Today. While Jerking Off.

It's one of the most common questions asked of me: What do you think of when you're masturbating?

Generally, the answer is "Nothing."

I don't fantasize about a particular person or persons, boyfriend or celebrity. Mostly I focus on myself. It may seem narcissistic, but I prefer to think of it as practical: The more I can relax and hone in on my orgasm, the better/stronger/more raucous it will be. That's why today's wank session was so unusual.

For some reason, which may never become clear to me, in the middle of my bed, silver bullet on my clit and Orchid G on my G-spot, this thought became lodged in my brain:

I wonder if Ma and Pa Ingalls ever decided to slick things up a bit and bring the crock of lard into the bedroom.

I am not proud of this revelation, but at least now you're thinking about Charles pumping his rod into Caroline's ass under that huge nightgown, too.

I love you!

*ducks*

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.

Speaking of Pussy...

Last night I went to an office holiday party with a friend. It's a small office, a personal training facility, actually, and the party was at this bar I'd never been to.

Cool. So I take off my coat, get introduced to the "big boss" (who's like, 23 years old), shake his hand and compliment him on his choice of venue.

"I've actually never been here before, so this is great," I said, in a friendly, outgoing way.

His response: "Yeah, it's usually a much younger crowd in here, so that's not surprising."

Um.

What?

The dude totally insulted me and the best bit was, he didn't even know it.

He was nicer to me later, when I was talking to his septuagenarian employee, Dick. Dick, who stood well over six feet. Dick, with his boiled wool striped Santa Fe vest. Dick, whose lank body leaned in toward mine while we talked, his kind eyes shining like a boy's. Dick, who was pretty taken with me, and with whom, truth be told, I was pretty taken.

It's nice being appreciated for your wits and your tits.

Boss Boy came up to Dick and me and tried to get in on our conversation, but his remarks were flat. Dumb. Inexperienced. Green, and not in the Ed Begley, Jr. way.

When I encounter boys like Boss Boy, I'm always relieved that I don't have to teach them about how to treat a girl. His stupid remark might have taken me by surprise, but it offered me an insight into his insensitivity and self-centeredness: He probably has no idea where to find a G-spot, and he probably has never made his girlfriend come by licking her pussy.

Speaking of pussy, here's my latest Sex Blog Roundup, courtesy of Fleshbot.

If.

A couple weeks ago I had a phone conversation with Aaron, my Californian Friend-in-Fornication (That's so much nicer than Fuckbuddy, don't you think?). He'd told me about a girl he was seeing, and I asked about their date the night before. He told me all about her: she's smart, funny, enthusiastic with the blowjobs and a tad clingy. I understood immediately. I know that type.

I also know this: I can't tell Aaron about anyone I'm seeing, or he'll get jealous. We both know this, and I've gotten accustomed to not bringing up sex I've had with other people. It's not like I see him more than a couple times a year anyway, so why bother with/worry about all that? We've known each other forever. I've had sex with him now for more years than I was married, but I can count the number of movies we've seen together on two fingers. Our relationship pretty much defines the "It's Complicated" status on Facebook.

But I started to wonder, what would happen to that relationship if he got serious and exclusive with someone? What would happen if I did? It seems wrong that we would just not ever see each other again.

So I, in a premenstrual funk and against my better judgment, started that conversation.

In the midst of my mediating arguments between kids, taking special requests for dinner, and removing a splinter from the foot of an eight-year-old, I asked what might happen if we found ourselves in that solution.

And somewhat to my surprise, he came up with a great solution: If either of us decides to be monogamous, we'll have a last fling in Vegas.

Nice, right?

He said this: He doesn't see himself becoming exclusive with anyone, any time soon (me, neither, except I find myself thinking about that more and more); he thinks I'm hilarious and fucking smart and we have incredible sexual chemistry.

I don't see a future with him, seriously, but I'm not comfortable with the idea of just tossing him aside like yesterday's crossword.

I am not comfortable tossing people aside.

Which is why, last week, I got a little freaked out when my friend (with whom I have not had sex) Luke put his arms around me and said, "I like you a lot."

And I like him. But I don't think I like him "a lot." So now what?

There are people I like a lot, but here I go, getting emotional and forgetting to live in the moment. Thinking about what ifs.

I like my life just fine, at present, but I think I could enjoy it a whole lot more.

And, you know, I've never been to Vegas.