My man is a latent spanker. I say latent because his propensity for slapping my ass didn’t show up until the second year of our relationship.
I have no one to blame but myself.
At the time, I was studying various erotica collections from Cleis Press and trying to figure out where to submit my erotic essays
“I don’t get the spanking stories,” I said to him one night while I was reading in bed. I proceeded to read him an excerpt of a story where a woman gets off when her lover pulls down the white cotton undies of her schoolgirl outfit, throws her over his knee and spanks her into a writhing orgasm. “Does that do anything for you?”
He didn’t say anything, gave a small shrug and we turned off the light and went to sleep.
The next morning I got out of bed and ended up with a red imprint of his hand on my left butt cheek.
At first, I hated it. It hurt.
But he’s perfected his technique.
He can't resist taking a shot at my upturned haunches when I lean over to tie my shoes, but he soothes the sting instantly with a comment like, Best butt in the world!
A light slap with a lingering palm as we walk through the city conveys more than words ever could.
Or my favorite, when he lands one at the tail end of a climax and triggers a string of orgasmic aftershocks.
The other day when I was tired, hungry and running late, I snapped at him when he was trying to help me. I felt really bad about it, but I knew how to make amends.
“You get one bare-assed spank.”
His face lit up with a sadistic grin and I was instantly forgiven
I wrote a spanking essay for my memoir about our rafting trip through the Grand Canyon. It is currently under consideration with a Cleis Press spanking anthology.
Check out the erotica collections at Cleis Press. The Best Women's Erotica series is scorching hot.
My man wraps around me from behind, his heat warming my back like a bonfire. His kisses are as soft as flannel at the nape of my neck, his touch a warm wave flowing over my hip.
I’m somewhere between sleep, dream and sex, one of my favorite places to be.
Spooned together like this beneath the cool darkness of a Winter Solstice morning, I love the feeling of being in front of him.
Usually I don’t.
I’ve been following his lead for nine years now, down whitewater rivers and up snowy peaks. He is the experienced outdoor guide. I’m the perpetual non-paying client.
He tries to encourage me to go first: guide our raft through a rapid or take the first shot down an avalanche chute. I do, on occasion, but honestly I’m a wimp and my fear of drowning in a rapid or suffocating under an avalanche keep me tucked behind.
But lately life feels steep in a way we aren’t used to. There’s this threat of drowning spiritually if we don’t make a move. But moving involves risk and the stakes seem so much higher now than they did when we were twenty or even thirty and could just say, We’re outta here, throw everything in the truck and spend the winter skiing the Tetons and eating Top Ramen.
We’ve been stressed, anxious, and wrestling with the night crazies.
It’s my turn to guide.
I’m the one with the skills for this kind of terrain. Yoga. Meditation. Journaling. Reading books by John Welwood on conscious relationships that help me unravel the dynamic that has me snapping and him retreating.
As his hand floats across my belly and up my sternum I feel like the bust of one of those women carved in the front of a ship, taking the breaking waves on her breasts, keeping the North Star in sight.
His hand descends and I feel tremors of anticipation as his touch nears the moist juncture of my thighs. When his arm floats around my waist and slides me up tight against him, I have another image:
We are on top of a snowy mountain, both of us on one pair of telemark skis. I am in front, and he is melded behind, our knees ready to bend in unison as we look down a steep, untracked slope. His heart beats fast behind mine, ready to plunge.
His hand reaches down and cups my pubic bone. His thumb brushes across my clit, as light as champagne powder.
I put one of my hands on top of his and hold it there, savoring the stillness, the perfection of the moment. When our breath, our heartbeats, synchronize and slow, I reach back and guide the hardness of him up against my softness.
The inhalation is sudden, simultaneous, as I take him deep.
We lean straight down the fall line and turn, turn, turn.
Check out John Welwood and his books on conscious relationships.
Today is my anniversary.
Those of you who trudged to our high country wedding when the aspen were shimmering gold are probably thinking, Hey wait a minute, didn't you get married in the fall?
Nine years ago today, a handsome backcountry skier who was attending my yoga class invited me to lunch.
Riding a snowmobile to his off-the-grid cabin in the snowy Rockies.
Hiking up a nearby peak
Warming up in front of the woodstove as we explored every millimeter of each other's lips and tongues.
Uncorking a bottle of red wine.
Barely eating lunch.
Unwrapping each other like early Christmas presents as a waxing moon rose out of the alpenglow.
It’s that anniversary.
The sexy one.
If you are in a relationship, entice your early lovers to come out and reminisce about your sexy anniversary.
If you are single, fantasize about what you want. Better yet, write it down. How else are the Powers That Be going to know what to deliver?
It worked for me.
Thursday is the sexiest night of the week in La Grande, Oregon. Live music and dancing start every week at 8:00 p.m. at the Ten Depot Street restaurant and bar downtown.
It’s the perfect place to conduct my first Sexy Survey.
The question: How do you, in two or three words, define sexy?
I warm up with my beer drinking companion, Dan.
He pauses to think about this for all of three seconds.
“Fit. Passionate.” He is currently single and playing the dating game so he knows exactly what he wants.
I finish my beer and turn to the table of twenty-something beauties sitting at the table beside us. When one of them looks up from texting, I slide my chair over and ask if she wants to be a part of my sexy survey.
She tucks a long spiral of blonde hair behind her ear and smiles. I take that as a yes.
Her response: Confidence. Six Pack Abs.
When I start to write down her response, she gives an embarrassed laugh and says she was just kidding about the Six Pack.
“No, that’s good,” I assure her. “Six Pack Abs are sexy.”
“Yeah, they are.” I learn that she is 22. A student.
One of her friends at the other end of the table leans forward, eager to be involved. She’s had a few minutes to think about it and rattles of her top three.
“Confident. Genuine. Original, someone who is their own person.”
By the time I leave the princess table, they are completely engaged in a sexy dialogue and no longer texting. I move on to a guy at the bar with an empty martini glass in front of him.
His response: Hourglass figure. Charisma. When I ask his age, he says it’s his 49th birthday. I give him a kiss on the cheek before heading on.
I interrupt two guys in their mid-twenties, also college students, who are sitting in the back of the bar looking very bored. From them: Confidence. Fitness. Someone Who Is Happy (this from the one who looks kind of depressed). I tell them they are sitting way too far from the princess table and flutter away.
My timing for this survey is perfect. The music hasn’t started yet and everyone, it seems, is just finishing a first round of drinks and is more than willing to discuss sexiness.
I approach another table and pull up a chair with a heavy equipment operator, a nurse and her husband, a carpenter. The carpenter rolls up his sleeves before he answers, like he’s getting hot just thinking about it or getting ready for some serious debate. Both, it turns out.
After ten minutes, I have to pry myself away from their engaging conversation on the nuances of sexy. Their top three answers: Quick Wit. Openness. Confidence. But this fifty-something group adds a confidence caveat: Not Overbearing.
I’m able to survey twelve people before the music starts.
Confidence is the overwhelming winner with six votes.
Attractive (which I am grouping with Six Pack and Hourglass) gleans three votes. Balanced, Happy and Fit all take two votes each.
There are lots of single entries: Zest For Life, Honesty, Inviting, Vibrant, Spirited.
If you are bored at a bar or a Christmas party, grab a pen and a cocktail napkin and conduct the survey. When everyone in the room wants to talk to you, you’ll start to feel charismatic, open, inviting and confident.
You’ll feel pretty sexy.
Try it and post your results in the comments section of this post. Let me know your top three responses, the location of your survey and any other juicy details.
Or...slip into your sexy pen name persona and let me know how you define sexy.
I really want to know.
Once is all it takes.
One order for an itty bitty v-string and you are on the Victoria Secret mailing list for life. This means that you will get a little dose of super soft porn in your mail box about every other week.
On more than one occasion, my man and I have perused the catalogue with our morning coffee and ended up having some really great sex.
I start by showing him what I would buy. He shows me what he'd buy for me.
We make up funny names for the models: Horse Tooth, Freckle Face, Bedroom Eyes.
There are a few of them though, that we’ve never named.
“She is way too skinny. Yuck. That is not sexy.” (Hint for guys: Women get wet when you say this.)
As my man tosses the catalogue aside, I lunge across the couch and straddle him.
So now that I’m blogging me sexy, I want to know:
What is sexy? Really.
We all know what the American media and Victoria Secret are dishing up.
But are we eating it?
Stayed tuned for the results of my first Sexy Survey when I head out on the town and do a little investigative reporting to see how we (well, Northeast Oregonians this time around) are defining sexy.
Note to my readers: I've had some comments about commenting. Please know that you do not have to enter an e-mail address or even your real name when commenting on a post. Feel free to give your sexy self a pen name.