an afterthought regarding foreplay

(Again here with the too much sexual information for the friends and family, though this post is more thinky than kinky, so it's up to you, as ever, my dear consenting adults, if you want to partake.)

Donny, my processed American food product boyfriend, my I-can't-believe-it's-not-butter of boyfriends, he with whom I have a relationship that defies tidy linguistic expression, and I had sex last night.

And I realized as he was thrusting his cock inside of me that I had gotten on my knees and deepthroated him, twice, and that he had spent several songs with his tongue gently, insistently, and methodically licking my clit, and we had, of course, spent long minutes over dinner dirtytalking about fantasies and realities, but we had not kissed.

Not soul kissed anyway.

And maybe this oversight of adolescent spitswapping is due to the D/s flavor of our processed American food product relationship, but, to express my dismay in teenterms, what the fuck?

I can't help thinking about Monty Python's The Meaning of Life when John Cleese as the schoolmaster teaching his students sex education, asks some methods to get one's ladylove sexually excited.

"You can touch the clitoris," suggests Eric Idle as a semi-timid student.

"Touch the clitoris!" shouts Cleese,"Why must we go leaping, stampeding towards the clitoris, boy? What about giving her a little kiss? What's wrong with a little kiss?"

What is wrong with a little kiss indeed?

I know, I know we women are complicated beings with our secretive genitals, those folds and tricky crevices, each one very different, our clitoris so often hiding, our g-spot tucked in, up and under, forcing our lovers to spelunk without a light. Our sexualities are maddeningly mercurial too--sometimes we want, actually want, to have our head pulled to your crotch with our hair as a handle and treated worse than a washed-up Tijuana whore, or at least our sexed-up, romantacized and sanitized ideas of how a washed-up Tijuana whore is treated.

Sometimes we want to be the video vixen, seducing you by playing flashyflashy with our panties under our schoolgirl kilts, splaying ourselves across the representative hoods of your symbolic Ferraris, dragging you into our boudoirs to force you to justify our love.

Sometimes we want to play the parts of us piratess and you buccaneer, us socialite and you cabanaboy, us business executive and you elevator operator ("Going down?"), us felon and you cop, us student and you professor, us housewife and you plumber, us window washer and you high-powered attorney, us French maid and you Gary Cooper, us George Steinbrenner and you Billy Martin.

And sometimes we want to be kissed.

Would it kill you to suck the inside of our elbows? To bite the backs of our shoulders, leaving pale purple bruises that might on the morrow bring chagrin and a good downlow tingle? Can you not roll around with us on the floor, doing the horizontal frottage dance of teen angst?

Will you please just suck our toes? Stroke our thighs? Lick our neck like the hot dog that you are? Trace slow concentric circles down ever ever lower down our spines to our iliac crests? Bite our Achilles heels? Use your fingers and your hands to show us that you are men who know what hands and fingers are for?

Will you kiss us like you mean it?

Can you give me a bone here, before giving me a bone?

Comments

[The Zero Boss]

In my household, the footrub is the standard instrument of foreplay.

Kissing? Meh. Sometimes sex is a tongue-tangled tryst, and sometimes it's a straight Julia-Roberts-in-Pretty-Woman kind of affair.

[James]

My wife loves me to kiss her neck and lick her behind the ear. Sometimes she requests ear lobe nibbling. Having said that, she also uses sex as way to bribe me into giving her a massage.

[Jim]

All I have to say is that kissing has gotten me far this weekend.

[Betsy]

Yep, I remember being kissed a time or two (or several dozen) this weekend.

But the way I knew my current guy was a keeper? When he told me (during our first time in bed together, no less) that he'd just discovered the most amazing spot on my body. It was 2 or 3 degrees warmer, incredibly soft, and he already knew that I liked to have it stroked gently, plus he'd claimed it as his own.

The spot? Not at all obvious - it's the crease on the back of my leg where my thigh meets my butt. He was right - on all counts. He's since discovered other heretofore unknown-to-me erogenous zones. And I'm quite liking the exploration...!

[figleaf]

No kidding on the kissing thing. "Soul kissing" huh? It's been a long time since I've heard it called that but it really does fit doesn't it? And you're right, there's nothing like it when you're fully dressed, locked together on a couch trying to send everything you want, and mean, and know through the narrow portals of your joined lips.

Frottage I've used much more recently, but that too is highly overrated, and fits perfectly, totally enhancing those kisses.

Mmmm. Necking!