Wednesday, 30 June 2010

The Pushmepullyou Of Sex

Virgil and I have a date with another couple tonight. We played with Marcus and Ava at the sex party we organised and now we're going to their place.

He curls up against me in bed this morning, laying kisses on the back of my neck and pressing his erection against my bum. When I reach behind and start to touch him, he slips his fingers into me. It feels good but my throat is sore and I'm only awake because my brother texted at 7.30. I'm struggling out of a dream in which I'm failing at my job in a fantasy land of surf and big waves. 

I think: Virgil should have an orgasm this morning because it will help him with not coming later. I shouldn't, so that I'm fresh and sexually on edge. (There's an ache and a throb in my pussy right now, so that worked.) 

"What? Can't I make love to my girlfriend?" he says. "Are you saving your pussy for another man?"

So he closes his eyes and masturbates instead. I stroke his thighs and balls and kiss him. After a minute he tenses and sighs and I think that he must be getting into it, but I look down and see the semen on his belly.

Then I sleep for three hours.

One of life's great unfairnesses is that it is so much easier for men to come than women. Another is that women have better orgasms than men.

I have always struggled to come from penetrative sex alone. Some of my defining (and earliest) sexual memories are of being left hanging painfully on the edge of an orgasm with an embarrassed apology. Isn't it a drag when you reach a place in sex where he's mostly just trying not to and you are probably just trying too hard? Coke can help, to a point and on occasion. I don't know the answer. If you have any suggestions feel free to comment.

I've met several men with almost endless stamina. Their trick is that they almost never allow themselves to come. But I enjoy making people come. Witnessing another person's pleasure turns me on. There is also the matter of pride in my technical ability, and I like to feel that I'm keeping up my end of the bargain. It's great to be ravished but I'm mistrusting of people who only want to give.

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Sunday, 27 June 2010

Sleepovers, Part 2

By the time Ruby had claimed her orgasm it was 3am. I had work the next day. While she went to the bathroom we talked about what to do. We hadn't actually planned for this and it felt awkward. I don't know whether Ruby had expected to stay but the date felt over.

Virgil and I differ on the question of sleepovers and it is an ongoing thread of our discussions about etiquette in open relationships. I would neither want or expect to stay the night with people I had had sex or played with for the first time (and maybe not ever). I'm not uncaring but I need to know people better for that kind of intimacy.

We offered Ruby the sofabed but she refused and she didn't want us to call a cab. Ruby said she would walk home half an hour through the back streets. We were unable to dissuade her and she left, although she did send a text to say she was safe at home and had seen a huge fox on the way.

Today Virgil was feeling guilty but I wasn't. As a man he has a more developed sense of chivalry. I'm about 6 inches taller than Ruby but I've done my share of walking alone late at night. Sometimes you can't afford a taxi but sometimes you just don't want to pay for one.

Although we both have a sense of Ruby as an adventuress, her vulnerability is more appealing to Virgil than it is to me. He's feeling quite protective about Ruby, more so than if she was someone he was seeing as a single. I think Virgil has romanticised her slightly and I suspect that he will do this with future playmates. Why should she be hurt by us? I like Ruby, although I don't yet know what she wants from our relationship.

Seeing Virgil seduce Ruby gave me a great deal of pleasure. He was charming and gentle with her. He says that in normal circumstances he would want to hold someone and cuddle them for at least an hour after they had come so I suppose we'll have to make her come earlier next time. I was wrecked the next day.
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Saturday, 26 June 2010

Three's company

In modern love, dates for threesomes and foursomes can be hard to arrange. After several months we finally got Ruby into bed last night. Before that we made her dinner and entertained her. This is the first time Virgil and I have accommodated. So far our sexual adventures with others have taken place outside the home. I realise now that one advantage of this is the convenience of not having to cook and clean.

What's the adage about women being cooks while men are chefs? On a hot, work-day afternoon, our preparations became bad-tempered. Ruby is 'mostly' vegan and Virgil had decided to impress us all with a feast from our new Otto Lenghi recipe book. He also decided to deep-clean the flat which offended me. I stewed on the sofa and remarked on the inefficiency of his vacuuming technique. He blamed my Dyson. We have a running disagreement about the relative merits of mine and the £25 model that he had before I moved in.

"Your behaviour today has been so hurtful," he shouted, "I will never forget the way you have spoken to me today." I'd said the same thing to him a few days ago when he told me that my homeopathic medicine doesn't work.

Virgil pointed out that if I had come round to dinner at the beginning of our relationship I would have arrived to a nice clean flat and a nice dinner, which I would have enjoyed in ignorance of the immense effort that had gone into making it so.

I couldn't deny the truth of this. Caught between exasperation and pride, I chose pride in Virgil's vision. It's something I love about him. In return, he promised to let me do my share of the cooking. We made up, and by the time Ruby arrived the flat was immaculate and dinner almost ready.

She sat by the bedroom window and smoked while we made the final preparations.

"This will be you later," shouted Virgil, as he smashed ginger and garlic with a hammer.

"Here's hoping," said Ruby.

Some time in April we spent several hours in Ruby's company. Ruby isn't her real name. She claims to have been brought up in England but her accent ranges from unplaceable to improbable. She might be twenty, or thirty. Despite our best efforts Virgil and I came away knowing very little about her. She sipped hot water with lemon. When words failed her she reapplied red lipstick and said: "Gosh!". When Virgil asked what she would most like to be remembered for, she replied that she wouldn't like to be remembered for anything.

Virgil is more forgiving of her fragile pretense than I am. Ruby is sweet but she's hard work. She has to be coaxed and cared for. She is doll-like, with a vintage femininity. Last night she admitted to being only "mostly vegan". She says she is a lesbian which is surprising: everyone seems to be queer these days. She has joked about the disapproval of the lesbian council that playing with a couple might elicit. However, when I asked her if she might like to be fucked by Virgil she smiled and agreed.

We were all in our bed by this time. There had been hours of play. We had undressed her slowly, enjoying her in her underwear and how quickly her pussy had got wet. I had come twice. Virgil was trying not to. Ruby hadn't. We had both been trying to make her, but hadn't found her switch. It's not easy when someone gives very little away. Virgil asked her how she liked his fingers inside her. He pushed into her while I rubbed her clit. Ruby tensed and whispered "faster" but after some time she said "stop".

We reassured her that it was fine. We cuddled her. I said "Don't worry, it's not a numbers game."

"That's ok for you to say," she replied, and then: "I feel cheated." So we went back to work on her and she got an orgasm, although I have a slight suspicion that she faked it.

Talking about it this morning, I said that I was glad that Ruby had finally asked for something and said what she wanted. If you can't ask for what you want and say what you like, how can you expect to get it?
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Wednesday, 23 June 2010

I'm busy doing nothing

"Are you ok?" asked Virgil earlier. He cornered me outside the bathroom and put his arms around me. "Are you sad? You just seem a bit aimless today."

I had been lying on the sofa reading a book.

I assured him that I was fine. I had, indeed, been enjoying my book, which is of the self-help variety and not just a novel to be read for pleasure. I have been enjoying this book at various moments for the last month and I would like to finish it. I think it might help me work out what to do with my life.

When did finishing a book become something like hard work? As a child I managed one a day. As the books became longer and I more sociable and responsible for feeding, clothing and housing myself, this dropped to several a week. In the lows of depression in my twenties I read intensively and pathologically. When studying I had less time to read for pleasure, but looked forward to the moments when I could jump into a book.

Now I struggle to finish a book every two months. Now it is such a colossal achievement to finish a book that if I am not enjoying one after a couple of chapters I will abandon it. I would never have finished One Hundred Years Of Solitude with this attitude, or Moby Dick, or... well, many other books that I'm very glad to have read.

And why does Virgil think that reading a book equals lolling around? A few weeks ago during a conversation about the self-discipline required for self-employment he said how good it was to see me busy at my laptop rather than reading.

Virgil doesn't understand. I can spend hours wasting time on the internet while looking industrious, looking at things that are none of my business on Facebook and ignoring important chores while kidding myself that I am working. I have decided to have less internet in my life and more books.
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Wednesday, 16 June 2010


Every curmudgeon needs a sane person to rein them in. Without Virgil I don't know what I would do sometimes. Drown in a lake of vitriol I suppose, or choke on my own bile.

Sometimes I get cross with Virgil. He played his orgasm spoiling trick on me again the other morning. I didn't spot it coming. He kept saying that he was going to take his time going down on me, and that I shouldn't make any effort to come but just enjoy it. I entered that rare space of unconscious enjoyment. I told him that I didn't want to come yet but he said that I should, so I gathered myself. A few minutes later I was aware only of my hips lifting up off the bed and Virgil's tongue flicking on my clit. The closer I got, the more gentle his mouth became.

And then he pulled back. The fucker! He couldn't have timed it better. I flipped upright and screeched at him while he laughed, his mouth stained with my blood and looking very pleased with himself. Then he made me start again and pushed a vibrator inside me. At the moment Virgil's into exploring my G-spot, which I don't object to, except a vibrator is not the way. Eventually I asked him to take it out. My G-spot seems to respond the most to a particular kind of touch. It's the feeling of something (fingers or a cock, preferably) sliding in and out (and just as much out as in, incidentally)... and it's a bit subtle. I've never come from G-spot stimulation alone.

I'm very clitoral. I used to think it was due to too much masturbation when I was younger. Now I think it has more to do with
a. years of having thrush and not particularly enjoying penetrative sex;
b. just being wired up this way;
c. not having had the patience to learn to come the hard way.

I think I'm drifting into a separate blogpost here. More on that another time.

Virgil has a temper too, incidentally. For instance, a few minutes ago I went into the kitchen where he is making dinner and asked him not to put chard in the salad. He got a real look in his eye and banished me for that.
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Sunday, 13 June 2010


There's nothing like a broken night's sleep for feeling hateful. 

At 2.30 on Saturday morning a karaoke party woke us. We lay listening to drunk girls belting out anthems until 4. Finally we slept, until 6.30 when a dawn rave broke out downstairs. It was quite unbelievably loud. 

I went to the window. Next door's bijou barbecue looked like a junked robot in the morning light. A girl was prancing about on the flat roof below, cheered on by out-of-sight male voices. Furious, and having only a phone in my hand and not a gun, I took her photograph. 

From the alley at ground level a man's face looked up at me. I scowled at him and shrugged interrogatingly. "I'm police," he said. "Will you come down and talk to me?" He held up his ID and I said I would meet him out on the street. I took my phone with the picture of the girl so that we could prosecute her for brattishness and having no consideration for people who are sleeping and have to work the next day. As I left the window I could hear the policeman shouting something at the people on the roof. 

I walked around the empty block but couldn't find my way into the alley. The music stopped. It was quiet. I went back to bed, lay listening to a Jeeves and Wooster radio programme entitled Joy In The Morning and eventually slept again. 

My rancour toward this total stranger lasted all of the rest of yesterday. To deliver my internal rant more effectively I christened her Julia. In my imagination she had been caught and prosecuted. The scene was a municipal building - maybe a police station or court house. Julia cried. She apologised and put on her best voice to explain that it had just been thoughtless fun.

I was scornful and implacable. I told Julia that she deserved what she was going to get, which realistically would probably only be a caution or a fine. I said it would teach her a lesson in her over-privileged life to not always have her own way. Did she think that she could simply do whatever she wanted? Julia's transgressions, of staying up all night (probably) taking recreational drugs, being inconsiderate of sleeping people and showing off in front of boys, were considerable. She deserved the harshest penalty and my deepest derision.

So right but yet so wrong. My inner Melanie Phillips, yesterday risen like a Jungian archetype, has now subsided. Julia is safe, if not exactly forgiven. But the next time my neighbours play techno in the early hours I will report them immediately to the landlord, the council noise team and the police. I have all their numbers in my phone, and I will be taking photographs. 

And by the way, don't football fans talk a pile of utter shit?

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Saturday, 5 June 2010

Sex party politics

There's nothing like work avoidance. It might actually be my prime motivation in life. Today I'm at work, so this really is the ultimate in work avoidance! There's the danger of discovery, like being caught photocopying your genitals or having sex in the office toilets. I've never done either, although I once had a wank in a cardboard box while watching television with my little sister.

I wish I could say that I'm getting turned on now but the possibility of discovery has never had that effect on me. The idea of someone inadvertently and unwillingly catching an eyeful of me in action makes me uneasy.

Consensual voyeurism, on the other hand, is fine. I'm relatively inexperienced at having sex with or in the company of lots of other people, but last weekend Virgil and I attended our first sex party in ages. And perhaps because we had had a hand in organising it (ahem!) it was a good one, in which a throng of sexy, interesting pervs of all persuasions met, flirted and ultimately fucked. I don't think it quite turned into an orgy but from my perspective it came close.

One of my initial reservations about organising a sex party was that I would know the people I was playing with and that this would somehow be embarrassing. A friend said exactly the same thing. She prefers to go to sex and fetish clubs with a partner in crime and have anonymous sex, the more sordid the better. She told me with glee how she had recently been groped in the glory hole of a suburban sex club by two Hassidic Jews.

The idea of fucking in front of friends was daunting. In a similar vein I remember wishing as a teenager that I could magically lose my virginity without the mortification of sexual contact with another person. My adolescent sexuality was almost entirely masturbatory. Adolescent sex is 90 per cent masturbation and 10 per cent embarrassment. Inevitably I got over it and eventually discovered that the whole point of sex is that you are doing it with someone else.

So although I believe it politic to leave a comfortable distance in the playroom between yourself and the friends you like but wouldn't actually like to fuck, I've changed my mind on that score. In fact, I would go as far as saying that one of the *perks* of sex party organising is getting to make a mental to-do list.

Virgil and I played with boys and girls, both together and separately, although never going far from the other, and at the end of the night we were together. Having lost our supply of latex-free condoms down the side of the communal bed, neither of us had actually fucked anyone else, but the party had been a success. We had worked hard and we were more than happy with the fruit of our labours.
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