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The Sex Issue!

Loving the Whip

BDSM fetishists have a place they can call home in the Capital Region

By Chet Hardin

 

La Domaine Esemar is a modest estate tucked into the hills outside of Albany. There is nothing about this quaint little house that hints to the deviance of its owner, Master R. Inside, paintings cover the living room walls. A quiet fire burns for heat, and empty wine bottles line the mantle. A massive old dog snuffles against his master and his guests; a cat is curled, indifferent, on a couch pillow. There are books strewn about, and magazines, and the sheet music of Béla Bartók for piano. The only clue, at first glance, that this is a BDSM chateau of world renown is the open-hinged lock on the door that leads to the dungeon.

That, and the slave girl, Lips, standing naked in the living room, bound in crisscrossing rope, her hands tied to her thighs.

Mistress Collette, La Domaine’s head mistress, feeds the slave a banana.

Lips says she has been coming to the chateau for eight months. She lives in Boston, and works in a lab researching stem cells. She has always known that her kink is bondage and submission. As a child, she would play cops and robbers with her cousins. She would be the damsel in distress, tied to a chair for hours at a time. She loved it, squirming against her restraints.

“My family is really Christian,” Lips says. “I always thought that submission was a very biblical concept. There is this verse in the Bible about wives submitting to their husbands, that their bodies belong to their husbands. And husbands’ bodies belong to their wives. I would read that over and over again.”

The only serious concern Lips had about submission was not the act itself, but finding the right person, or people, to submit to. It is an issue, she says, of trust. That is why she drives from Boston to Albany, for Master R and Collette, she says. She is a lucky slave.

Collette leaves the end of the banana hanging from Lips’ mouth. She struggles to finish it without her hands, but the banana drops to the floor.

Collette begins to reach down, then stops.

“Eat the banana off the floor, slave,” she orders. Lips demurs, considers the dirty floor, but then obeys.

“Yes, mistress,” she says, getting down on her knees.

In one of the more famous photos by Barbara Nitke, R rests, supine, in the lap of The Madame. She is cradling him in a pose dripping of maternalism. We see little of the environment. R has a gag over his mouth. The Madame’s long, black hair counterbalances the whiteness of their skin. It is powerfully intimate, the kind of image that characterizes the at-times gentle brilliance of Nitke, a photographer who forged her fame as a shooter of porn box covers and from her careful studies of the perverse, often violent, world of BDSM. Arthur Danto, the longtime art critic for The Nation magazine, called the photo, R boasts, “the best Madonna and Child in modern times.”

It was through Nitke that Collette first met R.

In 2001, Nitke filed a lawsuit against the federal government, decrying the “chilling effect” of the Communications Decency Act. Along with her co-plaintiffs, the National Coalition for Sexual Freedom, Nitke challenged the wide-reaching law, which makes it a felony to put obscene materials on the Internet. Anyone who “knowingly uses . . . any interactive computer service to display in a manner available to a person under 18 years of age, any comment, request, suggestion, proposal, image, or other communication that, in context, depicts or describes, in terms patently offensive as measured by contemporary community standards, sexual or excretory activities or organs,” the act reads, has committed a crime [emphasis added].

By that standard, the people in a sleepy, small town in Missouri could be used as a benchmark with which to judge the obscenity of New York City-based Nitke’s more sexually charged work—if it was to appear on the Internet. CDA wasn’t constitutional, Nitke argued, and she wanted to challenge it.

Collette, a promising domina in the city, was married to one of the lawyers in the case, John Wirenius.

“There was a hopeless lack of funds,” Collette says. Wirenius and the other lawyers involved were working pro bono, and the case was earmarked for the Supreme Court. The transcript alone would cost $25,000. “We needed money.”

So she began to organize a fundraiser. “And I got a phone call from Barbara. She was like, ‘Do you know La Domaine Esemar?’ ” Collette says. “Know it? It’s just the Holy Grail!”

La Domaine Esemar was very exclusive, she remembered thinking. Only the great dominas and dominants, and most skilled submissives, were ever invited to visit. People would travel from the world over. It was (and still is) one of the few chateaus where Belle Du Jour, the Grand Dame of BDSM, would ply her skills.

Master R, Nitke told Collette, wanted to auction a couple’s weekend for the fundraiser, but he wanted to speak with her first, and to invite her to a party. Collette was thrilled. She met with R, and the two of them bonded immediately. She soon moved into the chateau.

Nitke eventually lost her case. A federal appeals panel ruled that that the CDA was, in fact, constitutional and that Nitke had no right to “send obscenity over the Internet to children.”

It was a bitter loss, but not terribly surprising to Collette.

“There is a lack of open communication about sexuality in our culture. There is a fear of persecution,” she says. The climate in this country is so confusing: We glorify vacuous sexuality in our media, yet we chastise and condemn sexually adventurous adults, shunning and persecuting people with kinks or unpopular sexual persuasions. For BDSM fetishists, there is a real fear of “coming out.” It can mean losing loved ones, respect and jobs.

It is much like being gay in the 1950s, R offers.

“We have people who have such a hard time admitting to themselves that they are into this,” he says. “We get people calling all the time who are 50, 60, 70 years old. They have been fighting this their whole lives. They have been told they are sick.”

“This is why people can’t sleep at night,” Collette adds. “This is why they abuse their bodies, with overeating and drugs, to take away the feeling. Just numb ourselves so completely. Isolate ourselves so completely.”

“And that is crazy. That is a crazy, crazy way to live,” she says. “This is sanity.”

R remembers the 76-year-old who came to him early in his career. The old man brought with him the hairbrush that his aunt had used to spank him with when he was a child. He was distraught over what he wanted, but after R was done with him, the old man was relieved.

“Every week or so, we get a call like that,” he says. “They are so afraid of what is in them. Because of this prejudice.”

For people like himself and Collette, who openly work in the BDSM field, and make their livings from it, R says, this prejudice could also mean ruin or prison.

“I have had situations down there with women who couldn’t orgasm. They haven’t had an orgasm their whole lives. And I can see they are so turned on, and so horny that if I were to put my tongue against them, they would explode. And I can’t do that. That’s wrong. The answers they would get. It would change their lives.” But he can’t, he says, because that would be considered prostitution.

The laws delineating what is and isn’t prostitution appear to be so arbitrary, Collette says, “If I use a strap-on to penetrate a client, is that prostitution? What if it were a master with a strap-on strapped to him? What about oral penetration? We would love to have a very clear line about what we can and what we can’t do. We want to be law-abiding citizens; we just need to know what the laws are.”

“We don’t engage in acts of prostitution,” R says, “By New York state statute, we don’t even go near them. We just don’t take that chance.”

“But people have said, what they have down there,” Collette says, pointing to the dungeon door, “has been the best sex of their lives. So go figure. What is sex?”

La Domaine’s dungeon is filled with a boggling collection of BDSM toys, or as Collette would correct, tools. R has spent years gathering the implements of his trade, devices to torture and restrain—whips, dildos, clamps, chains, hoists, stocks, cuffs, spreader bars, gas masks, ball gags, a head box, a St. Andrew’s cross, an examination chair, bondage chair, massage table, cage, whipping post, and on and on.

R holds out a leather strap from the Louisiana Correctional Facility at Angola. It has a wooden handle, with two thick, wide leather straps hanging more than two feet long. A former corrections officer gave R this tool, telling him that the prisoners made them and that “the bubbas used them on the prisoners.” Now, R, Collette or one of the couples who rent the dungeon for an evening, will use this strap on the naked flesh of a willing slave or submissive. The irony of a tool of oppression transformed into a tool of expression is not lost on R.

The brutality in that strap can now be offered, Collette says, with as much love as humanly possible.

“Don’t abuse yourself. Don’t let your boss or other people abuse you,” she says. “Come here, and let us abuse you.”

Upstairs, another section of rope has been tied to Lips, wrapped around her breasts and across her nipples, pulling in viscously. She asks R for a glass of water.

“You want me to get you water, slave?” he chides.

Coming back from the kitchen, he sets a bowl of water on the ground for her. She bends and drinks.

R sits and admires the bondage work.

“This is very pretty,” he says, now whispering.

Lips comes to him and rests her head in his lap.

“Aren’t you a lucky slave?”

“Yes, master,” she whispers back.

“Master is having evil thoughts. Nasty, nasty thoughts,” R says. He takes hold of the ropes running across Lips’ lower back and tugs them gently, pulling them tight against the inside of her ass and along her clit. Over and over. Lips moans, whimpers, and kisses R’s lap.

“Is there something you want slave?” R asks.

“Yes, master,” she groans.

chardin@metroland.net

The Woman in the Mirror

Exotic-dancing class teaches everyday women to find their sexy side—and shake it

By Kathryn Lange

 

I like to believe I clean up nicely—I just don’t do so very often. I spend the bulk of my days in the boys’ club that is the Metroland editorial room, kicked back in my chair, looking less-than-my-best in old sneakers, my favorite hoodie and an unkempt ponytail. Over the past 27 years I have developed an aversion to the term “high maintenance,” a love for well-worn jeans and a bit of a sailor’s mouth.

So, it was with serious suspicious that I registered for my four-week session of “Exotic Dance for the Everyday Woman,” which purported to be “for women of all ages and sizes,” and about “finding your own inner-beauty and grace, and transforming it into sensual movement.” After all, “exotic dance” is, by definition, “exotic,” meaning “strikingly unusual; foreign; alien,” all things that directly contradict the “everyday.” I figured that the women who signed up for this class must, by their very nature, be exotic. I concluded (logically) that they would all be statuesque, trained dancers with smoky eyes, tight tummies and thick curls tumbling down their backs. These would be the kind of women that inspire the likes of Michelangelo to immortalize the perfect curve of breast and hip in stone. They would certainly not have to run out and buy a pair of clearance heels on their way to class like I did.

It’s not that I am, or ever was, a tomboy. I will always revel in a good bubble bath. I am on an eternal quest to find the perfect lip gloss. Growing up, I loved the ruffles and lace, the sparkle and glamour at least as much as the next girl. I held a sort of reverential awe for the flat, glossy cardboard box my mother kept in the linen closet. Under that marbled lid lay the most impressive prepackaged sampling of makeup a little girl could dream up. And, at the center—I can still smell it—cheap and waxy, and ringed by 400 garish shades of eye shadow: a tiny pot of whorishly scarlet lipstick.

On very special days I would pick out the perfect dress, wrap scarves around my neck, my hair, my arms (more scarves equals more glamour), maybe top the ensemble off with a pair of too-big sunglasses. Then, teetering to the dresser in borrowed heels, I would smear a thick swath of cherry red over my lips and pucker into the mirror. And I would be beautiful. Too young to know a thing about being “sexy” or “hot,” this beauty was about pure, unabashed confidence—about standing in front of a mirror, arms outstretched, and thinking, now that is what a woman’s supposed to look like!

Despite the fact that I’m lucky enough to have a boyfriend who thinks I’m beautiful at breakfast, and as confident as I’d like to think I am, it’s been a long time since I looked at myself like that. I don’t fit into my favorite college jeans anymore. An old comment about my broken nose nags me to this day. I’m quicker to point out 10 things I don’t like about my appearance than five things I do. And I was about to walk into a “stripper class” full of porn-star Rockettes who claimed to be “everyday women.” I felt more everyday with every step.

When I got to Lorraine Michaels Dance Center, I was sandwiched in the sign-in line between two well-acquainted couples who were taking Intermediate Ballroom together. I muttered my name and “exotic dancing” under my breath to a woman with a huge binder, hoped no one had heard me, and marveled that this was actually my job. My bubbling instructor, Miss Stephanie, greeted me at the classroom door and ushered me inside. Thankfully, my classmates were not strippers-in-training. They were just as everyday as I was, clumped with doe-eyed awkwardness throughout the mirrored room in mismatched sweats, ringed by piles of coats and capsized pumps.

A few were college friends, brash, giggly, and eager. There were a number of young professional women who, I found out later, were in various stages of love and separation. Some were there with friends. One came on a dare, one on a whim—she’d flipped through the Knowledge Network schedule intending to register for an instructional course on becoming a notary public and ended up here. There was even a bold trio of divorced sisters, all grandmothers, who had signed up to celebrate the youngest’s 50th birthday. Most had never even been to a strip club.

And then there was Miss Stephanie. Short and plump, Miss Stephanie has been teaching exotic dancing for two years (she learned at Lorraine Michaels), is fluent in the Mohawk language, and is pursuing her master’s degree in cultural anthropology. She is saccharine sweet with a baby-doll laugh, and watching her dance would make anyone with a pulse salivate. Under the cheery and encouraging direction of Miss Stephanie, with her R&B boom box and her constant interjections of “good work girls!” and “that’s hot!,” our anxieties and insecurities dissolved away. For one hour a week, we traded school books, professional courtesies, haunting criticisms and lost loves for dips, swivels, shimmies and buttsmacks.

Week one, we learned the basic moves, and how to loosen-up—our hips, our shoulders, our chests—and get used to the idea that we could be sexy, facing a room full of strangers and our own reflections plastered on four walls. Week two we were learning to strut and shimmy, combine the basics, and dip and swivel our way to the floor. By week three everyone was tossing a confident “I’m here for exotic dancing” at the woman with the binder, eagerly throwing off their coats and strapping on their heels to polish the basic moves and learn floor routines. And week four—week four was like a different class of women.

The music started, and we slipped into our moves with comfortable confidence. Hair tossed, hips swirled, hands skimmed over breasts and thighs. We gyrated our way to the floor, shimmied and sweat, eyes locked with our audience—our own reflection. “Damn we look good!” laughed one woman, “Hell, yeah we do!” shot back another. By the time we lined up for a spin at pole and chair dancing, former strangers were laughing, whistling and catcalling each other.

During a brief discussion after our last class, one young woman, a few months into exotic dancing, said she’d realized that “you have to feel confident and sexy with yourself before you can be confident and sexy with someone else.” A new dancer, salesperson by day, raved, “I’ve encountered a lot of men and women in my life. I’ve been to a lot of sales seminars and empowerment seminars and educational seminars, and I think, of all of them, this has been the most bolstering thing I’ve ever done. . . . I’ve learned so much. It was all about me, and it was all good. I’m coming back!” Her enthusiasm was echoed by every classmate; women were already signing up to continue perfecting their exotic basics, or to adventure into sessions of pole or chair dancing.

“Stripper class” was never about learning to strip. It was never even about learning to dance “for your honey,” as Miss Stephanie would say (though that can be a spicy, added bonus). It was about learning how to see yourself as sexy—how to be confident. It was about learning to look in the mirror again, grown-up and aware of your imperfections, and think, now that is what a woman is supposed to look like.

Lorraine Michaels Dance Center (69 Fuller Road, Albany) offers multiple four-week sessions of Exotic Dance. For more information, call 459-2623.

Spoils of War

According to popular legend, Santa Anna’s lust won out over his duty—and shaped the history of our country

By Glenn Weiser

 

Among President Richard M. Nixon’s favorite songs to play on piano was the Confederate anthem “The Yellow Rose of Texas.” It’s doubtful, though, that Tricky Dick knew the salacious story of General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna’s ill-fated fling with Emily Morgan, a beautiful mixed-race slave girl and the subject of the song, just before the decisive 1836 Battle of San Jacinto. The tryst turned out to be the fornication that forged a nation—the Republic of Texas, and a hard lesson, so to speak, for Santa Anna in what can go wrong when a general makes love, not war.

The tale begins with the Texan war of independence with Mexico, which broke out in October 1835 following years of rising tensions between Anglo-American settlers and Santa Anna’s Mexican government over issues such as slavery, which Mexico had outlawed but the settlers wanted to establish in Texas, the Texans’ desire for autonomy, and President Andrew Jackson’s expansionist views.

An Anglo settler, James Morgan, had emigrated from Philadelphia to Texas in 1830, bringing with him a mulatto slave girl, Emily (whose actual name, some historians say, was Emily West), whom he had designated as an indentured servant to circumvent the Mexican anti-slavery law (this was a standard practice among slaveholding settlers at the time). Accounts portray her as having finely chiseled features, coal black hair, and the kind of golden complexion often described as “high yellow.” Her owner had a plantation at New Washington near the mouth of the San Jacinto River and, having supplied Gen. Sam Houston’s men with food, had been made a colonel in Houston’s Army of Texas.

After annihilating the 189 defenders of the Alamo on March 6, 1836, following a costly 13-day siege, and then massacring 342 Texan prisoners of war at Goliad on March 27, Santa Anna’s troops reached the coast near San Jacinto by mid-April. The enemy’s advance forced Col. Morgan to retreat from New Washington, leaving Emily to coordinate the provisioning of Houston’s men. She was captured by Mexican soldiers at Morgan’s Point on April 15, and soon caught the eye of the notoriously randy general. Santa Anna already had a wife back in Old Mexico as well as a teenage bride in San Antonio, but the biracial beauty was now his prize of war, and by the night of April 18, Emily was in Santa Anna’s silk tent.

Meanwhile, Texan scouts had learned the whereabouts and size of the Mexican army. Houston knew he had to strike quickly before Santa Anna received reinforcements. On April 20, Santa Anna’s 1,250 men took fortified positions at San Jacinto, a sea-level plain of 3 square miles bordered by a marsh and the San Jacinto River. Houston’s roughly 800 men encamped three-quarters of a mile away, behind a rise and some woods. The first day’s action consisted only of a minor artillery duel, and in the evening Santa Anna retired with his mistress.

The next morning, Houston took a spyglass and climbed a tall pine to reconnoiter. On observing Emily making a champagne breakfast for the general, he is reported to have said, “I hope that slave girl makes him neglect his business, and keeps him in bed all day.” He then ordered an afternoon attack.

As the amorously distracted Santa Anna had neither dispatched scouts nor posted sentries, Houston’s forces achieved tactical surprise, drawing near the Mexican lines before the alarm was sounded. At 4:30, the Spanish cry went up, “The enemy! They come! They come!” while the Anglos famously shouted “Remember the Alamo!” as they charged, but Emily detained Santa Anna in his tent until it was too late. Inflicting severe causalities, the Texans routed the leaderless Mexicans in just 18 minutes with minimal losses. Houston’s troops captured Santa Anna, disguised in a common soldier’s uniform, the following day.

For her part in winning Texas’s independence, James Morgan gave Emily her freedom and a passport to New York. Texas itself became a sovereign nation until being annexed by the United States in 1845.

The juicy story behind San Jacinto was pretty much forgotten until 1956, when the University of Oklahoma published an 1842 account of the Texas Revolution by an English scientist, William Bollart, describing Emily’s role in the battle. The year before the University of Oklahoma paper, Mitch Miller had a hit with “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” which is most likely how Richard Nixon came to play it on piano.

Editor’s note: Many of the details of this legend are matters of dispute among historians.

Reader alert: Below are what our editorial staff thought were some of the most interesting answers to the questions in this year’s Metroland sex survey. While we did omit answers that even we found offensive (and we’re pretty open-minded), some of the responses printed here are sexually explicit and may not be suitable for all readers.

 

Describe the circumstances of the best sex you’ve ever had.

Summer night, full moon, warm breeze. Buck naked laying on a blanket on my front lawn. Wife in reverse cowgirl position, riding wild on me with the moon illuminating her whole body.

In my bedroom at my parents’ house. I had on this really hot outfit and I decided to give him his very own lap dance.

Sex, Chinese food, more sex, Supersize Me, sex while watching it, more Chinese, lots more sex.

With my best friend.

Me flat on my back, legs spread. My wife, wearing the hottest red lingerie ever constructed, doing me with a strap-on while giving me a simultaneous blow/hand job. I was transported into a new universe.

Boys don’t compare to the sex I have with myself.

After months of sexual text messaging, some heated phone calls, and a flight to California, I had the best sex ever with my now-fiancée as soon as we closed the door to our hotel in California.

Sitting at a picnic table in the park, looking into his eyes and all of a sudden him picking me up onto the table and taking my pants off. He just started pounding the kitty with my tata’s bouncing in his view; it was beautiful.

Describe one fulfilled sexual fantasy.

Seeing my wife being fucked from behind while she is sucking off a second guy, then me joining in.

I was able to have a threesome with my current guy and a girl I had a crush on, can’t get any better than that!

My next door neighbor’s wife in my pool.

I didn’t have sex until adulthood, so I never did that making-out, hand-job, blow-job thing everyone does when they are kids. So when I finally got to make out in a car and receive a BJ, it was a total fantasy come true. I even got the police knocking on the window. I was 32.

Performed oral sex on my girlfriend after she had sex with someone else.

Being “the girl” while dressed pretty with her on top wearing strap on.

Rimjobs.

Fully clothed with shoes, quick and aggressive.

Having him urinate all over me while I was on all fours in the bathtub.

Getting a blow job by two women.

After moving into a new apartment, I discovered that my sexy, funny neighbor not only loved sex but also loved to please me repeatedly. I never knew so many orgasms were possible!

What fantasy of yours would you most like to enact?

Sex with someone other than my wife.

It would involve me being tied into submission, and having my guy bite me.

Sex in a public place.

Anything to do with food.

I tend to be dominant in sex. I have never been with a woman who dominates the sex, controls what we do and talks dirty.

I want to wear a corset and garter under a long coat to my boyfriend’s office and straddle him in his chair. I have to work out how to get past security without having to remove my coat.

I’m very vanilla—I just want to be tied up, or do it in the elevator or stairwell of my apartment.

Anal gang bang.

A play date with another sissy while dressed in frilly pink satin.

I would like to have a threesome with my coworker and her adult daughter.

Having sex with a lot of people watching. I would love to put on a show.

My boss blowing me a few times a week for a year.

Having a woman fuck me up the ass with her vibrator.

What fantasy of yours is best kept a fantasy?

Me getting it from my guy while going down on another guy.

Another girl.

Two guys.

Three way.

I wanted my tax professor in law school out in Michigan to bend me over his desk and spank me while reciting the Internal Revenue Code.

Mutual analingus.

Sex in public places.

See my wife do another guy.

Having him shit on my stomach. I want to feel the warmth but the smell might be bad.

What’s the worst situation sex has gotten you into?

Fucking my girlfriend, now wife, while her mother stood at her apartment door.

HPV.

Polyamory.

Woman’s husband coming home in a fit of rage.

Deciding whether to stay with my boyfriend after he got his girl “friend” pregnant.

My one one-night stand turned out to be engaged, and her fiancée delivered food from my favorite restaurant. I didn’t know how to cook back then and had to settle for fast food for a while.

Pregnancy.

My first marriage.

Marriage. And divorce.

I had an angry mob of fake blonds in a purple pick-up chase me.

What’s the most inappropriate sexual situation you’ve ever been in?

Had an affair for six months.

Sex with a coworker.

I was sleeping with a married man.

Kissing cousins.

Nearly getting caught by her husband.

Caught having sex in bathroom by her kids.

Naked with my first wife’s sister. No harm, no foul, but just the same.

Sleeping with someone while in love with someone else.

Giving a guy head in an alley while his girlfriend was about 10 yards away in the house.

I slept with my boss’s wife. I got a call from my boss telling me he knew that I had slept with his spouse and to not bother coming back to work. That was awkward.

Had sex on a pull-out couch while one of my in-laws was sleeping next to us.

An ex-boyfriend of mine wanted me to poop in a diaper so he could rub his dick in it.

I guess that would be doing my ex’s mom after we split.

I was taking a shower at my girlfriend’s house and all of sudden the lights turned off, and a female who I thought was my girlfriend gave me the best blow job I ever had. After she left I heard the front door open and my girlfriend shout, “Honey, I’m home.” It turned out it was her mother in the shower. We have never talked about the incident, but every now and then she flicks her tongue at me from across the room.

What’s the best come-on you’ve ever heard?

No words, just “that look” from an attractive, confident woman.

“My husband is at work till nine, wanna do my butt?”

“This band kicks ass.”

“Wanna go someplace and fuck?”

“Hey baby can I paint your toenails?”

“Nice tie, want to use it on me?”

“Your face or mine?”

“When I am done with my drink, I am going home and you are coming with me.”

“I wanna cum on your face.”

“Please baby, I’m bored.”

What’s the strangest?

“How about you cheat tonight?”

A guy walked right up to me at club, took out his keys, started twisting one on my arm and asked, “Am I turning you on?”

“If you can’t duck it, fuck it.”

“I’ve never done a young Democrat before.”

“My family is short and we need tall genes.” (I’m 6’5”)

“I’ve got a TV.”

“If you were a squirrel would you suck on my nuts?”

“Wow, you trim your mustache?”

“Your face or mine?”

What the oddest thing you’ve ever thought about while having sex?

Tomato plant yield.

When will this be over?

My last husband.

Whether or not Hillary Clinton is going to be elected.

The landing gear system on a B-29 heavy bomber.

Being forced to dress pretty, then fellate and accept gay sissy sodomy.

Anti-freeze.

My dog’s untimely demise.

My grandmother.

Beef vindaloo.

What’s your craziest sex story that your friends still don’t believe?

That I went down on my guy once while he was driving home. I’m such a safety freak.

The mothers of three of my daughter’s friends propositioned me on Halloween night a month after my wife left me.

My boyfriend and I were having sex, and I broke our handcuffs. They don’t think it’s possible.

Sex with seven females in five days.

Some of my friends still probably don’t believe that I had sex on a weight bench at this guy’s house I had just met. He was a friend of my boyfriend, and we snuck off to have sex in his exercise room.

Tell us your best story about getting caught in the act

A highway trooper caught me playing with a dildo at rest stop.

My son caught me (his dad) with my boyfriend while camping.

My mom caught us and my ex walked all the way home with the condom on his dick.

The apartment had no back door.

One of the guy’s friends walked in on us and, instead of leaving, he stayed to tell us what everyone was doing outside.

On my knees sucking hard, someone walking to the sink to wash dishes.

What is your most common source for new fantasies and new ideas of what to do in bed?

I look at Penthouse and Playboy—a lot.

Metroland Sex Issue.

Start with porn, add imagination.

www.xtube.com.

Memories of my ex, typically involving Twister, handcuffs and massage oil.

Animal Planet or National Geographic.

Savage Love.

My own little twisted mind!!!!

Marijuana

Erotic fiction, either in books or online.

What’s the minimum sexual activity that counts as cheating?

Having a non-contact orgasm in front of someone who is not your spouse or lover.

Kissing is fine, but anything involving licking, sucking, or plain ol’ sex is cheating.

Going on a date.

Kissing.

Fingering.

Manual masturbation by the other person.

Oral sex.

Penetration.

Getting nude.

Intent.

I would have to say that anything aside from kissing is definitely cheating. Kissing is tricky, but anything other then that is no doubt.

Any activity that you would hide from your significant other.

It’s only cheating if you get caught.

If you have an “arrangement” with a long-term partner that allows for sex with others under limited circumstances, what are those circumstances?

Be careful about who they are having sex with, wear protection, and do it when I am not around!

No repeats, no exes, safe sex, I can’t use my cock, processing beforehand.

Oral sex only.

I get to watch.

Even those that say it’s OK, don’t mean it.

As long as my penis doesn’t enter anyone’s mouth, ass or pussy, she says I can do whatever I want.

The person is famous.

He has to use protection and he has to come home.

Is there a sensual pleasure that you would choose over sex if forced to give up one or the other?

No.

Oral, love getting it, love giving it. Sometimes I think it is better than sex, ‘cause you can still use your fingers which can replace a penis any day!

Phone sex.

My vibrator.

Getting fingered.

Love.

Eating chocolate or pussy.

What’s your most embarrassing masturbation story?

Caught by my mother like 20 times.

Father walking in on my jerking it to porn as Mighty Mighty Bosstones blasted on the stereo.

My mother caught me jerking off while I had a banana up my ass. Honest to God true story!!!

My mom found the stains on the mattress—while I was standing there.

My law school roommate thought I was crying and busted into my room.

I got part of a banana stuck in me and had to go to the hospital.

I was just about to cum and my cousin walked in and saw me masturbating with her panties. What embarrassed me most was that I couldn’t stop. I continued until I was done.

My mom read my diary entry about masturbating and then proceeded to tell everyone in my family what I had written

I farted and came at the same time . . . WOW!

Tell us about the best sexual surprise you’ve ever had.

Sex with midlife ladies is much better than I thought it would be when I was younger.

First girlfriend. Longtime best friend. We had talked about it but never did it. She was afraid because I was a virgin, and I never saw it coming.

My girlfriend gave me a blow job. When I came, it was a huge orgasm. She leaned over and kissed me and gave my cum back to me. It was the most erotic moment I’ve ever experienced!

A drive by blow job first thing in the morning.

My girlfriend was not that good in the sack. I married her anyway because I love her and now she is a tiger in bed.

My boyfriend loves to go down on me.

Him turning me over and sticking his face in my ass. I didn’t expect it then and I love it now.

A student nurse let me eat her pussy when I was in the hospital with a broken leg.

Tell us about a dream come true that went bad.

Ex-girlfriend hid the crazy until we started living together.

First marriage.

First girlfriend.

Regular weekly blow jobs . . . that stopped.

There was a guy I wanted and finally he came onto me and I was so excited. However when it finally came time for us to have sex, he was just awful! I was so disappointed!

I don’t dream anymore. That shit’s for the birds.

What’s the strangest place you’ve had sex?

The Arcade office in Crossgates.

My neighbor’s backyard.

Blow job in church parking lot . . . lots of confessions.

In the front seat of a Mustang driving from Miami to Orlando.

The amphitheater at my old grade school.

A restroom onboard Amtrak’s Maple Leaf .

The Capitol building steps.

An Adult book store on Halloween night.

Limo.

Bombers. (Sorry Matt.)

Cabin porch at a Lake George resort.

My mom’s garage.

In a post office.

Pressed up against ice machine in a Saratoga bar.

What’s the strangest place you’ve masturbated?

Price Chopper stockroom.

Public school bathroom.

Department store fitting room.

Washington Park, next to the fountain.

At my desk while on a conference call.

Library.

A friend’s shower.

Work bathroom.

Crowded subway.

A doctor’s office.

Fishing boat in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

I walked into work with my little vibrator already inside of me and the remote in my pocket.

In the car while I was waiting for someone to come back out of the store.

When I was about 13, I rubbed one out watching TV with my parents.

What’s your favorite sex toy?

My wife’s vibrator with clit stimulator.

The Happy Bunny, that toy is a girl’s best friend!

Jack Rabbit.

Lube.

Her strap-on.

Butt plug.

The DVD player.

Internet.

My lover’s belt.

My hand.

What’s your favorite sex toy that wasn’t intended to be a sex toy?

Detachable shower head.

A sticky lint roller.

Red, white, and blue Popsicle (till it melted).

Candle.

Wooden spatula.

Banana, but a lot of foods are good.

The Internet

A pillow.

The top of the liquor bottle.

Toilet paper roll.

What sexual discovery has changed your life?

A woman’s ability to deep throat and lick my balls, all from behind while I’m standing. Right before orgasm she inserts a toy or her finger in my anus.

I can actually please a girl and my guy at the same time, which I never thought I could do.

Queer sex.

I like to be spanked.

My wife doing me with toys.

I like to be peed on!!!!

The joys of eating pussy.

How much he loves getting his ass chewed out.

Bondage changed my world.

What is your favorite kink, and why does that turn you on?

Biting in between my shoulder blades makes me melt every time. Just like a cat!

Rough play, I like power dynamics.

Spanking—it heightens all the senses and you never know if the next time the person touches you if it will be a slap or a caress.

A girl who smells like a girl.

Sexual submission. Wearing little-girl style satin party dresses, petticoats, and diapers; I love being pretty and vulnerable.

Sniffing panties to extract her embedded pheromones.

Licking ass, because it seems taboo.

Asphyxiation, I know that it is dangerous, but I trust my lover so much that it’s a rush to put myself completely in his hands.

Being whipped. I like being vulnerable and submissive.

I love licking the sweat off of his balls after a long day of work.

What’s the most unusual thing you do to get yourself in the mood?

Fight.

Put on a pair of boots.

Read car magazines.

I’m always in the mood. That can be a real problem at times!!!

Rub my nipples with panties.

Stare at myself in the mirror and look at my tattoos.

I put on my black ankle socks and my sexy outfit and I’m ready to go.

What’s your most embarrassing inhibition?

Half the time I don’t even like pussy.

My inhibitions are all legit.

I like wearing and sniffing panties when I masturbate.

Dancing.

I simply cannot perform on top. I love sex, but I have to be the receiver.

What’s your best story about watching or being watched?

Watching my daughter be fully pleasured by a large male stripper at her birthday party.

Being watched over a balcony while having sex in the courtyard below.

My first wife’s sister—we taught her everything we knew.

Showing my johnson to my ex’s mother in a discreet way.

Lived in a boarding house one summer. My room was next to the bathroom. I could stand on my dresser and move the drop down ceiling and peer down into the bathroom to see girls peeing, showering or having sex.

One of my exes used to watch me masturbate for no reason. He wouldn’t touch me during or after, he just wanted to watch.

My female neighbor, who is married, masturbates every Friday at 9 PM on her patio. I heard moaning coming from the neighbor’s so I peeked over, thinking it had something to do with security. She looked right at me and continued. I was embarrassed. I wasn’t sure if she saw me so I said, “Hi” to make sure. She smiled, said “hi” back, and continued, so I watched and have watched every Friday night since.

What would improve your sex life?

More of it!!!

Just being more open in our relationship.

A redhead.

A boyfriend.

More confidence.

Less perfume.

More variety in acts, not partners.

Everyone having a large cock and knowing how to use it.

A partner who is willing to try anything at anytime and would not judge me.

Mutual masturbation.

What’s the best response you’ve gotten to delivering challenging, unexpected news to a potential sex partner (e.g., you’re HIV positive, married, or passing for a different gender)?

I’m married and was being aggressively hit on by an acquaintance. I let it go on for quite a while and neglected to tell her I was married until we were just about to seal the deal and my conscience got the better of me. Her response to my telling here was that she was, too. Both of us had been hiding it from the other.

“Oh, that’s OK, we can work around it.”

Support and honesty.

I never had to deliver news like that.

What would your utopian sexual society look like?

Nonjudgmental, uninhibited sex.

Clothing optional, all the time, everywhere.

No STDs.

No unrequited love.

Me and a bunch of Irish redheads in a castle drinking whiskey.

People would stop pretending that men have a greater sex drive then women.

Pure monogamy and honesty.

Like good bisexual, transgendered porn.

Way more hot chicks and not so many douchebags rolling around.

Filled with big beautiful women that look like schoolteachers during the day but are freaks at night.


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