New noise heard: I was in the shower with Jesse. He’s not sweet, but he’s on his knees with his head between my legs. His shoulders and back are turning pink, and I’m feeling myself not care where I am. Every once in a while he lets out a noise, a whale noise that lets me know he might be drowning. It’s a perfect, lecherous sound I hadn’t thought to hope for. I push the hair off his forehead and wonder about other funny noises I can ask a partner to make.
[Do not cry for Jesse, for at some point in that day, he did visit my blow-hole. Heeeyyy-ooo!]
Je suis feministe: Let’s play the odds. You’ll be bigger and stronger than me. We’re two respectful adults, both looking to have an erotic hour or two. When a man says, “You’re the boss,” or “I’m down for whatever,” I feel you leave the room. I am left with all the responsibility for steering the erotic, and I feel flatfooted and dull. I am told “Charming, you would never be able to make me nervous or uncomfortable, I will always be interested in all sex–only stoppable because of your limits.”