Bitchicisms

After sex. Hair all mussed up. Sunlight streaming in through an open door. The place is a mess, I worry about where my underwear is. The man is half asleep beside me. We're still naked,
cigarettes in hand, resting and contemplating whether to have another go at it. I feel a slight pain on my calf. I lift it and notice a faint bruise.

"Did you unhinge your jaw to bite that?"
"Sorry, it's been a while since I had crispy pata."
I hit him and laugh.

24 hours later, there's no sign of a bruise but the bite still hurts.

I love sex bruises and injuries. I love how they feel when they're being made. I love feeling the twinges of pain after the fact. I love how they remind me of the orgasms I had. I love them.

New addiction: scratches. I've tried to make light scratches an art. My long nails demand it, and men expect it. But when men scratch my back with their short, trimmed nails, it just makes me so horny.

Good sex should leave a mark.

One of my favorite movies is the classic When Harry Met Sally.



I think it's a beautiful story with a talented cast (when Meg Ryan was still America's Sweetheart and before Billy Crystal was a supporting cast to Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson). But I think it's given some people the wrong idea about men and women friends.

In a scene, Billy Crystal says that men and women can never be friends because they'll always want to sleep with each other. Then again, that's not what really ends a friendship. What ends a friendship is when one of them don't want to sleep with the other, and the other still keeps pushing it.

I've severed friendships with men more than once because they tried to sneak attack my pants by using the mythical friend shortcut. But, you can sleep with a friend and not end the friendship. It doesn't even have to result in a relationship.

A couple of nights ago, I hooked up with a good friend. He's one of those guys that I rarely see, but often talk with. I've always invited him to my birthday, and I've helped him celebrate his. We joke a lot, we've hit on each other once or twice when we were drunk and we swap sex stories.

I barely remember how it happened. All I know was I was drinking on his tab and my friend had already left. He hadn't spotted an interesting girl enter the bar and my attempts to flirt with one of the bartenders I used to fuck were meeting unsatisfactory results.

My friend and I simultaneously decided to go home. We got a cab, no resistance from either party that we got the same one. We went to his place, distracted with conversation. We entered the door, I took off my boots and suddenly we were having sex.

It felt a bit weird cos we were such good friends. I remember him once saying that he thought of me as a little sister and we were laughing at someone I used to date who was terribly jealous of him. But we had sex... good sex... objectively good sex. We even joked and slept on different sides of the bed (no cuddling).

I texted him the next day, "As your friend, I must say, you're quite good."

He replied, "Coming from you, that's a huge compliment."

Sudden sex, no awkward-dinners and no new-year-party-climax. Friendship still on. And now I know how he gets laid so much. He's pretty fuckin' good.

I've been away from this blog for a long long time. Here's my list of excuses:

1. I've been really busy with work and projects.
2. I've mostly been sticking to one (or three) sexual entanglements.
3. My regular lover has kept sexual frustration nil and I have less to rant about.
4. I've had other things on the brain (like needlecrafts, would you believe that?).

But like fine whiskey and younger men, my Bitchicisms blog haunts me and just begs for it. So I'm back.

I've realized that I had a few readers in the past, people who I've drawn in with regular posts to certain yahoo groups and blog lists I've now lost. My yahoo email has reset and I've lost all contact. Please help me (re)build a following and I promise to keep coming and coming and coming for you.

They say men are obsessed with quantity. Well, that and size. It's all about who has more, and who has it bigger. But they don't apply the same principles to women.

One late, boring night at the office, I got stuck with 2 men. As is wont to do when I'm around, the conversation got to sex. Contrary to most porn movies, we did not end up in a threesome where they Eiffel-Towered me. Instead they ended up shocked and awed when I told them my number.

I've had sex with 32 guys. That's 32 men, not 32 times. I started when I was 18 and never looked back. I keep a list of who I've slept with so that I never miss a name. Some of the names on the list I'd almost forgotten, and barely remember the encounter. Some of them I've mentioned several times on this blog because they're so good (or bad) in bed.

I should've known it was a mistake to bring numbers up. I'd only asked because I'd assume they would have more than 5 (the number which they both gave). They'd seemed so adventurous, surpassing me in the "where's the strangest place you've done it" round.

But they were both shocked to pieces when I gave my number (which is in fact 8x the global average according to the last Durex worldwide sex survey). They appeared to have never met a woman with that number, one even said that he once scolded an ex because she'd slept with 5 guys.

But really, if you've been having sex for 9 years, 32 only comes up to 3 1/2 men a year on average. It's not that much.

I know I sound apologetic. But I've been concerned about this number before. I'm afraid my number makes me...well...strange. And I've always been afraid that this strangeness is bad. I've never aimed to go for 32, even if I'd occasionally played at aiming to have at least one entry for each letter in the alphabet (but I seem to have a penchant for meeting men with the same name at the same time).

Sometimes I fear that my number shows on my face. That it makes me too slutty. Or that I'm too obvious. But I realize, strange isn't bad. There is nothing wrong with 32. I don't particularly regret any of them, and even my sexual mistakes were made on my own terms. I've never been shy about getting laid if I wanted, and it's saved me years of sexual frustration.

Having sex with over 32 men (I'm not dead yet, and will probably be adding) is not a problem. As long as I don't tell the wrong people about it.

Well.

Guess the bitch wants to keep coming.

Been almost 2 years since my last post. The reason for my disappearance currently escapes me. All I know is, at the time: given the choice between having sex and writing about it, I chose the former.

Well here I go again, being too busy having actual sex to blog about sex...But one anecdote is just too amusing to ignore.

There's a Jonathan Lethem story called Five Fucks. The main male character told the female character a certain joke while they were flirting in a bar. He said, "You know what's the worst part about being an atheist?" She replies "no". His answer, "No one to talk to when you come."

So I was giving this guy a blow job. He was close to coming. He goes "Oh God."

I feel his balls becoming tighter and his thighs becoming more tense. "Oh God," he says again.

He says he's close to coming. I mumble, "Come."

I take him back in my mouth and as he comes, again he screams, "Oh God!...who does not exist!"

Atheists do talk to God during sex.

I'm one of those people that think good sex leaves people bruised, sore and barely able to walk afterwards. I like it rough and violent. Yes I'm one of those loud and borderline masochistic girls.

So after a recent session, I wanted to figure out what kinds of soreness mean I had a really good time.

1. Shoulder. From being manipulated and bitten (by myself and by my partner). From having my hands held above my head.
   
2. Hips. Obviously. From thrusting.
3. Pussy. From coming too much and getting it over and over and over.
4. Tummy. From moving.
5. Legs. From being spread wiiiiide open.
6. Neck. From having my hair pulled hard.
7. Back. From exertions

My partner could barely walk afterward. He said his ass gained instant muscles. :)