First there was Stephanie, a lover long before I began my gender journey. We had amazing sex in cheap hotels, seedy hotels, cars , fields, a gay cruising spot in the woods where the sight of her moving up and down on my rock hard cock attracted more than passing interest. We even managed it on a platform at Birmingham New Street railway station. Then the passion died and we began a long and loving friendship, spiced up with occasional sex. When I began my transition, she walked with me every step of the way, always ready with advice, support, a shoulder to cry on. I struggle to think how he could have been more loving. And I will love her to the end of my days.
But sex with Steph is now a thing of the past. She engages with me as a woman, relates tom me in every way as a woman, and this means, for her, no sex. She is straight and women just don’t do it for her in that way. So I had to take a knock back from a woman who has never really said no to me , who loves me so much, and yet. This was hard but I know I have to respect her decision, not do the hurt and wounded pride thing ( not so easy when you grew up in male paradigms of sexual entitlement) and then……learn to love her more. And I do and I am finding the most incredible buzz from friendship. I have sublimated my desire for her (which will never go away) into a deeper emotional investment in our friendship. I am turning physical desire into love and love is paying me back unexpectedly, with the most wonderful physical sensations. I don’t know if I could call these orgasms but I feel that I am engaging sexually with her without her needing to engage with me. This is a kind of asymmetrical relationship and it is quite beautiful.
Then there is Zoe, a friend with whom I quickly found a connection. We expressed our feelings very physically too, we hugged, kissed, held hands, declared our love for each other. Then the time came when I had to broach the subject. In a bar after a couple of beers when the conversation had naturally turned to sex and she was telling me about an interesting proposition she had.
“I could seriously do things to him” she said.
“Could you do things to me?” I ventured.
“Sorry Eve. I love you but not that way.” She took my hand in hers, raised it to her mouth and kissed it tenderly.
“You’re not hurt?” she asked.
“No” I said “and I know I will keep on loving you. I will always love you whatever.”
“And I will always love you.”
I kissed her on the lips, kissed her hands, stood up to hug her. I began to cry big warm tears, tears of joy.
Zoe remains one of my closest, most loving friends. We still kiss, we hold hands, once we even sat on her sofa chatting and drinking wine with our legs intertwined. This physical closeness I found difficult at one point but then I decided that the agony of restraint implied by respecting her decision in an adult and loving way , was a gift I could offer up to her. Like Stephanie, her saying no has led to an emotional intensification of our relationship, to the point where I get off on the friendship itself.
I had never really considered the possibility of such asymmetrical, yet loving and nurturing relationships before. And I no longer see them as second best. I began to understood too how the asexual can be located firmly in the middle of the sexual, or how chastity can give sexual kicks. I understand too how my sexuality is so deeply rooted in the core of my being that I can express it ways that don’t actually require the engagement of genitals, either mine or that of other people.
Having said that, there are nights when I take out my vibrator and hold Steph or Zoe before me them before me as I pleasure myself. Some might call this objectification; I call it an act of love. More than that, it is an act of worship. For that is sometimes part of friendship too.
Day nine was the best orgasm so far. and the first one that wasn’t solo.
We sat in a secluded corner of our favourite Indian restaurant, my lover and I. The poppadums were served hot and crisp, the chutneys tangy and the Chardonnay was dry and oaky just as I like it. A sensual feast for the mouth. The onion bhajis were, well,divine.
But there was more in store for him. He moved aside to let me out from behind the table so that I could go to the loo. I turned and beckoned to him to follow me. I pulled him into the cramped cubicle. I lifted my dress, pulled down my knickers and said
He did as he was told.
I sat down on the toilet, bursting for a wee after the wine and beer earlier at the pub. I had been saving it all for him. I took his head, pulled it in close to my crotch and pushed my cock into his eager mouth. I felt myself stiffen slightly but not enough to stop the strong hot flow down my urethra. He sucked and drank and struggled at the quick insistent flow that filled his mouth faster than he could swallow until he started to gag and I withdrew to let the rest flow into the toilet bowl..
He looked up, smiling with happiness, and wiped a drop off his chin. Now I was getting hard.
“After wine, lassi” I said.
He didn’t need to be told what to do. My lover gives me divine pleasure with his mouth. It is soft and warm, and he works me just right, always enough to make me come, never too vigorous on my most sensitive parts. I sat back, leant against the newly tiled wall and moaned louder and louder until I heard the door open.
“Keep going” I ordered in a fierce whisper.
I was hard but not quite ready to come. I took my cock out, quickly masturbated to completion before coming in his lovely mouth in glugs of ecstasy. Whoever had been in, waiting impatiently, had gone so I let out a scream as the orgasm hit me in waves.
Most days I would return the favour. But not today. There was no more time. The main courses were surely about to be served. He had his reward though, tucked greedily into nan breads that were liberally smeared with what the casual observer might have thought was butter.
And I am back there tomorrow with my lady lover, for a spicy dish with lady’s fingers
I sometimes eat out alone. There are times when I want an evening in a restaurant with nice food, a glass or two of wine and I don’t have anyone to go with. So I take a book and my phone, resist any attempt to seat me in an inconspicuous and cramped corner as if I had a nasty disease, and enjoy my time. I don’t usually read or tweet much as I am too busy people watching, thinking, reflecting and gathering material for new stories. I am also enjoying the sensual experience of the food and the wine. I see no reason to forego these pleasures just because I am on my own and my friends are busy. In fact it is an essential part of self care, self love.
It is the same with masturbation. Although I have three and a bit regular sexual partners most of my sex is solo sex. This too is necessary and is good for my state of mind, my sometimes fragile mental health. Tomorrow I begin the month of April with the aim of having an orgasm a day. 30 days, 30 orgasms or as many as I can manage. .
In the masturbation month of April I intend to have solo sex in all the places I might have sex with a partner, in the loos, outdoor, a quickie in my car, at a swingers club, but also of course in bed. Tomorrow I will start off by making it special. I will have a bath, put on some sexy lingerie, apply a little fragrance, retire to my freshly made bed, light a scented candle, put on some mood music, take out my bullet vibrator, some of my favourite porn, and play with myself, slowly, gently, forcing nothing, aware that my anti depressants might make climaxing difficult, but being in the moment, enjoying my body and finding it beautiful. And if I don’t come I will not consider it a failure. I will practice self care. I will love myself.
I will post weekly about my adventures. For the final day I have something special planned but you will have to wait to read about that.
This is my entry for the 2018 Euphoff competition devoted to seriously bad erotic writing, run by the fabulous Other Livvy. This is the worst I could come up with. Check out the other entries here
I have crested many a range, conquered veritable Himalayas of female voluptuousness, scaled the mountains of desire, reaching for bright galaxies of ecstasy even as I plunged into the darkest depths. For it is the depth that I crave, not the heights. I still recall the first blissful night, when I sailed into the vast ocean of delight reached from the narrow bay between her thighs, its coastline thick with the gorse bushes of her pubic hair, warning me off, yet inviting me in. And I grew hard, my manhood swollen with desire and the creamy pulsations rising up from my spheres of sexuality. And I saw that I was glistening, my bell end a bright purple bauble hanging from the stout tree of my gym formed frame. I rose up, a very Mars unhorsed, and came down brutally to plunge my sceptre of masculinity deep, deep into the erotic chasm she had willed open for me in her desire. I drove my manly member into those soft sensual feminine folds, fragrant with female juice, and gasped as the foreskin slipped back and my semi-moist treat stick lapped at the pools of pleasure she had prepared. Our bodies moved in the synchrony of pure physical poetry, of a wonder beyond words.
She opened her beautiful mouth, its full lips rising and falling in hedonistic harmony as she moaned and gasped and said
“Oh Sixtus, just fuck me. I want it hard”
And she rose up and bit my shoulder ran her ombre nails down my back. And I knew the spell was broken by her cheap vulgarity I withdrew with more than a hunt of disgust.
“Sixtus, SIXTUS! Just give it to me now! I’m fucking gagging for it!”
“Oh Annunziata, how could you spoil such a special moment how…how can you deny the pulchritudinous poetry of the coupling, the sweet sonnet of sex, the hexameter of hedonism.”,
“For fuck’s sake Sixtus. Are you going to ram me or not?”
I remained stunned.
“Because if not just take your things and get out. In this corner of Brexitland sex means sex. I didn’t bring you back here for pulchritudinous poetry. I brought you back here for a rough shag.”
Again I said nothing.
She slid down so that my erotic rod of state was by her mouth and took it inside that temple of her vulgarity. And I released my seed into her softness, not to give her pleasure but to cleanse her, before making her whole in an aesthetic of atonement, how I forgave her for spoiling the moment, yet, even as I sought to deny her I calmed the waves, the rushing torrents of sensation. Now I knew I was to be the poet, she the writing tablet, the recipient of my art, marked with my manliness, engraved with the erotic. And I put out to sea a second time, knowing I would never return home.
He took me by surprise. I had just lifted the fruit cake out of the oven and was about to ladle the sponge cake batter into the second tin I had prepared when he came into the kitchen, stood behind me and held my wrist, not roughly but firmly enough to stop me working.
“Sinful Sunday tomorrow” he said. “I’m going to take a pic of you as my cake lady. But before I do…”
He reached under my skirt and pulled down my panties.
After a quick application of margarine from the tub his finger began exploring my cunt.
“Not now” I said half resisting “I am trying to bake.”
“You have baked. How many cakes do we need?”
“Charity bake day at work on Monday” I replied, the upward inflection in my voice betraying my uncertainty of my own arguments as two fingers propped deeply. I was wet.
“The second cake won’t need baking. I have always liked uncooked batter. Did you lick the spoon as a child?”
I gasped as he probed deeper and began to stimulate my clit with his other hand.
“Stop it, I’m trying to work, I’m trying to…”
He worked my clit harder and began to nibble my earlobes.
“Stop it…seriously I need to
He pushed his finger deeper into my wet cunt.
“Actually just fuck me.
I leant forward so that my hair dangled in the wet batter and he lifted up my skirt and I felt him go in. Our kitchen quickies are always hard and rough which is just how I like them and he was soon finished finishing with a hard thrust that nearly pushed my face into a kitchen cabinet. I came with a moan and he stepped back spent and panting, fumbling to move his foreskin back into place. I stood up and felt his come seeping out of me and running down my leg.
“Get on the table”
I took my clothes off and lay on the table. He spooned the rich batter over me, massaging the mixture deliciously around my crotch, then kneading my breasts with sticky cakey hands before standing back admire his handiwork. He washed his hands in the sink then took his phone and took a picture of me, lying there in batter, desperate for more of him.
He showed me the picture he had uploaded onto our blog, with the Sinful Sunday logo beneath it, inviting us to click and see the other sexy pics our fellow bloggers had posted..
Then he stripped, and came down on me licking the batter if my tits, off my stomach before burying his face in my crotch, working me with his greedy tongue. He moved his mouth towards mine and we kissed, the sloppy batter passing between us. .
Then he fucked me again until we were both a mass of batter and sweat and come and pussy juice.
I had a feeling we were going to enjoy showering together. And then I thought how thoughtful it had been of me to bake two cakes.
“I bet the fruit cake will be cold by now won’t it?” he said. “I’ll put the kettle on. I’m dying for a cuppa.”
The mirror cracked. My partner pushed me roughly back onto the chest of drawers which partly collapsed under my weight. I slipped and fell, the large dressing mirror tumbled down behind me and fractured diagonally about two thirds of the way up. I knew that this was a one night stand I would remember.
This has started out as a social drink with a former work colleague. Wetherspoons curry (this was a Thursday night in Wolverhampton) might seem an inauspicious start to a evening of rough sex but the pub, with its sticky floor and uncleared tables became an oddly appropriate place to start the evening.. I don’t remember at what point the conversation turned to sex and we both realised we were horny, fancied each other and just wanted to fuck. We went out for a cigarette and my friend made the move. We kissed, she fumbled with my bra strap, pulling it dwon my arm, lifted my top and began to explore with her hand.
“Not here” I hissed.
“Let’s get a room” she said.
There were two hotels nearby. We went to the nearer one, but left when we were quoted ninety pounds for a double room including the breakfast neither of us would be around to eat. Round the corner, the other hotel oozed seediness. It seemed the sort of place that just might have rooms to let by the hour. A heavy fug of cannabis hung in the air. The man on reception grinned with a kind of “I know what you are here for look”
We took the room. It was dingy, grubby, the sheets were soiled, and we didn’t examine too closely the debris under the bed. But it was so appropriate for what we were here to do. I pulled off her clothes….. pushed her onto the damp bed with its sagging mattress. There I went down on her.
Just over half an hour later, flushed and sated, unwashed, (the shower looked rather uninviting) we walked out past the unshaven man who grinned again as we handed him the key. I felt his gaze follow us as we walked out. We shared a cigarette, and after a peck on the cheek, went our separate ways. .
I have only seen her once since, for lunch, this time without hot sex. But I am not disappointed about this. After that spur of the moment quickie, there would almost be nowhere to go in terms of friendship. But I have such found memories of that evening It is as if the seediness of our surroundings enhanced the experience. Discomfort and no distractions turned us in to focus on each other’s pleasure.
I arrived home smelling of sex. In my exhilaration I didn’t shower before bed. I wanted my bed to smell of her, even my warm cosy bed that she would never see.
And back in the room a cracked mirror swayed drunkenly from a collapsing chest of drawers, reflecting a bed, sheets wet with pussy juice and stained with the fat from the pork scratchings we had eaten off each other. It was that kind of night. .