Bitchicisms

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. :)

One of the things I really don't like doing is making out in a car. I can't stretch out. I can't move without bumping into something. Unless its an SUV, a small car really can't contain the wide array of actions and emotions I like displaying during sex. Also, I'm loud, so I tend to get caught.

It is almost the one seemingly normal sex-related cliche I won't do. Except I have, literally, never full-on made-out in a movie house. And no, I don't want to either. (One weiner dude always likes to say that I don't like doing something because I never had anyone to do it with. Yes, he is the type who likes to imagine my life began when I met him. And yes, he is an asshole.)

I receive a random message from someone. He wants to drop by and see me since we weren't able to meet up for coffee earlier. He was going to the area so he just wanted to chat. I agreed. I figured he was in a hurry so I didn't change. I was in a plain shirt and short shorts.

He arrived and we chatted amiably for a bit. It all seemed like the random friendly thing to do. Until he started harassing me.

I've been on this whole frame of mind recently where I like to platonic the shit out of everyone, particularly the guys I have things with. Mostly it also has to do with the success of that one endeavor in the nice girl realm.

He appeared perplexed that I was resisting. Asked if I was seeing anyone seriously. Asked if I was focusing on work. I said no both times. Then he put his hands in my shorts and started masturbating me.

As usual, I couldn't moan too loud. Or else we could get caught. We were parked basically a couple of blocks from my house. It would have been a horribly unfortunate thing to have gotten caught.

I covered my own mouth and writhed on the seat. He wouldn't stop so I just let him. After I came, I gave him a blowjob. I'd only sucked on his cock for about 1 minute when he stopped me. I was "what?" And he was all "I think I'm gonna come already."

I raised an eyebrow. He pushed me back down. He came after another 30 seconds. Yes, it was that fast. Later he said how unfair it was that it took me so long to finish and it took him so fast. I didn't remind him that he still had a hard cock in his pants after his orgasm.

He joked, "I have a condom." I smiled. "And?"

But, being in a rush, he took me home. I told him as I exited the car, "next time, if you have rubber, let's use it." Walked to my house, a little conscious that my shorts were moist and my hair was tousled.

Ludo apparently plays geek rock...And I like it...

You'll never hear this song
You'll never see the movie in my head
But you infest my sleep, and your figure creeps
Through my walls and hums above my bed
I know your name, and that you're photogenic and tall
But I've never heard you talk
And there's something about you
That stabs me right through

It isn't right for me to paint your picture
Every night, but I do (I can­t find sleep)
And it feels so wrong (I breathe too deep), to sing this song (into the sky)
But maybe (as I walk and sing), somehow, you'll hear me (you'll hear a song)
And hum along
You'll hum along, you'll hum along, you'll hum along

And I've only seen you once, at your graduation
No cinematic glow or soft rock soundtrack
And I watched you move and breathe and cry
And it felt so wrong
It isn't right for me to paint your picture
Every night, but I do (I can­t find sleep)
And it feels so wrong (I breathe too deep), to sing this song (into the sky)
But maybe (as I walk and sing), somehow, you'll hear me (you'll hear a song)
And hum along
You'll hum along, you'll hum along, you'll hum along

Maybe you'd be kidnapped by pirates
And they would take you to their hideout
As pirates often do
But I'd find the secret map
And I would vigilante-bushwhack
Through the jungles of Peru

Just to save you and I'd take you north to Mexico
Where you would tell me your life story on the steps of a Mayan temple
Where we'd camp singing nonsense songs in 12 bars to the jaguars, until you'd sense me
Your eyes convincing, and I would kiss you like a hero in the half-light
Dryer sheets and peach shampoo, the smell of palm leaves, I'd sleep against you
Until the natives found us, but they would crown us king and queen
And we could stay there, spend our days there, eating guava by the sea
And I could understand your views and you could fall in love with me

[SOLO]

And while the silly human race talks to droids in outer-space
We grow old and laugh about this song
And between the jungle and the stars, you sing nonsense songs in 12 bars to me
And in my sleep I hum along

You'll never hear this song
You'll never see the movie in my head