Hurting, Love, Outside the Bedroom, Volatile bodies, Wonderboy

A Quick Update

Wonderboy got him some medicine! I haven’t talked to him yet, but he texted me letting me know. I hope they’ll help him tangle his fears and live his life more to the fullest.

Also, while he didn’t fuck me friday night, I woke up to being molested from the back and the sex was absolutely amazing. Same thing on sunday. I guess booking the doctor’s appointment already helped him some. Let’s see what happens now that he’s on the pill.

Craving for more, Hyper-Sexual, Self-Questioning, Submissive tendencies

Two Days and Not Counting

Okay. I admit it. I’m bad. Happy to oblige, everyone, the show’s over.

After all my almost cheerful japping about not orgasming without Wonderboy, I went without the pill for two whole days (!) before I had to do it. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?

Last night we tried to have sex. It was almost funny. We laughed at it ourselves. We were so nervious, like we hadn’t done it in ages or it hadn’t ended succesfully (what ever the hell that means to any of us). Wonderboy was afraid that I’d change my mind after the fact like I used to. He has all the right to be scared of that because that’s exactly how this shit used to go down. I’d not say anything during sex, but might afterwards admit that I really wanted something different or couldn’t get in the mood. And then it was his fault that I didn’t come, because as my lover he is of course supposed to be a mind reader among his many other qualities. All of that usually happened when I didn’t orgasm. (It has happened, even to me. Poor me.)

The worse case scenario though, many times proven true, was that I’d love everything he did to me but I’d end up changing my mind. I could even go so far as to accuse him of taking advantage of me or not caring about me and my satisfaction. But this was before. It was when my stomach turned if I thought about what we’d done. What turned me on. It was too scary and too intimidating that he could weild such a power over me. I decided that even though I did consent, he should have known better.

So, I was an asshole. I admit it. I was dreadful to him. But only because I was really scared and really lost, and he knew it. I’m beginning to accept who I am and what I want, but the past still haunts us. I sometimes, on bad days, have to fight off a flash-back of the rape when we do something that is somehow too similar. There’s still a constant battle going on inside me, one I cannot always open up about. But that’s less of a problem now. I’m beginning therapy. I’m relatively well adjusted to having an awful and traumatic past. (And for real, who doesn’t?) It’s a part of me that has made me the way I am. And by that I don’t mean it made me a big fat kinkster, but I mean it has given me the ability to reflect on my emotions and situations and accept what is and has been inevitable. Well, I’m getting there, anyway.

We were hugging and talking, talking about how funny it was that we didn’t want to have sex. I wanted to, to try out my new unmedicated feats, but he had misgivings because of my past performance. I wholeheartedly understood and said that we didn’t have to have sex. We ended up talking about what he was mostly afraid of: that I would be dissapointed and sad after sex. And I said that how could I be, it’s also my fantasy that he fucks me just to get himself off, and I don’t get any. (Necessarily.) That kind of turned the tables. He did want to fuck me like that, pretending to not take my needs into account.

And we managed to have sex. It almost ended before the big climax when I asked if he could fuck me from behind. I don’t know why it felt too scary for him. Maybe it was just that I asked something of him. Maybe it was because we’d had small talk like conversation just before and his erection had started to wane, and he was feeling insecure about that and the whole affair. I was menstruating and not at my highest by any means.

But the fuckery went it’s way and ended beautifully when he tried to hold off his orgasm for a bit more because it had started to feel really, really good having him on my back. I quivered, just quivered under him, and suddenly he couldn’t stop himself and came really hard. It was so hot. He didn’t need to lick me for more than a minute until I came too.

It didn’t go quite as we hoped, but it was a start. Yet again. I’m not afraid of being afraid. It’s okay to be nervious.

But then I couldn’t sleep. He went to bed exhausted and I started to roam the streets of BDSM blogs. I ended up at Aarkey‘s. And found an interesting post. I got excited on purpose.

Thanks Aarkey. I knew I should’ve stayed home. So what now?

Borderline, Hurting, Love, Wonderboy

Setback With a Twist

We had a fight last week. After the week of painfully fulfilling sex it started to bother Wonderboy that he was so much in charge. He felt he had to come up with something new every time. He was feeling a bit intimidated by this blog, and maybe about the new twist of things, too. He said he was happy that I was more in tune with my emotions and my sexuality, but he still said he needed me to be normal. Normal like we used to.

And I said: But we never were normal. You always had these fantasies, and I had my own. Right? Nothing has changed.

But everything has changed. Because it’s all in the open now. My emotional fuck-uppery is pretty visible with the tiny silver pill box resting on the table, reminding us of my handicap every day. When he spoons me and starts to caress me, we are both very much aware that it’s a scary place we are venturing to. I want to make him feel good. He wants to make me feel good. But with the pill I’ve been unresponsive to most of the things I enjoy(ed), and that makes him the sole beneficiary. That also makes him responsible for me not getting off.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not blaming him for not making me come. I’m fully aware that I’m seriously handicapped in that respect right now. That’s what he feels he should be able to do. As I said before, he doesn’t really enjoy it if I don’t. Since it’s been like this over a month now, it’s been more of the rough take-down style here than the sweet love making. And those things combined have left Wonderboy feeling, um, hurt. I guess thats what it is. He is trying his best. He’s doing everything he can, and it still isn’t enough.

One morning I collapsed on him after he came and just couldn’t stop crying. I felt so deserted, alone, unconnected with him. We had just made love and I hadn’t felt a thing. I’d tried earlier to persuade him to have sex before breakfast, because that’s when I take the pill and the following hours are spent in a place of serenity and numbness. But he wanted to eat first. I got so affended, in fact, that I couldn’t even let him try to make me come.

We made up a game then, after I’d calmed down, to ease things up a bit. He was supposed to fuck me without delaying his orgasm at all for my benefit. Because he usually (always?) has to change phase, think about something else or just plain stop for a while in order to let me come first. It was liberating because I didn’t have to try to achieve an orgasm, and he knew that I’d be happy anyway. It had also gotten so bad that I couldn’t come at all, even with his trusted hands and mouth.

I am only sharing my orgasms with Wonderboy, for now. So even when I do want to, I cant’ try to make myself come. After the first week we decided that he didn’t have to obey the same rules, because it made him feel so resentful and tied down. He can make himself orgasm whenever he wants to, but I will only if we do it together. This has led me to seek tenderness more openly. I also have had to lear to talk about my needs in no regard to his, because my orgasms only come through him. With him.

The denial was too hard on him, which I don’t really understand but I have accepted. But for me it has been a road to recovery. We are not really playing at all with denial, since the idea is not that he would deny my, but that he will not deny me. But I have to learn to ask. So I have.

It is liberating to just say how you feel. I need an orgasm, otherwise I won’t sleep. I really want you and want to go down on you, but I don’t feel like anything rough tonight, okay? I want you, but I’m too tired, can we just play a little?

The other day, when he went all unreciprocal and silent, and I asked him what was wrong, he answered that he didn’t know what he was allowed to do if I didn’t want anything rough. Is everything we do rough? Thus came about the question of boundaries that I’ve been unable to set. I said: Well, a little spanking is nice. And a little roughness, as long as you’re gentle. He tried slapping me. He tried pulling my hair, but gently. He held my neck, gently. I moaned in answer.

And when I wanted him to speak to me during the act, and that usually means he has to degrade me and show me my place, he just said he loves me and adores me. He caressed my neck intensively at the same time (or right after, it’s hard to keep track when you’re under someone). It was all I wanted.

I don’t know what it means. I don’t know how we are going to touch and play and make love from now on. But I do want to feel the things he does. I do want to feel him.

So a lot of good things have come from the selective serotonin uptake inhibitor. But, on a sunny sunday morning, I just didn’t take the pill. I was hoping that we’d have sex that I could really feel, after all, it had been 24 hours and the effects had started to ease a little. I thought I could always take the pill later.

When I touched his back, the blocks of muscle that I’ve always liked so much, I could feel this familiar tingling inside. My fingertips were suddenly feeling so much that I didn’t want to stop caressing him. Just touching him! Felt. So. Good. We made love, and it was gentle and it was beautiful. I felt a huge disconnect between me and the world dissolve. I could feel. I was so much in love and so happy.


This is the second day without the selective serotonin uptake inhibitor meddling with my mind. Wish me luck.

Craving for more, Fantasies, Gender stereotypes, Hurting, Hyper-Sexual, Love, Wonderboy


Yesterday Wonderboy came home early from work. We were quite innocently lying in bed, when he started to play with my ponytail, smiling to me in an insinuating way. He has this smile, in which his lips start to twitch a little because it’s so strained. I know what it means. I couldn’t help but smile myself.

I wasn’t really expecting anything since last night was such a wondrous fuck, and it’s been so difficult lately with me possibly not getting off, and him taking a huge deal of responsibility for it. But he seemed rather playful, and I started to get wet, just like that. I was on top of him and he was toying with my ponytail. There was a long, long silence in which we just smiled. I finally asked him, what is he smiling about, but it took a couple of minutes for him to answer. And then he came clean and said, that he’d been thinking that if I was to resist, he’d just have to rape me.

Now you have to understand, that we’ve managed to take control of the word rape in our home. It’s a play we play with each other, and has nothing to do with real abuse, even in our minds. I have to say, that as a survivor, using the word with him gives me a certain feeling of empowerment. Rape is turned from a stomach turning, soul-gutting, selfish and evil act to an act of fulfillment and love between me and my lover. There needs to be an adamant trust between us to play a game like that.

And because of that, when I didn’t jump into action straight away, he started to back off. But my heart had jumped when he described what he wanted to do to me in more detail, and I had already gotten really wet and anxious for him to make a move on me. So, I smiled and told him, he could check how exited I was about the idea. And he did. After a few squishing moments of passion with his fingers, he was ready to admit that I might seem to like the idea too.

He asked me then to put on a skirt, or just hinted at it, so I did. After brushing on some mascara and a hint of rose red on my cheeks I stumbled in to the kitchen with my black and shiny 5 inch heels, where he was waiting for me. I know, I know. Seems really simplistic, and more to the point, really stereotypical. But it isn’t, when we are the ones playing the game. I’m still me, pretty snarky and strong, questioning him with my eyes. He’s still pretty feminine, beutiful and caring, even though he towers over my head. He then started to grope me with haste and a sort of entitlement I’d never felt before, because we are over those stupid gender stereotypes that come between us and lust. His hands were aggressive, pulling me against him, almost causing me to fall over.

Why don’t you fight? he asked me after some groping.

You haven’t done anything wrong yet, I answered.

He started to. I started to pull away, slap him in the chest, say small little things like c’moon, please, hey, whatca think your doing? I don’t want to act a scene, I want to feel it, so I don’t go into a role that’s entirely unlike me. It’s still us, but in a very different situation. He cleared the table with one hand and was pushing me on it with the other, when I remarked that people could see us from the street. So, he pushed me in the bedroom and on the bed and under his hard body.

His engagement ring clanged against my teeth, when he put his hand on my face to stop me from yelling. Later he told me that at some point he was actually a bit nervious, because I sounded so sincere. But of course, my body always betrays me, and so it did now. And yes, he called me a slut, and yes, my cunt contracted happily for it. He had just ripped off my panties and pushed away my skirt on my tummy, and entered me, when I felt it coming. Like a train wreck. I was screaming at the top of my lungs no, no, no, ouch, that hurts! (Oh, god, I feel so sorry for our neighbours. And that’s nothing compared to how embarrased I feel.)

I came. Just like that. It was an orgasm that just wouldn’t subside. He couldn’t fuck me at first because my muscles pushed the penis right out, and he had to fight even to stay in me, but when he started to fuck, I felt the orgasm fire up again. The funny thing is, that he had hardly had time to slap me once or twice in the face, to penetrate me and to suffocate me with his hand. Wasn’t I supposed to be the orgasmly challenged?

I don’t know what happened. Am I adapting to the effects of the selective serotonin uptake inhibitor, or are some of my fantasies so potent they get me off no matter what? Or is this because I’m ovulating just about now?

He continued to fuck me, and at some point, took a pillow from the bed, and started to suffocate me with it. My neurons screamed for joy! I’m never sure, if I could really breath through the pillow or not, because the pressure usually forces me to kind of forcefully hold my breath. For me, it is almost too often he checkes that everything’s fine and I’m really having an orgasm, and not spasming because of the loss of oxygen. I’d like to be more seriously suffocated. But I guess those are the things, that just need a lot more learning to get to.

I came again. Honestly, who doesn’t if they are simultanously fucked and suffocated?

After he had fucked the living daylight out of me, we curled up to cuddle, he gazed into my eyes, and asked, do you want me to lick you? I nodded smiling like the blushing bride I am, and soon after felt his love and devotion in action again.

I really enjoy his lustful eyes, almost submissively gazing at me through his long dark lashes, when he’s down at my crotch. He pushed me legs up, and held them like they’d been tied to the ceiling, and I came once more, fantasizing about him fucking me, but that wouldn’t work for whatever reason, so moving on to a doctor doing a gynecological examination for a clueless virgin, but insted of the specula, using his other equipment. As the doctor came, I came, and all was well in the house on the hill.

It’s cold and sunny outside, and I’m in need of a big cup of coffee to take the edge of the day. Feel free to comment on experiences with serotonin related drugs, or playing, or the effect of ovulating, or anything else, you just might want to discuss. I’m on a coffee break.

Borderline, Hyper-Sexual, Love, Self-Questioning, Wonderboy

Orgasm Strike

Hold the press! Sex positive orgasm machine strikes out! No, it isn’t possible. Is it a bird? Is it a machine? No, it’s the selective serotonin uptake inhibitor. Come again? You know, the antideprassant.

I’ve been on the meds (with hushed tones) for a few weeks now. My main reason for succumbing to the Western civilication’s obsession about medication was simple in the end. If I experience nauseating cramps on my period I most certainly will take all the pills I can get my hands on. Is there really any reason for me to suffer from anxiety attacks and uncontrollable anger (with very much controlled actions) if there is a pill for it? I decided to try it out. If there are any other happy borderlines out there, say hi and feel free to share your own depencies. We tend to have a few.

I won’t bore you with all the sordid details and side effects. The feeling of a tight metal band around my head has finally just about ceased to be replaced by this totally uncharasteristic mellow attitude. I can’t write because I really just don’t care enough. (Who knew that art is made out of suffering? Well, um. I guess clichés can be true then.) I don’t feel like watching or reading anything. But I don’t get bored. It’s freaking me out – in a very intellectually intriguing sort of way – because I don’t get upset any more. I always carry books and magazines with me wherever I go, because I tire immedietly if I have to wait for something. Yet there I am, contently looking out of the bus window, contemplating something with no relevance to anything. Peaceful as pie.

Unfortunately the mellow attitude goes all the way from my snippy snappy neurons to my labia and clitoris. They don’t want anything anymore either. I can watch porn all I want, rub away with all the tricks I by now know, but I ain’t coming. In no time mellow has become apathetic. Dare I even say it – I’ve become content.

Yeasterday we had sex. It’s Saturday, the day of the sexual release for the people in the working world (Wonderboy that is), and we’re getting it on. Wonderboy’s very assertive as usual, trying out new positions from behind and pulling my hair so that I bend like a bow. First I’m having the time of my life. Suddenly I feel like there’s something missing and I realize. I don’t feel the sexual tension building. I’m at the same tickling but kind of blank point where we started at. He’s getting it going, blushing, getting goose-pumps all over his body, his little hairs are standing up, his nipples are erect and his mouth is slower, harder, hotter all over me. It’s like I’m standing on a balcony watching him. I feel less involved than I do watching porn. I’m somewhat disengaged and not even horny any more. I feel the thrusts and they feel good, but in a way that a massage might feel like. I think to myself, so this is how all the women feel like who can’t have an orgasm through intercourse. An educational fuck! Just the thing I need.

The biggest problem, for me, was that after a while, I didn’t really care either way. So, I wasn’t going to come. Okay, I might as well enjoy the show. I spent time sniffing him. I really like the scent of his armpits, it normally gets me excited to smell the sweat, even more so if his breath hits my face or I press my face to his scrotum. Oh, the special treats his body produces just for my nostrils! I let my fingers trail blushing skin, curly hairs. I stopped to feel flesh against mine, in me, moving in different ways. Pounding, moving aside the soft inner folds, caressing the skin. It felt weird to be in such a composed state in such an intimate and passionate moment. I felt like a sell out. He was lost in the passion, or so I thought, and I was watching his performance like I was grading him on it. (Later he told me he was bothered by my uninvolvement but didn’t know what more to do.) And for me it was all okay.

This from a girl who once threw her lovers things in to the hallway for not having sex with her. This from a girl who will ask for just one more, please after having an hour long fuck and lord knows how many orgasms. This from a girl who found herself getting off of the throbbing of the bus’s motor after just five days of orgasm denial.

The biggest problem, though, is that Wonderboy doesn’t usually get turned on if I don’t. He won’t come before I do. It leaves him feeling ashamed and privileged in the wrong way. I can understand him, because the things that we do could seem a little too… overwhelming if I don’t even come at the end. Like he says, where’s the fun if you don’t come?

It shouldn’t even be a surprise. This is exactly what I was afraid of. I swore to lose the pills the minute there was an effect on my sexual drive. The most important thing in our relationship and for our happiness is, in my opinion, sex. Call me shallow, if you like, but I’m just being honest, because sex is the glue of a relationship. Sex won’t work if we can’t communicate, if we’re sad or too stressed, if there’s something not right between us. And the other way around, communication starts to fall apart if we can’t be intimate, close, give each other pleasure. I think that Freud said somewhere that a person able to work and have sex, is a healthy one. I still thought I was one a few days ago. Wonderboy has always been able to get me off whether it’s demanded a little effort or a bit more. We’ve been in a stand still for a week now.

Yet still we have sex. As a matter of fact we had sex just a few hours ago. But first we spent the whole morning evading the subject. Wonderboy wouldn’t even get caught in a decent kissing let alone start petting. He just didn’t believe he could get me off. I think he’s the only guy in the world who’s passing on blowjobs on a weekly basis. There’s of course always the subject of reciprocity to consider. Even so, we fihnally got things going today. But sadly the only way for me to come is by his tongue and lips. I’m not saying anything about the inferiority of oral sex generally, just stating my own preferences, in this relationship. Which are Wondeboy thrusting like hell and preferably slapping and strangling me at the same time.

Because I want to have sex. Somehow, somewhere in my body there must be a clock that goes tickety-tickety-tick because I feel the need to have sex even though I’m completely content and can’t really be turned on. The satisfaction even goes so far that I don’t really feel like eating until I start to feel faint. I don’t crave anything.

So yesterday, after the disasterous fuck, I decided to only take a half a pill of my usual dosage of 1. Maybe it would take away some of the numbness but still keep my serotonin levels at a harmonious state. What a clever idea! I popped the half, and the other half this morning, both to carry through one day. I was feeling decent enough until we started talking about eating and I suddenly found myself attacking Wonderboy about being on a diet. The conversation just wouldn’t end, and it started to get pretty ugly. He went to take the trash out while I curled up on the balcony under the pretence of reading. Like I could at that state! I sat there and realized that I was back at square one. Half a pill didn’t do any good. The worst part was that we wouldn’t even have sex for me to try out the enhanced sensations because I got us straight in to a fight the minute I stopped taking the meds. Healty. So, if I take the pill, my sexual sensations are seriously dimmed, but if I don’t take it, I won’t have any sex, because my aggressiveness bounces into action.

Wonderboy came back from the yard, silent, and started to vacuum. After he’d cleaned the corners, always a passive-aggressive move in our house, we sat on the table. He caressed my cheek and my hair as I cried – and tried to swallow the other half of the pill at the same time. It was obvious what I needed to do, for both of us. Back on the pill.

We chose the possible orgasm strike rather than my self-inflicted orgasm denial.