New experiences

Sex involves a certain amount of vulnerability.  In my life, I’ve been vulnerable—and clearly made poor choices with whom.  The result is that it’s not easy for me to be open to sex, or to be open with people.  One of the things I’ve chosen to do with my life is approach sex, and vulnerability, and try and gain back some of what I think I’ve lost.

I rarely feel visible, in uncontrolled settings.  Take that for what you will.  In light of that, over the years, a couple of ways to deal:

1)  self-medicate so that I feel less inhibited

2)  pay for sex

The former rarely has worked out well.  Though it has afforded me a handful of interesting stories to share.  I’ve shared them, though admittedly left out the ‘buyer’s remorse’ that typically hits the next day.  Sure, there was the time in NYC during gay pride when I knelt before two men and took care of their dicks.  Sure, there was the pair that I sucked off in a back alley in Chicago.  Yes, there was the time, at Folsom, where I made out—and more—with the attractive older guy in a bar.  The fact that I did so only because I was tipsy (I’m being generous) is what leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

The times I’ve paid for sex, though.  Some of those have been truly eye opening experiences.  One I’ve already blogged about here.  The other that comes to mind is relatively recent.

I say ‘paid for sex’ but really, this was sexual but didn’t involve intercourse, or oral.  It involved a massage—both external and internal. 

Arriving at his home, it was very peaceful.  He’d set aside a private space for his practice.  It was soothing, and welcoming.  I’d had the chance to discuss with him what my goals were—to explore opening myself up to sex, both figuratively and literally.  In spite of a fairly open—and very accepting—conversation and well set expectations, I was nervous.  Driving to his neighborhood, I was nervous.  Parking on his street, I was nervous.  Walking up to his door, I was nervous.  Once I got inside, though, and we sat on the massage table and started talking… my nerves went away.  Instead, I was excited.  Vibrating, almost.  Hard to breathe.  That kind of excited. 

Laying face down, naked, on the warm table my nerves came back a bit.  Not debilitating, just… there.  The smell of sage, cleansing.  Breathing, deep.  In… out. 

The feeling of his warm hands, oiled, on my back while I breathed—relaxing.  As he worked his way down my back, ever closer to my butt, I felt my anticipation building.  Working on my butt—not the crack, not the hole—I breathed a bit more… then to my thighs and legs.

There was a moment when his hands spread my legs farther apart, something about the strength in his hands in that movement that was exciting but not overwhelming. I started losing a sense of timeline.  I remember the sensations, and experience in general.  It’s hard to break up the whole into snippets.

There was the feeling of oil down my the crack in my ass.  I continued deep breathing, but when he touched my hole—even to just stroke the oil over it—my breath became a gasp.  The sensation as he stroked my ass, while spreading the cheeks apart.  Then there’s the feeling of him reaching between my legs—while I continued to lie face down—reaching under me and stroking my hard dick.   The sensation of his tongue on my hole, the feeling of his mouth, biting the cheeks of my ass.  These come rushing back to me.  Gasps.  I’d rimmed men—and enjoyed that—but never been treated to that myself.  Was afraid I wouldn’t enjoy it.  Unfounded fear, as it turned out.  Breathing.  Gasping.  Occasionally moaning.  There was never insertion—well not of cock into ass. 

Fingers, yes.  Toys, yes.  The overwhelming sensations of a toy inside me while he stroked me, hard and wet as I was.  Feelings of uncertainty—would I continue to like this? Would there be a moment where I just shut down, shut off.

There were three toys, I think, that night.  The last, as it vibrated inside me, he laid on my back and thrust with his pelvis.  Fucked by a vibrating, hard surrogate.  Feeling his warmth against my back.  The hair of his chest. 

Breathing.  Respite.   A moment to collect myself.  Then I was on my back, and his warm hands—slick with oil—played across my body.  My nipples, my dick, my arms and arm pits, nothing went untouched or unstroked.  No kissing. 

I can’t tell you the number of times that I laid there, overcome by tremors.  My body overwhelmed with sensations.  Each time there would be a few moments respite, and then the feelings would build again under his practiced hands.

When the evening ended, I was a sodden mess—wrung out.  I can’t even tell you if I came or not.  He told me I did, but I was lost to the moment.  Covered in oil, feeling a sense of connectedness and openness, I dressed and drove home.

Thinking about the experience, the drive home uneventful.  Thinking about the experience, the ride up in the elevator beneath my notice.  Thinking about the experience, I came, lying on the floor in my bathroom in three strokes of a wet hand.