Oh, and I couldn’t leave out a little comic-style dragon porn.

A few people have asked if I knew how to have these erotic dreams. I’m not a dream expert, but I believe that you can influence your mind to put out. I’ll explain how I think they come about, then tell you what you can try to get your own kinky dream life. I’ve asked a few of my friends to try the things I’ve recommended and three came through for me. Two of them found their dreams to be more sexually-oriented, the third couldn’t remember any details. I’ve tried it out and was able to successfully seed several ideas into my dream worlds. I like it so much, I’m going to keep trying. This is by no means scientific evidence, but I wanted to see if there might be something to this before I offered it up as even a mere suggestion. If this works for you, awesome! If not, you’ve read this for nothing. Sorry.

I very rarely experience what’s called lucid dreaming, where you’re aware that you’re dreaming and can actually change what’s happening or even take it in an entirely different direction. Most of the time I don’t realize that I’m still asleep, but I can direct the action to a certain extent; replay, prompt a few of the characters, sometimes just “leave” and move on to the next dimension. While my fantasies don’t manifest themselves wholesale, there are bits and pieces of things I’ve thought of throughout the day, or on a regular basis. I’m sure most people have this happen. If you play a lot of chess, you start dreaming about different moves, puzzling out a game in your sleep. If you’re worried about something at work, say a deadline that’s coming up too fast, you’ll sometimes find it incorporating itself in “loopy” dreams that play over and over in your mind; sometimes you’ve missed the deadline, sometimes you’re scrambling like a maniac trying to get everything together. The things you concentrate the most upon or that make a huge impact on you are the very things that your subconscious grabs onto and feeds into your dreams. Knowing this, we now have a starting point. We can nudge our subconscious into giving us what we really want: kinky, weird sex.

If you want to start having erotic dreams, you’re going to have to have a lot of erotic thoughts, and you’re going to have to concentrate on them. It’s easier if you concentrate on a detail, rather than a subject. For example, instead of thinking of oral sex with a woman, and all that that entails, imagine just the feel of her clit on the tip of your tongue. Conjure up as much sensory information as you can, taste, scent, the lighting (is it dim and shadowy or well-lit?), be completely conscious of the silky firmness of her clit and the feel of the surrounding hood on your tongue. You can imagine that you’re sliding your tongue up to push back the hood, or that you’re tapping and circling it with the tip, but go no further than that. What you’re trying to do is create a full-sensory “snapshot” that you’ll look at throughout the day. I know, you’re thinking, I can’t walk around wet/hard all day. If you let your mind follow through on the image, yes, you’ll most likely end up ripping one off in the restroom. Not that that’s a bad thing, nor will it hurt your chances of having a dream encounter. However, if you just “glance” at your snapshot and then carry on with what you’re doing, you shouldn’t experience much more than a little squeeze in your nether regions.

Try thinking of at least two different details, but no more than five. When you have them set in your mind, you’re going to have to incorporate them into your day somehow, and that means linking them to your routine. You can use whatever you like as a reminder, a cryptic post-it note, a slightly phallic-looking rock (kidding) and an apple (one for each snapshot) that you set on your desk. Whenever you glance at these objects, bring up the corresponding mental image, immerse yourself in it, then let it go. Make sure you do this at least a dozen times per image throughout your day and just before you go to sleep. That’s it. Don’t expect to have wet dreams every night or even the first night. It’ll probably take a while for your subconscious to get the hint.

Once in a while I have a hard time remembering what I was dreaming, so I’ve been keeping a dream journal. The idea is a “hack” from Ron Hale-Evans’ book, Mind Performance Hacks, Tips & Tools for Overclocking Your Brain. (Great book, it’s one of my favorites and I highly recommend that you smarties go out and buy it.) The hack is much more detailed, but I’ll give you the gist of it here. All you do is keep a small notebook or just a piece of paper and a pencil on your nightstand. Instead of getting up to immediately write down your dream, or that you hadn’t had one, take mental notes. Probe your mind for any little details or impressions, even make note of emotions. When you’re sure you have the major parts down, get up and write them down. Let your notes run through your mind over and over as you go about getting dressed, showering, and so on. Your dream will likely come back to you bit by bit, and if you’re lucky you’ll remember the whole thing.

Again, this isn’t a how-to article. If you have some success with this, I’d love to hear about it. Feel free to e-mail me or leave a comment. Good night, and sweet, wet dreams.

Technorati : autoeroticism, erotica, fantasies, lucid dreaming, sex, wet dreams

I sprawled across my bed, constantly curling and contorting my body, trying to twist the memories from my mind. I laid there an hour, two; finally I gave up in defeat and rose to start my morning salutation. Again, I sprawled, this time across the yoga mat beneath the dimming stars, curling and contorting, each pose an effort to forget. I moved through each pose, trying to clearing my mind. Trying to; foreboding sat in my stomach, curling up to clutch at my heart. I shook it off, time and again. Finally I sank into the meditative pose, hoping to fend off the ephemeral emotions gripping me. Never has yoga been a spiritual experience for me, despite what others have told me. It’s thoroughly carnal, about my body, not my mind. Today was no exception; realization and memory jolted through me as I connected with the earth, flooding my body–but not yet my mind–with remembered sensations. Images flickered rapidly through my mind, showing me disjointed vignettes that made little sense. A feeling of closeness, bordering on suffocation; sweat-slicked bodies gliding against mine; the sounds of faltering, stuttering breaths; quick intakes–half gasps, half soundless moans.

Sitting in the stillness of the dawn, I let my eyes flutter closed. I waited, watching as the dream unreeled in my mind’s eye. My core shook as it was buffeted by the winds of memory. Slowly, my head descended, my chin resting on my collar bone; the scene played smoothly through me.

My hands cupped my cheeks, feeling heat flush through them, raking back and up through my hair, scalp tingling. My hips twisted and rocked rhythmically, spinning a skein of desire. Each and every movement fluid, I was no more than molten metal; burning, scouring through the dreamscape I found myself occupying. Twisting, I looked over my shoulder. Behind and below me, my lover. I sat straddling this apparition, impaled, bound, unable to rise. Before and above me, a shadow of my lover. He, she? I had no way of knowing, nothing material impinged on the ambiance that surrounded me, tempting, promising fulfillment. Behind and in front of me, the impression of dark smoky wings wavered in and out of my line of sight. I watched bemused, marveling at my demon lover and his shadow. I was sure now that this being was a he. I felt him within me, filling my cunt, making me ache for surcease, and at the same time yearn for more. Kneeling before me, his quavering shadow grasped my knees, feeling all too solid. I reached forward, gripping his shoulders, pressing him back; knowing his intent, wanting the anticipation, fearing its consummation. With a sudden fluid thrust he was in me, his cock sliding in and out of my pussy with the cock of his twin. Writhing, I twisted on the two cocks inside of me, at the threshold of pain and orgasm. Quickly, smoothly, my lover rose behind me, lifting me up, keeping me impaled upon his–both of his cocks. As one they thrust up into me. Shuddering, crying out, I arched between them, feeling my cunt convulse, contracting, crushing their cocks together. I could feel the slickness, imagine the smooth, velvety skin sheathing their hard shafts as they drove in and out of me, claiming and releasing me with each thrust. I wound an arm around each of their shoulders, pinned between them–him. Clinging to my love and his shadow, I let loose my control, letting my orgasm come, flooding over the three of us, shaking us all to our knees. I felt him–them–cum, filling and overflowing my pussy, an intangible deluge of their–his essence. We sank slowly, silently into unconsciousness.

It was from this void I struggled into awareness, gasping for breath, aching at the loss of such closeness, and yes, the fear of what was and what could never be.

Technorati : fantasies, threesome, wet dreams

I just spent the last half hour watching the shimmer of it sleet down and chatting pleasantly with an old friend of mine. We hadn’t talked at all since last month, but I’d had a dream about him the other night and felt compelled to call. Of course, I didn’t tell him what my dream had been about, or the call might have been less idyllic. Most probably, it would have gone something like this: “!@#$%^&*, Jenna! Where do you @#$%#%&$%&$ get off thinking ??]>???+&%$#! me?!” Of course, he’ll probably be reading this soon after I post it, so my ulterior motive is less that subtle.

Fair warning, O Pud Muffin: Avert thine eyes or witnesseth the renting asunder of thine asshole. And I mean that lovingly.

I mention rain because it featured largely in my dream. By no means was it the most outstanding feature, being merely a minor theme threading throughout and highlighting the scene. Like most of my dreams lately, the setting is phantasmagorical with little connection to my everyday life, but they do spring from some of my wilder musings.

I wandered through several darkly lurid worlds before reaching his apartment. Stopping on the rain-washed street below his complex, I peered through the blurring downfall at the lighted top floor. I sighed, wondering if I would make it past the many floors separating us. Resolutely, I shifted my hips, mentally hefting the tiny burden weighing heavily in my pocket and entered the lobby. As always in my dreams, the elevator filled me with trepidation, making my stomach squirm as it tried to hide behind my backbone. Trying to repress my shudders, I stepped into the elevator, not bothering to turn towards the doors when the susurration signaled the beginning of my journey. With a gut-twisting wrench, the lift shot through the bowels of the complex, rapidly shooting through a winding labyrinth, spinning off in wild directions during its ascent. I clutched the handrail, holding my head down, worried that my artifact might unravel and spring open. It seemed as if hours of jolting turns and heart-stopping plummets had passed before I reached my friend’s floor. Fighting to regain my equilibrium and choking down my nausea, I staggered through the open apartment door opposite the elevator. Flames shot out, obscuring my vision, licking over my features and through my hair, searing me. I fought through the blaze, infuriated at the game play.

My friend stood before me, arms raised, fingers pointing at me. Wisps of flame caressed his forearms, rippling sensuously over his shoulders and chest.

“It’s new,” he grinned as the fire died to sullen embers. “What do you think?”

“You’ll set the entire convention ablaze,” I told him crossly, drop-kicking my backpack into a corner. I flopped down on the couch and stared moodily out the floor-to-ceiling window across from me, watching lightning play around the tops of the city’s high-rises.

“We have to have something to show them. It’s been too long since we’ve presented any evidence. We need to show them,” he repeated for the thousandth time. “We’re the super computers, organic machines. It’s in us to be more.”

Nonsense, I thought. We weren’t philosophers, we were inventors. Toy makers. Leave religion to the sheep, I always said.

“Show me,” I commanded him.

He raised his arms and stood still for a long moment. I doubted he was breathing. My eyes traveled over his bare chest and thighs, wondering why his shorts hadn’t been singed. What foolishness was this? It couldn’t be more than a trick. I could do him one better, I assured myself. I had science backing me. With a suddenness that took my own breath away, flames burst behind his back and quickly twined around his torso, eagerly lapping his arms and neck. He turned towards me, wreathed in red, yellow, and orange, his head encircled by a fiery corona. I watched him through lidded eyes, my heart pounding as desire lent its own fire to the heat surrounding us.

“We’re machines that can think,” he panted as the flames kindled his passion into incandescence. “We can affect the physical with mere thoughts,” he raved.

Laughing, I sprang to my feet, my hand thrust in my pocket. My fingers curled around the small polyhedron. I pulled it out and sent it skittering across the floor towards the window. As it tumbled, it grew. The ends blossomed, one reaching towards us even as it slid away. The other burst through the picture window, showering us with glass splinters. It grew. The furthest end tipped forward under its own weight and dropped. The top of the closest end sheared through the ceiling and followed, disappearing into the stormy darkness. The floor rumbled beneath us. I turned to my friend, watching him as he stared blankly as the behemoth reappeared, growing from the street far below, reaching towards the lightning-lanced sky. Quivering in the semi-dark, wider and taller than the building we were now in, a tower hulked a bare few feet from us.

I grabbed his hand and dashed towards it, leaping the separating distance towards the round mouth of one of its windows, dragging him with me. We tumbled onto a slick, dark featureless floor, our momentum spinning us around on our sides. I reached for him, clasping his heated body against mine.

“How?” he murmured against the curve of my neck.

“A mere thought,” I told him, feverishly tugging his shorts down with one hand. “Mass, but little weight. Two dimensions.”

“Ahh,” he moaned, whether from my touch or my answer I didn’t know, nor did I care.

Our bodies melded, his fire embracing us, feeding on our hunger. The tower swayed dangerously as the winds lashed around it, thunder sending a tremor to its base. With every shift he thrust deeper into me, the movement sending us careening across the floor. I twisted around, rising up, my back to him, still impaled on his cock. I hooked my ankles around his hips, keeping him pinned to the floor as I bent forward, flames slicked over my arms and hands. The fire was smooth, almost oily. I reached down and slid three fingers just inside his ass, savoring the ease with which I penetrated him. I pushed deeper, my fingertips stroking his walls, running over the hard knob of his prostate. I curled my hand into a ball and shoved. Flames poured from him, curling around his legs and my forearm. He cried out, body convulsing and bucking beneath me. The tower swayed dangerously, grinding us together, forcing our mutual orgasm to come to a head. My hips twisted sharply, sending my climax shooting through my core. Moaning, every sense heightened, I could feel his cock pulsing as he came. Spent, I fell back against him, our legs tangled as I sprawled over his body. The fires died slowly.

“We didn’t burn,” he mused as sleep claimed him. “This can’t be Hell, though.”

“Turing argued that God could confer a soul on an elephant or a machine if he saw fit,” I said as he faded sideways and my dream body drifted through the storm towards the next realm. “Evidently we two machines didn’t make the grade.”

Technorati : fantasies, fisting, hand balling, sexblogs, sexuality, surrealism, wet dreams
Ice Rocket : fantasies, fisting, hand balling, sexblogs, sexuality, surrealism, wet dreams

I dream of women, drawing me down amidst a tangle of fervid limbs, lifting me up and over in climax after climax. I dream of men, debasing and being debased, an enticingly tangled web of sexual neurosis. I dream of others-—of neither gender, of—both. Some who flash from one sex to another. Some who only mentally inspire me, claiming me, pulling me through a whirlwind of sensation that has nothing to do with biology.

As dangerously beautiful as these dreams are, they drain me. These orgasms are riven from me, leaving nothing in the aftermath, nothing but lethargy. It’s seductive. Waking, I want nothing more than to return to these dream lovers. Waking, knowing there’s a whole day ahead of me before I can meet them again. It’s that that keeps me up, knowing that the end comes each morning all too soon. But I can’t wait any longer. Desire for release is overcome by the desire for indulgence.

What dreams may come, when I’ve—however briefly—shuffled off this mortal coil?

Technorati : dreaming, orgasms, sexual fantasy, sleep, wet dreams

As the water warmed up, I watched myself in the mirror, my eyes still heavy with sleep. I touched my lips with a fingertip, still feeling slightly swollen and tingling from the fancied mauling they’d had. Wisps of steam curled around my image, caressing and grasping at my body with ethereal tentacles. With a last long look into the mirror, still contemplating the whirling virago I’d been only moments before, I shrugged out of my shirt and walked under the steady rush of water. I let the heat course through my body, not yet a match for the fire still burning at my core, my hands outlining my waist and hips, fingertips tracing light designs over my stomach. I knew what I wanted, but not what I was waiting for. Something I’d forgotten when I awoke, perhaps, but I couldn’t wait any longer for it to come to me. I leaned against the cold tile wall, my back to the spray, one hand cushioning my cheek, the fingers of my other hand gliding over my wet and slick labia. I slid a finger inside, coyly curling it—and suddenly an image jolted me, darkening my sight momentarily with its intensity, the memory of my dream lancing through my body like a bolt of lightning: the sultry seductress I’d been clinging to before I was torn from her and into wakefulness. Oh, she had been the best of the parade, by far. Whether she was wearing a harness or not, I couldn’t quite recall, but the feel of cock in my hand was a potent argument against it. She was all woman, however. I remembered bracing myself against the narrow walls of the hall, back to the cold wall, tightly grasping the handrail behind me, one leg braced against her slender torso, the other curled around her waist as she thrust into me. She leaned into me, her mouth covering mine, devouring it voraciously. The ferocity was intense, driving us both towards greater lengths as the rhythm increased. My hands sank into her sable hair, cradling her head and pulling her to me, my kiss even more urgent as we approached the climax I sensed hovering around us like a thunderstorm. Her hands tightened convulsively under my ass, the two fingertips of her middle fingers just barely pressing against the perineum, pounding hard into me with a fury…until I was roused from her arms and into reality.

I’d have to finish alone what we had begun.

I opened my eyes and reached up for my slender little vibe, knowing it to be inadequate to the task, but hoping the thought of my dream lover would make up for it. I slicked it over my swollen lips, and thrust it in, fingertip tapping a staccato beat on my clit. The consummation came quickly, my orgasm coursing through me in waves, making my body quake with the release. Shattered, I waited, my head down as the aftershocks died away. After what seemed a long while, I was ready to stand on both feet, no longer needing to brace myself against the wall. I lathered up thoughtfully, my mind’s eye still traveling over my dream lady’s curves and features.

I stepped out of the shower and caught a glimpse of movement in the steam-fogged mirror. Smiling slightly, I saluted the woman I saw there, amazed anew at her ingenuity and vision.

Technorati : masturbation, sexblogs, wet dreams
Del.icio.us : dreams, masturbation, sexblogs, shower
Ice Rocket : masturbation, sexblogs, shower, wet dreams

After less than a year, I left SJ a thoroughly humbled sophomore and returned home, the light rail quickly forgotten as I once again immersed myself in the seamier side of Los Angeles. Until more than ten years later, I had a chance to catch a ride on our own new light rail, the Gold Line. A few friends and I had been traipsing around the Downtown L.A. Art District, catching one exhibition and a few stray perverts. Rather than take a cab back to my place as we’d planned, we thought it’d be fun to take the new rail system, so we caught a ride to Union Station. Memories flooded back as we boarded, and looking around the sparsely populated car, I automatically tried to designate this evening’s protagonist. I was disappointed until we reached the next station. Two men entered our car and I pinpointed my man. He and his buddy were still standing as the train started moving. Completely ignoring my friends and their muted blather as they, too, surveyed the scene, I scrabbled through my mental rolodex of opening lines, yanked out the first marginally plausible one, and advanced on them.

“Excuse me, can you tell me what stop you got on at? I wasn’t paying attention,” I asked them anxiously, directing my query at the shorter of the two. I could tell that he’d fit nicely against me.

“Downtown, I think, right?” he asked of his pal. Oh no, I groaned internally. He was gay, or pretending to be. I looked hopefully at his friend.

“Chinatown,” his likewise gay friend told me.

I sighed and thanked them, then headed back to give my friends the disappointing news. At this time of night, I didn’t hope for another chance, but I got one a few stops later: a busty little latina and two asian girls. I could hear the porn music already. I slouched down in my seat and regarded them appraisingly, wondering which I should choose, or if I should let my mind take off on another tangent. Deciding against the wild public-transit orgy, I settled on one of the asians. I knew better than to approach her, particularly after my recent mistake. “Never mistake the artist for the art,” Alfred Bester had once said, or something close enough. Taking that wisdom to heart, I watched my girl through my half-closed lids, posing her in the aisle, myself beside her in a crowded car. I’d stumble as the train lurched, half-turned toward her, my knee slipping between the two of hers and deftly spreading them to either side. Our eyes would meet, our bodies frozen in a moment of uncertainty-then I’d feel her lean in toward me, her skirt sliding up slightly. I’d shiver a little as the dampness of her panties pressed against the bare skin of my thigh. I’d shift my stance, letting her do the same to me, and we’d stand there, cleft to thigh, moving with the sway of the car, every jostling body grinding us together.

I came awake with a sharp elbow to my ribs. My chicky was gone, and we were at our stop. I was silent on the subsequent cab ride home, musing over the daydream. It’s been so long since I’ve felt that *uNF* of two bodies fitting perfectly together. I wasn’t sated yet, but I knew I would be soon.

And so I was. Several times, in fact. In accordance with my plan to chart my orgasms, the numbers are as follows:

In the cab: 3
Back at home: 7
In the shower: 6

Not bad for a night’s work.

Technorati : bisexuality, fantasies, frottage, masturbation, sexblogs
Del.icio.us : bisexuality, fantasies, frottage, masturbation, sex
Ice Rocket : bisexuality, fantasies, masturbation, sex

However, in the past few weeks, I’ve had some truly bizarre ones. Always with the usual sexual motif, they’re fierce, occasionally even bordering on violence. I’m not talking about forced sex, or rape fantasies, just the occurrences of rampageous scrappin’. One-on-one brawls with a variety of instruments, brutal personal vendettas played out on a ravaged battlefield, pursuit or flight down the twisting alleys of a kafkaesque city. None of these were arousing in the least, but scenes set for erotic encounters.

Last week I had a dream about a BBW Indian woman. I don’t find BBWs undesirable at all, but I also don’t have any particular attraction to them, either; i.e., that’s not a fetish* of mine. My dream woman was curvaceous and eminently alluring, her sensuality towering over mine. Much of the sex we engaged in was physically impossible, some of it even difficult to describe, being based more on sensory input than actual acts. I do remember our sixty-nine: she above, me below, almost completely covered by her body. I felt a moment of panic, afraid I was being smothered before I realized that, yes, I could still breathe. I worked my tongue over the hood of her clit and around her labia with an expertise I don’t usually display (or so it seemed to me at the time-it doesn’t seem so extraordinary in retrospect) with relative strangers. My lady was mirroring every sinuous move my mouth made on her. I tried harder, moving from languorous to rapid, in effect telling her exactly what I wanted and receiving it instantly. I slid the palm of my hand over her labia, letting them slip between my fingers, tugging and pulling firmly. Deftly, I curled the tips of fingers as they glided past her hole and opened her up with two fingers. I felt an electric jolt lance through me from the top of my head to my crotch as she did the same. It was like nothing I’d ever felt before, and within seconds she’d increased the sensation, fisting me vaginally and anally, her fingertips dancing over my clit until the scene exploded in white light and faded.

When I “woke”, I found myself cradled in her arms, her lips softly playing over mine. I kissed her back and reluctantly took my leave. On the way out of her sprawling home, I was confronted by her husband and his brother. Both screamed and yelled at me as I stood there stoically, indifferent to their anger. The living room filled with people as his harangue called them out, more men, women, and children of all ages than any home should hold. I was impatient to be away. I reached around and grabbed a lamp and swung at him; missed. Enraged at my ineptness, I pulled out my gun and trained it on him. Still he shouted. I shot him, kicked his body a few times to see if he’d twitch, and strolled past the crowd out of the house. And into consciousness, slicked in sweat, wracked with nausea and self-revulsion.

As incredibly erotic as the dreams are, they seem diminished by the violence that has never characterized them before. I have to wonder if it’s the medication my doctor prescribed for me last month. Perhaps it’s time for a change.

* In fact, now that I think about it, I can’t really pinpoint any sexual fixation that has to do with physical appearance on my part. It’s my partner’s personality and outlook in life that makes it or breaks it with me. That, and the ability to talk dirty. Note to self: catalog fetishes.

Technorati : about me, fantasies, sexblogs, sexuality, wet dreams

Many years ago I fantasized about it and came up with a rather uninspired fable. Hair stylists, nail techs (id est, those cute gals who do your acrylic nails), and cosmetologists had a system for advertising their other services.  And it went like this:  Some change would be scattered on the lady’s counter (and it was always a lady—this was a girl/girl fantasy, after all) and if you arranged the coins in an idle, surreptitious way, she would know what particular service you wanted to include in your wash-and-blow-dry.  Three coins in a line, standard oral, some finger dipping, clit licking, nothing fancy.  Three-two-two in a line, full service. 

I, being the pestilent and petty little scourge to society that I was at 19, spread the story around with a free and disingenuous hand.  My then friends—those smart and sophisitcated women fresh out of high school—believed it wholeheartedly and passed the wisdom on. 

Here’s the part where I ‘fess up and stop laughing at a very private joke.  Last week a friend of mine mentioned this stupid and (I thought) forgotten lie and told me a story about a friend of a friend who had found a superb nail girl.  The story that unraveled was so familiar I could have told it myself.  In fact, I had.  Time and time again.  Almost word for word.  Do I get to pat myself on the back for starting an urban legend, or smack my forehead on my cheap marble-like counter because I have such a dim-witted herd of acquaintances?

So to those out there who’ve heard or told the story:  It’s a total fabrication created by a horny and not very imaginative nineteen-year-old who thought it all a grand private joke.  To those who scattered change on the counter of an unsuspecting hair stylist who cut your hair for little pay and an even smaller tip:  The joke’s on you.  To the hair stylist who heard the tale and tried to make an extra buck or two licking cunt but didn’t: Sorry!

And to those who did get it or give it or watch it:  Where’s my cut?

One of the many wonderful things about clothes with elastic waist bands is the ability to masturbate in public with none the wiser. I just spent a two hours at a coffee house; half of that time devoted to nothing more than watching people. Innocently chatting with one another, strolling past hand-in-hand, staring morosely at the screens of their laptops as they struggle silently through the esoterics of connecting to HotPoint.

The Bourgeois Pig is not the murkiest night spot I’ve ever been to, but it’s my favorite. The lighting provides ample opportunity to do quite a number of things that you would rather remain unseen. Or at the most, half-seen. Anywhere else, I’d have to have a coat thrown over my shoulders, optimally shrouding my lap. (Where there’s a will, there’s a way, baby.) I used to think that there’s nothing quite as thrilling as doing something dirty while others are watching.

Tonight, I learned otherwise.

The chills you get when you circle your clit with a moist fingertip are magnified tenfold when done in front of others. Should you try it on the sly…keeping others from finding you out, well…sensation is amplified a hundredfold, and it is almost indescribable. The frisson that washes over you when you make eye contact, the shudder you try to hide when someone speaks to you, all unknowing. The sensations all blend together to make an incomparable experience, one that I know I’ll seek again and again. A treasured compulsion to undergo it repeatedly.

The only downside to the experiment was one of my own making. Clitoral stimulation alone rarely gets me off; I need more. Maybe in this situation it’s a boon, however. I am not the quiet type when it comes to orgasms; I can barely control my body, to tell the truth. While I’m more than willing to watch people while I get off, I’m not yet ready to let them watch me. Not more than a half dozen, anyway. I think I’m going to need to study this situation more.

New hobbies are so invigorating.