Fist Me Baby, One More Time.

That's me the other night while Jeff was fisting me. I mean, okay, that's not really me; I'm a white girl and I have bigger tits, but that's exactly the way I react when four, then five fingers and then a fist are inserted into my girlhole: Back arched, hips pushed up, knees spread to take as much as I can.

First time. For him, not me.

He seemed a little shocked that his entire hand was inside me and then I rubbed my clit and came and it was crazygood, and when it got too much I whispered, "Baby, have you ever taken your fist out of a girl?"

He shook his head.

"Do it really, really slowly."

Roundups & Reflections

This week's Friday Sex Blog Roundup features some hot bloggers reminiscing about the past. Which got me thinking about The Year of yOur Lord, 2008.

I'm not normally a Best Of... kind of girl, but occasionally, especially since I'm so self-actualized (Thanks, therapy!), I wax nostalgic. Things you can learn from your past, and all that.

So.

You know the feeling you get when you can't remember when you spoke with someone last, and you're kind of okay with it? And you realize that, well, maybe you don't miss them quite as much as you always thought you might?

I've had a few of those this year.

It's sort of like the relationship that ended even though--or maybe because--you needed the other person like oxygen--like air. The aching and longing, the torturous suffering and heart-rending seems to last forever until you realize, one day, that you haven't thought about him at all. And you feel a little stronger for it.

The latter is pretty self-affirming. It's a Gloria Gaynor kind of feeling. A dance-around-the-house-pumping-fists kind of feeling. An I don't need you, check my shit out, I Am Sasha Fierce, Bitch kind of feeling. The former just leaves you hollow and sad, wishing you cared more than you do, and sort of ambivalent about picking up the phone because, hey, you've made it this many days/weeks/months without involving yourselves in each others lives, and things are mostly fine.

And dealing just takes so much effort.

You live your life, because that's what people do. And eventually, when a boy holds back telling you that he loves you--and you actually want him to say it, and would probably return the sentiment even though it freaks your shit out--you understand that the person you thought you needed like air would have likely suffocated you in the end.

I wish you all a Happy New Year. May all your wishes become horses. Do the work if you wanna ride.