After reading the blog on fucking a fellow work employee, I feel a bit more comfortable to write about my own sexual "adventures."  Not that they are as exciting, these days.  Most of the time, it's with myself.

You have to understand that I waited until mid-life to begin masturbating; mostly because I didn't care to do it, any earlier; I am a real thingy girly--diamonds over cubic zirconias, original art over copies--you get the picture.  And when I did live with my ex for four months out of the year, we fucked one another's brains out (as the saying ever so subtly goes) and the chemistry was sooo absolute on fire that he would as much as kiss my neck and I would swoon into his arms, wet panties and weakened state of mind and body.  So when I was separated from my ex-hubby for eight months out of the year, I decided it was time to do something about my long abated sex life.  

You must understand (well you don't have to, yet it makes it all the more interesting) that my ex and I were basically together because of the sex.  Our first date we began to kiss (me, sitting on the rear of my convertible, short skirt-no panties, with my legs spread--this, after sixteen years with my first husband, always more of a best friend than anything romantic) and I suddenly pushed him away, saying, "Let's wait until we are married."  What?  Where did that come from, I thought?  Oddly enough he replied, "Okay," and ensuing that, we went into my house and left come puddles in every corner of every room.  I can't tell you what a relief that was to me, after so many years of no-sex sex.  (Not one orgasm in all those years).  

 When my second hubby and I married, my body always felt fabulous; satisfied, energized and even one day on the island where we lived,  I walked around the whole day feeling as if I was orgasming.  It was magical and amaaazing.  I never so much as glanced at other men because everything was sexually copasetic for us.

 So when we separated he stayed on the island and I went back to the mainland.  Judging by my enormously building crankiness, it was obviously time to re-educate myself.  The first time I came to orgasm, I was elated.  If you can imagine, doing such a thing for myself was almost near disbelief.  Sometimes it took me hours to reach orgasm, and believe you-me, it didn't deter me--I was damned if I wasn't going to give myself my "deserving" pleasure.  Exhausted, hours later, I crept into bed, under the covers (unless I was already under the covers) and slept like a baby.

 Of course at some point it became an obsessive thingy--and I had to have that heavenly orgasm at least once a day, in-between writing and writing.  I just had to shake off that physical edge, that tension, that would plague me--almost taunt me, if I didn't.  Besides, my crabbiness always reflected whether or not my sexual appetite had been whetted--and it wasn't fair to my daughter if I hadn't taken care of it.    

 Lately I notice that (being a vegetarian), I crave the soy hot dogs in my fridge.  Just biting off the ends, gives me a feeling of satisfaction, since the man in my life tends to practice being a Peter Pan, isn't quite into sex as much as I am and is tough to make love with when he won't even answer his cell phone when I call.  I wonder about my sanity; then again, I wonder about everyone else's, when they make comments about how sex is not that important, in life.  Whose life are they talking about, anyway?  Certainly not mine.  

 Am I obscene, obsessesed, born with an extra amount of testorterone?  Does it matter?  It's only when I judge myself (or I listen to others' judgments of me) that I think I'm not as worthy as everyone else.  And really--it's also when I make myself reach orgasm, that I realize how empowered, how beautiful and how resourceful I can be.  How cool is that?  

By the way, I welcome comments...you just never know what might come of them.