Heartbreak Nymphomania » kinda sorta awk

10 reasons why I shouldn’t have had sex, but did anyway

Wilhelmina Wang — Tue, 21 Jun 2011 19:40:00 +0000

As a preface, I just want to say that I expect you to realize that, obviously, I’m not trying to say that (promiscuous) sex is inherently “bad.” You can have sex for good reasons and bad reasons; you can have sex safely, or you can do it in ways that hurt yourself and others. I also want to say that this post isn’t meant as a guide of sorts – though if you do come away with some new insights, then great. Basically, though, it’s exactly what the title indicates it is. You guys probably have lists of your own. Or maybe you don’t have a list at all!

If this blog is “about” anything (besides sexuality, that is), it’s about my vulnerabilities. I’ve written extensively about happy-sex; so now here are some of the more unpleasant reasons why I’ve had sex.

Because I was in love with the other person. – And I either thought sex would help make them fall in love with me (worst idea ever)¹, or that it would help forge a romantic relationship (sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t) or because the other person didn’t love me back, but I wanted to get as close to them as possible. And if a close friendship + fuck buddies was “as close as I could get”, well…
Because I wanted to become friends with someone, or because I thought they were interesting and I wanted to get to know them better. – This has actually worked a few times, I’m became friends with a handful of my friends after hooking up with them first. At one point, I was more confident with flirting and with my sexuality than I was with simply approaching someone and trying to strike up a conversation with them. Sex came to me more easily so I… used it as an “icebreaker”.² Not to say that I wasn’t attracted to those people – I was, in a way – but I probably would have preferred keeping things platonic. I don’t think my social skills have really improved all that much, but I am at least making a conscious effort to not shove things into a sexual context just because it’s the easiest thing to do.
Because I liked that people knew me as “that freaky sexual guru who slept with everyone.” - This was only true at my fraternity. Until that point in my life I had only ever been known as “that creepy, awkward girl who doesn’t talk to anyone” or “that nerdy pushover who will help me with my homework if I annoy her enough.” Being known as “that promiscuous kinkster” was… a nice change of pace. Through osmosis, I sort of subconsciously believed that having a lot of sex is “cool” – at least cooler than being a big ol’ nerd – which I consciously think is just silly, because no type of sexual behavior makes you “better” or “cooler”, it’s simply a matter of preference. Eventually, being known for being promiscuous/sexual was just as irritating as being known for the other two things. All three of them are true – they are parts of who I am – but considered by themselves, they are all incredibly one-dimensional. It’s like people saw me as a parody or a caricature of myself.
Because I missed one of my other lovers. - This happened a couple of times – the first time, I was fucking person X but thinking about person Y and missed them so much that I burst into tears, and then hurriedly left. Obviously, person X was very worried about me the next day. The second time, I was fucking person X but imagining person Y in their place and felt so guilty about it that I – that’s right – left. Do I even need to explain why this was terribly unfair to everyone involved?
Because I was lonely. - I think everyone has done this at some point.
Because I was horny and the other person was “just there.” - See above.
Because I was attracted to person X, but person X would only have sex with me as a two-for-one deal with person Y. - This only happened to me once, with two guy friends who I was on a foreign trip with. I was horribly attracted to person X, but was not attracted to person Y, like… at all. But they only seemed interested in having sex with me if they could sandwich me. It wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t unpleasant per se, just… strange.
Because I was feeling insecure and needed a self-esteem boost; I needed to feel “valuable.” - The control; knowing that someone’s attention is riveted on you at least for a few minutes… However, after it’s over I was more or less back to square one, and it didn’t solve the underlying problem that I, well, had low self-esteem. Seeking validation through sex… just… no.
Because I couldn’t be bothered to say that I wasn’t really all that into it.
Because I thought that once I started touching the other person’s genitals, I had entered into some sort of binding contract that meant I had to then have oral/penetrative sex with them. - I have no idea why I thought this for so long. I was never even coerced/persuaded by any of my partners, I just… believed it. It seems so ridiculous now. As to how/why I realized that it wasn’t true – I have no idea about that, either. It just hit me one day – while I was making out with someone and knowing that I didn’t want to do anything besides just make out – that wow, I don’t actually have to do anything that I don’t really feel like doing!

I say this because you can’t “make” anyone fall in love with you – either they will or they won’t. The most you can do is spend time with them and then let them know you’re interested. The focus isn’t on the sex itself, here, I think trying to make someone fall in love with you in any way is doomed to fail. It’s also kind of disrespectful, to say the least.
While typing this I’m aware of how messed up that sounds but… well, it’s the truth.

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Gift

Wilhelmina Wang — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 17:45:36 +0000

To avoid confusion, I’m adding a new category called “in retrospect” in order to differentiate posts where I’m talking about something that happened in the past, as opposed to posts where I’m talking about things that are currently happening. This post looks pretty weird juxtaposed with my last one, but what can you do? In this case, I’m talking about my summer in LA and another night with the Optimist. I suppose I will always be a hoarder of memories…

I wish I had dated this when I wrote it, but think circa. August 2009…

—

via ...and Death Smiled

If you’ve been following my tweets at all, you’d have read about me gushing over a guy I used to call Fetlife Guy #3, who I now call the Optimist. As his name(s) suggests, I met him through Fetlife, and he is a very positive person

I haven’t known him for very long, but my time with him has been nothing short of wonderful. This is the first time in a while that I’ve met someone who is just as smitten with/infatuated with/interested in me as I am with them, and who treats me in ways I like to be treated. This probably sounds really dramatic, but he has been a ray of hope in the pit of college douchebags I’ve been dolefully scrabbling in until now. Knowing that it’s possible to meet someone who likes me just as much as I like them, who reciprocates my feelings, and who wants the same kind of relationship and closeness that I want, is very encouraging, because I had begun to doubt whether it was even possible.

Of course, as it always happens when I meet someone awesome, I am leaving in a week, which sorta sucks.

—

We were chatting online on the evening of Labor Day when he impulsively asked me to come over. We both had work the next day, and he had to drive for about an hour across the city to pick me up, so I had my doubts about whether or not it was a good idea. But he really wanted to see me.

“I know I’m asking a lot for you to come over now, but I’ll do anything you want,” he said.

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

How could I say no to that?

A couple of hours later found us making out in his apartment on his bed.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he told me. “I still want to try dominating you, but tonight is all yours.”

We kissed some more as I tried to figure out what I wanted to do with him. Eventually I thought of something – I’ve said many times how I wished I had a significant other at home who would welcome me nicely when I came home from work, and offer to give me a footrub, backrub, that kind of thing.

“You know, you never really finished giving me that foot massage last night,” I said.

“Is that what you want?”

“Can you do that?”

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head, lying underneath me as I straddled him. “You’re telling me, not asking me. Tell me what you want.”

I told him. “I want you to give me a foot massage.” And I laughed at him. “You know, it’s pretty funny, you telling me to tell you…”

I laid back, propping myself on the pillows as he went to work. I closed my eyes. It felt lovely. He seemed to be getting into it – running his lips over my toes.

And then I ran into a problem.

I wanted to ask him to do something. I have very sensitive feet. So sensitive, in fact, that Christopher had sucked on my toes a couple of times, and each time, the sensations blew me away.

So I wanted to ask the Optimist to do that. But the words got stuck in my throat. He continued to rub my feet, and I rolled the words around in my mouth, wanting so much to say them. I must have had a funny look on my face, because eventually he noticed and asked me what the matter was.

“Do you… think you could use your mouth a bit more?” I asked bashfully. He did – kissing and licking my feet, putting my toes in his mouth. My eyes closed in pleasure.

After a while of that, I asked him to stop.

“Take off your clothes.” I said. He gave me a little striptease, pulling off his T-shirt, shimmying out of his jeans and finally removing his boxers, twirling them above his head before throwing them to the other side of the room.

His little show made me laugh, and I gestured for him to come into my lap.

We kissed again, and I scratched over his back, marking up his skin. And then I asked him if he had any flat, hard implements lying around.

He didn’t. Oh well. I’d have to make do with my hand.

I positioned him across my lap and told him to straighten out his legs. I felt up his ass and the backs of his thighs for a while. And then I started spanking him.

It was so much more intimate like this, with him across my lap. I experimented more this time – slapping his thighs, each cheek, both, varying my pace, asking myself what would happen if I did this? Or that?

It felt good to spank him; to hear him ask breathlessly “are you enjoying this?” and to respond “yes” in a voice husky with pleasure; to check if he was OK and to realize that he was so incoherent that he could barely even answer me. Finally, I had him count off the last few spanks up to 5.

When I heard his voice, I regretted not asking him to do that from the very beginning…

“Five.” I finished spanking him and gathered him into my arms. He was sniffling a little bit. I kissed him, cuddled him, ruffled his hair, and felt him up as we talked. I loved having him naked; I loved being able to casually play with his cock as we talked and hear his words falter.

Both of us felt so much closer to each other than before. I felt this intense rush of affection and intimacy. I asked him how he liked it, and he admitted that a couple of my swats were a little too hard – but ultimately he really enjoyed it. Mostly, he said, because he knew I was really enjoying it.

“I just really want to please you,” he said.

Those words were like music to my ears. Yes, this is it, I thought. This is how I want things to be. Not like before, with those bottommy men who I always felt wanted something from me; who wanted me to do specific somethings to them; who made me feel continually nervous about not meeting their expectations.

Not like the Optimist accepts everything without telling me what is too much or what is unpleasant. He does tell me. But the Optimist just wanted me, not something that I could provide. He just wanted to please me.

Can you imagine how good that feels? Do I even have enough words to describe it?

—

It was such an interesting experience – I’m pretty quiet during sex, I rarely say anything, and asking for what I want still embarrasses me considerably. I am also not a very assertive person at all, typically. I’m so timid sometimes that I’m almost invisible. And whoever heard of a bashful dominant? I also “conditionalize” what I say a lot of the time: inserting “I think”, “probably”, “maybe”, “could you try to…”, “could you help me to…” But telling the Optimist what I wanted in a situation where I didn’t feel pressured really helped. I’ve been with people who have been all “just say what you want!” or “why are you so shy about this?” which didn’t really help. I’d just feel even more embarrassed over being shy.

I also felt so… opened up, listening to my thoughts and wants, listening to his reactions. It’s funny, dominating/topping someone, because I feel that when you’re playing with someone you have to be very much “in the moment”, but because I hadn’t thought much through beforehand, I was also sort of planning out what would happen next. But I just relaxed, and listened, and let the wants come to me. It felt so good to let myself just flow like that. I wish I could do it more, well, in life. I felt like I learnt a lot about myself, both sexually and otherwise.

I’m terribly grateful to the Optimist. When you get right down to it, he is the one who gave this experience to me. And I truly value that as the gift that it is.

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Lessons Learned (2/2)

Wilhelmina Wang — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 06:44:38 +0000

[via sexisnottheenemy]

Lesson #2: The Optimist

“Well, what are you doing?” you smirk as he insinuates his hand underneath your skirt and pushes hard in between your cheeks.

“This isn’t going to work if you top me topping you.”

“Right. OK. Sorry. I’ll stop.”

Blindfold. On your hands and knees. Skirt lifted up. Spank.

“Is this what you want?”

Gulp. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

Cringe. “Yes, sir.”

“What exactly is it that you want?”

You can’t bring yourself to speak. More spanks.

“…I want to be… dominated by you. Sir.”

“I don’t think I’m convinced.”

You have to say it again? You can’t tell whether you feel like growling, hiccuping, cursing, or bursting into giggles.

“I want to be dominated by you, sir.” Big grin.

Blindfold off. You’re back upright, sitting with your legs folded. He takes your face in his hands. The tough guy act is all gone now.

“Do you really want to do this?”

Pause. “Every time,” you respond, “I have to call you ‘sir,’ I hate myself just a little bit.”

“Really?!” He’s very sweet about it. Talks about it with you. During the next comfortable silence, you unsnap the collar from around your neck.

“I think this will look better on you,” you smile, putting it on him. The black leather does contrast wonderfully with his pale skin.

“…I think I know what I feel like now.”

Don’t try and make yourself do something when you don’t want to do it. Take charge when needed. Above all, do not be afraid, because you’ve nothing to be afraid of.

“What?”

“Topping you.”

“Oh. Good! Because I’m actually more in a bottomy mood.”

Giggle. Hug – arms around his shoulders, pulling him to you. “You should have said something… but then that’s the trouble with bottoms, you never ask for anything…”

You retrieve the blindfold and place it on him, your fingers clumsily navigating the elastic.

“Lay face down on the bed.”

He does. He looks so pretty. Push his plain white T-shirt up, scratch down his back. Admire the pretty pink welts that start to prickle on his skin.

Pants off. Caress his ass, slowly. Indulgently. Spank. No warnings.

The silence folds over you uncomfortably, so you ask him questions. Voice low, almost meditative. You feel yourself slipping into… what? A role? A state of mind? You’re not sure. But you ask him questions. You laugh. The only command you issue to him is “say ‘yes’, not ‘mmmhmm.’”

Hands and knees, now. That’s better, it’s easier to swing your hand this way. Hard spanks, switching from one cheek to the other, flattening your palm. Alternating between smacking him and reaching down, fondling his cock and balls. Pressing your finger against his covered asshole, stroking, listening to him gasp, watching his body tremble.

“Has anyone ever sat on your face before?”

“No…”

“Would you like to try it?”

“Yes.“

Pull off your underwear and keep on the lime-green miniskirt. Straddle his face and push your clit into his mouth, and he starts licking, oh yes, good boy. Steady yourself against the wall with one hand.

“C-can I please touch myself?”

“Yes.” Too lenient? Maybe.

You rock gently in and out of his mouth as he licks and sucks you tirelessly, oh god, it’s been too long, it is so good.

Mmm. Lift yourself wordlessly off him and he stops touching himself. Didn’t come. Good. That he shouldn’t come before you let him should be an unspoken rule, of course.

Catch your breath. Boxers off, now.

You rub lube onto your hands and start jerking and rubbing his cock. It is honestly quite beautiful: long and dark pink. Abandon it. Spread his legs apart and rub his hole, one finger, two, start fingerfucking him.

“Can I touch myself?”

“No.”

Slide the little buttplug in. And then start jerking him off in earnest.

“I’m going to… I can’t hold back…”

“Well, don’t,” you say, and he comes all over his belly.

Smile. Wipe your hands off as he lays there, all angular hips and skinny abdomen with the come all over it, T-shirt pushed up, black collar & blindfold still on, still half-hard. Pretty as a picture.

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Lessons Learned (1/2)

Wilhelmina Wang — Sun, 13 Sep 2009 01:07:45 +0000

Btw, a big thank you to Champagne and Benzedrine for putting my last HNT on his sexiest posts list

[via bendoverboyfriend]

Lesson #1: The Actor

For once, height difference does matter.

His long legs are draped loosely over your shoulders as you try and push into him, but you can’t get enough leverage. If you could just actually raise yourself up a little… but then you’d be on your feet, and how uncomfortable would that be? Still, the impulse to get on your feet and fuck him with your whole body is almost instinctive.

(More than anything else, you wish you could feel; not just because it would make everything so much hotter, but because you want to be able to tell what the hell is going on down there.)

You’re pushing forward but you don’t feel like you’re moving at all; and still he asks you to move “slower, slower.”

Finally you feel the head pop in – a sudden release of pressure – and then:

“Wait. Hold still,” he says -

“OK. Go.”

“More lube.”

“You can move faster now.”

“More lube.”

- and after you’ve managed to hit a brisk rhythm, you have to keep pulling out to lube yourself back up, and the same dance starts all over again.

Soon you learn to make up for the lack of nerve endings in your silicone prick by using your thumb & fingers: holding your cock in your hand, feeling the place where his entrance is with your thumb, and then guiding yourself forward.

(The smooth act of penetrating someone else – the gasps and swiftly shifting facial expressions – is almost addictive.)

After you’re done, you look at the splotches of lube on your harness and make a mental note to look up how to properly take care of leather.

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Goddess (Valkyrie): 1/2

Wilhelmina Wang — Sun, 09 Aug 2009 14:30:11 +0000

[Press Play]

You’ve known her for more than half a year; and you’ve slept with almost everyone who you’ve seen in her immediate vicinity by now. Well, not everyone, but it feels like it. These were people who you weren’t not attracted to, but they didn’t drive you particularly crazy, either. They were… comfortable. You liked them well enough, but didn’t like them so much that you’d be disappointed if they turned you down.

She was always the one you wanted the most, which was probably why you could never bring yourself to approach her. You remember seeing her dancing at Zeta Mu’s disco party that one time: tall and awkwardly graceful, like a swan who hadn’t quite learned how to cut cleanly through the water. The press of people made the dancehall hot, and her short brown hair was stuck to her pale skin. Sweat dripped in small rivulets down her neck. This picture will be forever burned into you mind: her shaking her bangs out of her face, glistening beads of moisture flying in the strands’ wake.

She’s renders your alcohol-induced uninhibition absolutely useless. You want to kiss her, tell her how gorgeous she is (the words are on the tip of your tongue), you want to do something but, as drunk as you are, you can’t. You know you’d be too hurt if she rejected you.

The steps you took were tiny. You put your hand on her waist and pulled her close, moving and swaying to the music for mere minutes until the heat rushed to your face and you pulled away. She didn’t follow you…

That night you desperately pulled that slightly dumpy, shy butch girl into kiss; daydreaming as she went down on you in your bed; imagining other people in her place; hating yourself for it afterwards.

Maybe, you ask yourself, you’re working your way up the ladder. Screwing up your courage to finally approach her. But you know all that isn’t really true.

—

It’s all the Emperor’s fault, really. At least that’s what you tell yourself. In actual fact, you were the one who finally caved and confessed your feelings to her. Once again, it all started with one too many plastic cups of booze at Zeta Mu.

“By the way, I’m insanely attracted to you.” That’s what you said. And not even to her face – you texted her and then left before anything could happen.

The next day, she still hadn’t replied. This was probably her way of indicating her lack of interest. You’d expected as much. Oddly, you didn’t mind. But you felt immensely relieved, like a large weight at been lifted off your chest. (You realized that your desire had been sitting inside of you for all this time; clamouring so loudly you felt as though you’d burst.) She said nothing about it when she saw you next, and you both acted as normal.

…But it didn’t end there, like you’d thought it would. When the Emperor came to visit, he bombarded you with questions about your “newfound” attraction. (It had been one of the first things she’d mentioned to him upon his arrival.) And then he decided that you and she would be a very good idea, so started attempting to not-so-subtly get the two of you together. (As in: telling her more about you and picking you up, unceremoniously dumping you in front of her, and announcing that the two of you should hurry up and hook up already.)

Nothing happened until two weeks after the Emperor had left. It started with a few emails. Then lunch. Then the inevitable conversations about your views on sex, hooking up, having a “fluid” sexuality, women (and how frustrating they could be). You can usually never tell when someone is interested in you, but once the “sexual & relationship history” conversation happens, that’s a pretty good indicator. You felt like you were being evaluated…

To be continued…

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Clandestine

Wilhelmina Wang — Sat, 25 Jul 2009 19:05:02 +0000

Sometimes you wonder if you only get your best ideas while you’re jerking off.

You hadn’t showered all day, and feel filthy, so you decide to take one even though your sister and her fiance are over to visit. The water heater is working properly for the first time since you’ve been home, and you’re taking full advantage of it; holding the showerhead close to your body, letting the warm water run all over your shoulders, rinsing the shampoo out of your hair slooowly.

Then you turn the water off, rub the conditioner into your hair and suddenly get the impulse to lie down in the tub. So you do, sliding down the slope of the tub until your head is resting against the bottom and your legs are bent at the knee. You close your eyes. You open them again and survey the bathroom from your new vantage point. It looks a lot more interesting from this point of view.

You’re caught by another impulse: a powerful one; bizarrely sensual. Your eyes slide shut and your hand wanders down your body, coming to rest at your clit. You tease yourself with your fingers and imagine one of the erotic scenes you’ve been wanting to write.

You can hear your sister and your mum chatting animatedly in the sitting room outside.

As you slide a finger inside yourself, rub yourself quicker, feel your hips raise slightly almost of their own accord – you fill in gaps in the imagined scene, picking the characters’ names, adding in little details, clarifying certain happenings – you move your finger from your cunt to your ass, surprised when your (now-well-trained) sphincter practically swallows your finger up. And your imagination jumps from the first scene to a different one; one that you’ve envisioned a hundred times before and that never fails to get you off.

A woman is bent over a table, hands stretched out in front of her and tied in place, ankles spread and tied to the table legs. She is naked. The man behind her is landing blow after blow on her plump bottom as she struggles uselessly. Finally he stops; she catches her breath; and he pushes a lubed finger into her ass, absolutely ignoring her copiously dripping pussy. She’s completely open before him and powerless to do anything, but doesn’t seem to find that a bad thing at all, if the sounds she’s making are anything to go by. She moans and gasps as he preps her, and when he finally rams his hard cock into her…

You throw your head back and come.

When your regain rational thought, you’re dimly aware of someone in the sitting room mentioning your name -

“Is Wil almost done in there?? I really need to pee.”

Oops…

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Bediquette

Wilhelmina Wang — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 15:14:58 +0000

Cuddling in bed after sex is possibly one of my favorite things about sex. Just laying there, talking or drifting quietly off to sleep while enjoying one another’s closeness.

That’s what me and Girl were doing yesterday, in her bed at 6 in the morning, after having sated each other. I flopped over, with her spooning me and her arm flopped over my waist, and we settled in to sleep.

And then it started.

I started fidgeting. My head was resting weirdly on the pillow and I knew I was going to get a crick in my neck the next day if I stayed like that. So I wriggled a little further down the bed.

But then my throat started itching. Like, really really itching. I tried swallowing a few times, but there was no stopping it – I coughed hard for a good few seconds. She lifted her arm off of my body as it shook with my coughing, then replaced it.

… And then my stomach started making weird noises. I hate it when that happens. I’m sure everyone has experienced this – your stomach or throat make really odd, involuntary noises and you want to announce to the room no I am not passing gas it’s just my stomach! but of course you can’t actually do that.

Luckily by this time her breathing had started to slow and become more regular, so I guessed she was already asleep. I, on the other hand, lay in self-concious half-wakefulness for at least an hour.

Girl herself is quite a polite bedpartner. She snores sometimes, but I just find that oddly cute.

I’ve shared beds both platonically and sexually with quite a few people, and it’s always interesting how much you can learn about them from their bed-behavior. You have your blanket-hogs, and sprawlers, snorers, and kickers. My lovers specifically have snored like chainsaws, have left promptly afterwards, have slept with their legs Indian-style and their upper body flopped over their legs (I still don’t know how that’s comfortable), have been tall lanky men who kept almost squeezing me off the bed, have chosen to sleep on my floor instead, have clung and wound themselves around me.

Regardless of this… diversity, I still think there’s some unspoken bed-etiquette rules that make me jerk awake when I’m about to do something that I think is inappropriate.

Eh. Whatever. I still love cuddling.

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