it's snot sex

In general, I am a big fan of viscosity, sex-wise. High viscosity, as the old ads for STP motor oil used to aver, helps to guard against thermal breakdown, and what is true for combustion engines is equally true for human fornication. You’ve got the piston, you’ve got the cylinder, you’ve got friction. You need viscosity, or you’re going to seize up and burn.

In sex as in motor engines, I definitely have a pro-viscosity agenda. I wave the big foam finger for viscosity. I hold high the viscosity flag. I am all about viscosity, whether in the form of porn-starry spit, or high-quality lube, or general genial vaginal lubricant. As I’ve stated in previous lucibrations on lubrication, I’ll use pretty much anything in the literal pinch, and I’m not ashamed to say so.

However. As with stretch Range Rover limos, genetically altered strawberries, and Brangelina, a previously good thing can be blown up into monstrous proportions. The same human manufacturing plant that brings us that lovely high-quality spit that allows us to swallow cocks like oysters, as well as that delightful lubricant that allows pussies to be pounded comfortably numb, also brings us snot.

Snot is not cute. Necessary as snot is—and it is, without it our sinus cavities would be sere, cracked and parched as salt flats—it is loathsome. I hate snot. Boogers, boogies, loogies: I hate them, hate them all with an extra-flamey white-hot burning passion. Snot is mucous gone wrong. Snot is sneaky. It’ll catch you at your weakest. It’ll drip quietly and hang for all to see, and you caught without a hanky. It’ll pop out all yellow and gleaming, shiny and revolting, and you won’t know until someone is kind enough to tell you. I cannot say it enough: I hate snot. For snot does not merely sneak up on you unawares, but snot is the silent killer of sex.

I have, not unsurprisingly, sinus issues. Since 9/11 when the air in Gotham was permeated with too many problematic substances to name, I have suffered from sinus problems. Every fall, I am under siege from the inside. I wage a preemptive war with my sinuses—Flonase, a neti pot, Sudafed, Tylenol Sinus and Cold, Benadryl: these are my weapons. I do my level best to hold my sinuses back. They usually win; I am usually struck down at least a couple times a fall; I succumb to blinding headaches and Lucille Austero dizzies. This fall has been no different.

Yesterday, a Sunday, Donny and I wanted to have sex. The flesh was willing, but the sinuses were weak. Not merely mine, but his too, as my boyfriend was suddenly battling a vicious cold, a cold that was overflooding his body with viscous snot. We found ourselves both needing to be either totally upright or completely supine. Leaning over was impossible; my head exploded from the pain and Donny’s nose was in constant peril of going drip drip drip on my cheekbones. It wasn’t cute and it wasn’t hott.

Any armchair fucking mathematician can diagram the proper physical geometry for our fucking. The fucking wasn’t the issue. Girl on top, boy lying down. You know, your basic Cowgirl (variations: the Reverse Cowgirl or that thing chicks do with the squatting over the cock, whatever that’s called). The issue was foreplay. The question before my lover and me what this: How does one get the cock hard and the pussy slick when neither can be comfortably or sanitarily face down for longer than a nanosecond?

I mean, my boyfriend couldn’t even kiss properly. He was, for this afternoon, a mouth-breather.

We struggled. I gamely straddled Donny’s head, nestling his head between my thighs. I couldn’t get into it. I kept on looking at the shelves before me and thinking how they really needed dusting, and then how the pernicious dust was probably behind this whole sinus issue anyway and maybe I should just take a Benadryl, kick Donny out and finally dust. Donny’s sounding kind of Darth Vader down there didn’t really help, especially since my Star Wars fantasies tend toward the Wookie.

Perched up there, my head comfortably up above my heart, I idly eyed my length of white rope hanging from my bedstead and considered tying my boyfriend up. I envisioned myself a black-corseted Ma’am, forcing my naked and white boyfriend to do my bidding. I mused momentarily about teasing him into submission, perhaps introducing a tiny buttplug into his virgin ass. I considered it, thought about it all, a small pleasureshock running up my shakras.

It was too much work. I wanted the orgasm, and so did my man; I wanted the connection, and so did my man. I wanted it all, but one mucous system was working overtime and the other was refusing to play. Add to that Donny’s intermittently flagging cock (a syndrome that always temporarily flummoxes me), and I felt stymied and snotty. It was enough to plunge me into a minor pet.

I clambered off, squirted lube into Donny’s nonplussed palm, and some into my own.

“What the hell are you doing?” Donny asked. He seemed a tad peeved.

You do you, I said. I’ll do me, at least until we get close to coming, and then I’ll hop on top.

I looked at him. He looked back blankly. Do you want me to go to the other end of the be so you can see better? I asked.

Donny rolled his eyes and I put his hand to his cock. I put my hand to my pussy. We laid beside each other, rubbing and holding one another, watching and slowly, incrementally, growing large and wet, respectively. Our thighs touched, our lips did not; our excitement mounted; our bond felt shared as our breath gradually grew heavy, punctuated occasionally by sniffles.

Comments

[Holly Waters (DFP)]

I love, love, lurve this! It's real sex. I've written about something like this at my blog - how is one to enjoy a cock when one cannot breathe through one's nose? It's horribly disappointing. My husband came to much the same solution as you did when I have a cold sore. I can't kiss him - anywhere. Not so sexy. So we lay, side by side, and he uses his fingers on me, I give him a handjob until we are ready for more. I like it simply because it's a solution we came up with together. Conquering obstacles makes me hott.

[Anonymous]

Viscosity is the opposite of what you describe. STP helps to guard *against* viscous motor oil.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Viscosity

[chelsea g]

Dear anon,

You are correct. My bad understanding, worse research and horrid analogy. I'm going to let the post stand as a testament to my enduring humility.

kissykiss,
chelsea g

[Juno Henry]

I love how you always have such a refreshing angle to problem-solving.

Oh, and this:
"I kept on looking at the shelves before me and thinking how they really needed dusting, and then how the pernicious dust was probably behind this whole sinus issue anyway and maybe I should just take a Benadryl, kick Donny out and finally dust."

made me laugh until *i* was all snotty.

Sniffly kisses,
Juno x

[Sailor]

I love the sharing you choose, good, bad, extremely hott, or snotty, you write well and it's always a pleasure to read your entries.

*Crossing my fingers for a quick return to unsnottiness*

Dave

[ajooja]

I love this post.

When people ask how it's possible that my wife and I still have sex on a very regular basis, I think of nights like this. I think of the nights we're beyond dead tired, but still need to connect. The nights where getting started is tougher, but finishing seems oh so much sweeter.

Thanks.

[chelsea g.]

Yeah, I'm just keeping it real, as the kids used to say in 2002. I'm glad you all could relate. And, thanks, we're both feeling much better.

kissykiss,
chelsea g

[Tara Tartly]

oh my...it's awful...and i'm loving it...but am so glad you're both feeling better. here's to happily unsnotty sex!

[S.P.]

Yeah, it's two months after-post when I'm reading this, but be sure to keep your just-described solution in your bag for future reference... Variety is a GOOD thing, natch, and the occasional "wank while watching" party is a nice diversion, which the Ms. certainly agrees with me on!!!