In the spring of 2011, we were wasting a rare summer afternoon together at my house, napping off and on, lulled by the birds chirping through the window along with the soft gurgle of the fountain outside, and L said, “Roll over.”
I suspected she had wicked plans, so I rolled onto my stomach happily, and felt her hand start out gently, softly, stroking the small of my back almost reassuringly, but I knew, or hoped, that wouldn’t last, that she would move on to explore something different — what, exactly, I didn’t know, but I longed for us to break new ground, somehow.
We were still pretty new, still reserved in a way. It had been maybe half a year since we’d passed the Adult Superstore, walking around the beach town we were staying in.
“Want to?” one of us ventured.
We flirted with the idea silently. Neither of us had the nerve to steer us inside; we’d never explored anything sexual outside the ordinary at that point. So we passed on.
Were we more embarrassed because we’d let slip the fact that we were intrigued, or because we lacked nerve?
* * *
I know that my life is not the same thing as my sex life, but one emblem of the people we are, the people we are growing into, is our sexual selves.
And it’s just one emblem; there are fascinating, wonderful people who are celibate; there must be people with fabulous sex lives who are dull as dirt, otherwise. I’ve gone years without sex, before; I suppose I was at least as interesting in those years as any other.
But one of the things that L and I are doing, almost consciously, is using sex to explore ourselves and each other in some way. We take ourselves to the strange place to see differently, to shed what we think we know, to discover a new sensation, to grow. And the rule is that growth must include pleasure of some flavor.
Almost like a piece of writing. You put down a sentence, and come back to it, read it aloud. Does it roll off the tongue? Is it a clear and pure expression, or at least as clear and pure as language allows?
And you write the sentence again, differently. Is it right, now? Does it work, now?
For me a piece of writing works, no matter how horrendous the subject matter, if it provides pleasure in reading it.
* * *
In the months after we’d chickened out at the Superstore, I had developed at least enough nerve to order specialty items online. When I’d received the first order I took the clover clamps from the package and weighed them in my hand; such a strange thing to have brought into the house. They seemed strange enough online, with product reviews by people with strange enthusiasms, it seemed to me. Kind of obsessed, I thought, not like me. Not me.
L was out of town, a week or more away from her next visit. I carried the package into the bathroom and watched myself as I took off my shirt and clipped one end to my nipple. Shit it hurt; but I felt blood moving to my cock, responding to the stimulation. Even if the sensation was pain, my cock took notice and began to swell. I took the clip off and rotated it slightly before putting it back on; it hurt again, but in a slightly different way. I clipped the other nipple and the doubled pain made me grimace in the mirror while my dick went fully erect inside my jeans. My hand cupped the bulge just long enough to reiterate how hard I was, and then I pulled both clips gently from my nipples, discovering that they hurt again coming off, and placed them back in the plastic wrapper. These were not going to be masturbation toys; I wanted L to come with me to the strange new place, if she was willing. I wanted us both to be surprised at what we became when we crossed even the trivial boundaries represented by these toys.
Would she be willing? Sure these things looked inviting to me, who used to be twelve-year-old masturbating fool, but how would they hit L? She could laugh; she could be repulsed; she could decide I was more pathetic than she’d realized.
But she did none of those things. When we began to explore, she must have suspended her self-image, or dipped into her own adolescent dreams while we worked out a few base urges on one another. While we tried on different selves, to see what we’d learn.
Since the Superstore, I had tied L and fucked her mouth, unsure then whether she would be repulsed by what we had revealed about me and her; although she seemed almost sobered by what we’d done, I saw that she was not unhappy about who we were that day.
After that, she had used, with some pleasure, the clover clamps and a riding crop on me, and it appeared that we both liked seeing that new thing, also, about ourselves.
We had taken just a peek into the mirror of perversity, and found that we didn’t hate what we saw there.
* * *
After I rolled over for her on the rare summer afternoon, L’s fingertips stroked my back softly, gliding gently down my spine, bringing on a couple of little shivers, and rubbing my boxer briefs over one butt cheek. “I like these,” she said. “So soft…”
I settled in, propping my head on my arms, enjoying the attention, and then Wham! She slapped me, hard on one ass cheek. “Fuck baby,” I said.
“Shut up.” She slapped my other cheek.
“Shut!” She slapped me again, harder this time. And again on the other cheek. “Up!” She pulled the boxers down to expose my ass. I felt more naked, having just the cheeks showing indecently over the waistband of my shorts. She smacked me hard, seven or eight times on each cheek; the first few creating a pleasant sting before they started to burn, actually hurt, and I wasn’t sure if I’d have to tell her to stop. “Wow, you’re pink,” she said, gently petting my stinging butt cheek. Her finger teased my ass, pressing in a quarter inch before she pulled back. She had never done that before. Maybe she had never been the woman who would probe her lover’s ass, before.
But that wasn’t all.
She took my wrists, which I’d been resting comfortably on, and pulled them up over my head. I felt her tying the wrists together, then knotting them to the headboard before she prodded me to roll onto my back.
“I’m going to fuck your face,” she said with determination, and planted her knees on either side of me to bring her striped panties closer. A year earlier, I might have been embarrassed or shy, but then I did what she wanted; I let her tease me, pressing her mound to my lips so that I could only munch on her through the cloth. I did just that, eagerly, working desperately for a taste, for a lip-lock on her cunt lips and clit, for a chance to give her pleasure while she treated me like a whore.
She had never seen me like that before.
I had never been that before.
* * *
After she had made herself come by rubbing against my lips and chin, she turned me over once again so she could insert an oiled vibe into my rectum, and I let her, happily. I’d bought it to use on her, but she chose on that afternoon to be the woman who shoved things in her lover’s ass.
It must have surprised her as much as it did me, when she began slapping my ass with her free hand, as she worked the vibe inside me.
It must have felt strange to come to full adulthood, even middle-age, and discover that woman living inside her along with all the other women she had to be, or chose to be, in the course of living her life.
This was in the spring of 2011. As far as I can tell, we’re not through learning yet. Not through editing.