He loved to feed me while feasting on me. I remember he ordered my favorite bacon and pineapple four corner pizza and invited me over for dinner. Upon entering his I noticed the table was prepared for me. There was a napkin, a wine glass, a bottle of my favorite wine, a packed bowl, and a lighter on the table. Of course I chose bud over wine. He took his best leather couch, a green one, out to the balcony for me to sit on while I inhaled my joy.
I’m very new to butt play, and for me it’s kind of like learning a new language. I’m not perfect at distinguishing what feels good or isolating specifics when something is inside me. But what I do know is I very much enjoy sensations on top of sensations, the more the better.
Forecasting my future, I told him “I don’t want kids. My work will be my legacy. My company will be my ba—”
“Fall in love with your customers, not your company!” Before I finished he began.
I pride myself on being a particularly sexual person. An adventurer, a group sex lover, and an agile performer who gets wet at the thought of outdoor sex where other people might see me. The only hang up I have around sex is when a male partner wants me to call him Daddy.
In a culture of overconsumption where you’re constantly the target of ads being slung at you like piss in prison, Minimalism seems to be the perfect antidote for quelling our consumptive urges. But is Minimalism a realistic end, or just a fantasy that grips our attention until we buy into the next best thing? The Minimalist documentary and The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up book seemed like good places to find answers.
There is nothing worse than hearing for weeks and weeks precisely how someone would like to fuck you then finding out they actually can’t perform. A recent partner had this detailed fantasy about tasting me in the shower then fucking me on all fours from behind.