I Challenge You to a Game of Sex #sexuality #confidence #kinky #queer

A post by @GiselleRenarde

I'm asking myself if I've ever been attracted to my opposite, and I honestly don't think I have--not in any big sense. The people I'm attracted to are always similar to me in most ways. Our values and beliefs are the same, we tend to enjoy the same literature, films, music, all that.

I've never been the bookworm making eyes at the biker, nothing that extreme.

But if we're talking about sex, well, that is one area where I suppose I have been drawn to people who weren't exactly my mirror image.

When I was younger, I was strikingly confident with regard to sexuality--seeing as I was a virgin and all...

I remember watching American Beauty when it came out in 1999.  When it turned out that (spoiler alert!) Mena Suvari's ravenously seductive character was also a virgin, it was like looking in a weirdly humiliating mirror.

That was me. That's how I behaved. I found the idea of sexuality very empowering, but I'd never actually HAD sex.

Was I attracted to other people who made raunchy jokes and flaunted their assets? Of course not!  I had friends who were like me, but the people I was attracted to, when I was younger, were really quite bashful. Innuendo embarrassed them... excited them, too, I found out years later... but in the moment all I saw was the bashfulness... and all I felt was the power I wielded over men with my feminine wiles.

I liked being able to intimidate men, and I liked men I could intimidate.

I wanted to be in charge, and I was.

Later on, when I was confident in my sexual skill (because I actually had some), I found myself drawn to people who could expand my horizons. Looking back, I was pretty gosh-darn vanilla, at that point. If you'd asked me, "Are you vanilla?" I would have been like "Of course not! How dare you!" but when I think of all the things I hadn't done... wow, that's a long list.

I ended up with someone who was kinky as hell, and not because she was trying to be--she just exuded that brutal feminine confidence I'd felt so sure I possessed all those years ago. It was the dominating nature of her personality that taught me to submit. And, I tell you, it came as a relief to not be in charge in the bedroom anymore.

The effects spread beyond the bedroom, too.  Spread to my writing. If not for that confident kinkster, Lexi Wood would never have been born. She pushed me to write beyond my boundaries--to write incest erotica like the Adam and Sheree series, and Lexi's ever-growing list of short stories.

Sometimes you need someone who's going to challenge you.  You need it to grow.

Now I see myself as a kinky queer who is quietly confident about sex, but who doesn't have to be in-your-face about sexuality or wield it like a sword.

Maybe the whole "opposites attract" thing has operated with subtlety in my life. At times, I've challenged others to a game of sex. At times, I've been challenged. But the result has been growth, overall, and a better understanding of relationships, myself, and my place in the world.

What Was Lost: Three Flashers -- #virginity #kidnapping #eunuch

By Lisabet Sarai

Five Stages

“When did she disappear?”

“Four years ago.” My companion hardly looked old enough for this to be plausible. She examined her manicured nails and sighed. “She’d be seven now. More coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

She sipped hers, deep in thought. I scanned the sunny backyard, noting the jungle gym in the far corner. The lost girl had been an only child. I wondered at the woman’s serene composure.

“How do you manage?”

“Therapy.” A wan smile. “I’ve learned the five stages.”

“You mean, like the stages of grief?”

“A bit. But simultaneous. Grief is the first. Every day I spend some time in despair.”

I nodded. “And the others?”

“Acceptance. I have to realize I may never see her again. Then there’s service. Like volunteering for the lost child hotline. And giving this interview.”

“Which I appreciate.”

“Stage four is continued investigation. I have a top PI on retainer. I’ll know as soon he finds a shred of new evidence.”

I tapped some notes into my tablet. “And stage five?”

She smoothed her hands over her designer slacks. Her lips tightened into thin line as she met my gaze. “Retribution. I won’t rest till I’m holding his bleeding balls.”

Ready

I’m ready.

We’ve been making out for more than an hour in his dad’s car, parked by the fields on the outskirts of town. I’m on fire from his roving hands, his evergreen cologne, the masculine roughness of incipient beard on his high-school-boy cheeks. I’m eager to lose my innocence, to step through the gateway into womanhood.

He’s ready, too. He’s stashed a blanket in the trunk. A full moon rides among the stars over our heads. Hand in hand we wade through the tall grass to the top of the hill. I strip, feeling his eyes on me, knowing my own power. He does the same. His erection is massive, scary, thrilling. Power indeed!

From his discarded jeans he pulls a condom. Fascinated, I watch him tear the foil, extract the limp bit of latex, try to roll it down over his cock. It’s not working.

“Can you help?”

I’ve touched him before, even stroked him to messy climaxes, but now my hands are clumsy. The head is inside, but the rest seems stuck. As I fumble, his cock wilts.

Finally we lie defeated on the blanket, in each other’s arms.

Guess we weren’t ready after all. 
 

For the Queen

“It’s not true, you know.”

“What?”

“Castration doesn’t eliminate sexual desire. Not when you’re cut after puberty.”

“You still feel aroused? You still want women, even after—”

“And men. Eroticism begins in the mind, Eleanor. Imagination is a potent aphrodisiac. When someone attracts me, I start spinning fantasies. Usually, of course, I don’t act on those notions, but they’re surprisingly satisfying.”

“Usually?”

The chief eunuch gives an enigmatic nod.

“Why did you do it?” I can’t conceive of a motivation compelling enough to make me give up my breasts or my clit—which I notice is tingling due to this turn in our conversation.

“For the Queen. She needed my counsel, my wisdom, my admittedly Machiavellian skills, to develop into the steel-spined ruler the kingdom needed. She was so young when she came to the throne. But she already understood the distractions and dangers of sex.”

“Does she know?” Our Majesty is no longer a green girl.

A buttery smile stretches his pudgy cheeks. “She guesses. She trusts me now.”

I should be wary of this powerful creature, but I can’t resist.

“How–when you’re aroused, how do you–?”

He lays a soft hand on my thigh. “Let me show you.”

Initiation ( #FirstTime #Fetish #Fantasies )

by Annabeth Leong

Virginity loss has featured in my sexual fantasies for most of my life.

It goes way back to one of the first books I read that included explicit scenes, Jean M. Auel’s Valley of the Horses. That book includes descriptions of a ritual around a woman’s first time that really turned me on—partially because it involved her being initiated by a stranger. That page of my edition was heavily dog-eared, and I remember setting my alarm clock to wake up in the middle of the night so I could read it in private and, er, respond to it in the ways that came naturally.

Even well into adulthood, fantasizing about a hypothetical first time would get me off. I’ve also enjoyed a lot of roleplaying—protestations of innocence or wonder, sometimes with a creepy, consensual non-consent tone, but sometimes playing it just flat out silly, giggling at the ridiculous things I’m saying, while also coming hard. It’s fucking hilarious to pretend I don’t know where my own cunt is, and it turns me on to a surprising degree.

It’s odd because my actual experience of losing my virginity was not that wonderful or thrilling. I was rather young—twelve—dating an older guy who wouldn’t take no for an answer. I remember seeing a friend right after the first time it happened, and she was excited, and I was more bemused than anything else. I didn’t feel particularly changed or transformed.

So I don’t know why virginity loss has been such a consistent turn-on. Maybe I’m looking for a do-over, but maybe I’m hunting a fiction that’s never existed. I know most of the fetishes around virginity are nonsense. I don’t have a freshness seal, and I never did. (If you want your mind blown, read Emily Nagoski’s Come As You Are and discover that the hymen does not work at all like most people think it does.) It was not a magical initiation. I didn’t reach simultaneous orgasms. And so on. And yet…

Lately, a funny thing has happened. I’m in my thirties now, and I’m noticing that many of my fantasies are shifting. I can’t buy myself in the ingenue role anymore. I’ve been fucking for more than thirty years. I’m not sure why that didn’t start bothering me a decade ago, when it had been more than twenty years, but what can I say? The point is that I can’t plausibly fantasize about my own virginity.

Instead, I’ve started fantasizing about the other side of the initiation. The shift feels strange, but perhaps natural. I’m still into something about the mystery of the first time, but now I’m the one who’s navigating it for an innocent partner.

I’m not so into the freshness seal idea. What’s getting me now is the idea of showing someone something and watching them see it fresh. It’s the same way I like to take people somewhere they’ve never been before or tell them about something new. Initiation is sexy, whether that’s magical or mundane.

I never liked the idea of “losing it.” It always seemed weird to me to think of virginity as something that’s “given up.” Because really, it’s about taking in, soaking up the new.

And maybe this is a bit afield from what I started out to say, but when one’s fetish is novelty, it can be found many times over. First time being caned. First time caning. First time giving oral sex. First time getting it after a while. Or, to paraphrase a comedian I saw once, first time on the hood of this car. I’m still into all of it, no matter which side of the initiation I’m on.

When the nipple makes its first appearance...

by Giselle Renarde

That's me in the corner...
That's me in the spot...light...
Losing my virginity...

There wasn't any music playing the first time I had sex. I kind of wish there had been. I kind of wish it was Losing My Religion.

I was a pretty old virgin too, by today's standards. I was 21 the first time I had sex. It happened at a Crowne Plaza that doesn't exist anymore, in a hotel room I don't really remember because it was like any other nondescript hotel room you can think of. I booked it. He couldn't. His wife paid the bills. She would definitely notice if a hotel charge popped up on their credit card statement.

The whole time I kept thinking: God, I hope I never have to do this again.

It felt so weird, so gross, having this old man on top of. I kept thinking how much I'd begged for it. This is what I've been dying for? This is what I wanted?

I hated it. The whole time I just wanted it to end.

But we're talking P-in-V, here. What about everything else? Whether or not you think of yourself as a virgin depends on whether or not you feel you've had sex.

So what is sex?

As a queer person, I obviously don't think penis-in-vagina intercourse is the be-all and end-all. You can have plenty of sex and never do the P-in-V thing in your life.

Remember on Seinfeld when Elaine asks: “Hey Jerry, when do you consider sex has taken place?” His answer is pretty damn inclusive: “I'd say when the nipple makes its first appearance.”

So why did I still think of myself as a virgin even after I'd sucked a cock or touched a boob? Because I truly believed I was missing out on something important. I thought the moment I got a cock inside me the skies would open up and I'd become aware of all these cosmic truths.

That... really didn't happen.

But penetrative sex did get better over time. Started to feel less icky.

Every so often I like to write about the uncomfortableness of first-time sex. Maybe it's not weird for everyone. I don't know. I'm not an expert. For an erotica writer, I have to confess I'm not a voyeur of other people's sexual experiences. Actually, I'm the total opposite. I don't want to hear about it.

But I make an exception for those squicky awkward first times. There's something so gritty and real about them.

Maybe I just like to watch you squirm.

Should've Lost It Earlier

I was too hung up on my virginity. I held onto it way too long.

That’s a trap we fall into in modern society — the myth of virginity. We’re told it’s precious and we should hold onto it, that we should only give it to someone special, and that those who are still virgins are more pure and wholesome than those who are not.

So… how was your first time?

If it was anything like mine it was… awkward.

I was a virgin till quite late — my late twenties — and it was with someone who wanted to show me what it was like. Did I care about that person? As a casual friend (at the time anyway), yes. As something more, no.

Losing my virginity wasn’t some earth-shattering experience. It wasn’t the greatest orgasm I’ve ever had. And it wasn’t something that I wish I hadn’t done. I’m glad I did it, despite all awkwardness.

If anything, losing my virginity took away the stigma attached to it — the fear that the world would collapse if I had sex. I grew up in a fairly liberal family, so the hangups over sex didn’t come from there. (In hindsight, I think I got it from my best friend growing up — a super-Christian, if there’s such a thing.)

I don’t think I should have lost my virginity before I was ready — but I think I was ready several years before I actually did it. There should be a level of emotional maturity going into the act of sex — but I’m sure half of the people reading this had their first sex encounter when they were nervous teenagers, doing it long before they were really ready for it. Each experience is unique and nobody is slutty or should be shamed for what they’ve done.

So, I had sex. It was long overdue and it was underwhelming. I had glimpses of what sex could be, with the right person, at the right time, and in the right place. It set me on a journey to find that right person, time, and place. It led me to some stupid decisions, yes, but it led me on some fun adventure.

This is probably preaching to the choir here. If you’re reading this, an erotic authors’ blog, then you’re probably in favor of a healthy relationship with sexuality. But I think we sometimes do ourselves a disservice when we combat the abstinence-only folks. I think we accidentally set up a dichotomy of either total abstinence or non-stop sex, when, in reality, healthy sexuality is likely to be somewhere between those two extremes. (And, of course, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with someone choosing to be abstinent — but choosing of their own volition, not because they were told to — or someone who loves sex and has it often.)

If we would grow up with a healthy relationship with sexuality — knowing that it can be fun and spontaneous, that we should do it with people we trust and care about, and being prepared with the knowledge and tools to do it safely — then I think we could be much better as a society. It sounds absurdly cheesy, but sex can make the world a better place by making us healthier and happier people.



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.