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An old friend drops by

Imagine my surprise yesterday when I saw in my notifications that a guy I know from way back in high school is now following this blog. I wasn’t all, “Oh god, hide the flogger and penis pictures, quick!” But I was, “Hmm. How’d he happen to find my little corner of the internet?” So I asked him.

Turns out, WordPress may have been the culprit. I haven’t tried this myself, but apparently you can “find friends” through the WP back-end (I found friends through my back-end, once upon a time, but in a different way). Somehow, through the intricacies and annoyingly complicated tendrils of the social interwebs, my friend (whom I will now call J) was suggested his old high school buddy’s secret sex blog. This is odd because I’ve tried to be somewhat careful with regard to keeping my two web presences disconnected. I have a Facebook account for Thumper and me, but I’ve never connected mine to this blog, just Thumper’s. I also have separate Gmail accounts.

Ah, well. As I’ve said many times in my professional life, there is no such thing as privacy on the internet.

J asked if I was OK with him reading my blog. I thought that was nice. I basically said, well, I put it out there to be read, so if you’re game, go for it. I am, ultimately, not ashamed of this site or myself and J is an old enough friend from so far back (when all our sexualities were bumping around each other like baby hippos learning to walk on land) that at least 17% of that I write here won’t come as a surprise to him.

I sometimes (well, a lot of the time) resent the whole “code of anonymity” thing that comes with blogging about one’s sex life. This is sort of the opposite issue from the other day (or maybe it’s the ultimate symptom of it), but sometimes I wish none of this was secret. It adds a layer of emotional and mental overhead that I’m not crazy about. Now J knows. Add him to the two or three other people who know me in real life who are also aware. Funny, the sky hasn’t fallen.

The way I think about it is this. I will not advertise to anyone in my circle of friends, family, or coworkers that this is who I am. Some people do advertise and vociferously, of course, and more power to them, but I don’t like living that way. But, I will not deny who I am when the subject comes up, however it comes up. If someone happens upon this site accidentally, I can’t be blamed. I did my best to keep them from having to know this about me (there are people I know whose sex blogs would drive me screaming into the hills, so I’m not pretending everyone I’m acquainted with really and truly wants to see my penis selfies). However, if after they find it, they don’t spontaneously combust and actually start to explore this part of my life, I would prefer that they somehow make it known to me that they’re doing it. It won’t change anything about how I do this, but I’d like to know just the same.

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Vacation Ketchup

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Oh, yeah, hey! I got this blog thing I do, don’t I?

So…where were we?

I was in SXSW. Then I was home. Then I was off for another trip. Then I came home. Then we went on vacation. That’s where we are now (and that’s our view above). Too much traveling in too short a time. I was mentally and physically tired and too busy to even think about blogging, though it’s not like I didn’t have anything to say.

Belle sent me to SXSW unlocked, as I’ve said, and I stayed that way for most of the time. It’s odd being the “chastity guy” and not wearing a device like that. I’ve always said I didn’t have the self-control to be able to pull it off absent her supervision (or even with her supervision, now that I think about it), but there I was in a hotel room far away from Belle and…nothing. It was like a force field was around the penis or something. It was still there and I would have liked to play with it, but somehow it never happened. Finally, after three days or so, I was laying in bed getting ready for sleep and it started to twitch. I grabbed at my nuts and pulled on them, trying to ignore the penis, but just the feeling of its rapidly swelling weight on my arm was enough to send me scrambling for the Looker.

So, in the end, I did what I was supposed to do. I locked the penis when temptation reared its head. Also, I admit, I missed the feeling of being constrained. But, before then, I was effectively in a chastity device made only from my dedication to her control over me.

After I got home, Belle left me out until I had to travel again, but after that I was locked until we left on our trip. We didn’t bring a device with us, so I’ll remain out for at least the next week. Belle leaves town shortly after we get home, so I doubt it’ll stay free n’ floppy then.

Yesterday as Belle and I were soaking in our vacation house’s hot tub, I mentioned to her that I had more or less stopped counting days. Like, I have no specific idea how long it’s been since I came (and stop myself from thinking about it to keep it that way) and, even though there’s a link over there in the sidebar, I’m not thinking about the year and half or so left. I’m just being. Orgasmless is how I am. It’s not some little town we’re driving through. It’s freeing, in a way, not to focus on the beginning or the end.

But then I’ll find myself inside her (as I was this morning) and fuck it all if I don’t want to come worse than anything in the world. Every little cell and all the energy they contain are focusing all their wills on the penis and the feeling of the heavy PA ring sliding around inside its head and the hot, wet walls of her pussy slipping and sliding along its shaft and HO. LY. SHIT but I want to fill her up. As it was, I leaked enough to have it run down her leg when she got out of bed, but the craving cells were left wanting more, as usual.

This afternoon, she napped and I sat naked out on our balcony enjoying the late afternoon sun. The family is here, but the balcony is strategically positioned so as to be hidden from the rest of the house. There are other houses on the surrounding hills, but few appear to be close enough to be able to make out a small naked figure outside ours and, even if they could, I wouldn’t care. There is one house close by, but it appears to be deserted (not “nobody’s renting it right now” deserted, more like “I would have gotten away with it if it weren’t for you meddling kids” kind of deserted). If anyone was there, they’d see me easy, but there isn’t. In any event, this is the kind of house where I could easily be naked for a full week and nobody but Belle would know. Someday…

So anyway, I let her sleep, but when she woke up I was making moves on her which she easily rebuffed. I was good and didn’t push it, but she let me jack off for ten whole minutes. That’s the first time I’ve done that since I can’t remember when. It felt wonderful. I went right up to the edge pretty quickly and milked a solid slug of goo from the happy shaft. Then again, and again, and again. I licked it all up and let it all sit in my mouth, enjoying the flavor and feel of it running over my tongue. I was a real little cumslut and had a mouth full of the stuff before gulping it down in two swallows. Once it was milked dry, I was able to well and truly pound away at the stiffy for several minutes before getting back up to the edge again, but it felt different this time. Like a dragon rushing up out from a great crack in the earth. It wasn’t going to be denied, so I wrenched my hand away and was left panting. Looking at my iPhone, I saw I still had almost three minutes left, but I dared not tempt it.

We still have a full week in this paradise. If anything good happens, I’ll be sure to let you know. In the mean time, wanna see a picture of me in my new hat?

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#techsex

Today at SXSW I attended a panel discussion called “Old Tech, New Tech, Same Old Sex?” (hashtag #techsex) and, even though the word sex was right there in the title, it wasn’t very well attended. Which is too bad, because it was fantastic. Essentially, the panel discussed how “a mix of old and new technologies lead us to ever-increasing ways to connect, share, learn, enjoy” our sexualities online. There was a lot covered, but a few bits have stuck with me as I went about my day.

The first was the double-edgeness of how the internet allows us to see the entirely of possible human sex and sexuality for perhaps the first time in history. Every kind of permutation, from the most straightforward and mundane and obvious to the most convoluted and extreme and nuanced, are laid out for anyone with a smartphone to consume. If you’re like me, this can mean a dramatic expansion of your sexual horizons. Providing form to the amorphous urges and desires I’ve had for as long as my little gonads produced hormones. This is, undeniably I think, a Good Thing. I mean, were I to have been born 30 or 40 years earlier, I’m not sure how I’d have ever found out as much about myself as the web showed me was possible. I am not alone.

Of course, the opposite side of that is young people can find all the same stuff I can. Kids, I’m talking about. And depending on what part of the internet’s sex district they find themselves, they can get a very skewed perception of what sex between adults is like. Since our culture’s so fucked uptight about sex, this may be the only significant sexual education a lot of kids get. This resonates with me especially since I have a fourteen-year-old son who I know for a fact has set out on his own nascent relationship with porn. And now I’m in the position of being the sex blogger who can wax poetically (or, at least, at length) on every kind of thing in his own head but can’t figure out the best vector to take in explaining to his kid what porn is and is not. And then to redirect him towards real resources (like Scarlet Teen or maybe even Dan Savage).

The second thing that’s stuck with me is an extension of the above, I guess. How by putting our sex lives and sexuality out into the world (like I do here) helps destigmatize and perhaps even legitimize alternative deviations from the norm. Think of all the hundreds of thousands (millions, even – tens of millions?) of sex blogs out there now. Think about how the better ones (those who are more than just a thin shell of titillation and provide some insight into their author’s lives) can put a real faces on what could otherwise be stereotyped as prurient deviance. One of the tweeters in the session audience went to far as to say all this helps advance revolution. I’m not sure I’m personally interested in revolution (at least, not yet), but I get his point.

I suppose we lesser mortals separate ourselves from us the revolutionaries by the use of our pseudonymous identities. Real revolutionaries use their names. I’m a cowardly little rabbit. No, really. Another person in the audience, seeing me tweet about the session, recognized me though the blog. She readily identified herself in a friendly way and I…did nothing but compliment her backpack (which was, admittedly, pretty cool). I should have at least said hi when it was over, but passing through the membrane of this world and the one I walk around in is harder than perhaps it should be (overly-often shared pictures of my junk aside). After the fact, one of the panelists also reached out via the Twitter to say hey and let me know she’s read the blog.

It’s very, very weird to be known in such a public place (if even to a handful of people) for such a public display of anonymity. It’s not something I’ve ever experienced and it leaves me somewhat uncomfortable. Not that these nice people have made contact, but that it’s so unexpectedly left me nervous and weirded out. And for what? I’m not ashamed of how I live or what I’ve shared here. Not in the slightest. But I am, ultimately, deeply introverted. And that’s not something I can just skip over lightly. So, in the end, it wasn’t the confidently sexy young woman saying she liked this blog that was surprising, I guess, but me walking up to her and saying hi back would have been significantly surprising. At least for rabbit like me.

That’s quite enough of that. Suffice it to say, the panel was fantastic and my only regret was they couldn’t keep talking for another hour.

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What I’d like to do

You know what I’d like to be doing right now? Jacking off. I’d like to be jacking the hard penis, smothered in lube, feeling the heavy PA ring flopping around, nasty pinchy clamps on my nipples. I’d like to watch my fist ride up until it was snug around the penis’ head like a turtleneck sweater and all the crazy fucking nerve endings there firing on my brain like a pirate ship sacking a costal village. Then see the shaft rise up out of my hand, then let it all reverse again. Over and over. Then, when I found myself at the edge of orgasm, I’d let go of the poor thing and let it surge and struggle and flex and maybe leak a bit, but then I’d lap that up and just keep going. Salty sweet nectar. The prize inside.

But I can’t. The penis is locked up. And even if it weren’t, Belle has forbidden that I touch it in that way. In the past several weeks, I’ve jacked off for a grand total of ten minutes because Belle told me I could for five minutes twice. That’s it. So, even if I didn’t have steel restricting the erection that wants to be stroked, I wouldn’t touch it because that would be against the rules I have taken to heart very seriously and promised I’d follow.

So, instead, I look at porn. Which makes the penis even more constrained in its steel cage and makes the desire to stroke it even greater which causes me to want to look at more porn which makes me…well, you get the point.

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Rules

I’ve been reading Discipline: Adding Rules & Discipline To Your BDSM Relationship on Das Kindle. It’s coincidental to the new rule about forbidding me from playing with myself when unlocked, but happily so. The book is by Lily Lloyd of blackleatherbelt and has been enjoyable and enlightening.

Lily identifies three types of rules:

  • Ritual and Protocol – Activities and  standards of behavior in which a Dominent and submissive engage to reenforce their roles.
  • Standing orders – Rules the Dominant expects the submissive to carry out on a regular schedule or when a particular situation comes up.
  • Behavior modification – Rules that are intended to help a sub develop a new habit or shed an old one, with the objective of changing the sub’s life for the better or making the sub’s behavior more pleasing to the Dominant.

In addition, she says the use of rules in a D/s relationship have their own simple rules:

  • They should bring you closer together.
  • They should build a dynamic you both want.
  • They should enhance (or minimally not detract from) the well-being of both partners.

This is, of course, eminently logical stuff. It is true. But that doesn’t mean any of it was obvious to either me or Belle as we stumbled into our D/s overlay. Some of what Lily says in the book we’ve already come to realize but other stuff I don’t think we have or didn’t realize we realized it until I read it all laid out as she has. If you’re a D or an s (or a little of both), you should read this book. I’m not finished with it yet, but am just about half way though. That’s enough for me to be able to say with full conviction that if you read my blog you’re likely to get something out of this book and should do yourself the favor. (I mean, come on. It’s only three bucks.)

As a sub, I love rules. Just thinking about them and writing that statement makes the device’s contents tingle and swell. On paper or conceptually, rules sound boring, but in practice (and specifically how the concept of being ruled percolates through my brain) they’re fucking hot. Combine this with my natural predilection towards process and definition and you get a nerdy subbie squirming mass craving order and discipline. Especially the discipline.

Belle doesn’t love rules. She’s the one who doesn’t measure the ingredients to a recipe and just eyeballs it (which drives me crazy) and is the first between us to do what she wants rather than what is expected. This is a natural point of friction in our foundational relationship, let alone a potential pitfall in our D/s overlay. Without thinking, it makes me want to say I don’t really have that many rules, but after some reflection, it turns out I do have more than just the one. In no particular order…

  • I have to wear the chastity device of Belle’s choice whenever and for however long she says.
  • I’m not allowed to have an orgasm until July 27, 2014.
  • I’m not allowed to refer to the penis as mine.
  • I’m not allowed to use the penis in any pleasurable ways without Belle’s permission.
  • I am to turn the TV off in our bedroom whenever Belle wants it off and I’m not to complain about it. (That one was my idea. I love the TV in our bedroom, she claims to hate it.)

There are a few that have become defunct.

  • I used to have to ask permission before getting into bed. This one suggested that the bed is Belle’s and she decides where I sleep, but she’s never made me sleep anywhere else (like on the floor or in another room).
  • I used to have to ask permission to sleep naked. For whatever reason, I just sleep naked anyway. On the rare occasion that I don’t, she asks what’s up.
  • I used to have to prepare the coffee machine to make Belle’s coffee in the morning. Belle bought a fancy-shmancy coffee machine that only requires the push of a button to make an apparently tasty beverage (I wouldn’t know since I don’t drink it).

Maybe there were others, but I’ve forgotten them. We both need to be invested in rules in order for them to work and these obviously weren’t that important to one or both of us. One that I particularly like that Lily requires of her girlfriend sub is to spend five minutes a day quietly contemplating their relationship and then to text her when she’s done. This is kind of like my desire to have to thank Belle every day for acceptance of my submission. It’s a difficult thing to stay in the subbie state of mind and a daily reminder, even something so simple, is appealing to me. Also, vocally reiterating my position is a profoundly energizing thing for me to do, especially when I’m not feeling it all that much.

As I said above, I’m all about the rules. I love them. I know I loved them long before Belle loved them (or at least appreciated them). When she really took charge of the device and when and for how long I’d wear it, it made wearing it ten times more appealing to me (and it was already appealing). That’s when it became a rule. One that she set and I follow. Same for her recent investment in my denial. Now, we both own that. Her commitment to the rule that I won’t come for another 520 days (it’s true – look it up) makes not coming so much more profound for me than back when she’d fuck me all she wanted and if I came it was my problem. I want to follow her rules. I want to obey. But I’m only a man, after all. You keep fucking me, I’m going to come eventually. It means a lot to me that she wants me to succeed as much as I do.

Same goes for the “no playing with it” rule. I was out this past weekend and that fact kept waking me up (as a hard, sensitive penis will do) and each time the first thing through my mind was that I could not touch it. I’m choosing to interpret “playing with it” to mean no pleasurable touching, not just jacking off, so I have to be very careful not to grab it just because it’s needy. In any event, that one simple rule that you would have thought seemed pretty obvious for us has resonated in me very deeply. I suspect (though I haven’t had a chance to put it to the test) that I feel so strongly about obeying her that she could leave me alone sans device and I would be good. That’s a huge difference from how I felt just a few weeks ago.

Friggin’ rules, man. They’re awesome.

I have more to say about using rules to modify behavior, but will save that for another time.

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Swingin’ steel

There was yet more sex on Saturday morning as I was still steel-free. I had this weird thing the night before where the end of the penis became super sensitive. It was so distracting that I had to remove my PA jewelry. Every little shift of the stainless loop would send a not very pleasant jolt through me making it hard to sleep yet again that night. In fact, since this crazy sexed up period started, I’ve had troubles sleeping pretty much every night. Even last night, though I didn’t see Belle all day. Anyway, Saturday morning was more of the same except this time Belle got to ride me for an orgasm. I felt pretty good about keeping my shit together for that. I didn’t even get close.

After the sex on Saturday, but before she resecured me, I told her how guilty I had been feeling about taking advantage of the time she lets me out to jack off (yes, I did manage to get some in). This is a new feeling for me. In the recent past, I’ve assumed that if I was out it was more or less a free-range penis, assuming I didn’t come. But as we’ve been having all this fantastic sex lately, the idea of seeking this pleasure without her knowledge or consent hasn’t sat right with me. Maybe it’s the copious hormones produced by all the edging and psuedo-ruined orgasms and the low-grade blue ball tenderness I’ve been sporting, but I was feeling very much the need to be backed into a tight little submissive corner. The penis is hers, not mine. I can’t just do whatever I want with it. If it’s out, it’s out for her. This is a fact. There’s no such thing anymore as a time out for good behavior. I get out for a specific purpose and it’s not to jack off.

In any event, the rule now is I am not to play with the penis at all except when specifically allowed to do so by Belle. Seems like an obvious kind of rule for someone in my position to have, but I’m not sure it’s ever been so explicitly stated by her before. At least not for a long time. Just thinking about it now makes the tube pack tight. I can’t imagine how hard it’ll be if I’m left alone with it in an accesible state.

After clearing that up, she produced the Steelheart. I had to put it on while she watched which is very hard for me to do. It puts my assembly skills in a race against the penis’ hydraulic system with only my brain trying to run interference as an ally. I did manage to get the tube on and the increasingly fat and solid meat shoved up in there and in place so she could slide the lock home and turn it in its slot, but barely. As soon as she removed the key, a deeply satisfying warm wave of submissiveness washed over me. In an instant, the steel tube merged with its contents in my mind and I was seemingly as I was always meant to be.

We went to the gym after and I ran for four miles on a treadmill with the Steelheart heavily swinging between my legs. I’ve been in the Looker 02 so much recently that I forgot what the dense steel monolith of the Steelheart felt like. Not at all uncomfortable. Actually somewhat comforting. A subtlety different mindfuck than the lighter L02. Also, I had to reacquaint myself with the sensation of shifting meat within the tube. The L02’s insert keeps the meat inert and unmoving while the PA fixing in the Steelheart allows some shifting. The penis gently bumped against the inside of the tube with each stride.

That night, my new little nympho wanted another orgasm. I had my doubts that it was even possible considering the number she’s had this week and the one she had had just that morning, but she was feeling the itch and it’s my job to scratch it. After lengthy ministrations by me and Pink, she eventually called the effort off. I couldn’t get her more than 85-90% there. I felt defeated. There were a couple of times I thought she was going over, but it didn’t happen. She packed Pink with her on her trip so she’ll not be denied should the urge strike again while she’s gone.

As I said, I had a hard time sleeping again last night and am very tired as I write this. The lack of sleep is aggravatingly non-specific. Sometimes, it’s because I’m too horny and I know it and I can’t stop imagining things. Lately, though, I’m just too alert and aware. And every time I shifted in bed, the Steelheart would heavily flop to the other side. On my stomach, it was a hard, dense presence between me and the mattress. On my back, it would pull the whole package down between my legs. I was never alone.

But it wasn’t a total wash-out. I did get about four hours sleep again, though the morning wood made the last couple pretty restless. A benefit of the L02 is that it rarely wakes me in the morning anymore. Belle’s back tomorrow night late. I’m looking forward to not sleeping next to her again.

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Weeknight surprise

As I said at the end of the last post, Belle takes off for a few days on Sunday morning. This is particularly crushing for me since we’re really into each other right now. My assumption is this is some kind of lunar or hormonal rhythm thing, but I’m neither questioning nor complaining.

I told my Belle Fille last night while making dinner that I really needed some quality time with her again before she left. Sunday mornings have recently been a highly reliable time of the week where the lack of job, kid, or trainer obligations coincide with an increased energy level on her part. If she’s not on the rag, I can usually depend on some kind of bunny lovin’ before we start our day. But, this week, she’ll be leaving and the hole her absence leaves both in my heart and schedule has been hard to accept. All I really needed was to feel her come to sate me until she gets back.

Happily, she wanted to come. And, it turned out, a bunch more. She unexpectedly stripped down leaving me to discover her nakedness. My usual state when going to bed is to be naked, so we basked for a while in the sensations of the full length of one another’s skin pressed against each other, with the small exception of the well-packed steel about midway down.

“What if I unlocked you?” Hell, yes. What if? Oh, pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease unlock me. And she did. I shall remain unlocked until she leaves or feels I need to be in again. I am a spoiled rabbit.

My Belle has a long refractory period. Girls don’t usually have to recharge following orgasm like guys do, but my Belle is special. So, going for three orgasms even in six days would be a challenge. But, it was a challenge I was happy to accept.

After the penis was released, we laid beside one another some more, this time with a hard and poky member between. Her hands on the penis was heavenly and I realized how well she’s used the device to manipulate my desire for her recently. Note that I’m perfectly happy being manipulated in this way. I said as much to her.

“I love how this makes me feel,” I breathed out between kisses, “I love how this makes me act toward you.”

“I love how this makes me feel,” she replied through her wonderfully full and fragrant lips, “I love how this makes us.”

Yes, exactly. Sacrificing my orgasm and free access to the penis in exchange for a stronger and more intense emotional bond seems a bargain in my book. I never ever want to be anything other than totally sexually controlled by her.

She climbed on top of me and guided the rigid meat home. The heat and ease with which it slid in made me gasp as she settled down to business. But this wasn’t the usual fuck for her. Instead of quickly finding her rhythm and riding me to a relatively quick orgasm, she lingered. Slowly moving up and down of the shaft, luxuriating in the sensation of being penetrated by her cock. There was no rush. There was no reason. This was about the ride, not the destination.

“I’m acting like you,” she said about half way along, meaning this was fucking for fucking’s sake. She had no motivation other than to enjoy it.

I soldiered along. Sucking her tits, nibbling at her neck, running my hands down her back and over her ass, I tried to contrate on everything other than her gyrating hips and the pussy between them and the part of me the whole kit was enveloping. I wanted to go for however long she needed me to, but I don’t think I made it longer than eight or ten minutes. The thing that finally got me (what can almost always get me) was what she said. She repeatedly told me how good I felt inside her using language her mother would not find acceptable. Thing is, it’s really hard to cultivate a nascent small penis humiliation fetish when your partner tells you every chance she gets how awesome she thinks your erection is. So yeah, I had to stop.

But it was just for a moment. She rolled on her back and told me to fuck her instead. I did as commanded as best I could, withdrawing at least three times to clench back an impending rush of semen. Twice, I managed to keep it in, but once I didn’t and thick slug of the pungent goo landed on the sheets. Regardless, I went back in because she wanted to feel me in there.

As I fucked her, she was constantly moving beneath me, gyrating and reciprocally thrusting and generally really getting into our sex like a hormonal coed. I found myself feeling oddly non-subbie. Yes, she still owned my orgasm, but I felt like I owned her. She was my woman. I cradled her head while slowly fucking her, one hand in her hair, the other holding her jaw. I nibbled, kissed, and cooed at her. I felt like my larger male frame was shielding her. I could feel my ass muscles flex and contract as I repeatedly claimed her with every thrust. My fucking woman.

It was weird. I haven’t felt that in a while.

One more close call in which I leaked inside her caused her to push me off. She still hadn’t come even though we had been going at it for a half hour. This is highly unusual. Even more that she was at an impasse as to what to do next. She wanted to come but couldn’t figure out how.

Sensing that she needed me to take a little more control over the situation, I said, “Can I go down on you?”

She purred at the suggestion at first but than said, “But you’re in there. You don’t like that…”

“I love it until I come,” I reminded her before heading south.

Her pussy was open and soft from the fucking and smelled and tasted like both of us. I eagerly tucked in and lapped up whatever juices I could, swallowing repeatedly the ample supply. I can’t tell you how much was her and how much was me, but it was all heaven. I reveled in the messy, sticky, humid and heat of her. As the minutes passed, I found myseld determined to make that pussy come if it was the last thing I’d ever do. Eventually, she did. Intensely. Electrically. But I lingered. As soon as her clit’s hypersensitivity had passed, I rubbed my whole face in her. I deeply inhaled her scent and could feel a powerful masculine response from a deeply encoded place. My fucking woman.

As I got up, I rubbed the excess moisture from my face all down my chest and stomach. Like I was using her essence as war paint. I wanted her everywhere on me. I didn’t even ask before reentering her and I continued to fuck her, slowly and gently, long after she came. It took a while, but the submissive resurfaced and I started to feel guilty for claiming such indulgence without her consent. She didn’t seem to mind, though. It wasn’t until she was pinching my nipples with all the force she could muster and biting my neck (leaving faint yet obvious monkey bites), that I crested one final time. Our long, wet, sticky, smelly and wonderfully glorious weeknight lovemaking session was over.

Well, for her. I was trapped in the hormonal spin cycle and could feel the entire night sleeplessly stretched before me. This time, though, before it got too late, I downed a couple of Tylenol PMs and was able to salvage four hours of very weird sleep. Weird in that my body chemistry pushed me in one direction while the pharmaceuticals pulled in the opposite direction.

Eventually, sleep. Then, too early, wake. Now, tired. But happy.

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The sex, o god, the sex

The best part of working out and getting fit and all that isn’t necessarily what it’s doing to my body. I mean, yeah, I like that, but the best part is what it’s doing to my relationship. Belle, as I’ve mentioned, has been going to see my trainer for the past six or so months, too, and the change in her has been remarkable.

It’s not just physical, though it is that. I often reach over to her in bed at night and everywhere I put my hands feels different (in much the same way I feel like a different person almost everywhere). And it’s driving me kinda nuts with desire. Luckily, these same changes seem to be simultaneously improving her outlook on our physical relationship. We had some of the best sex we’ve had in a long time last weekend (I’ll get to that in a minute since that’s why most of you pervs are here in the first place) and I can’t necessarily peg all of it on mutually inclusive positive body images (in that, she’s more comfortable with herself as I am and we’re both a lot more into each other’s new selves if for no other reason than the novelty of having hotter new spouses), but I think that’s a lot of it.

More than anything else, I’m very proud of all the work she’s putting into this, whatever the motivation and whatever it means in the bedroom. She’s healthier, happier, and helping to set a fantastic example for our kids.

So yeah, the sex. Oh, man.

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