Breaking Our Own Rules #lesbian #erotica

The Girl on Your Skin

Lesbian Erotica by Giselle Renarde

How could I complain? I was breaking my own rule.

Nesta and I made lots of rules when we opened up. She wrote them down in the back of her daybook, and we kept those pages pinned to the corkboard by her computer:

-Don’t bring dates home
-Don’t fall in love
-Don’t rave about how great the sex was
-Don’t come to bed smelling like another girl

The list went on, but I was hung up on that last point. All night, I’d been tossing and turning in my sweat-soaked sheets. TV was boring. I went to bed with a book, but the book was boring too. Brought out my vibe. Didn’t do a damn thing. The room felt different when I was alone in it, when I knew Nesta was fucking someone else.

Waiting was killer. Lying alone in our bed, I waited to hear her key in the door, waited for the hinges to creak, for her to unzip those big boots and kick them off in the hallway. Even the sound of her breath, the shallow guilt as she tiptoed to the bathroom, flicked on the light, closed the door—it was all there, right in my ear. The squeal of the shower. I heard every step in the process like an echo as I waited for her Nesta to come home.

I felt feverish, searching for a cool spot on my hot pillow. My head was burning up, and buzzing like a bee hive. I bucked against Nesta’s side of the bed, smelling her hair, her perfume, her body. It was all there in the sheets.

Where the hell was she? Fuck, it was… nine-forty-five? How was it only nine-forty-five? Felt like three in the morning. I covered my eyes and rolled onto my stomach, growling. My breath saturated the pillow, and I rolled again—onto Nesta’s side of the bed this time. I wasn’t going to preserve it anymore. When she got home, she was just going to have to deal with messy covers.

“Do you know what time it is?” I asked, in my mind. But that was a stupid question, because it wasn’t really late. “I’ve been worried sick.” Or maybe, “Who was she?” Or, “How was she?”

No, I couldn’t ask that question. It was in the rulebook. We weren’t supposed to ask about sexual performance.

I rolled back onto my side of the bed. More and more, I was starting to think it took a special type of person to survive an open relationship, and maybe I wasn’t that special. Did everybody feel this jealous?

When I finally heard Nesta’s key in the door, it came as a surprise. Maybe I’d given up hope or something, because I sat straight up in bed, on high alert, like the figure coming through the front door might not be Nesta at all.

She unzipped her boots, kicked them off in the hall. I couldn’t see her until she tiptoed past the bedroom door, and even then she was only a shadow. The shower would come next…

No.

Something inside me was adamant about this. I whipped off the covers and stomped across the room in basketball shorts and a T-shirt. Nesta shrieked when I grabbed her wrist and pulled her out of the bathroom. She shrieked like she didn’t know it was me, like I was some faceless attacker in the night.

I pulled her tight to my body and held her there, like we were dancing. Her breath hit my chin in hot little bursts as I pinned her to the bed.

“I haven’t showered yet,” she said in a whisper.

That day, for the first time, I didn’t care. My lust for Nesta superseded any jealousy. I was so hot for her I didn’t even know where to start.

Pressing my body tight to hers, I kissed her hard. She was too shocked to react, and I had to pry her teeth apart with my tongue, dig inside her perfect mouth.

Her perfect mouth tasted like pussy.

The sweet tang, the aftertaste that stuck at the back of my throat—it was pussy, unmistakeable. And I shouldn’t have been surprised, because I knew what she’d been up to, but knowing and tasting are different things entirely. That girl, that other girl, whoever she was, had found her way inside my mouth. She was a stranger to me, but her pussy was on my tongue. I could taste it.

“She fucked your face,” I said, holding Nesta’s head in my hands. My palms looked huge against the fine line of her jaw. “You ate her. You ate her good. Her pussy’s all over your skin.”

“Is it?” Nesta asked, like she wasn’t sure if I was angry or what.

“Shh, shh, shh!” I didn’t want her being scared. “Baby, it’s all good. It’s all good.”

I licked her cheek and she shuddered. “Oh god.”

“I can taste her pussy,” I said, and kissed Nesta’s chin with an open mouth. “I can taste her cunt. It’s everywhere. That chick must have been riding your face hard.”

“Yeah,” Nesta admitted. “She was.”

“Tell me what she looked like, girl.”

Nesta inhaled sharply as I tore open her top. “Are you sure you want to know?” she asked. “I thought we said…”

“Forget the rulebook.” I leaned her down on the bed and kissed a sharp path from her neck to her nipples. They stood up hard against the cool night air, and I asked, “Did she do this too?”

Petting my hair, Nesta said, “Yeah, babe. She did, but not like this. We were standing by the window, all the lights on. She stripped me bare so everyone could see down on the street.”

My pussy clamped tight when I pictured my Nesta naked, all eyes on her, getting her tits licked by some girl I didn’t know.

“Was she wearing lip gloss?” I asked, because Nesta’s nips had a tacky texture that didn’t come from me. And they tasted like strawberries.

“Yeah,” Nesta said. “Gloss over dark lipstick. Fake lashes. Golden eye shadow and thick black liner.”

“A real femme, huh?”

“Yeah, babe.” Nesta pushed down on her pants, and I helped her. God knows what happened to her panties. I’d never seen her go commando before. She must have lost them at this femme’s place. Her pussy was bare where it mattered, with just a tuft of hair like a landing strip.

“You’re still wet,” I said, tracing my fingers over the slick line of her pussy lips. She was drenched with juice, just dripping with it. “Did this girl eat your pussy before you ate hers?”

Nesta nodded. “How’d you know she went first?”

I didn’t know. I wasn’t even thinking anymore. My body was taking her because that’s what my body wanted. There were days when I wished to hell I could grow a cock and fuck her with it, fuck her hard. My system was in overload mode. Too much heat.

“Get me off,” I said, begging for it. I didn’t even know what I wanted her to do, exactly. “Get up on the bed. Spread your legs.”

My cunt was throbbing for real, actually pounding like my clit had its own heartbeat. I pulled off my clothes as Nesta climbed fully onto the bed. Her top was open, hanging off her shoulders. Her bra was pulled down under her tits, but her bottom was bare. Even in the dark I could see her pink glistening. How much of that was pussy juice and how much was a stranger’s saliva?

I’d never wanted to know before. I’d never wanted to think about who Nesta fucked outside our bedroom. But that’s because I was scared. Scared these women were bigger than me, stronger than me, butcher than me, better.

That was it. That’s what I’d been afraid of—that Nesta was looking to replace me, when all that time she’d been looking in the other direction.

I don’t do feline and feminine. I like the look, but it isn’t me. The girl who’d planted her face between my Nesta’s legs had all that going for her. I could practically see her pouty purple lips parting to lap my Nesta’s nectar. Pretty girls playing in front of open windows, for all the world to see.

My pussy pounced. Turning Nesta on her side, I spread her legs so I was straddling one, the other launched over my shoulder. Yeah, I split her right in half and pushed my cunt right up close to hers. She shrieked and grabbed her tits, like that would protect her from me.

“You’re crazy,” she said, and I wasn’t totally sure whether she was amused or afraid. “What’s going on here?”

“I’m getting off on you,” I said, pressing my fuzzy cunt right up against her. “Fuck, your pussy’s wet, girl. You’re all slippery.”

I licked her smooth calf, and she moaned, thumbing both nipples. “God…”

She looked good like that, damn good, and I asked her, “Is that what you were doing while that other girl sucked your fat little clit? You twisted your tits just like that while she ate you?”

Nesta’s eyes were closed, but she nodded. “Mmm-hmm.”

“You keep tugging on those tits, baby.” I rammed my cunt right up against hers, banging our bones together, searching for the sweet spot. It wasn’t easy to find. Usually I’d have the patience for all sorts of bumping and grinding, writhing and adjusting, but not this time. “Squeeze your tits, girl, just like that.”

Nesta pushed her big breasts together as I pulled her ass off the bedspread, holding her up until my muscles trembled. She wasn’t heavy, but the effort got to me. I needed to come, and fast. I had to find that perfect place where I could rub my fat clit against her pink. I wasn’t getting there quick enough, and it made me want to scream.

I pictured this girl, this stranger, between Nesta’s thighs, lapping at her soft flesh. Would I be beat by some chick I didn’t know? Never. Never. I traced my clit up and across the plump folds of Nesta’s pussy until I found what I’d been looking for.

An imagined tongue licked our clits as we grinded together—hot, wet, slick and powerful. Every woman had a tongue, but not every woman knew how to use it. Whoever Nesta spent the evening with knew just what to do. I could feel it like an echo in Nesta’s pulsing body. I could feel it in the way she bucked against my pussy while we tribbed. There was something between us, something we could both feel even though it wasn’t physically there.

“What’s her name?” I grunted. I could barely speak.

Nesta pinched her tits and squealed. “We said we wouldn’t tell. It’s in the rules.”

“Fuck the rules.” I pounded her pussy with my clit, making it a cock, fucking her like she wanted. “Tell me her name.”

“Won’t you be mad?”

Holding her hips aloft, I traced my clit over hers, feeling her shudder. I trembled so hard I couldn’t speak. I didn’t care about that girl’s name anymore. I didn’t care about anything. My orgasm was coming on strong, riding up my thighs and swelling in my belly before shooting straight to my clit.

It was fireworks, the way we exploded together. Her hips rattled in my hands. My cunt blazed against the soft, wet pink of her pussy. There was another element in the mix, too—a lingering scent, or feeling, or taste. Something foreign, not of us.

Nothing else had ever felt this good, and I knew it was the unnamed femme, the ghost of a threesome. The tang of her pussy clung to my throat as I grunted Nesta’s name. Her tongue was there on my woman’s clit, lapping up hard while we climaxed together. The unnamed girl was there the whole time. No denying it.

My arms lost their strength. I dropped Nesta’s hips to the bed and our hot pussies came apart, making a wet kissing sound. Falling beside her, I spread my legs. My cunt felt so fat I couldn’t close them without sending aftershocks through my whole body.

Nesta was panting wildly when I found her hand with mine. For a long time, we didn’t say a word. We had way too much to talk about—a whole rulebook to re-evaluate. Hard to know where to start.

“I didn’t take my shower,” Nesta said, after a while.

“Yeah.” I slid my arm under her shoulder and rolled in to sniff her neck. The whole room smelled like pussy, but I could still distinguish the one that wasn’t ours. “You want to shower now?”

Nesta hesitated before saying, “Maybe in the morning. I’m too tired to stand.”

We pulled up the covers and buried ourselves underneath. Change was coming, but the conversation could wait. We could sleep together in the scent of that nameless femme who’d taken Nesta up against a window, for all the world to see.

*****

This story appears in my book Spicy Confessions, which is now available as an audiobook from such retailers as Nook Audiobooks and eStories.

If you're a patron of mine on Patreon, I've already read you The Girl On Your Skin. Remember that?

And if you're not yet my patron, get your fine ass over to http://Patreon.com/AudioErotica

When My Husband Met My Master - #awkwardness #jealousy #polyamory

By Lisabet Sarai

I’ve always been susceptible to the myth of the one true soul mate. How seductive it is to think that your perfect partner exists somewhere out in the world, the one person with whom you can connect on every level— physical, mental and spiritual. All you need to do is find him (or her). I understand the sweet ache for that unique individual who complements, completes and fulfills you.

I’ve found my soul mate. Several times.

In reality, I believe I’m constitutionally non-monogamous. I have no difficulty whatsoever being deeply in love with more than one person simultaneously. During one period in my life, I had ongoing serious relationships with three men. By serious, I mean that the connection went well beyond recreational sex. I was sincere when I told each of them that I loved him. Somehow I’d managed the trick of concentrating on the lover who was present, dismissing the others from my mind.

What happens, though, when two of your soul mates collide?

I’ve written many times on this blog about my Master, the man who initiated me into BDSM and profoundly changed my view of myself and the world. I loved—indeed still love—him dearly. His insights, his rough tenderness, his generosity, the way we influenced one another in the astral or non-corporal realm, all combined to make me feel he was the One.

However, our relationship was never easy. We broke up at least partly due to misunderstandings about what each of us wanted. At the same time, the bonds between us remained strong.

Meanwhile, I met and married my husband, a man with whom everything was easy. Our life together began with a three week cross-country road trip, from the East Coast to the West. Travel can put serious strains on a relationship, especially when you don’t know someone well. In our case, it was a dream voyage, a fantastic adventure. We were so comfortable with one another, it seemed we’d been together forever instead of a few days.

Obviously he was my soul mate.

Time and life choices put significant distance between me and my Master. We didn’t see each other for years at a time, though we communicated by mail, email and the occasional phone call. When my path took me to his area, though, I always tried to arrange a meeting. A brief few hours—lunch, a walk in the park, maybe a bit of hanky panky—simultaneously frustrating and thrilling—then I’d return to my husband, grateful for his steady love and easy-going personality, as well as his tolerance of my attachment to my old lover.

On one such visit, though, I had the idea of introducing them. In fact, we arranged to have dinner together—my Master (“G”), my husband and me. To provide a bit of social lubrication, G brought a female friend, Mary. I thought the two men would trust each other more if they’d met. After all, they both loved me, and I felt the same about them. Furthermore, they had other things in common, besides me: high intelligence, interest in things technical, liberal political views.

I was so, so wrong.

That dinner may have been the most awkward night of my life. No one threw a tantrum, but the men were barely civil to one another. Mary’s somewhat sarcastic nature, and the fact that she knew a lot about my relationship with G, didn’t help things. Despite my desire to reassure them, to let each of them know how much I loved him, each man saw a rival in the other. Afterward, my husband claimed that G had explicitly threatened to steal me away from him. (I certainly didn’t hear him say anything like this.) Meanwhile, in our later conversations, G mocked my husband, telling me that he was too vanilla to ever satisfy me.

Every time I remember that meeting, I cringe. I may have done more harm than good, giving each of them a concrete target for their jealousy and insecurity. I’d thought we’d all be more comfortable, getting things out in the open. I even fantasized about making love to both of them at the same time.

Not bloody likely, as it turned out. After that fateful dinner, it became even more difficult for me to justify the occasional meetings with G, because I knew how much my husband disapproved of him.

Sigh.

Being a writer, though, I did manage to fulfill that fantasy, if only in a story. Truce of Trust was inspired by my relationships with these two soul mates. In that tale, the two men agree to live together with the woman they both love. However that doesn’t solve the problem of jealousy:

Greg stirred in his chair. “It’s late, and I’ve got to work tomorrow. Finish your wine, Leah, and come to bed.”

Daniel looked up abruptly. “Wait a minute. Tonight’s my night.”

“No, it’s not. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays she’s with me. In case you’ve forgotten, this is Friday.”

“That’s not fair. She was away last night at her seminar. So she and I should be together tonight as compensation.”

“Sorry, old man.” Daniel was three years older than Greg, who liked to rub that in. “You know that’s not how the system works.”

“Well, perhaps we need to consider changing the system. Somehow it always seems to work out that Leah is away from the house on my nights.”

“Please...” Leah rose from her chair, trying to intervene, but it was as though she wasn’t there.

“I’m sorry, but that’s not my problem. Anyway, you shouldn’t be such a bad sport. After all, you had her to yourself for years.”

Daniel snorted in exaggerated disgust. “To myself? Hardly! I couldn’t make love to her without wondering if she was fantasizing about you. I couldn’t look at her without seeing the marks that you had left.”

“Marks she asked for, don’t forget.”

“That’s what you claim, at least.” Daniel was sexually adventurous, but he had no interest in BDSM. Leah knew that he was truly perplexed by the power dynamics between her and Greg.

“Believe me, I can make her beg to be beaten,” Greg said smugly. “Isn’t that true, little one?”

Leah blushed fiercely, as embarrassed as she was angry. Of course, Daniel knew this about her, but still she didn’t want to admit it out loud.

Both of them stared at her in mute accusation.

“Answer me, Leah.” Greg put a hint of steel in his voice. Shivers of anticipation raced through her in response. Her deepest instinct was to obey him, but she resisted, silent and rebellious.

“Why do you put up with him?” Daniel donned his wounded boy expression, pouting under his moustache. “All he does is hurt you. He has no respect for you. I can give you all the love and tenderness that you need.”

“You have no idea what she really needs,” said Greg softly. His aim was true, as always. 

Daniel slumped in momentary defeat, then roused himself. “If that’s so, then why did she marry me?” he asked, playing his own trump card.

Leah had heard it all before, and suddenly, she couldn’t take anymore. She turned her back on them and headed for her room, ignoring their voices calling after her.

In the story, of course, the men realize they have to trust one another and truly share Leah, or they’ll both lose her.

In real life, things haven’t been that simple. But I haven’t given up hope. I’ve naturally optimistic as well as polyamorous.

Love =/= Sex

I find the concept of non-monogamy intriguing.

Being who I am — a gay male — I’m fairly immersed in the local gay scene and gay culture. It’s been a slow discovery and understanding to learn that a lot of the openly gay guys I know in long-term relationships or marriages have sex on the side.  And, like, it’s not even something to hide or feel ashamed about.

One married friend came back from an LGBT conference and talked about the hook-up scene he was involved with at the hotel. Another friend who’s relationship is as solid as marriage has talked about the “dates” he goes on with men that are not his partner. And another friend has mentioned that he won’t have unprotected sex with his boyfriend because he doesn’t “trust” him.  (He loves him, but doesn’t trust him.)  These are just some of the recent examples.

It’s not cheating, but as far as I know, they’re not in open relationships or poly relationships, either.  It is what it is, apparently.

Perhaps what’s thrown me off about this is that I didn’t come to understand my sexuality until my late twenties, so until then I was immersed in “straight culture” and heteronormative values. So, to me, you fuck the one you’re with and no one else.

But the more my friends and the people around me open up to me and tell me what they get up to when their partners aren’t around (or perhaps while their partner is around or even with their partner), the more I find that monogamy isn’t widely practiced in gay culture.

I wonder, though, if this non-monogamy happens just as often in “straight culture”, but it’s talked about less openly.  I do, after all, know of at least one woman in a poly relationship. In our patriarchal culture, women are to be seen as chaste and devoted, whereas men are not. So perhaps this is why it’s not spoken of among straight couples but is widely and freely discussed among gay couples?

I’ve had to do a lot of thinking on this. It might seem strange given that I’m an erotica writer, however, most of my fiction has been of the monogamous or the “single people hooking up” variety. I believe there’s a separation of sex and love. (This is probably something all of my colleagues on this blog have long understood.)

Sex does not always have to mean intimacy and love — it can just be a carnal act of pleasure.  And love doesn’t always have to be expressed through sex.

My partner and I don’t have the most active sex life and at first I worried that meant we didn’t have the strongest love. However, over time, I’ve come to understand that he sees our other forms of intimacy — holding hands while watching TV, always eating dinner together, and our shared hobbies — to be a vital act of love.  Sex is the icing on the cake, but the cake is still satisfying and substantial even if there’s not much icing.  I’ve begun to also see the act of sex as being separate from love — they are often together, but they can exist separately, too.

Will I be a swinger?  Perhaps.  Perhaps not.  What I will be, though, is more understanding of how swingers and those in open and poly relationships approach the topics of love and sex.



Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is The President And The Rentboy (co-written with Sandra Claire). He is also the publisher and co-founder of Deep Desires Press, a publisher of erotica and high-heat-level erotic romance. He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit http://www.camerondjames.com.

In/Fidelity

Iby Annabeth Leong

I’ve always wondered how a person who subscribes to the philosophy that sex is evil, horrible, shameful, and bad is supposed to just turn all that off on the wedding night and flip a mental switch that now sex is required, wonderful, joyous, and holy. In my experience, guilt and shame never go away that easily. I have a dear friend who seemed to manage that change just fine, to thrive within it. I think the permission slip of marriage set her free to explore in a way that she never could have allowed herself to do while single. It’s not something I can picture for myself, though. For me, the only solution is to not think of sex as shameful under any circumstance, so long as everyone involved consents and is of age to do so.

I’ve also never understood how a person can suddenly change from feeling like, “The absolute worst thing in the world that could happen to me would be to become pregnant,” to, “I want a child more than anything.” I read a very beautiful essay once that described a change from taking birth control pills daily to taking prenatal vitamins and marveled at all the small shifts of perspective that are indicated by that shift of behavior. Again, it’s not something I was able to follow in my own life. When I got into a situation in which it seemed like it might be time to get pregnant, I discovered that unprotected sex induced in me all the same panic as ever.

I bring up these two examples because I had the same experience with “infidelity” (I’ll explain the scare quotes in a moment). Infidelity, as many previous posts have described, is something our current culture deems an egregious offense. I have read studies that say we are more accepting of divorce, premarital sex, exploration of all sorts than people were fifty years ago—but far less accepting of infidelity. I have cheated on lovers at times, and I was wracked by guilt when I did.

Recently, however, I found myself in one of those switch situations. My husband and I, after probably a year or more of intense consideration, decided to become polyamorous. We laid out our expectations of how that would work—when and what did we need to tell each other, what sort of reassurances did we need from each other, and so on. And then I found myself in the novel situation of kissing someone else and knowing, intellectually, that it was allowed.

I am not being unfaithful, in that I have not broken any promises that I made. When I kiss my lover, I do it knowing that everyone involved is aware of the nature of the situation, that we’ve all chosen to be in it. My husband and my lover had dinner together before she and I ever kissed, confirming that everything was on the up and up.

I kiss him goodbye and drive to her house, text him that I’ve arrived safely, spend the night with her, and eventually kiss her goodbye and drive to the house I share with him, text her that I’ve arrived safely, and so on. It is a different sort of routine, but it’s a routine. It’s a different sort of faith, but there is a great deal of fidelity involved. I compare calendars and pay attention to my promises and do my best to be kind and fair to both of them.

Despite that, I had trouble flipping the switch. I found (and still find) that I am sometimes flooded with the sort of guilt I would feel if I was cheating. When there is any sort of problem, I am inclined to blame myself—if I didn’t have another lover, I think, this probably wouldn’t be happening (even if it totally would).

I also fear what people will think of me. People who know me as her lover, if they saw me with my husband… Would they think I was stepping out on her? Or vice versa? I worry that I’ll be branded with the shame even if the ordinary definition of infidelity doesn’t apply to me.

I read an advice column recently (and I really should stop reading those), in which the columnist ridiculed the idea that a man was in an open marriage, assuming he must be lying to the woman he’d approached, lying to his wife, out only for a lay, and a bunch of other stuff. Obviously, I don’t know the people involved, but the behavior described in the original letter sounded like the behavior people use when they’re trying to be ethical about this sort of thing. It’s painful to know that I can try my best to be ethical and yet still be seen as unfaithful or adulterous.

I’m still trying to get that switch flipped, though, because, as hard is it is to do, I want to see the situation as it is: no one is doing anything wrong. I’m lucky to be in this situation, to be understood so well by these people, to be cared for freely and as a free person. My hope is that I’m wrong to think of it as a switch to be flipped. Perhaps all this shame is a wound that will heal with time.

What I Did Before I Knew Better

by Annabeth Leong

I walked into the smoky, after-hours cafe I'd just discovered and encountered the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. He was lanky and careless, the way I like, with dark skin and honest-to-God golden eyes and a way of smiling with only half his face at a time. Sleeping with him felt like a need, not a want.

Back then, in the 90s, I was so good at setting that sort of thing up. In a matter of days, we were listening to Radiohead and Mazzy Star while making out in the back room (where he also slept in exchange for working the counter). We were making out on the floor in the front room after the cafe locked the door, when only the special people got to stay. We were taking midnight walks in the park behind the cafe and climbing from there onto the tops of official city buildings, where we were also making out.

Then I met his girlfriend. She had periwinkle eyes, a feline throat, and beauty spots everywhere. She had a way of laughing that was both rough and girlish, and when she was in the room, I could never stop looking at her. She gave me a ride somewhere, and my hand crept onto her thigh. It was another need.

I wasn't as cool with her as I'd learned to be with men. With her, I was desperate, all too aware of how badly I wanted her, terribly afraid that she might only be tolerating me. Still, I kissed her every chance she gave me. I would take her foot into my lap and stroke her ankle, then slyly and patiently work my way up her leg to the lower edge of her shorts. Sometimes, we played with boys together, trading kisses in combinations that made me dizzy, or going driving and pulling over so I could lick my way down her neck. She was so fucking beautiful to me that the shape of her name still makes me shiver.

He explained the deal to me one night while walking me home, after this thing had been going on for a while. The two of them were together, and their main loyalties were to each other, but they were both okay if I spent an occasional night with one or the other of them. I didn't know words for polyamory, or the concept of primaries and secondaries, but I got what he was saying, and I didn't mind.

It's not just that I didn't mind. It was perfect to me, even if everything I'd ever heard told me that I ought to be upset by the arrangement. The script I knew said I ought to demand to be his exclusive girlfriend. I'd just opened my eyes to the possibility that I might also be her girlfriend, but again, monogamy was the only story I'd been told. I liked having a boyfriend and a girlfriend, though. I'd spent the last couple years cheating on lovers all the time, until finally I swore off making promises of exclusivity. Our deal gave me the freedom I wanted, but also the right to spend time with what seemed like the hottest two people in the world.

For a while, it worked, and I was happy. Then he came to talk to me again. They were worried, he said, that this thing we had going was too imbalanced. They thought I ought to get a boyfriend who was cool with joining our arrangement. The number three was unstable, and they thought a fourth would even things out. We could go on double dates together without looking weird.

They had a guy picked out for me, a friend of his, and they wanted me to meet him.

It's hard to believe now that I was really this casual about things, but I said sure, whatever they wanted, and agreed on a time to go out as a group of four. I was excited, too. I liked the mathematical possibilities of what they had proposed. The whole thing possessed a beautiful symmetry. I drew lines in my head, connecting the dots in different combinations, and I fantasized about our future together.

There was just one problem. When I met the guy they'd picked, I hated him on sight. He was a good-looking man, if you were into a cold, Aryan beauty, but his smell turned me off in a deep, primal way, and I didn't like the way his skin felt. He'd apparently been told I was a sure thing. Within minutes of our meeting, he took my hand and introduced it to his cock. If I'd wanted him, I would have been thrilled, but as it was, my stomach dropped. I knew this beautiful arrangement was about to end.

The three of them played together without me that night and for several nights after. I'd never been jealous before, but I was then. I gritted my teeth and smiled through their descriptions of the satisfaction delivered at the hands of the man I didn't want.

A few weeks later, I got another visit. The two of them were going to try being exclusive with each other, he said. In my heart, I'd known it was over the night I'd met their friend, so I was ready for this. I gave him a hug and told him I loved him. I don't think I ever really got to say goodbye to her.

There's a reason this is the story I'm telling for my post on the 90s, and it's not just that this is when these events took place. This version of me, so absolutely unconventional, formed at that time, and came as a product of listening to Ani DiFranco and reading The Sandman and having friends who went to Lilith Fair. It came out of reading sourcebooks for White Wolf Games, which stunned me with their easy portrayal of various queer identities and relationships, not to mention other people at the margins of society.

It's not that I didn't suffer for my sins. I got my heart broken a lot, and I hurt people, and people in my small Southern town thought I was a (no-lie) devil worshipper even though I went to church, and I got called a slut in whispers and people screamed that I was a slut from car windows.

But I miss that version of myself, even though for a lot of my life it got a bad rap. See, when the end of the 90s came, that person ended, too, for a long time. I got convinced to stop listening to "negative" music, stop wearing black, stop playing devil games, stop kissing girls, and stop sleeping around like a slut. My journey into a socially conservative life can't be blamed on religion, though the fundamentalist Christian values floating around where I was living were certainly part of where these ideas were coming from.

I was depressed at the time, and I got hooked up with a group of people who convinced me that social acceptability (though they weren't calling it that) was the way out of my problems. In fact, I got brought into that group by that beautiful man I mentioned right at the top of this post. We were in a band together, but he'd decided to settle down. He and his girlfriend had broken up, he'd always remembered me fondly, and this was our chance to be together and make a better life for ourselves.

And I did feel better for a while—it's amazing how good it can feel to give in and stop fighting. And this is why, for a long time, I couldn't understand the "born this way" arguments for gay rights (I still prefer arguments based on personal freedom). In response to the idea that it's some sort of choice to be queer, I've heard the rejoinder, "Well, when did you choose to be straight?" But I had an answer for that. In the year 2000. And it made my life a whole lot more comfortable.

Until it didn't. It wasn't long before that man was telling me he missed "the way I used to be." And my relationships with women became lousy with unspoken desires and weirdness (and I am only just starting to sort that bit out).

In the 90s, I didn't know how to conform, and I wore my pain raw, and I did things the only way I felt I could, and it hurt sometimes but I also love that brave past version of myself. I didn't know much of anything about how to protect myself, and I didn't know the words for half of what I wanted to do, and that hurt, too.

I've learned a lot since then, though, and I've come to see the person I was in the 90s as an important indication of what I was growing into being. I can't just rewind to that, and maybe I wouldn't want to, but if not for that person, I wouldn't be here writing erotica now. In all my confusion, when I ask myself what I honestly want, or what my identity actually is, it doesn't hurt to think back to how I acted then, when I didn't yet know better than to be myself.

Opening Up

posted by Giselle Renarde

A laser canon zapping the school? Maybe? 

When I was in Grade 6, book reports were due every other Friday.  We each had a small "cahier" (workbook) labelled "comptes-rendus" (book reports), and in it we'd write up a blurb about the book--the plot, the characters, whether or not we enjoyed it, that sort of thing.  We also had to draw a picture to illustrate a scene that best caught our imagination.

One Thursday evening, I realized... uh-oh... my compte-rendu is due tomorrow.  Instead of reading a book really fast and writing up a quick report like I'd done a fortnight prior (I read and reviewed a joke book--I kid you not), I decided... hey... there's no way my teacher has read every book in existence, right?  Why don't I make one up?

And that's what I did.  I invented a book.  I made up a title, made up the characters, made up the plot.  Everything.

Luckily, for my first post here at Oh Get a Grip, I don't have to do that.  Not that I would, as an adult.  Let's hope I've learned a little something from past indescretions.  Even if they earned me an A+.  Not that I'm bragging...

The book that is the current apple of my eye is Tristan Taormino's "Opening Up: A Guide to Creating and Sustaining Open Relationships."

It's a real book.  I didn't make it up.  See?


And thank goodness Opening Up is real, because it needs to exist.  I bought the book as a poly-minded person who happens not to lead a very poly life.  If you know me, you know I have one girlfriend (I refer to her as Sweet, online).  Neither of us is really in the market for additions to our couplehood at the moment, but we're not opposed to the idea of sharing our lives with others... in the future... if we wanted to.  It's a not-right-now-but-maybe-someday sort of thing.

Why did I buy a copy of Opening Up?  Well, I've never been a fan of monogamy as a concept.  I don't have a problem with people making an informed decision to be with one person and only one person til death do us part, but I don't feel like people have a good sense of their options.  That's why there's so much cheating in the world--much more than the general population admits to.  I know things.  I was mistress to a married man for ten years of my life.  A lot of people feel trapped in marriage, and don't want to divorce for whatever reason.

It's easy to demonize the unfaithful, but what's the alternative to adultery?  Well, read Tristan's book.  There are plenty of models for open relationship, and she addresses them with knowledge and deft.  I particularly appreciate that she doesn't focus solely on poly for the purpose of sexual variety, but that she broadens the scope and includes platonic models, which I particularly appreciate.

Opening Up is not a book about finding new people to sleep with.  Well, that's part of it, inasmuch as sex part of many relationships, but more than that, it's a book about mindfulness--about being self-aware, being sensitive to partners' emotions, and addressing our own adverse feelings when they pop up.

In fact, one of the main reasons I bought a copy of Opening Up was that I had a suspicion it would address jealousy.  And it does.  There's a whole chapter on jealousy.  Tristan even breaks it down into components:

Jealousy is really an umbrella term for a constellation of feelings including envy, competitiveness, insecurity, inadequacy, possessiveness, fear of abandonment, feeling unloved, and feeling left out. (Opening Up, pg 156)

For me, though I'm not nearly as jealous as I was in my younger years, the green-eyed monster still rears its head in every relationship.  Actually, I've realized that, even in my mid-thirties, I still feel a multitude of child-like jealousy-related emotions with respect to family members (ie. feeling jealous that my mother invited my sister on a vacation, but didn't invite me).  Jealousy and other strong emotions might be more at the surface of open relationships, but they are present, for most people, even beyond romantic relationships. 

Since I started reading Opening Up, I've noticed more mindfulness and recognition of emotions, and I find I'm better at dealing with the feelings in Tristan's jealousy constellation.  For that reason alone, I would recommend Opening Up to anyone.

I would further recommend it because there's so much misunderstanding and lack of respect for the poly mindset.  Even when I was in Grade 6 and faking book reports, it already seemed strange to me that two people could get married, but three or four couldn't.  Maybe I'm somehow predisposed to appreciating open relationships, but for people who want to learn more, Opening Up is an absolute must-read.

Hugs,
Giselle

Three's the Charm

By Lisabet Sarai

Warning: this blog entry is frank and explicit. If you have any illusions about my innocence, do not read any further!

When I sat down to address Kim's topic, "The More, the Merrier", I wondered what perspective I should take. Should I put on my author's hat and talk about writing ménage? Or should I share my personal experiences with multi-partner sex?

I realized that the threesomes and foursomes that I've written are distinctly different from those in which I have participated. My books include quite a number of multi-partner episodes. There are two in Raw Silk (M/M/F/F and M/F/M/M) and three in Incognito (F/M/F, M/F/M, and M/F/M/F). (It's surprising to me to realize that there are not any ménages in Ruby's Rules. Although there's a full chapter BDSM scene featuring three women and one man, the only actual sex in that chapter is M/F.). I've also created several stand-alone ménage erotic romances for Total-E-Bound: "Monsoon Fever", in the anthology Brit Party, which includes an intense M/M/F triad, and my just released Truce of Trust, which is M/F/M.

With the exception of Truce of Trust, almost all my literary ménages involve individuals who are strangers, or at very least are meeting for the first time. This makes the multi-partner activity more extreme and transgressive. Having sex with a stranger breaks taboos. Sexual activity with multiple strangers raises the intensity. Fear and embarrassment can contribute to the heat level in such scenes. The characters may be asking themselves how they can possibly be doing such forbidden things, even as they cannot resist getting involved. Being anonymous frees them to behave in ways they'd never consider in their ordinary lives.

In the real world, in contrast, my most satisfying multi-partner experiences have included people I knew well and cared about: my husband and his or my close friends. I've occasionally gotten involved in group scenes with strangers, at sex clubs or swinger's parties, but I've generally found this disappointing. The reality—or at least my reality—is that I can't get very excited by just bodies, no matter what they are doing. I have to feel an emotional connection with my partner(s). I have to like them and trust them. I have to be comfortable, not feel a need to perform.

My first threesome involved my husband-to-be (I'll call him Ken) and a guy I'll call Phil, who had been Ken's friend for more than a decade. Phil was intelligent, funny, artistic, and attractive in a lanky, nerdy way that greatly appealed to me. Ken and I had discussed the possibility of a sexual interlude with Phil before we showed up at his door for our planned visit. Ken wasn't attracted to Phil himself, but he was sexually adventurous and knew that Phil was, too. The second night we stayed at Phil's apartment, the three of us ended up in bed together. The thrill of being the center of attention for two delicious men was incredible. Even more pleasurable, though, was the sense of connection and comfort the three of us shared. I couldn't believe how relaxed we were together. The next day, we all went to see the movie “Raiders of the Lost Ark”. (That will tell you how long ago this was!) As we strolled down the street, hand in hand in hand with me in the middle, I thought I'd never felt such a high. It wasn't just the excitement. It was pure joy, pride that we had dared to breach the barriers of convention, gratitude to the two men who'd given themselves to me.

I try to capture this same sort of emotion in my written ménages. The better the participants know each other, the easier that is, but group scenes among friends do not have the shock factor of more casual encounters. So it's a balancing act.

In Truce of Trust, I go beyond ménage to the concept of polyamory: a committed, long-term sexual and emotional relationship among three or more individuals. I talked about the delights and perils of polyamory recently at Hitting the Hot Spot. It's not something that I've experienced, but it seems very natural to me.

Leah lives with her husband and her dominant lover, who first introduced her to BDSM. She loves and desires them both, but each of the men feels threatened by and jealous of the other. When she can't stand their sniping any more, she takes off by herself, to try and understand her own heart. Left behind, the two men must find a way to share Leah, or they will lose her forever.

Of course, Truce of Trust is a romance, so it ends happily with all three characters in bed together. Here's a little taste, to whet your appetite.

---

The cabin felt crowded with all three of them inside. Greg’s head nearly touched the ceiling. Leah squirmed past them to stand near the bed. She kicked off her shoes. Her eyes locked with theirs as she unbuttoned her blouse and threw it into the corner, then unfastened her bra. She peeled off her jeans and her underwear in one motion. No one breathed.

She stretched out on the old-fashioned quilt, propped up on her elbows. The men’s eyes were wide, as though they’d never seen her naked before. Leah laughed. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

There was a mad scramble as her lovers struggled to remove their clothing. Daniel finished first. He threw himself onto the bed, landing with a bounce next to her. “Leah. Can I kiss you?”

She took him in her arms. “Hon, you can do anything you want!” His mouth fastened on hers, his mustache tickling her under the nose. Desire swept through her like a hurricane. She opened to his probing tongue. His palm settled on her breast, his thumb making gentle circles around the nipple. Sensation spiraled down to her pussy. Her clit tingled and throbbed, aching for its own massage. She spread her thighs in invitation.

A weight settled on her opposite side and then she felt the touch she craved, circling the taut nub at the apex of her sex. She knew the hand of her master. A new flood of moisture welled up and overflowed. He flicked her clit back and forth, driving her crazy. Meanwhile, other fingers sank deep into her. She twisted and bucked, grinding herself the hand working inside her folds. Sharp pleasure radiated from her clit; smoother, fuller sensations gathered in her depths, as her muscles clenched against the invading digits.

Wetness now, a hot mouth suckling one swollen nipple—Daniel?—and then the scream of the other, captured in an iron grip and twisted almost beyond endurance. Greg. Gentle fingers stroking along the slippery length of her sex, tickling and teasing, then a blunt digit plunged with delicious force into her rear passage. Daniel released her from his kiss and Greg claimed her mouth, sucking fiercely at her tongue as though he would swallow her whole.

She hovered on the edge of climax, suspended between them, gentleness and fury. Innumerable fingers stroked, pinched, probed her most private places. She writhed helplessly, trusting them to lead her where she needed to go.

Her hands were above her head, clenching at the coverlet. Now someone grasped her wrist and brought her hand down to an endless length of hard flesh, rooted in silky curls. Daniel’s body arched like a cat at her touch. He rubbed his cock against her hand, steel sheathed in satin. She wrapped her fingers around him, squeezing while stroking the underside, the way he liked. A shudder ran through him. Reflexively, his fingers pushed deeper into her pussy.

“Suck me, slut,” Greg whispered in her ear. She turned to find him kneeling next to her, his erection bobbing in her face. Eager for his taste, she swallowed as much of his length as she could. The bulb grazed the back of her throat. She lapped hungrily at the rigid column filling her mouth. “That’s good,” he groaned. “Now suck.”

She pursed her lips and worked her tongue, building up the suction until he groaned anew. She pumped at Daniel’s cock in the same rhythm. It was strange—the two cocks somehow seemed to belong to one man. As she brought them closer, she could feel their excitement, climbing in tandem. She sensed them both losing control.

---

What do you think? Strangers to remove the sense of responsibility? Or dear ones who are less outrageous, but more familiar? How would you like your ménage?