(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?