Tag Archives: vagina

CAN I TRADE IN MY BOX?

As I approached the end of 2020, my vagina was on the fritz. After attending a swinger party in October, having my guts made into soup, and my body contorted beyond its limit, I needed a break. I was ragged, and my old faithful friend BV had come back for a visit. I took my meds and gave my body time to heal. For Thanksgiving, I had sex with my guy and, once again, my pussy was hell on the equator. It didn’t smell, and there wasn’t any visible discharge; it just felt off, and I knew something was up.

I was tired of going back and forth to the GYN and getting the same results. I’d get BV, treat the BV, then the treatment for BV would cause a yeast infection. A big reason I became an advocate for condoms was to try and control my pH balance, but condoms made no difference over the years. My pussy just wanted to be a headache. For years (even when I wasn’t having sex), she gave me problems. But, as of lately, it seemed to be happening more frequently. Needing to find the culprit, I began experimenting with different condoms, different lubes, and various soaps; nothing made a difference.

After my October visit, I decided to adjust how I cleaned down there. I always had a habit of overcleaning (according to my GYN). I never thought a final pass-over with baby wipes would be a bad thing. But clearly, I was washing away all of my “good bacteria,” and the same went for my aggressive showers. So, I stopped with the baby wipes, and I used less intensity when I cleaned my lady parts in the shower. Wouldn’t you know, when I went back to the GYN in November, my less aggressive cleaning had also backfired on me. I was really beginning to hate my body. 

Not only was there the headache of the discomfort. It had to pay the $50 co-pay to see the GYN and the $30 for prescriptions. Now, multiply that a few times a year. Fixing a broken pussy adds up. I really wanted to trade her in for a new one. But sadly, that’s not how vaginas work. 

Tired of dealing with the headaches, I decided to Force Quit my Pussy, lock her down, and do a total Restart. I made the executive decision to have no sex until all results came back clear. Like most women, I had the habit of going back to having sex once I finished my medication and the symptoms subsided. This time around, I wanted to finish my meds, then go back to make sure EVERYTHING was in the clear before I had sex. I needed to start from square one, and I couldn’t do that if I were fucking all the time. 

Sadly, the same week I decided to lock my pussy down was the same week all my partners called me to link up. I turned down enough partners that I copy and pasted the speech to make it easier on myself. —YES! It’s that good!— I did get push-back from some of my partners, but it was my box and sanity on the line. I had to ignore their desires and focus on my health. My body. My choice.

In January, it had been almost two months since I had sex, but something still felt off. Imagine someone breathing into your pussy; that’s what I was feeling. I went to the GYN and pressed play on the tape recorder that was my vaginal-health-life. The doctor did my exam, and a week later, my results came back negative for everything. SERIOUSLY! WHAT THE FUCK WAS UP WITH MY PUSSY. He concluded that maybe this was my new normal. But, thankfully, a few days later, the pussy-blower disappeared. 

If I’m honest, there is a part of me that dreads what will happen when I return to having sex. And I’m not looking forward to the trials and errors of pleasure. Condoms, no condoms, regular lube, organic lube, coconut oil, it’s all a gamble; and at the end of the day, it’s my body and wallet that has to go through the motions. I just don’t know if I want to go back down that rabbit-hole.

But who am I kidding? I know I enjoy sex too much to stay away from it for too long. However, this time around, it’s essential to listen to my body and pay attention to the signals. If your body keeps responding in a way that waves red flags, it’s necessary to listen and make changes, regardless of how your partners may feel. No one has to live with your discomfort but you, and no one is paying your doctor bills or prescriptions but you. So, put yourself and your health first.­­

2020. WHAT A F*CKING YEAR!

2020 promised to be a year of wonder, money, and new possibilities. Then, sadly corona came and shut all that shit down. But before all the mayhem began, there were a few good times and a few fun posts that I wrote. 

In, Maybe This Hoe Life Isn’t For Me, I questioned if being so sexually free was a good or bad thing. No, I didn’t second-guess my actions because society made me; it was my own fucking body. My vagina, despite all I was doing to keep her well, just kept being a little bitch. It didn’t matter if I was having crazy nasty rough sex or faking a vow of celibacy; my pussy had a mind of her own. Sometimes I wish I could trade her in for a new one, but since the one I have gets rave reviews for smell, taste, and feel (and it’s not physically possible), I’ll continue to work with the one I have. 

            I wrote about my first private squirt explosion in Fucking Up Sheets, and again where I squirted while giving my man head at the last sex party before the world got sick in Clean Up on Floor 34. I dabbled with my first fiction story with Johnson, Richard, Dick, and Bob. And I played with my pandemic fantasies in Social Distancing Fail, Wait a Minute Mr. Postman, and Check. Please.

            2020 was difficult enough, then Amerikkka lost its damn mind. Fueled by the protests against the injustices of black men and women, I took time to stop talking about sex and address what I could not escape. From Dear America, Something Has To Change to Slavery Did A Number on Usand Black Feminist, there was so much anger inside that I had no choice but to let it out in the only way I knew how. I wrote from a place of exhaustion and passion. I hope that one day this country can stop seeing our differences and see one another as merely human beings. Before we are black, white, Spanish, Asian, gay, straight, or trans, we are HUMAN. And hopefully one day, the world and everyone living will treat each other as such. 

            In a few posts, I decided to peel back some layers and welcome you to see the thoughts that plague my mind and heart. In My Bisexuality, I expressed my deep desire to date and be intimate with a female. All of my encounters with women had only been in threesomes or at sex-parties. I longed to know the touch and caress of a woman without the presence of a penis. I long to experience the butterflies, share a kiss, and hold a hand. I don’t know when I’ll get the chance, for 2020 threw a monkey wrench in any possibility of me successfully dating. Hopefully, 2021 will be more kind. 

            With the pandemic shutting down any new dating adventures, I sat pretty with what I had going on. I relied heavily on my prior partners and masturbation. So much so that I injured the arch of my foot in, Damn Sex Injuries, but I enjoyed my first threesome within my poly-partners in Two Men Walk Into A Bar.

            By the end of the summer, lockdown had driven many of us in the swinger community insane. Damn Covid! We wanted to fuck! So, that’s exactly what we did. When I first decided to enter the swinger space it was essential for me to be 100% sober when engaging. I needed to know that every dick I sucked or pussy I ate was because I wanted to. I wrote all about my position in I Make my Bad Decisions Sober. Being locked down for months caused me to throw caution to the wind at the first real pandemic sex party. I gave a foot-job, followed by some head. I even took a dick so big that it made me wonder if my vagina had gotten smaller in Did My Cat ShrinkWhen parties finally got swinging I was able to re-embrace my true exhibitionist nature. I love being watched while I’m fucking, so I wrote all about that in I Always Feel Like Somebody’s Watching Me.  And at the last party, my body was so fucked and contorted that in the end, I wrote, Sex! It’s A Fucking Workout.  

            Towards the end of the year, sadly I became distracted. When my father passed in October, I wrote Thank you. I love you. I will miss you. It was an honest letter, written from the heart, about my father and my estranged relationship. 

Later in October, I put all of my attention towards getting my book out, From Behind The Glitter Curtain: An Erotic Memoir. With almost two years invested, I originally planned to release it over the summer. But, when the pandemic caused everything to shut down, the coffee shops and bookstores that offered me writing peace were no longer an option. Getting back into my writing groove took longer than I expected, but once I got my mojo back, it was full steam ahead. 

            The day before Thanksgiving, From Behind The Glitter Curtain: An Erotic Memoir went live on Amazon. A few days later, it was available on Barnes & Noble, and last week it was finally available on Apple Books. I hope to be rolling out some special items with a purchase of the Hardcover book once the spring season arrives. 

With my book finally done, I’m happy to return to writing my blog. 

Many great things are still to come. In the new year, I hope to finally move, start my podcast, and continue to grow my book’s following. I hope you continue to follow me along my journey in the new year. Happy New Year! And may 2021 be better than 2020.

DID MY CAT SHRINK?

I know the vagina is a beautiful work of art. Sure, it bleeds once a month, but it also brings life into the world. And throughout history, a few wars have been waged to attain it. Its allure can make a man want to get a better job, or it can drive a man to sell his car and remortgage his home. The vagina has undeniable power. And, sadly, I think mine may have shrunk. 

I attended a sex party while I was on my period last year. And since I didn’t want the night to be a total waste, I sucked a few dicks. And one that stood out from the rest. It was chocolate, long, thick, and hard. I hoped that I could one day ride him into the sunset, so I was elated when he asked me for my number before leaving. We kept in touch, on and off. Then, a year later, during a pandemic, we finally made plans to link up.  

He asked me if I wanted to join him and swap with a couple he met last year. I agreed. To be completely honest, I wasn’t 100% enthused about the swap, as he and I had never even had sex. I didn’t want the first time I rode his horse to be at a county fair. None the less, he booked the hotel, picked me up, and we headed to New Jersey.  

When the couple arrived, we started drinking, played a game of strip-adult-charades, then things started. The woman and I began by licking at each other’s nipples; then she went to use the bathroom. When she returned, I was on my knees sucking my date’s dick like the world was ending (because it just might be). The length of his dick presented a challenge I was eager to conquer. With my mouth a slippery mess, my left hand playing with his balls, and my right tugging at his nipples, he almost lost control, and to avoid his orgasm, he pushed me away. The other guy wanted to see what I was working with, so when I returned from rinsing my mouth, I gave him a sample. When it was time to fuck, it was hard for him to keep it up. And my annoyance only increased as I heard the screams and moans from his wife getting pounded out by my date. I was annoyed as fuck!   

Eventually, her man got his head in the game, and it was decent. But I knew what I wanted, waited a year for, and hauled my ass all the way to New Jersey for. My date had stamina, so after her man had his orgasm, I needed to get off. He walked to the bathroom to clean off, and I pulled out my Womanizer. As I watched them in action, I imagined I was her. I moaned and yelled commands to “fuck her harder” and “fuck that pussy.” When I had my orgasm, I let out a moan, and a moment later, he came. We all took a moment to freshen up and find out more about each other, and then it was back to business. I needed to feel him inside of me, and I refused to wait another year.  

I sat on the edge of the bed and took him into my mouth, and instantly he was hard. He played with my clit as I sucked with a mission. When he pushed me back on the bed and slipped on the condom, I was happier than a dentist’s child on Halloween. He pulled me down to him, and he slid into me. His initial entrance felt terrific, then something felt off. The sensation that I used to take like a champion was no longer there. In my fucking years, I definitely fucked dicks longer than his. So, what was it? Every thrust was a mixture of pain and pleasure, but more pain than I usually like. When he bent the girl over to fuck her doggy-style, I envisioned throwing it back and giving him a run for his money. Thank God I’m not a shit talker because I surely wouldn’t have been able to cash that check. I managed to fight through the pain and still throw it back and take the dick, but I couldn’t comprehend what was happening to me.  

When he came, we cleaned up, and we swapped one more time. Luckily, the second time around, the other guy had no problems staying up, and I rode him like a cowgirl in a western movie. I used my low squat form to bounce up and down, then I grounded on my knees to move just the pussy, and finally, I winded him into an orgasm. The final time we fucked, he bent me over, and once again, there was that feeling – What the Fuck! – He wasn’t as painful as my date, but when he switched to missionary, I was very thankful.   

The couple left, my date had to pick up his kids, and I remained in the suite. After I showered, I laid in the bed and wondered- is my vagina shrinking? My first had a seven-inch dick, my 10-year fling had an eight-inch dick, and my last two exes ranged between seven and eight. I took every last one of them all like a fucking champ. So why was I, all of a sudden, wincing at a dicks? I may not fuck donkey dicks as often as I used to, but my partners are not, by any means, small. They all (yes- they) have nice sized dicks, so it made no sense.   

Last week I went to a sex-party with my guy, and we had a blast. I fucked some lengthy Johnson’s and I was ready for more, until the last one. When I was sucking his dick as my man ate me out, I could tell he was big, but I didn’t realize how big. When he put on a condom to fuck me, it was then that I realized I was in for a rude awakening. Not only was he long, but he was rock hard and as amazing as every slow grind felt, each rapid pump felt like a dagger. It was as if I could feel him hitting a rib. I considered telling him to stop, but my fucking pride got the best of me. I used to be able to fuck these like no problem. When he asked if I would do doggy-style, I said, “Hell No!” It started to feel better, and soon as his rhythm became thoroughly enjoyable for me, he came. After him, I was done.   

I wanted no more sex, and I didn’t want to see another dick for the rest of the party. I don’t know if my pussy is shrinking, or it’s just used to what it’s used to. But I’ll continue to push the barrier. The vagina is a muscle after all, so if you work it- it works for you back. 

CHECK PLEASE!

I love oysters. For many years, I stayed far away from them, then overnight, I was addicted. I had my first oyster in the summer of 2019, and I went on a mad dash to find the perfect oyster again. I went to several restaurants and shelled out hundreds of dollars to find the taste that took my oyster virginity. For months I was unlucky, then one afternoon I went to a restaurant near my job. I tried their oysters, and it was as if the world I was living went from black and white to colors. Their daily happy hour $1 oysters and their delicious cocktails had me signing a check that was never less than $60.  

In February of 2020, I wanted to do a mini alcohol detox before my first half-marathon. So, for a month, I stayed far away from the restaurant, its cocktails, and its oysters. I simply didn’t trust myself to go in and not buy a drink, so I stayed away. Then, a week before the race, the event was canceled due to coronavirus. I was pissed! I couldn’t believe that I had deprived myself for almost a month for nothing. A few days later, my office closed, and bye-bye went my access to oysters.   

Unable to order oysters to go, I had to suffer until things started to open up. As the city entered phase three, I looked forward to finally getting my oyster fix, but the options were super limited. Then one afternoon, I decided to dine by myself, have the oysters that I so craved, and was also able to fulfill an unchecked fantasy.   

I sat down, ordered a margarita, and a half-dozen oysters. I took a sip of my margarita as I waited for my oysters to arrive. The margarita was cold, perfectly sweet, and strong, just the way a margarita should be. As the tequila made its way down my throat, I felt the gentleman a few tables over, staring at me. When I turned in his direction, he winked at me. I winked back just to be polite, but when my oysters arrived, my vision became tunneled. A squeeze of lemon, a dash of tabasco, and a drizzle of mignonette sauce, and I was in heaven. Each oyster was a spicy orgasm in my mouth, and I devoured them one after the other. When I was done, my lips tingled from the tabasco, and my longing heart was content.  

As I sipped the rest of my drink, I continued to feel his piercing stare. I glanced over at him, and unlike last time, I didn’t break my line of sight, and neither did he. I sipped my drink as he licked his lips. Maybe it was the tequila or the oysters’ aphrodisiac effect, but I started to get wet. As we stared at each other, I could feel his eyes undressing me. They started at my polished toes, up to my legs, over my breasts, and stopped at my mouth, where my tongue twirled my straw.   

I ordered a second margarita and diverted my eyes for a brief moment. When my second drink came, I downed it much faster than the first. I could’ve continued eye-fucking him, but it was getting late, and I wanted to walk back home. I asked the waiter where the restroom was and went to freshen up for my walk home. As I walked past his table, I could feel his eyes scanning my body like lasers; my nipples grew hard.   

When I entered the restroom, I put some cold water on my face to cool off. I washed my hands, and when I opened the door to leave, he was there, blocking my exit. He smelled of burnt sugar and diesel, and it intoxicated me. He pushed his body up against mine, our bodies entered the bathroom, and he locked the door in a swift motion. In the next moment, his lips and tongue were on my neck, and his hands gripped my ass. He rubbed my clit over my thong, and I got soaking wet. He brought his fingers back up to his nose to sniff and whispered in my ear, “delicious.”   

He licked his fingers, dropped to his knees, and pushed up my dress. He buried his face into my pussy and inhaled deeply several times. He nibbled at my flesh through my underwear, then slowly he pulled them down. He slid his moist fingers in my pussy and began to coax an orgasm out of me. When he placed him juicy lips on my clit, I almost fell over; but he pushed his face deeper into my pussy pinning me against the wall. He licked, sucked, and slurped at my clit, the way I slurped those oysters, and finger fucked me into an orgasm. I rode the multiple waves as I held his head in place. After he drank all my newly released juices, he got off his knees, washed his hands, said, “thank you,” and walked out of the restroom.   

When I gained my composure, I walked to the mirror, and the person looking back at me was unfamiliar. My eyes were glassy, and my face was covered with beads of sweat. What did I just do? I continued to use the bathroom, and I washed my face and hands. By the time I returned to my table, the man was gone. I wanted to pay my bill and get the hell out of dodge. My moans were low when I orgasmed, but there was always a chance that they saw him enter the restroom behind me. I awkwardly signaled for the nearest waiter and said, “Check, Please!” He went into the restaurant only to return to tell me, “the gentleman has paid your bill.” And with that, I gathered my things and started my walk home. 

I MAKE MY BAD DECISIONS SOBER

For as long as I can remember, I never loved the feeling of being drunk. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good margarita with my Mexican, or bottomless mimosas during brunch. But when it comes to getting drunk, it’s just not my thing; I prefer to get nice. Because I don’t get drunk, I can never use the excuse, ‘I was so drunk, I can’t remember’ line. This means I have the unfortunate responsibility of having to playback, in excruciating detail, all the events of a drunken night with friends, or a day of drinking that ended up in a fight.  

Don’t get me wrong, I’m no goody-two-shoes. I’ve thrown up across tables, fell asleep in bathroom stalls, and in many clubs. But, like an elephant, I remember everything that happened leading up to the moment I fall asleep. I can recall the exact sip that put me over the edge. On a drunken birthday, I remember picking up dollars from the floor and handing them to the strippers on stage. I remember waiting on line to use the bathroom, then falling asleep on the toilet. I remember the bathroom attendant looking over the top of the stall to make sure I was alive. And I remember my friends escorting me back to my section and letting me go to sleep. I woke up when the ship docked.  

I used to envy those people that blacked out, for the sole reason of zero accountability. I always saw the ‘too drunk to remember line’ as a cop-out or an excuse to do fucked up shit and get away with it. –” I’m sorry I slept with you best friend; I was drunk.” — I wished that I could fuck up majorly and, like Jamie Foxx, blame it on the alcohol, but I couldn’t. For a while, I envied those people; Then, when I started attending sex parties, I learned to love my ability to remember.   

If you’ve never been to a sex-club or swinger party, they’re always BYOB. To my very first party, I brought a bottle of Bacardi Coconut Rum. I had the bar-lady mix it with pineapple juice, took a few sips, and then scoped out the room. The liquid massage the rum offered my body, was just the right amount of relaxation I wanted and needed. I engaged in some great conversations, ate some pussy, sucked some dick, was in a threesome, and rode a man’s face. And the only reason I remember every detail of that night was because I was sober.   

When I started attending LS (Lifestyle) parties regularly, less and less alcohol was needed. For starters, attending parties with a guaranteed partner removed a lot of pressure. And since I screened my partners before the party, I had an assortment of dicks ready to please me. Secondly, with the right amount of people, the party jumped off rather quickly, and with everyone having a good time, a drink to loosen up wasn’t necessary. That high school dance feeling of, waiting for other couples to dance, did not exist. I was extremely comfortable being one of the first couples to start things off. Lastly, I wanted to be in total control of whatever happened throughout the night. I need to know what titty I’m licking, dick I’m sucking, pussy I’m eating, and whose dick is fucking me. In a room full of bodies and chaos, I need to have control; and I couldn’t have that if I was too far gone. Would I recognize the person a few days later, while walking down the street? –Of course not! But, at that moment, I knew that every decision I made was mine, and that was all that mattered.   

In addition to wanting to have that control, I wanted to be able to remember how it all felt. I wanted to remember the kiss on my partner’s lips when he sees the outfit I changed into. I wanted to remember the feeling of my lingerie against my skin. I wanted to remember the feeling of eyes on me. I wanted to remember my partner kissing me, then laying me down on the mattress, and removing my panties to devour my pussy. I wanted to remember the weight of other bodies on the bed. I wanted to remember the feeling of tangled limbs and hands caressing my legs in the air. I wanted to remember the feeling of my toes and nipples being sucked and licked. I wanted to remember the feeling of a veiny dick in my mouth as my partner devoured my pussy into a screaming orgasm. I wanted to remember the moment he turned me over to fuck me. I wanted to remember the smell of the pussy I bend over to eat and the feeling of her breasts in my hands. I wanted to remember his hands around my throat, restricting my airway as he rammed my pussy and found his orgasm. And, in the end, I wanted to remember him pulling me back to kiss my lips once he reached his orgasm.  

I make all of my bad decisions sober because I want to be in control, and I want to be able to recall the memories of each encounter. I want to remember the feelings of inhibitions lost and lust that enveloped the room. I may forget the names and faces, but that intoxicating feeling will stay with me forever, all because I make my decision sober.