Tag Archives: sex

Casual sex

18 Apr

Her dress was of lycra, short, with open back; a floral second skin. Her hair was soft and wavy, silky dark strands reflecting the summer moonlight.

He was tall, massively strong, skin dark as the night, gorgeous smile and black eyes. He never approached her, yet she could feel his eyes on her body all night.

Eventually their arms touched, and after catching her friend talking to his, she found it difficult not to look at him and smile. They went home together. He grabbed her by the thighs and sat her on the bathroom countertop, his hands moving to discover her round, ample ass. His large fingers slid the skintight dress off her body in one swoop, revealing her completely nude, sensual.

She smells him still, this morning, his scent strong on the lapel of her jacket as she strolls to the park with the dog. The memory brings her to smile wide, and after that smile comes the thought of… him. And no matter how hot and spontaneous the previous night may have been, it was not one with him.

Because with him, she would’ve spent the entire night either on or off underwear, from 11pm to 5am, feeding him ice cream, helping make snacks, packing his bowl, talking about everything and nothing, wrestling in bed, listening to reggae, making out.  With him, she would muffle her own screams as he bit her, hard, and she would squirm in pleasure each time. He would slap her across the face too, while she laughed, arching her back and riding him even harder. Always a good girl, always obedient, always smiling.

And he’s not here right now. And he was not there last night. It’s only casual sex with no emotion, and no playfulness.


Oh hai

30 Jun

The blood rushed through the streams between her legs, colliding at the tip of her skin, like heartbeats sending heat down to her pussy. She could feel the weight of her legs, spread semi-open on the bed, as the muscles relaxed and sank into the cushion. She realized she’d been circling her right nipple with her middle and index fingers, pinching it every so often. She ran her thumb down her breast, onto her ribs, and to the lace tip of her blue and white polka dot underwear. Her index finger made the journey back up her stomach, through the belly button until she cupped her whole right breast with her hand. The sight of the red polish on her trimmed nails made her smile.

She knew he’d love that. She knew he would love to be the one circling and pinching her nipples, running his thumb down her stomach, and index finger around the belly button; filling his hand with her breast. While her pussy pulsates and she bites her lower lip in a plea that he keep going.

Isabel had been observing him for as long as she could remember. His boyish posture at the dinner table, the dorky jokes that made her laugh, his propensity to think carefully before speaking, as if every word deserved careful consideration. Their time alone was non-existent, as men and women were never allowed to mingle without chaperons. But weeks ago his eyes sought hers even as his glass toasted another man’s. Since then, they’ve stolen their moments alone with glances.

Every Friday night, for one hour before supper, men and women convened by the lake. Verbal exchange between the sexes was kept at a supervised minimum; she made conversation and played with the girls. Yet her sight and mind were fixed on his shoulders; the tanned skin glimmered under the West-setting sun as he chased the kids in the water, and picked them up, flexing his biceps, flaunting the shoulders. At night, when she laid unfocused on the book in hand, running her fingers over her body, she thought about his stomach, chest, arms. She’d never seen them, but knew they would be strong. And warm too, she thought, if they had the chance to press against her soft skin.  She imagined his shoulders swelling and tightening as they might if he picked her up, put her back against the wall and wrapped her legs around his waist. Isabel imagined them kissing frantically, playfully biting, tongues grinding – fast breaths as their brains decide which part of each other’s bodies they want to touch the most.

His hands cup her breasts as he sinks his head into his shoulders, knees bent to kiss, lick, and suck on her tits. His hair is too short for her to grab onto, so her fingertips find their way to his back; she squeezes the muscles as she throws back her head with a whispered moan.

He brings her legs down, and her feet touch the floor. His hand roams every inch of her right side as he slides it from her cheek to her neck, shoulders, breast, stomach, and hips.  His fingers press her to open her legs, which she does quickly. She moans deeper. For so long she’s craved that strong, calloused hand between her legs and it’s here now – her body is hot and the tip of her fingernails dig into his shoulders. She bites and kisses his chest, excited, wet, impatient for him to put his skin inside her. He breathes in her ear as he moves an inch of her underwear away with his index and middle fingers and runs them over her skin. It spasms, moist. She wants to seize his hand and push it up against her skin, but he moves before she does – he swiftly grabs her hips and turns her around. She responds by spreading her legs, arching the back, and turning her head so her lips can find his. He drops his jeans, and through his boxers, he makes her feel his cock, as he rubs it against her ass. She offers it to him, forearms and left cheek on the wall, legs quivering with anticipation.

Asking for forgiveness

31 Mar

During an innocent game of Mafia with friends while on vacation, I got overly excited by a friend’s fantastic grammatical construction while intoxicated.

Oh my god, that hit the spot. Really, it was a little bit orgasmic.

Juliana, you need to GET LAID.

Everyone laughed, myself included, but I thought the words rang true. It had been six months, friends, since the sun had shone around those hidden parts and it wasn’t ‘easier to deal with’ as time passed.  I had been shamelessly dabbling with pornography and fantasizing about frolicking naked with a man. I should have sought help right away, but I did the opposite instead.

I met a man on Friday night.  He was funny and laid back and had nice friends. We exchanged numbers and he came to find me on Saturday, the second day of the show, and we spent most of the night dancing together. The devil sure is cunning – he offered me an awkward-dancing rock n’ roller at an electronic music festival who was tall, thin (yet very athletic), three years younger than me and from New Zealand. I can hardly hide my giddiness around an accent, so I should’ve recognized the blatant temptation and run far far away from this wolf in manly lamb’s clothing. But I didn’t do that. I was stupid, very very stupid. I let him kiss me.  We spent a few hours together, talking, dancing, sucking face, and amazing one another with shared personality traits and tastes.  He suggested we go back to his apartment, which was so conveniently located five minutes away and I tried my hardest to resist.

That sounds good, but let’s listen to another 20mins of the Deadmau5 set before we go.

He agreed. Not only did he agree, but he fetched me some water and we sat down together, listening to the music as he put his arm around me.

At his apartment we listened to Faith No More (why is it so hard to find FNM fans in the States?), had a drink and then… we had sex. Full, long-lasting, mutually pleasing penetration and a little sprinkle of this and that. Twice.

The following morning I returned to my friends and tried to keep mum, but they are perceptive and saw right through my wide smile.

Ha ha you had seeeeeeeeeeeeeex!!! How was it, tell me, tell me!

After a shower and over a cigarette, I spared them no details of my shameful encounter.

I sit here, days later, still thinking about that episode. All these years of my adult life have been lived in shame and perversion; when I’m not engaging in obscene behavior, I’m thinking about it, or talking about it, or joking about it. My mother was married with a child when she was my age and lived a righteous life. I’m not sure when I got off a respectable path (if I had to guess, I’d say age 11), but my pleasure-seeking ways are no way to live. Last week was indulgent and culminated in the highest offense against all that is divine: amazing foreplay and sex with a man I’ll never see again. It’s despicable, and I’m so remorseful.

I ask the heavens for forgiveness, I thank my friends for being supportive, and as summer approaches, I promise to make the right choice when such perfectly aligned circumstances present themselves again.

Introducing: Vajuice blend

18 Mar

Dermatologists {yawn}

The last time a couple of chicks put their faces on a product was when Proactiv came out. Weh weh weh…. Great, so they turned around the lives of many pimply kids the world over, helping them rediscover self-confidence and focus on inner beauty (now that everyone else found them physically acceptable). Well done. But what Drs. Rodan and Fields didn’t tell you was that clear skin is no guarantee for getting laid. Nothing is, really, short of cold hard cash and the courage to pick up a prostitute (or the chick who seems to defy the laws of beer goggles even after a $100 tab. Brutal).

If you are having trouble coming to terms with the fact that you could really go for some female nectar but you don’t want to be a manwhore (or, let’s face it, you have no game – email me, I’ll give you some pointers)… we may have the answer for you.

After months conducting research, discussion, and testing to come up with their revolutionary new product, Certified Awesome Females (CAF) Masha and Juliana bring you: Vajuice™ – a blend of organic, no preservatives added vagina juice, carefully harvested from the finest, disease-free, barely-legal female human specimens, to quench your thirst when you can’t get any.

Certified Awesome Females Juliana and Masha

The man who finds himself with no foreseeable prospect of getting laid is forced to take care of business on his own, spending hours per month, alone, doing someone else’s job – and not getting pussy. That really really sucks.

CAF Masha and Juliana understand how frustrating getting no pussy can be and the level of stress it adds to a man’s already very busy life.

But we also understand that most men still would prefer to masturbate with Sasha Grey on the screen, rather than have to post bail for soliciting a prostitute.

So if you can’t get ass on your own, dear friend, we’re here to at least help you make it through your time of need with dignity. When your arm gets tired, your forehead pales with sweat, and you get that job done – you deserve vagina juice.

Studies show that for a healthy-libido male

every Saturday night that ends with Jerkens, err, Jergens on the nightstand :  his manhood


one more glass of Jack Daniels : Slash’s liver

Slash's liver is in there

You may not notice it right away, but your condition worsens as the months pass, leaving you irritated, depressed, and sometimes obese and alcoholic. These side effects make it even more unlikely that you will find anyone willing to sleep with you. It’s a terrible cycle.

So what is a man to do?
Stop beating the meat? Laughable.
Risk trouble with the law? No, no, too drastic.

He drinks Vajuice. Vajuice blend will help him replenish all of his sexy vitamins and minerals, positively reinstating his virility and balancing his Ph levels so as to emit a powerful, staunchly male scent that warns off other males and draws in bitches. With Vajuice, a man will feel like a real man again, even when he’s not actually getting any.

To cater to men’s discerning tastes, we currently offer our product in four distinct flavors:

Big-boobied Commie
Big-bottomed Latina
Submissive Asian

New flavors will be introduced to the market soon, including the very popular and highly requested Ebony, as well as the fun and tasty Mixed Race Punch.

It’s about time men felt as good as they were bred to. Pick up a few bottles of Vajuice for the weekend – you worked hard, and you deserve a taste of vagina, damn it.

The sky wizard is plain evil

2 Mar

A drum&bass compilation called Legally Stoned is the perfect background music to this bit I’m about to write. I contemplated housing this blog post on my desktop, in eternal obscurity. Instead, I’ll put it online and dedicate it to one tall, big-boobed, blue-eyed, full-lipped, smart, sweet, hilarious blonde with whom I talk about sex way too comfortably.

When I found myself single after a very intense relationship ended, I went out. A lot. If anyone was going out, I was going too. I danced and danced and drank about 50 glasses of Sauvignon blanc that winter (rebel). I smoked pot with my friends and had a blast being young and happy. There just wasn’t a whole lotta action going on. Know what I’m saaaaayin’? Until one fine night, when I went out with a friend to this chill little funky lounge. We’d been there for a couple of hours when I saw him walk in.

He was tall – a little taller than I like ’em but with great shoulders and looking mighty sharp in dark jeans. My friend readily approved. He chatted with friends, didn’t approach any girls, and none of them approached him either. Fuck it, I’d do it. I don’t know what the hell I said to him when I touched his shoulder, but we talked, exchanged numbers, got to our respective homes and continued to talk over the phone for hours. We met two nights later to talk some more in the dark, quiet booth we ended up choosing at the bar. I really liked him. He was smart, funny, attentive, kind, seemed genuinely interested in me, and had a gorgeous smile.

We went back to his place after the bar that night but I had that stupid voice in my head telling me I was a slut. I sat on the living room couch and he excused himself. In the 47 seconds he was gone, I weighed the pros and cons of what might or might not unfold that night and was decidedly glad I had chosen pants over skirt. He came back into the room – had changed into a white t-shirt and sexy man sweatpants (I love sexy man sweatpants). He offered me a soda, turned on South Park, and sat next to me with his arm around my shoulder. He smelled nice.

You’re single, you haven’t had sex in a while, you’re horny but you don’t want to be a whore. So God sent you a hot-bodied, intelligent, funny, well-dressed, well-mannered, deep-voiced, good-music-loving motherfucking Adonis to watch the Casa Bonita episode with. Are you serious? It doesn’t matter that God doesn’t exist. It doesn’t matter if you don’t ever see him again. Jump him now, idiot.

So we started kissing and stuff. It got hot and heavy and we went to the bedroom.

All of a sudden, the equipment wasn’t working. At first it didn’t bother me, because I knew it soon would. But no. Really. It didn’t work, no matter what. No matter WHAT.

Oh man! Sometimes that happens, was he drunk? Maybe he was just nervous, it’s happened to me before. Poor guy!

No, he was completely sober, and yes, I understand that. And honestly, “no hard feelings” – if it weren’t for how the rest went down. He didn’t know what he was doing… he was very confused. He was so confused I didn’t even know where to begin to help him. I was shocked at what was happening and wondered if he’d ever watched a little porn in his life. It was a cruel joke. I could’ve been home sleeping with my dog. What the fuck.

We never spoke again. I was cheated and traumatized, and even though I felt extremely bad, I couldn’t fathom having to talk about that experience.

I had a great time with you last night, Night Writer

I, uh… yeah, I know you did… Hey, you said you lived with your girlfriend for two years before she broke up with you, right?

I had figured the worst case scenario would’ve been mediocre sex with Adonis. I didn’t imagine it could be so bad and strange and difficult that after months of celibacy and while tipsy on two beers I would truly wish I were home asleep instead. WHY couldn’t I have stayed in the corner, with my friend and my wine the other night?

It took me months and a 21 year-old Irish soccer player with a great sense of humor and a barely decipherable accent to help me bury that incident deep into the dimly lit part of my brain where I hide memories such as, but not limited to, vomiting on my crush’s dorm room door and being mistaken for a boy because my mother insisted I have short hair as a child. My Irish boy was a splendidly refreshing short summer fling.

While my friend and I chatted about sex last night (all the sex she’s having and I’m not), we agreed that my next boyfriend will be a lucky man. I know there’s great (or at least mediocre-but-will-get-better) sex AND conversation to be had with the same person. I have to believe it.

Groupies and guitars

28 Feb

I like coming up with sayings. My newest ones are:

More Whores, Fewer Wars
A good woman spreads her ideas more often than her legs

When I was 14, I listened to 80’s and 90’s rock nonstop. Guns N’ Roses, Motley Crue, Skid Row, Metallica, Faith No More, Soundgarden… all these guys. I was also browsing the internets, often in AOL chat rooms and occasionally having inappropriate conversations with older men (dude… everyone was doing it). I went through a period of obsession with the rock n’ roll scene which led to lots of readings about groupie adventures.  I learned that Axl Rose was into golden showers and Steve Tyler was the best lay ever. All kinds of sordid details were proudly shared by women whose lives were consumed by the pursuit of rock n’ roll semen.  I was young and impressionable and I thought those girls/women were super cool for hanging out with rock stars; I wanted to be one of them.  Of course I never actually TRIED – my first concert was a Metallica show at the former Tweeter Center and I was scared shitless of all the biker dudes surrounding me. They sported booby biker chicks on their shoulders, flashing the crowd in hopes of appearing on the big screen, just like I’d seen on countless music videos.  One of them suggested my brother put me on his shoulders too and I clung to his arm.  “Nah, she’s good right here,” he said. Thank god for older brothers. And yeah, I knew then that I could never be a groupie.

At a N.E.R.D. concert years later, the manager was picking girls out of the audience post-show. The girls were lined up in front of the stage after re-applying lipgloss and pushing their boobs up even higher inside their padded bras. I stood in the back with my friends watching the scene. The ones who were chosen were jumping up and down screaming with joy, quick to leave their unchosen friends behind. The others were bummed and walked out in defeat.

Years later still (god, I’m getting old), I was lucky to score a free fourth row ticket to the UFC the first time they came to New England. Wearing jeans, sneakers, and a white girly t-shirt, I was seated behind Chuck Liddell, Rich Franklin, Randy Couture, Hermes França, and had Goldberg and Rogan in view. I’ve been a UFC fan since the early 90’s, back when it was a free-for-all dominated by the never-before-seen awesomeness of Brazilian jiu-jitsu. Needless to say, I was ecstatic to go.  The event, as we know, is mostly attended by meat-heads who don’t know much about the sport, but love screaming out nonsense and watching fist-drawn projectile blood. These types find validation in the diameter of their biceps and the cup size of their companions, so naturally, lots of “companions” were present.  There were also a lot of boobs that came with their owners in search of penis with sizable wallets. I make this claim because these women weren’t paying attention to the fights; they were flirting with guys, whispering to one another, or scoping out the crowd for a wallet to talk to. I was caught on camera stuffing my face with pizza and yelling at Forrest Griffin who was fighting Elvis Sinosic. You can find me on the DVD for UFC 55.

I definitely say that with pride. I think that feeling attractive and ‘wanted’ by men is great -I certainly have my share of push-up bras and mini skirts (though I avoid wearing both at the same time). But these women have crossed a line where I believe their sense of self-worth is much too dependent on their sex appeal.  Even as a grown woman, I sometimes have to reassure myself that I do not need to weigh 100lbs to be happy and that there is love to be found with flat shoes.

With all this said… I still believe there is a place for groupies. I think dudes who can play the guitar real fast should get lots of vajayjay and chicks with big boobs and deep throats who like diamonds should get rock star penis. Look at Slash and Perla – it’s a match made in heaven!  I just think that a good chunk of these girls have more to offer and would be happier pursuing other dreams. Some of them should be on stage themselves; instead they choose to hang outside tour buses for hours hoping a compliment or diamond bracelet will bring meaning to their lives.  They never grow out of fantasizing about being Pamela des Barres. I know I’d rather fantasize about being Gwen Stefani (or an awesomer version of myself).

Lust, Orgasms, and NPR

4 Feb

My work day was particularly long today, so I didn’t make it out of the gym until about 9:20pm.  I left in a hurry, too aware of how little time I had for everything I had to do before my 12am bed time. But halfway home, NPR’s Terry Gross announced that actor Colin Firth, one of my older men fantasy lovers, was the guest coming up after the break. I slowed way down. Tori would have to wait a little longer.

I think Terry has a crush on Colin because she stuttered more than usual and asked my man some rather strange questions.

We know you’re not gay, so what were you thinking about in order to film the scene where you lustfully stare at a pair of sweaty, bare-chested, athletic, young tennis players on campus? (I’m paraphrasing. Am I the one getting carried away here?)

Colin paused, laughed nervously, and then carried on, ever so calm and eloquent, just as I imagine he would be while reading to me in bed (Sorry).

Jeez, what did I do? Ah yes, I remember. Actually, I wasn’t even looking at those particular men while filming that scene, I don’t think. But honestly, it isn’t really that hard; you can be quite comfortable in your sexuality and still channel what it is like to feel lust for a man, just as a straight man does for a woman.

I think Terry was rather embarrassed. I think she was hoping he’d entertain the sexually repressed, orgy-seeking submissive reporter inside of her.

I parked in front of my building and waited for the interview to end. When it did, Terry announced that the next topic would be Eve Ensler’s new project – she’s the lady who wrote the Vagina Monologues. Terry was on a roll tonight; Colin Firth, the man you want to have library sex with, discussing what he had to think about to get turned on while filming and now… explicit, unapologetic vaginas and vagina love.

My thoughts at this moment could only veer in one direction: that time I acted out a Vagina Monologues character in college. I think I was in my third year when I saw ads in the Campus Center about auditions. I figured I should try it. It was being run by a sorority house, but that did not deter me. I was pretty nervous because I was given a blurb to read about a boring vagina, and while I thought I could do it just fine, I would’ve preferred a happy or funny vagina – not to mention that all the candidates were in the room. Soooo embarrassing. I saw a lot of girls go before me, and most were incredibly dull. I imagined they had come for an adventure, just like me, and now they had totally chickened out. This would not be me. I read my vagina really well. The judging girls liked me and I got a call back that afternoon… except they wanted me to read a different character, and they wanted me to come by the house to talk about it. I went and they basically said, “We know this is probably a little scary, but we think you can do it.”  My new character was a former attorney turned dominatrix who worked exclusively with women. She derived pleasure from watching sexually repressed women come out of their shells. She particularly enjoyed the different ways these women orgasmed and their individual sounds. So appropriately enough, my monologue culminated with my character reenacting about a dozen of these peculiar orgasms. The ‘direction’ I received for these reenactments was written in the script, like: “laughing,” “fast panting,” “oh, ah, oh, ah.” Yeah. The girls coordinating the show were busy with their own shit, so we would only meet again in a couple of weeks, and by then our scripts had to be memorized.

I paced around my dorm room for two days memorizing the 2-3 page script… and then I had to work on convincingly delivering lines such as:

Sometimes I use force

But not violent force, no.

More like dominating,

“I’m gonna take you someplace.

Why don’t you lay back, enjoy the ride” kind of force.

And then, of course, I had to decide on, memorize, and rehearse my twelve different moans. But first of all, I had to not give a shit. In sex, if you’re worried more about how you look than how good it feels, you’ll probably be bad (see, I avoided a pun here by not using “suck.” It took me a long time as an immigrant to understand puns. That’s another story). I knew I needed to pretend I was only doing this for myself.  I chose my costume (pink lacy tank top, black mini skirt, heels, glasses, big hair and a cigarette) and before I knew it, we were waiting behind the curtains for our call.

I walked out to my lone chair in the center of the stage with about a butterfly per cell in my stomach, but I was serious and very into character. I figured she was a really calm but extremely confident woman. And because I had to act that way, I think I started really feeling that way. One third into it I wasn’t nervous anymore. I knew the lines so well, the words flew off my tongue and my only focus was in being that girl. By the time I got to the part where I began to moan, I was so into it (and I could see the positive reactions in a few people’s faces) that I didn’t give two shits. I went for it. If I remember correctly, my final orgasm had me dropping my glasses, shaking my open legs on my chair, screeching, moaning, and curling my toes. On stage. It was ridiculous. I got up to suddenly nervous legs and went backstage so happy, and also so happy it was over.

I did it again the next day. It was awesome.

I was walking Tori while running through these memories in my head, and I realized that I haven’t felt that liberated in a while. It’s a really cool rush you get by being so into an experience while watching other people react to it so enthusiastically.

And then I thought about sex. And Colin Firth. And how perfect was the movie “A Single Man.” And how this evening became one of lost memories thanks to “Fresh Air” with Terry Gross.