It’s Thursday night, the sexiest night of the week in La Grande, Oregon with live music downtown. A cold spring rain has darkened the sky and I’m huddled up next to the gas heater in the living room recovering from a tiring day at work.
I’m just not feeling it.
My man is though, in a big way. It’s Friday night for him. He has the next five days off and is heading back east to visit his mother.
I don't know how he does it, but the next thing I know I’m bundled up and bicycling beside him in the rain towards the Ten Depot Street Restaurant and Bar.
We snag a table close to the dance floor and it fills quickly with friends. A new act is on stage tonight, two guitar players who are warming up the crowd with songs by Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings and Pure Prairie League. When the musicians start to play the song, Simple Kind of Man by Lynyrd Skynyrd, I look across the table at my man.
“Such a pretty song,” I say. He extends his hand, an invitation.
On the dance floor, he pulls my body to his. The lyrics, a mother’s advice to her son to live a simple life, are poignant given his upcoming trip and our recent attempts to simplify our life which ironically have only made it more complicated and stressful. We've both been feeling beaten down and weakened by it all.
My forehead rests on his shoulder, his chins tucks up next to my ear and in an instant nothing else exists but the music and the warmth of the breath between us.
I find the rhythm, give it to him and then do my best to surrender to his fearless lead, our approach to dance synonymous with our approach to marriage. As we spin and flow, I feed him the funny names of the dance moves we’ve made up over the years to jog his memory.
“Ragdoll.” I lift my arms overhead as his hands float down, encompassing my ribcage I let my body sway like a bag of bones as he gently pushes me from side to side.
“Waterfall.” As I arch backwards, one of his hand flows to my waist, encouraging me into a backbend until my head nearly hits the dance floor. His other hand moves to my throat and slowly, seductively, flows like water down the front of my body before he pulls me back up to him.
“Seattle.” I feel his smile as he keeps me close and we go into a Fred and Ginger stance, our feet moving together intuitively in our outside-the-box step, a technique that morphed into our routine after a steamy night at the Seattle Erotic Arts Festival.
He pulls out a few more of our standards, The Dana, named after the guy who taught it to us and The Kibler which we made up at the wedding of our friend Dan Kibler.
As the song winds down, he spins me, twice, my favorite. His lips brush mine as he lowers me into a dip as the last note is played.
The sound of applause and the roomful of people creating it startle us both.
“Whoa, we went somewhere,” I say as I lead the way back to our table.
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” he says, landing a light spank on my ass.
As we reclaim our chairs, our friend Peter shakes his head and smiles.
“You guys, wow, that was really something,” he says. “That was so…sexy.”
I start clapping even though everyone else has quit.
Where do you go, what do you do, to tap back into sexy?
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.
Fixing the fung shui of our underwear drawers was such a success, I decided to apply it towards the rest of the house.
As I tackle the dust and clutter around the stereo cabinet, I see a DVD with the words Bliss: Third Season.
I feel my cervix tingle.
We’ve been in Indian Summer mode this past month, riding our tandem in the evenings to absorb every particle of light before the descent of winter. Now that Daylight Saving Time is over and we've been thrust into darkness at 4:30 in the afternoon, it is officially movie watching season.
And Bliss is the perfect kick off.
Bliss is an erotic Canadian television series that shows women’s fantasies from the women’s point of view. They are fun, sensual, soft porn shorts.
I pick up the DVD and walk it into my man’s office. He’s totally engrossed in a wildlife manuscript he’s working on for publication.
I shouldn’t bother him, and usually don’t, when he is in scientist mode. It’s painful to watch the grind of his mental gears as he shifts to converse.
But I can’t help myself.
I spin the disc around my index finger. “How about some Bliss tonight?”
At the sound of the word bliss his head pivots towards me so fast I think he’s going to get a whiplash. He looks at me and blinks a few times. His mind is taking a little longer than his body to pull out of statistics.
“Sure.” I even get a smile out of him.
I run my feather duster across his keyboard, flutter it across his lap and go back to my cleaning.
I suddenly have a hot date tonight.
You can order Bliss on Netflix. They get better with each season, but go ahead and indulge a little with Seasons One and Two. Why not? We have about four months of winter ahead.
You'll appreciate Season Three that much more.
A woman’s lingerie drawer should be one of the sexiest places in the house.
I’ve got some seriously bad feng shui going on in mine
Sports bras, practical underwires, lacey push-ups, athletic boyshorts, sheer teddies, leopard print thongs, cotton bikinis (the comfort food of underwear)—they are all tangled together and crammed into the top drawer of my dresser.
My man’s top drawer isn’t much better. Since one of the basic principles of feng shui is to get rid of clutter, I decide to purge. I start with the underwear we never wear and then go for the ones we’ve worn too much.
Old underwear isn’t sexy.
We agreed on this fact early on in our relationship when we made a pact to do whatever it took to sustain a sexy, passionate relationship.
I kept the juices flowing by writing erotic essays about our outdoor adventures. My outdoor guide kept the flow of material coming. We agreed that for Christmas and birthdays we’d buy each other sexy underwear.
Flash forward nine years:
My erotic memoir is done.
My guide took a full-time job as a wildlife biologist so we had to give up (temporarily, I swear) our bohemian lifestyle in Colorado and move to Northeast Oregon. The flow of outdoor adventure material has dwindled to a trickle.
As I dig around our top drawers, we've obviously drifted from the sexy underwear tradition. A couple of New Year’s ski trips to Canada and a 1964 Schwinn tandem bike ate up the budget.
My man has a birthday coming, so I get on-line and jump start the tradition.
When he gets home, sweaty and dirty from a day chasing cougars, he mistakes my pile of castaways on the bed for clean laundry. He grabs his favorite platinum-colored Mansilk boxer briefs as he heads to the shower. They look more gray now than silver and have holes near the hem.
“Hey, you can’t wear those. They aren’t sexy any more,” I say as I point towards the pile. “None of this stuff is.”
It’s kind of sad, a small mound of Birthday and Christmas Past.
“You’re just going to throw them away?” he asks.
“I guess. I haven’t been able to do it yet.”
He reaches down and picks out a shapeless fuchsia thong and a disintegrating nude demi-bra, the one I wore under my wedding dress. He hands them to me.
“I’m going to jump in the shower. When I get out, let’s rip these off of each other.”
I take it back. Old underwear can be sexy.
For Her: Hanky Panky thongs:
http://www.hankypanky.com/Signature-Lace-Low-Rise-ThongFor Him: Mansilk Boxer Briefs.
I’m so excited I can’t sit still.
This is unfortunate since I will be sitting in very confined space for the next twelve hours as my husband and I travel across the country to visit my family in Michigan. We are on the first leg of the trip, the three-hour drive to the Boise airport.
In the spirit of my new blogging adventure, I’m wearing some short denim cut-offs, a breast-hugging Prana halter top and some fabulously impractical, wedge-heeled sandals. In a gesture of support, my man tossed aside his T–shirt and donned a button-down instead.
I finally nailed my pitch in the final hours of the conference. I knew I had it right when I had the women in the pitch practice room blushing. I left the conference with three requests for material from one agent and two publishers.
Since I can’t move much, all my enthusiasm is coming out my mouth.
“I think it would be really cool to expand Blog Me Sexy to include our marriage. We both need this.”
My cougar man, even though he still pounces from time to time, has been living in his head (the big one) as much as I have. We don’t have kids, but we are both gestating new careers as we juggle the ones we have. We’ve become so obsessed about the possibilities of my writing career and his wildlife consulting business that it’s all we talk about.
We haven’t been so good lately at turning it off and getting turned on to each other.
He turns down the volume on NPR. “Sorry, what do we need?”
“We’re too mental,” I say. “We need to get back in touch with our sensual selves.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“If we do this, we’ll have more sex,” I say.
“Sign me up.”
“So, here’s what I’m thinking,” Now that I’ve got him on the line, I just need to reel him in. “We both make this commitment to be more sensual, as a couple, and then I can blog about how it is working. Are you okay with me writing about that?
His right eyebrow lifts, conveying: Seriously?
I’ve spent the past seven years documenting every orgasm of our marriage for my outdoor adventure erotic memoir.
“But are you sure you are comfortable with me blogging about this?
“More sex, right?”
I’m not sure he’s catching the full sensual, spiritual scope of my vision.
“Right,” I confirm. “But it’s about being more sensuous, slowing down and noticing how life tastes, smells, feels and sounds. It’s about cultivating more pleasure which will inevitably lead to more sex. I’m sure a lot of couples would want to follow a blog like that. But maybe it should be a separate blog with a different name…”
I start brainstorming out loud and throw out some really lame names like Literary Lube, Lust Your Lover, Blog Us Sexy. But nothing sounds quite right. I take a sip of my green tea.
“How about Fuck Me Already?”
I laugh so hard I spit tea all over my cute outfit.
By the time we get to Denver, I decide to stay on course with my original vision for Blog Me Sexy and archive the posts (like this one) For Couples.