The Ex Factor

Wicked WednesdayI will freely admit, without any reservation whatsoever that I have, in fact, had sex with every one of my exes.

Now, while this statement is absolutely 100% truthful, it doesn’t actually take into account the fact that, at the time I was having sex with them, I was actually still in a relationship with the woman in question, and so, at that particular point in time, she had yet to actually become an ex. OK, so I accept, that is a huge technicality, but it doesn’t negate the truth of my opening statement.

The fact is, however, that I have never had sex with someone after I have stopped being in a relationship with them so that they have become, in fact, an ex.

Generally, this has been for entirely logical reasons.  In the case of my very first “proper” girlfriend, we moved apart when we left school and went our separate ways to University and, ultimately, met other people.  This was in the late 1980’s so there were no mobile phones, social media, or email to keep in near constant contact with. If anyone thinks long-distance is hard nowadays, imagine it in the pre-internet dark ages.

Another couple of relationships at university were short term and simply fizzled out after the initial novelty wore off.

And then, of course, there is “THE EX“, i.e. my ex-wife.

In total, we were together for 16 years and married for 12 of those. I was her “first” although, she had done pretty much everything else apart from intercourse with her previous boyfriend. I was slightly more experienced than she was by virtue of the partners mentioned above, but not by very much and the overwhelming majority of what I know about my sexual tastes, desires, preferences, attitudes and appetites were learned during those 16 years that I spent with her.

Our split, when it happened, was particularly hard. I still carry the scars of it some 12 years later. Oddly, however, even as the relationship itself fell apart, the one thing that remained absolutely great right up until almost the very end was, surprise surprise, the sex. We had drifted apart as people, to the point where we were two separate individuals living under the same roof as opposed to the unit we had been as a couple. We were, in fact, by this stage, also both having sex outside what remained of our relationship. All in all it was pretty toxic and was damaging my health, but when we fucked, for that brief interlude, everything clicked back into place.

I suspect it was the long and easy familiarity we had for each other’s bodies and the things that turned us on. There was also a very definite element of anger and resentment towards each other in the way we fucked that, perversely, just made the fucking even better while, at the same time, hastened the relationship’s final ending.

I’ve had a couple of relationships since we split, and she married the guy she was fucking behind my back.  All things considered, we are on reasonably good terms, although we only actually speak to each other when we absolutely have to.

Knowing how good the sex between us was, could I ever go back?

Simple answer, no. In the infinitesimally unlikely event that the possibility ever arose, I really don’t think that would be a good idea for either of us.

ZeN

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Bottoms up! (Or making an arse of things)

In my experience, the women I have been with have fallen into two camps: those that took it up the arse, and those that didn’t. Those that did enjoyed it and those that didn’t were quite adamant that it wasn’t going to happen. In only one instance has it transpired that I stumbled upon an “uncertain” and that was simply because she had never tried it before. Once she had tried it, she was firmly in the “Yes” camp thereafter; so I can only assume I did something right.

Of the women I have done it with, there has been no general consensus as to how they preferred it done. Some liked it rough and hard, some preferred me to take it slowly and (as much as it can be) gently. All expressed a notion for it being somehow taboo, or illicit in a way that vaginal or anal sex were not. It was somehow darker, dirtier (if you’ll excuse the obvious double meaning) and that made it somehow more exciting.

Personally, when push comes to shove, it’s something I can take or leave. For me it has always been a case of “lady’s choice”. When the woman I’ve been with has wanted it, I’ve done it and enjoyed it. Similarly, when the woman hasn’t wanted it, I haven’t missed it. Also, in terms of what I do, I have only ever been a “giver”, “receiving” isn’t my thing.

What it comes down to, for me, is that it is simply one more weapon in my arsenal, one more string in my bow.  There are plenty of other activities that couples can enjoy that the presence or absence of this particular one makes little difference.  I don’t enjoy sex more when I get to fuck her arse, I don’t enjoy it less when I don’t.

Wicked WednesdayAs with everything, communication and respect is key. If the woman says its a “no”, then it’s a “no”; stop there, don’t try to coerce her into something she doesn’t want to do. In the case of my “uncertain”, it was something she was curious about but it was something where, ultimately, I let her set the pace; I didn’t force it, but from expressing an interest, we experimented and built up from fingering until she was ready for me to fuck her.  All the time the understanding was that if she didn’t like it or wanted me to stop at any point, I would.

As it happened, I stopped quite a few times. She wanted to persevere and after a few false starts along the way, we finally got there.  As I mentioned above, it turned out it was something she enjoyed and it is something we did fairly regularly after that.  Had I tried to force my way in on that first attempt, there is every chance I might have put her off it and, more importantly from my fragile male ego’s perspective, me.

All this is, I guess, is a rather rambling and long-winded way of saying that for me, its presence or absence is not a deal-breaker. I’ve always believed and strongly maintain that, first and foremost, sex should be enjoyable for the participants. If something you do enhances that, great; if it doesn’t, then concentrate on the things that do.

Ultimately though, if someone offers you their arse, don’t be one.

ZeN

Word for Wednesday – Reflection

Reflection

/rɪˈflɛkʃən/
noun
  1. the act of reflecting or the state of being reflected
  2. careful or long consideration or thought

Reflection is almost inevitable at this time of year. We look back at the things that have happened and how they have affected us. We look forward to the coming year and what might be for both good and bad.

The start of the year, although completely arbitrary, is almost by default, a time of reflection.

In my last post of 2017, I looked back at the highs I had in terms of my return to blogging. In this, my first post of 2018, my thoughts turn, as they often do, to the topic of mental health.

Helpful Numbers #MentalHealthLike many people, I find the festive period particularly difficult. I won’t bore you with my specific reasons, but suffice to say that by the time the end of the holiday period finally rolls around, I am more than happy to see the back of it. It is the one holiday that simply through the sheer effort of enduring it, leaves me more worn out and exhausted, mentally, physically and spiritually at its end than I was at its beginning.

I mentioned before, that I do not suffer from Seasonally Affected Disorder, but perhaps it would be more accurate to say that there is a very specific “season” that I find particularly hard to bear.

Every year, somewhere between Christmas Day and New Year’s Day, I make a conscious decision whether or not I carry on. In doing so, I make a positive affirmation that, having made it through the year just gone by, I will give it my best endeavours to make it to the end of the year that is to come. It isn’t a promise; it is simply a statement of what I intend to achieve. If I manage to achieve anything else between now and the end of 2018 then that is a bonus. The only resolution I ever set myself is that I try not to spend every day of the forthcoming year regretting the decision I have made.

This has not been a very positive post; mainly because I am not in a very positive place. For me it is the time of my darkest reflections.

ZeN

Winter

I must admit, I hadn’t actually thought about the kinky connections of winter. Having said that, as we hurtle towards one of my least favourite times of the year, I’m not really thinking about the kinky connections of anything.

First off, I am fortunate that I don’t suffer from Seasonally Affected Disorder (SAD). On account of my depression, I’m a miserable fucker all year round, the only difference between winter and summer being that it’s colder, so I generally wear more clothes.

There is something nice about snuggling up with someone in the comfortable warmth of indoors when the weather outside is cold and bleak and daylight is an increasingly rare commodity.

Whether its under a blanket on the sofa, in bed and a heavy tog duvet, or lying together in front of a log fire, there is very little that beats the intimacy and closeness of a good, long lazy snuggle (except, perhaps, when the “snuggle” is somewhat less lazy).

And that, possibly, is one advantage of this time of year; when it’s cold outside, we turn the heating up inside. There’s something about being warm and cozy that lends itself to activities of an amorous nature.  As the temperature rises, the layers of clothing can fall away. What started with a cuddle, can progress to sharing body heat in an altogether more vigorous fashion.

It’s kind of the ultimate “Netflix & Chill” where the “chilling” most certainly involves keeping warm. And as we approach the Winter Solstice and almost 16 hours of darkness, there is only so much Netflix you can watch, and there are much nicer things two people can be doing to while away the longest winter nights.

ZeN

Cheating

It’s one of those perennial “truth or dare” type questions that comes around now and again.

Have you ever cheated? If so, what were the reasons behind it, and how did you feel afterwards?

The honest answer to this question is: “Yes“. I’m not proud of the fact, despite the fact that some may say I had justification for doing so; but yes, I have cheated.

The circumstances, and I am not attempting to justify my actions, were difficult. My (then) wife had had at least three affairs that I was aware of. While not exactly turning a blind eye to such things, for the sake of my marriage and the fact that, despite this, I did love her, I was prepared to live with it. We were together for 16 years.

It was only in the last few, painful, months that I finally strayed myself.

Some might think it was a form of retaliation; it wasn’t. I didn’t actually go looking for someone else to have sex with, it just happened. The fact that the woman involved was, herself, married, only added to the generally fucked-upness of the situation.

I was at a pretty low place in terms of my depression (I had had a complete breakdown some months earlier) and I was flattered that, in my broken state, someone found me remotely attractive. The affair, such as it was, lasted about a year, continuing some six months after I eventually moved out.

Despite my circumstances, I still felt bad about it. Not because I’d held some moral high ground for sticking to my vows while my wife had flaunted hers, but because somehow I had become “that guy”; the one who uses his own sorry situation to get himself laid.

The sex, however, was very good. It filled a gap in what was left with the relationship with my wife. I didn’t feel guilty, nor did I feel a sense of vindicated retaliation. It was simply some very good sex, where there no longer was any sex at home (well, actually, there was sex going on at home, but it wasn’t me having it).

I still felt bad about it though.

Humans: we love to complicate things.

ZeN

A Confession

#MasturbationMondayI have a confession to make; something that I just have to get off my chest. I have a dreadful, awful secret that I can no longer keep to myself. I know what I am about to reveal will shock some of you on the grounds that:

  1. I am a sex-blogger; and
  2. I am a man

But I hope you will be able to see past my confession and support me.

So, here it is… *deep breath*

I can’t remember the last time I had a wank.

There, I’ve said it. I feel so much better now.

So what prompted this?

Well, partially it’s because it is, of course, a Monday, which means it’s time for Kayla’s fabulous #MasturbationMonday meme (in which, last week, Kayla did me the great honour of , using one of my photos for the prompt image). Then, today as I was scrolling back through some of my older material, I stumbled across this poll that the wonderful Girl on The Net ran:

Quick poll: how often do you wank? Assuming you’re not having partnered sex at the time.

Well, that finally tipped me over the edge (no, not like that, or I wouldn’t be writing this post, would I? Pay attention at the back there…)

I’ve written before about my “wanking style” but, the sad thing is, in terms of practising the technique, the frequency has dwindled to so rarely I could almost claim to be masturbatorly celibate.

So why is this?

I am sexually active. My penis does what it’s supposed to do when I have the “appropriate” company (although my orgasm can sometimes be a bit reticent). I have urges, I have desires, so why do I so rarely indulge in them?

The answer lies, in part, with the “orgasmic reticence” I just mentioned.

As many of you are aware, I regularly from suffer very serious bouts of depression. I have been on anti-depressant medication continuously since 2004. My medication has no real effect on my sexual appetite, but it does sometimes mean that I find it difficult to climax. Now, this prolonged “staying-power” might be seen as some to be a blessing, but in some instances it can be downright frustrating. It doesn’t happen often, but there are times when I am having sex that, eventually, I’m forced to effectively give up. I get close, but it just doesn’t happen (yes, this does actually happen to guys too). It’s a rarity when I’m having sex with someone else, but it’s much more frequent when I’m taking myself “in hand”.

And that is the beginning of the slippery slope, as it were.

Like most people, I wank because (a) it feels good, and (b) I have a certain need for release. Sadly for me, while (a) still holds true, (b) is very seldomly achieved. This, in turn, increases frustration until the point where the pleasure obtained is pretty much neutralised by the frustration experienced. A vicious circle ensures where, instead of relieving frustration, wanking actually causes more frustration. It loses it pleasurable qualities and, to all intents and purposes, becomes more trouble and effort than it is worth.

That’s kind of where I am now and, as a result of that particular stroke of ill fortune, why the longest and most productive “sexual relationship” that I have ever had is now more a source of bitter-sweet memories rather than an active source of pleasure.

Kind of sucks to be me really.

ZeN

Word for Wednesday – Sensualism

Sensualism

/ˈsɛnsjʊəˌlɪzəm/
noun

  1. the quality or state of being sensual

When it comes to sex, I am all about the senses; the sounds, the feelings, the scents, the scenes and the tastes. Great sex combines each of these; taking those essential building blocks and building them into a whole that is so much more than their sum.

Humans are a visual species, and it is fair to say that what we see is what initially attracts us to another person. We each have our own measure of the qualities that we find visually appealing in a potential partner.

Vision, however goes much deeper than that. They is the voyeuristic pleasure of watching your partner arouse and pleasure themselves. There is the joy that comes from watching their response to your attentions; the involuntary twitches and shakes, the changes of expression, the sinuous arching of their backs as the pleasure builds within them.

Wicked Wednesday
I am, by my own admission, an extremely tactile person. I love touch and I loved to be touched. I love the feel of a partner’s skin, soft and warm, against mine. I love the feel of their body under my fingertips and under my lips. I love the feel of theirs on mine; the warmth of her mouth as it encircles my cock and the soft heat of her cunt as I move inside her.

And then their is taste. The taste of her skin as I explore with lips. The intense flavour of her cunt as I feast on her. The subtle changes in flavour as her arousal grows, the sharp sweetness of her climax on my tongue.

Sound also plays its part, intensifying and amplifying every action. Her moans as I lick her, that sigh as I thrust slowly into her, filling her for the first time. There’s the sounds of skin on skin as our bodies move together. Sometimes the sound of leather on skin as my belt kisses her flesh. The sound of the bed beneath us adding to every movement, every squirm, every thrust.

Sex is so much more than just a physical pleasure. It engages all of the senses to become an emotional canvas on which we paint our desires.

That is the essence of sensualism; the surrendering to the full spectrum of experience.

ZeN

Going Dark

Every now and then it becomes a necessity; there is a need to step away.  The blogging/twitter community is a wonderfully supportive group, but sometimes space is needed.

It’s not that unusual for me to shut myself off from the world periodically. My mood, and indeed my general personality, tend to mean that I prefer/require a degree of solitude.

Depression itself can be a very solitary condition. It has a tendency to focus thoughts, feelings and emotions in on sufferer’s sense of self. It leads us to withdraw, to shut ourselves off, to distance ourselves from those who care for us because we feel we are a burden, that our own pain brings those around us down.

When the black cloud descends, it is difficult to see beyond it. It seems impossible that anyone would want to have anything to do with us, let alone love/care for us; especially as we feel incapable of doing these things for ourselves. It can, and does, put a strain on friendships and relationships.

So once again, I find myself down in the darkest of depths, howling at the moon. Each day another battle in a war that ultimately only has one ending.

ZeN

 

Word for Wednesday – Dispassionate

Dispassionate

/dɪsˈpæʃənɪt/
adjective

  1. devoid of or uninfluenced by emotion or prejudice; objective; impartial

My daily job is one that requires me to be objective and impartial. I go to great lengths not to prejudge and to weigh up the evidence in front of me before I make a decision. On Saturdays, on the rugby field, I have to make those decisions instantly and without hesitation, applying the laws of the game fairly and consistently.

However, for this post, I am concentrating on the “devoid of or uninfluenced by emotion” part.

As is the case with so many of us who struggle with mental illness, I tend to wear a mask in my day-to-day dealing with my fellow humans. It is a mask that I tend to keep very firmly fixed in place.

To the outside world, it does perhaps seem that I am without emotion, cold, reserved, withdrawn.

It is also true that I am not particularly given to, or indeed comfortable with, public displays of emotion. I have a tendency to have a vey fixed demeanour in the company of other.

The dispassionate mask is, however, simply that; a mask. Far from being devoid of emotion, it hides a seething mass that lies just below the surface; a constant turmoil that threatens to boil over at the slightest provocation.

The absence of appearance of emotion and the absence of emotions themselves are two very separate things.

ZeN

Word for Wednesday – Dissociation

Dissociation

/dɪˌsəʊsɪˈeɪʃən; -ʃɪ-/
noun

  1. the act of dissociating or the state of being dissociated

It’s one of those strange feelings that, I suspect, many of us who suffer from depression and other forms of mental illness experience. It is an odd feeling of being separated from one’s self. It’s as though there is an actual gap between our spirit and our physical selves; a feeling that we don’t fully fill our physical bodies.

It’s an oddly disconnected feeling; that somewhere between my skin and my soul there is a black void of nothingness. It’s as if I am lost within a hollowed out shell of my own being.

It is a form of detachment. Not of detachment from the outside world, which is all too common an experience, but a detachment of spirit and body, where the former retreats into the darkest recesses of the latter to hide away and lick its wounds.

ZeN