quotes. I think this goes back to the idea of all of us being created equal. Despite the genuine attempts to create a society where each person is rewarded according to their efforts, we are in a constant struggle to avoid a collapse back into feudalism. Feudalism, aristocracy or its modern version, corproatocracy, is the disease that needs to be feared -- not socialism. Socialism is about equality and fairness.

Frankly Obama needs to get a little better speech writer, because this isn't about spreading the wealth, but preventing the wealth from coagulating at the top. The lazy butts and those that don't have to work are the extreme wealthy, not the poor. This is the historical stuff of revolution. The American ideal is to promote equality by having the reward equate to the effort. This is not the ideal of the extreme wealthy. The ideal of the extreme wealthy is to not work and to have property available to their progeny for inheritance and to be able to live off the proceeds of their property, never dipping into principal and never doing anything but owning. Personally, I prefer the American ideal and am willing to pass laws and maintain taxation policies that prevent the formation of corporate fuedal estate of which most of us are serfs. Now, we may disagree on the best way to accomplish this goal, but that is a completely different discussion and one that is less hopefully less heated, since we both want to accomplish the same thing.

Priorities in how tax money should be spent are certainly open for discussion. $700 billion is approximately one quarter of the federal budget and both candidates just endorsed a proposal to allocate that amount for the government to buy commercial paper that the "free market" doesn't deem worthy of its dollar, yet they are willing to spend your tax dollars on it. I'm skeptical that this is a welfare package for the most wealthy and powerful. I looked at our federal budget and apparently in 2006 (the latest year with actual data) , we spent 1,100 billion on the military and 32 billion on foreign aid, helping people in other countries. Call me silly, but that seems like a misallocation of funds. Dropping bombs on foreign countries is much more likely to upset them, than say, helping them eat. To our credit and in case you didn't believe my footnote that we are a socialist country over half the US Budget or 1,688 billion dollars was spent on social programs in 2006. Shouldn't the argument be about how this should best be allocated, reduced when possible and increased where necessary?

A FINAL THOUGHT

While most of us worry about what is happening on a national level, the real battles are in the communities and the states. Get active. Do something close to home. Try and make the world a slightly better place than it was yesterday.

A Story for Sideon's Birthday -- The T. Wanker Version of the New Testament

In honor of Sideon’s 40th Birthday, I decided to actually post. Few events in midlife cause such consternation as turning forty, possibly because despite not having a math class in twenty years and even with the mental deterioration that comes with advancing age, you can still multiply 40 by 2 (much easier than 39 x2) and 80 sounds incredibly old, so you’ve reached the crest of the hill and down you go – and we all know that the downhill side always goes a hell of a lot faster. So thoughts of mortality stream into your head, as the wind of the years blows your hair back. Hell, you are already two years past your 20th high school class reunion – even if you didn’t go. There isn’t anything worse, with the possible exception of 45, which is also easy to multiply by 2, and 90 . . .

Obviously, with thoughts dwelling on mortality, I think of life immortal and the promise of a perfected body for all eternity. As I see it, you have a limited number of choices – become a Christian or a vampire or learn to multiply bigger numbers by 2 and hope for advances in medical science or a peaceful instantaneous exit, say, a car wreck or nuclear holocaust or something.

Now, this blog does have its erotic themes and in case anyone didn’t know Sideon has a predilection for the masculine gender, so in honor of his birthday, I’m posting the one homoerotic story I’ve written. I think this idea started germinating during a Priesthood Session of general conference as I mused on Jesus and his twelve guy disciples and wondered what the New Testament would be like rewritten as a homoerotic vampire novel. One of those grand projects I started and never finished, I mean the subplots – 3 Nephites living forever hooking up with John who are all sticking around until Christ comes yet again, but I digress –

Happy Birthday Sid. I give you the T. Wanker inspired version of Jesus raising Lazarus (Lance is the modern version of Lazaraus) – from the dead.

BLOOD OF MY BLOOD

Mary laughed. It was the type of laugh that would have sent a caustic chill through the back bone of a mere mortal. She laughed more heartily and hauntingly. The night air embraced her chortle. "This is the place," she thought as she gazed across the straight rows of lights, all organized in their conservative wide rows, an electric patchwork quilt of Mormondom pioneer organization. Temple spires bit into the black night, attempting to suck out the darkness with the gleaming white. Salt Lake City was now her place. The irony, after all these years, made her laugh. (Mary Magdalene was my lead character, but it never went anywhere.)
The first vampire had been a day walker. He had walked in the day and asked for voluntary members to join in a new religion of irony and blood feasting. The potential for eternal power wooed them and they left their jobs and followed him. His power became enormous and he soon proved that he had power over the grave. Many doubted him, but his exploits drew their attention.

Lance had grown ill and his family was certain it was terminal. Each day he grew paler and paler. None knew of the nightly visits of the First. The blood ritual Lance was undergoing, unbeknown to his family and friends, occurred nightly. The First had approached Lance to be his first disciple of eternal life and power. Lance looked into the warm blue eyes of the First, his long hair flowing over his shoulders and his dark beard hiding the gleaming white teeth and he knew he had no choice. His blood belonged to the First. The irony, the contradiction was that with the blood letting he would not die, but would live forever. Between the eyes, the teeth, the voice and the hair, Lance could not say no.

The first session, Lance was undressed by the First. The sun had set long ago when the First entered with a wash basin. He had Lance sit on the bed. The First knelt at Lance's feet and removed his shoes. He placed Lance's feet in the wash basin. The cool water tingled the nerve endings, as did the touch of the hands. After washing the feet, the First had Lance stand as he unbuttoned Lance's shirt exposing his chest to the night air. He moved behind Lance and slid the shirt down the arms and off. The shirt was then folded and laid meticulously on the bed. by the strong carpenter hands of the First. "Look forward." The gentle command struck Lance's inner core and he fixated his eyes on the wall opposite him, not daring to move. He felt the Hand on his neck, but it was not a grab, but the gentle caress with the back of fingers.

The next sensation Lance felt was the bare skin of the First's chest pressed against his back. Strong arms wrapped around his body and those massive blue collar hands engulfed his upper thighs, as he felt his ass pulled back against the hard groin of the First. This was unlike any ritual he had ever imagined, but the First did often talk of Love and Sacrifice as being the necessary precursors to an existence in which death had no power. The hands slid up his thighs to his waist and deftly undid his belt and the clasp. The only power holding his pants against gravity was that of the First's fingers. A whisper of a voice echoed in both ears, making Lance unsure of the location of the lips that had uttered the words, "Do you love me?" All Lance could do was give a slight and silent nod of assent. With the nod, the press of groin and ass released and Lance felt his pants and undergarments sliding with supernatural slowness down his legs. A tongue flicked at his neck and began moving down his back with the same speed that his pants were falling. The moisture from the tongue left a cool remnant down his spine in the summer heat of his room. Before the tongue left the mid part of his shoulder blades his cock had sprung free of his pants, jutting out into the room. The descent continued until his pants were at his ankles and the tongue flicked at the top crevice of his ass.

A sharp pain surged through Lance's lower back as the teeth of the First sunk into the flesh at the end of Lance's spine. The teeth entered hard and deep as the mouth began to suck on the end of Lance's spine. The tongue emerged from the sucking mouth. With electric fervor, the tongue shocked Lance's nervous system, flicking and licking all the muscles of Lance's body into convulsive spasms of pleasure and pain. The sheer power of the connection of teeth, mouth, tongue and spine held Lance upright and lifted him off the ground at least three feet. Then as suddenly as he had been invaded, Lance was naked and free on the other side of the room with wobbly legs and the occasional shudder of a muscular aftershock. The only thing that kept him standing was a desk next to him against which he steadied himself.

A humid breeze blew through the room at the same moment the lights extinguished. Lance stood naked in the cold dark of his room. No light filtered through the window and the blackness re-dressed him in its oppressiveness. With the press of the black night, he began to regain sensations -- a dull ache at the tailbone and a sticky, trickle of blood flowing down between his ass cheeks, filling the crevice with red moisture. His mind was numb and his cock was still hard. "You poor, meek mortal." The voice intertwined with the darkness. "I shall give you the world."

The voice in the dark continued, "I have drank your blood and eaten your flesh. My tongue has entered your electric soul. I still have one more gift for you before this evening is done." Lance's eyes strained against the darkness, but the voice seemed to surround him and he did not know in which direction to look. The next sensation to course through Lance's system was his head crashing against the desk upon which he had steadied himself. The crunch echoed in the room and in his head. His naked, bleeding ass jutted out over the edge of the desk and in the flash of pain, Lance saw for an instant the bright, shining cock of the First. The head of the cock slid into the stream of Lance's blood and began to bite into the tight brown entrance, tearing flesh with its sharp push, adding more blood for lubrication. The pain made Lance tighten his ass, but the cock bit through bathed in Lance's blood. The cock forged in and then pulled out, making Lance feel that his insides were attached to the undulating movement. The loss of blood made him faint. As his body fell limp, the powerful hands of the First grabbed Lance's ass and pulled it hard against his pelvis. He then pulled the limp body off his cock, which stood like a sword dripping Lance's blood. He laughed and sprayed his sperm all over Lance's blood soaked ass -- little white droplets, mixing with the red, turning pink and being engulfed by the red sea of blood.

Lance awoke the next morning sore and a little pale. The ritual had repeated itself every night. One morning, Lance did not awake. The family had come to know the First and wanted him to perform on his promise of eternal life. The First was called and he came. He entered the house and commanded everyone to leave. Lance lay lifeless on the bed. The First knelt at his side. He ran his finger down Lance's cold grey cheek. Leaning over, the First began to kiss Lance, first softly and then with more passion. The tongue leapt inside the dead man's mouth, running first along the inside of Lance's teeth, then on the edge. He pressed his tongue hard against Lance's teeth until blood began to trickle from his tongue. The blood exploded inside Lance's mouth and his system shocked back to life. "You are the first of my chosen, " were the first words the new, never to die Lance heard. Triumphantly they exited the home and the First had become a God to his followers.

I say this in the name of the First, Amen.

Thoughts on The Ex-Mo Conference

The object becomes aesthetically significant when it becomes metaphysically significant.

Joseph Campbell

I spent last weekend at the Ex-Mormon Conference and came away from the experience feeling depleted and lessened -- as you might after having a gall bladder removed. Sex and eroticism are about union and joining, so ultimately the Ex-Mo Conference with its ideas of separation and transition was decidedly unerotic.

The litany of betrayal and disillusionment was discouraging, rather than uplifting. The sacrament was of bitterness, not doubt. The wine flowed, but it was not the wine of Christ's wedding, rather a wine of whine on why me, why believe and why was I deceived.

NEWS FLASH: Life is a deceptive fucker, who is in leauge with Death. The Tree of Eternal Life has its roots all interwoven with the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil to the point of mystical union. We are in paradise, but not of it. We are outcasts, but in the bosom of God (very maternal image by the way). Enough mystical bullshit, but my point is that the cure to Mormonism (if one is needed) isn't surgical removal, but integration. Don't denigrate Mormonism -- fuck it.

Get naked in the bathtub with Mormonism and turn out the lights. Grab her by the hair and take her from behind and let the lukewarm water splash her cunt and clit, as you rock back and forth in the embryonic waters of baptism. Plow the flesh of the black hole cunt of Mormonism, until it defies physics and spews out against eternal gravity spiritual fire onto your cock and the hot liquid of religion baptizes you on the outside and the inside. Just make sure that you get all of the flesh under water to really wash away all those sins. By the Power of the Holy Mechezick Priesthood which I hold, I baptize my cock in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Hole-y Cunt of Mormonism. Amen.

And what Millenial Religion is complete without a Second Coming? There must not be only the baptism of water -- There must also be a baptism of blood and fire. And how do you get the Mormon Cunt to bleed? You wait for her monthly savior and then baptize your cock in her blood. The fundamentalist prophet may ban the wearing of red cloth, but he cannot ban the red cock of Christ coming with the sword of his righteousness. Explore every pore of Mormonism as it bleeds. The blood is red. The blood is black. The moon turns red and the sun turns black. The apocalypse is sprayed across the sheets in a crucifixion of taboo, guilt and separateness. You can pound the nails into the crucified soul. You can stick the sword in and out comes water. Your prick is a thorn and you can only hope to atone, atone, atone and atone in a rythmic thumping and humping of the death grind of pelvic collision. I am In. I am Out. I Am God. I Am The Son of the Blood Red Morning of Resurrection preceding my own Second Coming.

Famous Last Words

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Quick-alingus

"Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father in Heaven is perfect" is one of those scriptures of my youth that completely fucked me up. I still have this incredible desire to be perfect – even in my sinning. The perfect fuck, the perfect lick – perfection is the consummation, the goal of all endeavors.

The perfection virus even stems over into my writing. Every word I pour out should have significance, right down to the last "the" and "a". Unfortunately for me, my language, like my life, is messy, unpredictable, unwieldy and far from perfect. I don’t even have the time right now to pour over what I write to give it the smallest semblance of having been edited, so I suppose part of my absence has been in a quest for perfection that leads, as it usually does, into total paralytic inaction.

So what does this have to do with erotica? A lot. Wanting to avoid the pedestrian fuck, I can go completely celibate for weeks, days – even months (It has been years, since I went for years.). Only recently did I relax my perfection bid just enough to surrender to the joys of imperfection and spontaneity. Now men certainly have the advantage in the spontaneous receiving end of oral sex. The temple spire of manhood springs out from the clothing inhibitions and is instantly accessible to the awaiting saliva and warmth. Women, on the other hand, have been short changed in the spontaneous oral sex realm. So to hell with the perfect cunnilingus. Give her a quick-alingus.

First, make sure your lady friend has gotten all dolled up for the evening. The process of allowing her to get ready for the night out will insure that this remains in the realm of the imperfect. You can’t give perfect head if you are a) in a hurry and b) worried about looking like the morning after at the party you are headed to. Now, the pants and panties need to be yanked down, but only so far as necessary to allow the tongue to wrap around the fabric and hit the clit. Ignore any protestations and forge on. There will be no insertion, because there isn’t room. No fingers, just the tongue – and that faint aroma of her on your lips all evening.

The flush on her face will replace make-up blush. Imperfectly perfect.

I'm BACK

I’m back – I think.

So it has been a long hiatus. I actually have so much that I want to write about, discuss and delve into and do not know where to begin, so I plunge back into the warm, moist world of blogs with the hard task of responding to a tag to name ten things about myself. Given my blog theme, which at times I have found limiting, but then I think – "What the hell – I like sex and writing and where else can I combine the two.

Also, thank you all for your kind words of encouragement to lure me back inside the pink, digital walls of cyberspace.

Ten Things About Me:

10. I have a scar on the ridge of the head of my penis. Given the Mormon affinity to Judaism I was duly circumsized as one of God’s chosen people, leaving the head of my cock unprotected by a sheath of skin. This predestined stripping of my male member congealed with my own pyrotechnic leanings, my youthful inexperience and the familial use of matches as an air freshner in the the bathroom to a rather horrific experience. Seated on the porcelain throne, I felt the need to ignite some sulfur. Having done so, I blew out the flame and watched the smoke curl up from the glowing tip of the match. Underestimating the size of my cock, I dropped the match stick between my legs were it lit, not lit but still searing hot on the ridge. I immediately grasped the match stick to find out with horror that the skin of the penis head is not like normal flesh – it melts. My cock ridge had adhered itself to the match head and my dick became a perverse and painful marionette, as my cock bobbed up and down as I moved the match stick with my hand, before I peeled it off in searing pain. The scar has faded some 30 years later, but it is still there and a reminder to keep my little god’s head away from the hellfire and brimstone.

9. I had my first experience having someone tell me they were turned on by my blog writing. Actually, I think the words were "You are so fucking hot. I’m going to go home and masturbate to you." Or something to that effect. ( I took this to mean my writing, not any particular physical attributes of myself) Now granted, it was a collective "you" since it referred to myself and another blogger and the utterance was most undoubtedly alcohol induced, but it was relatively spontaneous and did show a passing knowledge of some of the things I had written, so I’m counting it. The experience was humbling and exhilarating. I liked how the digital words had turned into the flesh of the world.

8. I attended a class on how to be an "Extraordinary Lover." Is there such a thing as educational prostitution? If you answered that yes, you know that San Francisco is a lovely town, replete with sex educator/whores. They take prostitution to a new level -- economically, politically and socially. Advertise a hands (but not cock) on educational class to instruct the obviously deficient males of the species on how to properly handle a woman and you have a class of teachers and tricks. The tricks all fork over $250 (apparently the price has risen since my class to $495) or so for an instructional class and you get to gather them all in a room and spend the morning session with the women making each man divulge why he wants to become "an extraordinary lover", with the obvious implication that at this point, you are not. Twelve men at $250.00 is $3000.00 for a six hour session, not a bad day’s work and there is no touching in the morning session and no actual intercourse.

In the afternoon session, you bring in two additional female recruits, so that the men can try out different types of women – of course the leader of the class, Celeste is the more classic beauty and you use her in all of your ads – but now that you’ve roped the men in with the talk of how they need to be more sensitive and attune to the woman’s needs, you find that the hands on training is going to consist of three women types: 1) the objectively attractive, more traditional sex object - Celeste; 2) The natural, granola girl, replete with arm pit hair, a vaginal forest and the distinct scent of the hippie; and 3) The vastly over weight woman. Looking back, I’m still amused at how the teacher manipulated a group of men into allowing the teacher to make a political and social comment on the objectification of women. Even though we were allowed to touch each woman (rubber gloves for the intimate parts, lest you think safe sex was not a primary concern), the instruction was taught in a classroom equivalent of musical pussy and when the music stopped I ended up with the large woman for my turn to dip my fingers. (Woman on her back, well lubed index and middle finger stroking the top of the vagina in a cum hither motion while the thumb rests on the clit in case you have someone to experiment on and want to save the social lesson and $250.00.) Of course, there is always the squirting seminar . . .

7. I’ve been on a couple of nude cruises and to a couple of clothing optional resorts where I was able to witness the piercing phenomenon which I have dubbed "Wind Chimes." Now, nudist resorts are educational in regards to the enlargement of the male scrotum with age, since the over sixty crowd of guys appeared to be packing small to large purses between their legs as they traversed the staircase, but as disheartening as that may have been, the one lasting image from all the flesh I saw came from a nudist yoga class. Nude yoga is obviously superior to nude jogging and somewhere between an up dog, down dog and extended side angle pose in the sun salutation, my eyes were greeted by twelve inches of dangling jewelry, clinking gently together in the ocean breeze. The disturbing part came from the fact that it was all hanging from the labial lips of the woman in front of me.

6. I stripped for a room full of homosexual men.

5. In the realm of young, foolish and adolescent, I used the vacuum hose on my cock. Three words: Quick, Intense, Painful. I couldn’t find the off button fast enough, but cleanup was no problem.

4 and 3. Neck Fetish and Exhibitionism. If vampires died, I’d say I was a vampire in a previous life, because I love the nape of the neck, especially on women who can orgasm from having their neck nibbled on. At one point in my life, I liked to practice kissing the neck of strippers back when South Salt Lake had totally nude strip clubs and backwards rules that allowed the patron to touch all but the breasts and private areas of the stripper and didn’t allow the stripper to touch the patron. (What odd laws the predominant culture spawned.) I enjoyed the sense of power that came when I felt the stripper’s flesh goose pimple and I could feel her whole body shudder just by me nibbling on her neck -- you can’t fake goose flesh. In my life, I’ve had the good fortune to meet four women who I was able to make come from my Dracula impersonation.

I’ve also always enjoyed the thought of being watched. I’ve even blogged about the exhibitionistic aspects of blogging. My exhibitionistic trait becomes overwhelming when I have a woman who capable of a neck nape/rape orgasm. Smith’s. Hollywood Video. Combine my neck fetish, exhibitionism, nape quivering lover and alcohol (6 tequila shots, 1 Yager and Red Bull, 3 shots of some drink known as a Pink Pussy and some indeterminate swigging on a bottle of Cuervo) and I performed neck-alingus on the quivering woman in my grasp in front of numerous other inebriates, until she had a rather crashing orgasm. From the alcohol smog of my mind I flashed a thumbs up to the crowd, as we retired to the bedroom, where alas there was no audience, but I was able to lick more than the neck.

2. I have an essay on masturbation I really ought to publish in pamphlet form, "For (Brigham) Young Men Only." I’m going to give you an excerpt here about the masturbatory experiences from the mission field:

I stopped masturbating to go on my mission. It is hard to jack off on a mission when you have a do-do companion following you everywhere you go, so I actually lasted for several months, living vicariously through those few wet dreams I could coax out of my system. I succumbed in a small town in a foreign country that had pornography vending machines a couple of blocks from the house. On top of that, we each had our own rooms and didn't have our companion in there bugging us or watching to see if we jacked off. No one ever said anything, but I think we were all glad for the privacy. One night, those little guys inside me that had built large, strong muscles from years in the basement bathroom overcame me and I donned my BYU sweats and pulled the hood over my head and darted out into the dark rainy streets with a few coins for a vending machine. I imagine I looked like a large, blue smurf haunting the shadows. I bought the magazine, only to find out to my chagrin that the pictures all had blue dots over the fun part of the genitals. It didn't stop me from getting my rocks off numerous times, but I was saved by one dot that seemed translucent and reminded me of Cheryl Tiegs in Time with the pubic hair peeking through. I always had the unfortunate propensity to confess my masturbatory sins, which I dutifully did to my mission president at the next zone conference, which confined me to my fate as companion to the unwanted. I guess the mission president figured if I had a pain in the ass companion that I would forget the longing in my cock. I guess that is what this discourse has become, a long, drawn out request for forgiveness from the reader for letting that little factory enslave me. Boy, Boyd, I don't know. I'm not a young man anymore, granted I am younger than you, but still not that young. I suppose I have you to thank that I can still pump away at my little factory and it has only gotten better, albeit less productive, with age.

I found this little gem of a movie and thought it fit in nicely with Japanese masturbation stories. One cool thing about missions is you can still remember enough Japanese to really make this video have some meaning.

1. Finally, I actually have had this written for a week and couldn’t come up with the last item when I had someone come up to me and say, "You have the voice of a funeral director." I relayed this pronouncement on my aural aura to a friend, who said without thinking too hard, "you don’t sound like a funeral director, your voice is soothing." So I can use my voice to calm, but what good is that in an erotic setting? I always craved one of those deep bass voices that tickle a woman’s clit as the vocal chords vibrate, instead I get "soothing funeral director." I guess I’m doomed to use my tongue to make more than just sound waves on the clit, but there are worse fates.