The Serralves Museum in Porto, Portugal has funded anus-tonishing exhibition dedicated to that focus of fascination (and feces…) within the human body. I think I can really get BEHIND this one.
I met João in the spring, just a few months before the demise of my long-term relationship with the man I thought was the love of my life. Oh, and I should clarify: João was a big part of why my relationship with Thanh ended.
Thanh and I had been an item for years, and we had cultivated the sort of romantic—nay, magical—relationship that is the stuff of fairy tales; he was my white knight, teacher, lover,best friend, and partner. We opined rhapsodically on the tenets of solid musical craftsmanship and refined our respective tastes in what constituted a performance that was “quite good, indeed.” In many ways, we grew up and became adults together. We shared an apartment and a great passion for music. Thanh called me his “princess” and his “butterfly”; he was “my puppy” and “my favorite boy.” We were nearly inseparable—in fact, I recall that we were referred to as “the Bobbsey twins” on more than one occasion! God, I loved him more than anything in the world.
João first entered our lives when a family friend introduced him to us, explaining that he was in town working on research after a stint at CERN in Switzerland and that he didn’t have many friends in his new neighborhood. He wanted some smart people to talk to and to spend time with; would we mind terribly going out for a jaunt with him and getting his mind off his work? João was Portuguese by birth but had spent the past couple of years as one of the experimental physicist worker bees at the Swiss research center and was now affiliated with a major New York university. The first time Thanh and I met João, I recall—embarrassingly—that the first thought to cross my mind was my gratitude that I was not his girlfriend! João was homely-looking and very quiet, and I found him overly polite and a bit odd. In addition, he didn’t drink; never trust a man who doesn’t drink! The three of us got along well enough, though, and when Thanh and I got home, we thought nothing of it and figured we had done our duty.
A few weeks later, though, Thanh was planning a big birthday celebration for me and suggested that perhaps we ought to invite João—it would be a kind gesture, after all, wouldn’t it? I agreed, so Thanh shot off an email, and João replied that he would be delighted to join the large gathering of people who would be in attendance. We met at a local Chinese place and shared plates of noodles, vegetables, and other goodies (along with several bottles of wine) with a group of friends whose nationalities ranged from Chinese to American, Russian, Egyptian, Malaysian, Korean, and Australian. Indeed, it was a raucous international gathering, and João managed to make some small talk with a few of our friends despite his shyness. The group seemed to like João well enough, and Thanh and I were glad we had invited him—after all, if not for the invitation, we were certain he would have remained holed up with his work for the night.
When Thanh had to jet off a week or so later for a string of high-profile concerts, it made absolute sense to me that João would be in touch to check in; after all, he was living alone, and he thought I would certainly be feeling lonely with my boyfriend gone for the summer. I somewhat begrudgingly agreed to meet João for a quick tea (no coffee for this boy!) and figured I would then summarily head to the practice studio to get some work done.
Then, wouldn’t you know it, as soon as we got to talking, 45 minutes turned into an hour, which in turn transformed into 2, and it just kept expanding until we had spent 6 hours together, walking from the mid-seventies down to the Village, our ambulatory conversation punctuated by several stopovers into cafes and bookshops along the way. I was shocked by how refreshing João’s company had been, and from that day on, he and I made a point of getting together regularly for walks, tea, dinner, movies, or just some conversation. I spent that summer learning more about experimental particle physics than the layman should know, and João walked away with more information about English Renaissance and Baroque music than—well—anyone should know!
More after the jump!
Lookin’ for some good lovin’? Want a hang’n'bang? Interested in knockin’ boots? Check out Kate Hakala’s article for the thedatereport.com on which New York City neighborhoods have the highest percentage of folks who have had three or more bedfellows over the past year! Well, I’m certainly digging it….
Ladies, you know when you meet That Guy, and something clicks? He’s tall. He’s smart. He’s talented. He looks good, smells good, and speaks… good…. Well, I met someone recently who is absolutely out of this world, and the proof is in the pudding: a few days ago, following a sensational evening (and an equally sensational morning), I was on my way to work, minding my own business, lost in my thoughts. I was all by my lonesome with the subway car to myself, and as the ride went on, I was finding it increasingly difficult to tear my myself away from recounting the intense “nonverbal communication” of the previous evening. Inexplicably alone on the train for the duration of my ride, I drifted more and more easily to That Guy’s bedroom, and then I was breathing harder, and then the train was moving under me, and I kept breathing harder, and then I was so deep in my fantasy that I could nearly feel That Guy inside me and touching me, and the train kept moving, and I kept breathing harder and harder, and then I was shifting in my seat and kept breathing and feeling That Guy and breathing and breathing and breathing…. And then I came. On the train. On my way to work. No hands. All fantasy. Watch out, ladies: That Guy is good.
By Little Richard
In the Cold
Through the course of writing this blog, I have unabashedly accentuated the positives of my “new path of sluttiness.” Indeed, living a polyamorous lifestyle has afforded many benefits: improved self-confidence, resolution of cognitive dissonance, and even lasting friendships with people in the absence of continued sex! Examining my prior jealousy and replacing it with a combination of compersion for and competition with my “pussy brothers-in-law” (a literal translation of the Icelandic term Kviðmágur, which describes another man with whom one has shared a pussy, implying comraderie and respect) has helped me to examine what is truly important in my life and learn how to rid myself of the evil demon of exclusionary possessiveness.
Thus, dear readers, it might come as a surprise that when my birthday rolled around next week, I spent it alone. “How is this possible, Little Richard?” you might ask, when I have described so many of my fuckery-filled escapades over the last few months? “Don’t you have options on how to spend your night?” Well, on my birthday, the answer was no, at least insofar as those options involved fucking. When I first started doing this, I fantasized that I would make dinner plans with one of my steady partners on my birthday and then be unwittingly led into a surprise party attended by all my friends. Then, photos would be taken of me and all of my partners basking in the glow of our own happiness before we all retired to my place for a massive orgy. When nothing of the sort ended up happening, I can’t help but admit that I wondered why not.
After all, I have had a decent rate of converting first dates into future sexual encounters. My Hell Week post described dates with 10 women, a convenient sample size. I ended up having sex with 4 of them (bagging Ivy and Mia after the week was over), which is really not so bad considering all the factors that can get in the way of date-to-sex conversion and the outright disaster that was my date with the two Asian Mail Order Brides. Thus, I seem to be quite good at initially coaxing women into my bed.
The real problem is that my partnerships have not stood the test of time. I can understand why certain people couldn’t deal with the conflagration and turmoil inherent in dating me. The majority of my partners have been people who are just getting into non-monogamy themselves, and I realized after a while that non-monogamy is simply not for everyone, even not all those who claim that they have embarked on that path. My partners have surmounted obstacles of jealous spouses, crippling depression, and societal mores to date me. These problems can often be ignored for a short period, but they also often fail to fall by the wayside entirely.
Check out this post by Jack Tomas on Egotastic.com. Seriously, guys, it’s adorable.
So, have you checked out the new Netflix series, Orange is the New Black? I definitely have. One of the running jokes of the first season is Warden Healy’s obsession with women, their bodies, and their sexuality. A favorite moment of mine is when Healy describes female ejaculation as a myth, “akin to global warming.” Hardy har har. However, folks, that brings us to the topic at hand: women who squirt! In years past, I never knew what to make of this. After all, I had never experienced it, and I wasn’t sure what all the fuss was about. Then, one fateful afternoon several months ago, I was lying in bed enjoying some—er—“me time,” when… BOOM! It happened.
Now, I suppose we should back up. What exactly is female ejaculation, anyway? It’s when a woman expels a noticeable amount of fluid from her urethra just before or during orgasm. Although researchers are still unsure about the origins of this fluid, we know that its chemical makeup is almost identical to that of male ejaculate, and many now suspect that the fluid is produced by glands located at the back wall of the vagina. As the Orange is the New Black writers pointed out, though, a great number of people still doubt the validity of the claims women make about this experience. In fact, just recently, I had a partner who freaked out when I squirted, and not only was my orgasm cut short, but the evening ended uncharacteristically tamely, because all sexual activity ceased as a result. Aww, phooey.
Many women who squirt deal with a regular stream (pun intended!) of idiots telling them that the fluid is actually urine, despite not only plenty of evidence to the contrary, but also the accounts of women, themselves! The liquid that comes out is usually clear or just slightly whitish, and doesn’t have either the smell or look of urine, and yet some insist that female ejaculation is really just stress incontinence, or a women temporarily losing control of her bladder at the moment of orgasm.
However, navigating naysayers wasn’t always an issue for me. Over the past year, I’ve been in a relationship with Partner, of whom the description “sexually indulgent” would be an understatement. We have great sex, and throughout our time together, I’ve found that I’ve gotten progressively more excited during sex; nevertheless, I was not squirting for the majority of this time. These days, my orgasms are better, easier to reach, more frequent, and, well, wetter with each passing week. Partner has often told me about his myriad past girlfriends who started to squirt during their relationships with him, and so even before I experienced that aforementioned Fateful O alone in my bedroom, it was definitely on my mind—I knew it was something he liked a lot. (What man doesn’t want such obvious outside confirmation of his skills?!) I recall that a handful of times during sex, I felt the sensation of needing to urinate, and we would stop so I could deal with it, but Partner told me that this was common among women who squirt. Then, I went online and did some informal research, and it turned out that Partner was right: women often feel the need to urinate just before ejaculating! Maybe he was onto something…
I had a discussion yesterday with one of my favorite partners, David, about the costs of monogamy versus non-monogamy. David is highly successful in more than one area: he is attractive, very smart, and maintains a broad range of interests. In fact, as a result of all his wonderfulness, I will admit that some months into our friendship, I harbored fantasies of trying to move our relationship beyond that of friends who are occasionally lovers into something more… but that’s a story for another day! As it stands now, David has an equally successful, talented, and attractive girlfriend whom he loves very much. His dilemma is that while he is madly in love, he misses the thrill of meeting new women and the pleasure of new seduction: he is no longer on the lookout for “the one,” but he cannot—and will not—relinquish himself to societal standards that do not fit his needs. So, yesterday I stopped by his not-so-humble abode for some playtime and a chat. While the majority of our talk revolved around the nitty-gritty of his current situation and how to deal with opening up the relationship, David and I were also able to hit upon some broader and more general themes.
David’s most pressing concern, like that of George (about whom I wrote in a previous post), was that his partner would leave him if he were to reveal his true desires to her. My constant refrain was that if he presented himself in an honest way, mentioning his need for his partner’s support, love, and trust, she would do absolutely no such thing. Then, today, I stumbled across a most apropos passage in a book I’m currently reading: in his The Secret Life of Pronouns, social psychologist James W. Pennebaker writes on the subject of adaptability that “the majority of people who have experienced torture or rape or… survived terrible car or plane crashes or other unimaginable events don’t evidence symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder or major depression. Humans, it seems, are remarkably adaptable.”1 Pennebaker goes on to explain this in further detail, but the main gist is that any sort of experience in which a person is forced to examine his/her circumstances and engage in self-reflection for the purposes of survival, whether physical or emotional, actually results in greater overall happiness, satisfaction, and general well-being. While my discussion with David certainly didn’t plumb the depths of major tragedy (as does Pennebaker’s), the example in the book serves as a reminder that we can acclimate to almost any situation and normalize almost anything. David’s fear that his girlfriend will reject him if he shares his desires is ridiculous, as long as he approaches her the right way. After all, as Pennebaker shows in his book, the general population can adjust to almost any situation; in doing so, people will learn, exhibit tremendous resilience, and report greater depth of happiness.
More after the jump!
Since that first party several weeks ago, Partner and I attended a second event, again hosted by Christopher at a different (but no less decadent) Upper East Side hotel. To recap the first installment, Partner and I went to our first swinger party a few weeks ago, and some awesome sex (and some hilarious moments) ensued. We made several new friends, and overall, we had a pretty rockin’ time.
So, a couple weeks later, Christopher invited us to another shindig, and Partner and I happily accepted. Now that I wasn’t as nervous about the dress code, I toned down the intensity of my outfit: I showed up in a strapless maxi dress and flip-flops and had my hair pulled back rather than unleash my curls in all their glory. Partner showed up in his usual T-shirt and shorts uniform, and again, we came outfitted with wine, smoke, and a surplus of condoms. Little did I know that this second party would be nothing like the first and that Partner and I would walk away more disappointed than satisfied.
More after the jump! (more…)
In his ever-insightful, ever-searing, and ever-hilarious blog “The Interesting Times Herald,” New York based comedian Mike Payne takes on the takes on the institution of marriage. There is not a whiff of bullshit around Payne — in his blog he presents a wry, dry, witty, funny, and (often) depressing account of the current state of affairs in the U.S., ranging from opining rhapsodic on sex and romance to griping about politics and literature. Check him out…if you dare.