Tag Archives: sex

Use It or Lose It

On one of my recent semi-successful (or at least pleasant) OKCupid escapades, I wound up having a rather frank conversation about sex. We were comparing notes on dates that we’d enjoyed and those that were nightmares. One of his horror stories involved a woman in her 50s. Evidently they were having a wonderful time and, as often happens, one thing led to another which led to…bed. The woman hadn’t had sex in seven years (?!!?) and, given the outcome of their coupling, probably won’t be having sex again. Ever. The date went from the bedroom to the emergency room. Apparently that “vaginal tearing” you hear about can get pretty bloody messy. His advice to me? “Stick anything up there, a carrot, anything!” To, you know, keep it more or less, uh, elastic. I nodded in agreement.

You may have read my post a year ago about “finally” having sex: “Like Riding a Bike.” Fortunately I didn’t wind up in the med tent (Burning Man’s emergency room) and though I was worried about lubrication, everything went smoothly. Well, after another full year (?!!?) without any “action” I managed to get laid again. Twice. The guy’s an old friend — and an old fuck — someone I’d slept with a few times before. Bless his heart, he had continued propositioning me throughout my four-year “relationship” and even after. I finally caved. Though it was only a couple rolls in the hay, compared with last summer’s five (but who’s counting?), I had the same concerns.

The first time was, well, pretty much a bit of the old in/out, to quote A Clockwork Orange. But the second was an extended afternoon delight. The fact that the guy is well-endowed only exacerbated my worries. But again, I came through (though didn’t actually come) unscathed. No bloody sheets and no need for medical attention. It wasn’t exactly the, erm, juiciest fuck I’d ever experienced but I’m guessing that may have actually enhanced his enjoyment.

In any case, the fact that I really haven’t been “using it” much has not — not yet, at least — resulted in my “losing it.” I will credit my still-stretchy status to the fact that I continue to enjoy masturbating and often do so with the assistance of my favorite vibrator, Lelo’s “Mona.” (I can’t say enough lovely things about this product and sure wish I could link to my review of it on Carnal Nation, but alas, the site no longer includes anything I contributed.) It is, quite frankly, far more fun than a carrot. And will hopefully continue to keep me tear-free until the real thing “comes” along. Heh.

Still Scared Sexless?

Still riffing off the whole “alone, lonely, single, etc.” stuff…

I’ve been thinking a lot about how negative I am on dates. Why the hell am I going out with men only to turn my nose up at them the second I sit down? I know before I meet these guys that there isn’t any attraction. (At least in most instances.) Why am I harboring hope? Do I think there will be some magical spell cast as soon as we shake hands? That while their looks haven’t swayed my mind (or heart), their pheromones might influence my libido? Am I putting up walls? Preventing myself from liking them? Or even being attracted to them? Or are they just sad-sack old men who I couldn’t force myself to fuck, thereby condemning myself to eternal fuck-less-ness?

I haven’t felt inspired (which is a euphemism for turned on) by a man in ages. I test myself as I go about my day — riding the subway or walking down the street. Could I kiss that guy? Fuck that one? Hold hands, even? And I haven’t had much luck answering Yes. Have my loins simply become incapable of being stirred? In other words, is it more about me than the collective “they” that I’ve been dating?

And so I ask myself Am I afraid of having sex with someone new? Afraid that no one will find me desirable once I’ve taken off my clothes? Or is it even simpler? Am I afraid of loving someone again, since the last time was so disastrous? I want to believe I’m not scared. I want to believe it’s all possible. And just around the corner. Can I still be scared sexless? Shit. I sure as hell hope not.

(New readers may want to read one of my old posts, written back when I wasn’t quite so happy: Scared Sexless.)

No Cunty for Old Men

Okay, sorry, but OMG! That title just popped into my addled brain! I crack myself up! Now, on to your irregularly scheduled bloggage:

I’ve been trying to become attracted to older men. Trying to envision myself having sex with guys who have grey hair. Or a paunch. Everywhere I go I look around and attempt to imagine a scenario in which I might be successfully seduced by…that guy, over there, with the pleated trousers and receding hairline…or that man, across the way, with the stained tie and frown lines as deep as the Grand Canyon. Or maybe that man in the coffee shop, who looks like his life was over a decade ago. No? No.

I saw a man on the subway who was handsome in a rugged, carpenter sort of way; he had great hands. I could’ve caressed his face, even though most of the youth had been drained from it. And a few days ago a lanky, grey-haired guy walked into the bar and I felt that “zing” you hear tell about. Sadly he wasn’t as moved by me. In fact, I don’t think I even registered on his radar at all. He may have been my age but I’d bet his girlfriend isn’t.

There’s this guy in my extended social circle. Let’s call him Bongo. For some inexplicable reason I hate him. HATE him. He’s about my age, short, somewhat round with lots of white hair. He’s a seriously happy person, always smiling manically. He looks sort of like a garden gnome. I’ve never actually had a conversation with him so I don’t have any rational reason for my hatred. He appears in party photos bare-chested and sweaty and it makes me cringe. I think, “Look at this old man, hanging out with the hot chicks and pretending he’s still in his 20s.” And then I think, “Hmm, I’m sure people say the same thing about me.” Shit.

It didn’t take too much introspection to realize that my hatred of this man — and all saggy older men — is merely self-hatred. I hate that I’m getting old. Older. Er, too old. Or whatever. I hate hate hate it. It doesn’t matter how I look. It doesn’t matter how I feel. When I click 1959 as my year of birth, I’m automatically categorized as a senior citizen. The dating site logarithms match me up with men who look like accounting professors. If I were to actually show up on their doorsteps I’m sure I’d induce coronary arrest!

It was bad enough back in the 80s when the media said a woman over 30 had as much chance of getting married as being struck by lightning. Now my chances of finding romance are somewhere around being struck by lightning, like, a dozen fucking times. I’m sure I’ve said it before but any guy over 50 who has all his hair and can see his cock without the use of a full-length mirror believes he deserves a younger woman. Way younger. Which leaves me at — yes — no cunty for old men. And no cock for cunty. Boo fucking hoo.

“More” Sex at “Bare”

Last night I was on the bill for “Bare: True Stories of Sex, Desire and Romance.” The theme for this, the second installment, was “More.” I shared the stage with “Dirty” Diana Adams, Mike AmatoKelli Dunham. and the evening’s host, Jefferson. The sumptuous, two-story space, Union Hall, felt like someone’s mansion, with fireplaces, portraits on the walls and two bocci courts. Apparently Park Slope is not only popular but easily accessible, because the club was full and our event was well attended.

The show opened with musical guests Eden & John’s East River String Band. I was slated to go last so, after I’d slugged back a few Coronas, I headed to the restroom while our host was about to intro the third presenter. Good thing I piss quickly ’cause when I came back, he was introducing me!

I scrambled onto the stage and breathlessly divulged my drunken, dirty tale of DPW sex, circa 2006. I did it in a somewhat rambling, babbling style, which was intentional, but I think I just came off sounding nervous. I kinda was nervous; the place was packed with people, many of whom were friends. I’m usually looking out at a roomful of mostly strangers. Of course, these friends had probably already heard my filthy stories! And the many times I’d told them were my only real preparations; I didn’t want to sound rehearsed.

All the story tellers, including the one chosen at random out of the “Bare Pussy,” were humorous. Diana talked about her idyllic months in a four person poly relationship. Mike shared his enthusiasm for Jewish women and ample derrieres. My “more” was how many people I’d fucked “on the job.” The randomly selected speaker told of an erotic encounter in a 42nd Street porn theatre. And Kelli detailed “taking it like a man” when she wound up having a three-way with boys she thought were girls. Ah, sex in the 21st century!

It was a great night: an impressive venue, a crowded room and entertaining presenters. There was even a raffle for a vibrator, courtesy of Babeland, and my friend Mary won! I’m always flattered when I’m invited to be a part of someone’s event. Our night was a success and I wish Jefferson many more. Keep an eye on his site for next month’s!

Like Riding a Bike

When I disappeared into the desert, I was determined to have sex again. It had been so long I was worried I wouldn’t remember how. I was also concerned about the whole “use it or lose it” thing, afraid that, er, lubrication would be a problem, as my gynecologist had warned me it might. In the end, it wound up being close to a year and a half, the longest I’ve gone without getting laid since I began keeping track. Decades, in other words. I don’t know how I made it those many months with my sanity intact.

So yeah. I finally got laid.

There was a guy — another DPW guy (hey, that’s all there is out there!) — who I’d been kinda flirting with. It had been ages since I’d needed to “work” at sex so I wasn’t even sure that I was flirting. It would be more accurate to say I was enjoying this guy’s company. And he seemed to be enjoying mine. I’d noticed him when he initially arrived in town; he was tall and attractive, in that outdoorsy sort of way that you rarely see in NYC.

Over the weeks of the pre-event build we engaged in witty banter and word play. Then, on the Sunday night the Gate opened and after a long evening of drinking a bunch of us wound up at the Ghetto. Er, Doomtown. I got up the courage — yes, liquid, I know — to say to him, “So, I don’t like hearing no, but do ya wanna make out?” He said, “Sure!” and we scrambled up the stairs to the fancy deck overlooking Black Rock City, a romantic vantage point, even if we weren’t actually looking at it. We made out on the couch like a couple of teenagers for a not-very-long time before I invited him back to my trailer. I’m sure I probably said something along the lines of, “Wanna go have sex?” We stumbled the short distance between Doomtown and Commissary Camp, climbed into my box and ripped off our clothes. I can’t quite recall who ripped what off of whom, but the job got done.

The sex was athletic and energetic. I got spun around like a baton! And all the metal signs I had shimmied into my windows to keep out the sun wound up rattling and falling. We both laughed a lot and he expressed plenty of enthusiasm. One of his best lines, blurted while he was between my legs, I believe, was, “Wow I have missed this!” Which led me to believe that it had been a while since his last lay as well. It was fun.

I woke up to a morning wood quickie, he got back into his Carharts, and we both went about our day, a bleary-eyed Monday and the first day of Burning Man. I don’t quite recall when I saw him next but when I did, I said something like, “That was fun. If the timing works out, I’d be up for doing it again.” He agreed.

The timing worked out just over a week later, the night of the last Ghetto party. I’d had a long day of rolling around nudging loiterers to leave, enjoying a few beers along the way. By the time the party happened, I was pretty happy. I was equally pleased when, if I recall correctly, he seemed into it. I can’t remember who had the perverse idea of leaving the party for a quickie and then coming back.

We stumbled in the direction of my trailer and managed to get about half undressed. It was a frenzied fuck, more hilarity than horny. I think. It’s all a little blurry. This time it was me slipping back into the Carharts and we bumbled back to Doomtown. I was pleased to be sportin’ a “freshly fucked” look; my hair was a total mess. But he disappeared shortly thereafter, which struck me as a little weird but whatever. I danced late into the night and went home alone.

The next day, a bunch of us were hangin’ out after work, having a few beers, and I took the opportunity to ask him, “So, are you socially inept or just an asshole?” Without missing a beat — or sounding surprised — he answered, “Probably both. Why?” I told him that our mid-party interlude felt sorta like hooker sex, that without any kissing at all maybe he should’ve left me $250 on my nightstand. “Yeah, my ex-wife complained about that too,” he admitted, somewhat sheepishly. “Well, you might wanna work on that,” I told him.

Social ineptitude or assholery notwithstanding, we continued our flirtations over the two weeks until Line Sweeps. One evening in the Saloon he informed me that he was going home to bed. “Are you telling me this just to let me know or would you like me to join you?” I asked him. “Both,” he replied. We walked back to my trailer together and tried to watch a movie before passing out. We had sex in the morning – cute, cuddly sex — but still, no kissing.

Another week went by and it was Mutiny, a long day of drinking and debauchery. Still somewhat shy, I could sense him sort of orbiting around me and there were a few moments of semi-PDA. Long after the sun had gone down I somehow wound up as the sober-est driver, transporting a truckload of crew from Frog Pond back into town. I don’t know how we managed but there was an impressive session of exhausted intercourse. Yet, once more, no making out.

Back in Reality Camp, he stayed with me a few nights but nothing more happened. We slept in separate beds. After expressing an ambivalence about dogs he was really great with the puppy. And he continued to say lovely things. Aside from the fact that we were going to be living on opposite coasts, in the end, the lack of romance — specifically any kissing, at all — was a deal breaker for me. It was one thing to do most of the “work,” meaning making the first moves. Even without his ever being the aggressor it was evident that he was interested. But I really, really enjoy making out. So without that, I couldn’t see the point. The few  times we fucked were most definitely fun and it was awesome to get back into the saddle, so to speak. It was like ridin’ a bike. At this point I’m just looking forward to my next opportunity!

Editor’s note (actually, writer’s note): My apologies to this particular gentleman if his feelings are hurt or whatever. He knows how I felt cause I told him, a few times. It’s up to him to either change his anti-kissing ways or, better yet, I suppose, find a woman who shares his aversion. Best of luck to both of us!

Open for Business. WIDE Open!

TMI ALERT! Personal medical blah-di-blah below, so beware!

I’m a little achy today. My breasts are tender and my pussy is sore. But not for the reasons you’d suspect. Nope, I didn’t get lucky last night. Yesterday I had three different medical procedures and they all involved much poking and prodding.

The first was with the gynecologist to follow up an abnormal pap test. The doctor has been monitoring my HPV, another fabulous parting gift courtesy of the ex-boyfriend. She took a peek inside me with a microscope. Nothing too scary! Hah! But seriously, there’s no “cure” for HPV; often it just spontaneously disappears. Mine has been hangin’ around for a while now, longer than is healthy, and the virus can lead to cervical cancer. So she keeps on inspecting my cells. Thus far, they’re behaving.

From that scrape-n-scrutinize I trotted a few blocks west for my (slightly less than annual) mammogram. The nurse had to re-do two of the four “shots” due to folds in my breast-flesh. Ouch! That uncomfortable compression session was followed by a “trans-vaginal sonogram” to check  out my (thankfully) shrinking uterine fibroids. This procedure was conducted by a sadistic Eastern European Svetlana who crammed her sound wave picture-taking pokey thingamajig into every corner and crevice of my cunt. It wasn’t a very pleasant sensation, though I did try and tell myself it could just as easily be a penis as that magical medical wand.

Which leads me to my latest state of mind. (Perhaps I should call it my State of the Snatch!) I’ve decided that I’m gonna have sex. Loads of it. With whoever will have me. Yup, I’m gonna whore it up, really get back to my roots — my dirty, slutty roots. I’m gonna get shitfaced and suck cock. I’m gonna get black-out drunk and make out with whoever is handy. I’ve been feeling sorry for myself long enough. It’s time to get back onto that damn horse and ride it till it’s dripping with sweat.

That said, I’ve gotta arm myself with a big ol’ tub of lube and plenty of condoms, so I can protect my prospective partners from the HPV. If you think you’re in line for a piece of me, consider yourself warned! The rest of you, stay tuned!

Feeling Strong, Now!

Okay, so I’m feeling a little bit better today…the fact that my Mac crashed and cost me a cool $450 (that I totally cannot afford) to fix might have factored into my funk. Thank yous to The Poet, E and Ironman for their kind words. My editor of the “published piece” has advised me not to directly address reader responses. I couldn’t help myself. So from a more positive perspective, I’d like to address some of those insensitive comments here:

bah, she’s the same age as my mom.

Oh. So does that mean that because you can’t imagine your mom having (or enjoying) sex that all women your mom’s age shouldn’t?

Anyone who refers to themselves as “legend”, in or out of print, is anything but a legend.

Uh, I didn’t refer to myself as a legend. It was a comment from a friend who I was quoting. Agreed, a bit self-congratulatory.

WOW! I know who this writer is. She is a drugged up self absorbed Burning Man type.

Yes, yes, she most certainly is! Okay, I’m not completely and totally self-absorbed. And not perpetually drugged-up. Burning Man type? Most definitely.

why is a 52 year old living in the east village? I live in the east village and feel like I’m old enough to be the parent of most of the kids I see walking around. Dude, I’m still in my 20s. Note to writer. Move to UES, and buy a couple cats.

Let’s see. How many things are wrong with this comment? Is there an age limit for living in the East Village? I see plenty of ancient folks pushing their walkers around here. Clearly the commenter can’t afford to live here, which is why I live here. I wouldn’t live on the Upper East Side if it were free! Idiot. But you’re still in your 20s, so perhaps that’s a given…

OMG.. I’m not even sure what I want my sex life to be like when I’m 52. I would rather just be super super super rich and not have one. 

Well, having a sex life is certainly preferable to not having one. And you can’t blame anyone for wanting one! If you’d rather be “super super super rich,” good luck to you! It’s easier for a 52-year-old to get laid than to magically become “super super super rich.”

I know we’re always being told to applaud the older set for trying to be sexual, it’s just kind of gross.

Well, I hope that when you reach 50, your sex life is zilch, zero, zip, nada! Cause that would be, ya know, gross. Karma is a bitch!

And lastly, one comment came from a fellow blogger:
interesting. single and 52 has more masturbating and sexual experimentation than single and 25. i can’t tell whether i’m worried, amused, sympathetic or vaguely grossed out.

I gave her a comment on her blog:
I hope things work out between you and your new boyfriend. If they don’t, you may find yourself single…perhaps even at 52.
I would never have imagined I’d be single and 52, I’ll tell you that! I’ve had a number of boyfriends and was married for a long time but, well, life happens. I sure as hell have had a fucking wild ride (both literally and figuratively) and wouldn’t change a thing.
The fact that you’d feel ANY of those things at the mere thought of a 52-year-old experimenting sexually just points to your young age and relative inexperience. Most “olds” are stuck in miserable sexless marriages. No one knows what the future will bring. You might want to be careful about what you make fun of. Cause 25 years from now, you could be ME! Bwahahahah!

Honestly, the more I look at these immature responses the better I feel. I’m sure I would’ve been disgusted by horny 50-year-olds when I was in my 20s but I would’ve been a bit more sensitive if I’d been addressing their sex lives. Or lack thereof. Ideally, I’ll have a whole new story to tell by the time I get back from the playa!