New Year, Same Old Boston

Before I begin, I must first issue my sincerest apologies - I realize now that it's been more than a month since I've written/posted anything here.

Life has been, well - ridiculous. But isn't it always?

As a student, my life is filled with deadlines, papers, exams, and general burnout at the end of a three month educational sprint. As a student, I must also contend with multiple metaphorical people screaming amongst an equally metaphorical crowd to be heard, with many screaming to be acknowledged as most important amongst the rest. When the noise finally becomes too overwhelming, I simply have to do what I can, and let the chips fall where they may.

Sometimes, this means that the things I want, and the things I actually need, get pushed to the back burner simply in order for the bare minimum of everything else to be done. I regret that this blog, over the last month, has simply been one of those things. So I must apologize not only to those who read my blog, but also to myself for not making my sanity and happiness a priority.

I had planned to write a clichéd post about New Year's Resolutions, but in the past nine days of this new year it has already become abundantly clear that the resolutions I want to make are the one's I won't be able to keep. In good faith, I can't make those promises.

But, in good faith, I am making one promise:

I will, from here forward, make this blog the priority that I need it to be. I can't promise how many posts per week/month that will equal, nor how involved with various memes I will continue to be, but rather that I will not allow this blog to be put on hold at the expense of my own sanity and well-being.

This blog, and my presence online, is a form of self-care for me. I've realized over the past month that I need it - probably more than it needs me - and that I need to make this space, as well as myself, a priority. I can do that only by committing to writing, reading, and commenting on other blogs as much as I feel the need to.

Here's to a new year; to new beginnings and endings, to loose ends and broken resolutions, to a new Boston that's really just the same old one after all.

FAITHFULLY YOURS,

My Water Bill is Always Worth It

I don't know about the rest of you, but my shower is the highlight of my day.

Mostly because I get to spend some quality time with my absolute favourite sex toy: my showerhead. I have an oxygenics spa showerhead and it is - by far - my favorite sex toy.

The other day, my Mom actually commented that she was nearly ready for a new one, since we've had this one for quite a few years, and she's the 'fix it even if it's not broken' sort.

My response?

YOU CAN'T TAKE AWAY MY FAVOURITE ORGASM! 

IT'S UNCONSTITUTIONAL!

But not out loud or anything, since she would actually probably get rid of it for that reason alone, and probably buy one without the hand-held capabilities just to spite me. 

This showerhead was responsible for my very first solo orgasm, so of course I'm biased, but I actually believe this might be just about the best showerhead to ever grace a bathroom.

I, like every other earth-loving hippie out there, would like to orgasm daily without worrying about my impact on the environment (and my water usage!). Apparently this showerhead conserves 30-70% of water and energy compared to other traditional showerheads. I didn't test it out or anything, but I'm happy to believe the claim if it means I can spend forty-five guilt-free minutes in the shower each day.

It's also customizable, which is an absolute must. The flow control valve turns the pressure all the way down to a near trickle, and with a quick turn amps the pressure up to full orgasmic potential. There's just about a million stages in-between those two extremes, and I often find myself adjusting back and forth while enjoying my orgasmic build up.

I've had the, err, pleasure, of trying out quite a few different showerheads over the course of my life, and honestly, I don't want to try out any more. Ever.

If my showerhead ever gets taken down and tossed out, I swear I will go all Liam Neelson - from Taken - on someone:

" I don't know who you are. I don't know what you want. If you are looking for ransom, I can tell you I don't have money. But what I do have are a very particular set of skills; skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you. If you return my showerhead now, that'll be the end of it. I will not look for you, I will not pursue you. 

But if you don't, I will look for you, I will find you, and I will kill you. "

FAITHFULLY YOURS,

Open is Not an Option

There isn't much I would say is strictly off-limits.

But there is one thing, and it's not up for debate: welcoming others into our relationship (whether emotionally or sexually, as a couple or as individuals) will never happen. Not in this lifetime or the next.

I love poly people and I have profound respect for couples who swing, but it just isn't for me. An open relationship should be an option for anyone who decides that it's right for them, but it's just not an option for me/us.

I'm an incredibly jealous person, I'll own that. My whole family - primary and extended - jokes about my 'territorial' nature. I've always been that way - personally I blame it on being a twin. I grew up sharing everything - even now my sister and I still get gifts from family members for us to share despite the fact we live in different cities. I'm tired of sharing, even when it comes to the little things.

Want a piece of my chocolate bar? Bite me.

And that's sort of how I feel about RS.

We were both virgins when we met, and part of me liked knowing that he was mine and I was his. We each had the other, and neither of us had to share the other with anyone else, past or present.

Now I know this is problematic for far too many reasons to count, but it's how I feel, and I have to honour it.

Is it possessive? Sure, I'll own that. Is it an unrealistic expectation for a relationship and a partner? Probably. Do I think this 'belonging only to each other' is the scenario we should all strive towards? Hell no.



 RS isn't a chocolate bar, and he isn't an object I can possess and call mine. He is a person, and he belongs to himself, and he chooses to be with me.

He chooses to engage sexually with me, and we have negotiated our terms of such engagement; while we can both fantasize about threesomes, group sex, and orgies of all variety, we both know that such things can remain fantasy alone.

The truth is, sex isn't just sex to me - it's our sex. I could never find it in myself to share our sex with someone else, whether I was there or not. Perhaps my age is showing, and this naive twenty-one year old is still clinging to sex as something more than our twenty-first century feminism would like, but it's where I'm at, and I have to respect that. Not everyone feels the same, and they shouldn't - we all have to take stock and recognize where we're at and be content in that.

I know myself enough to know I could never happily negotiate an open relationship, and I know us enough to know it would only break us in the end.

FAITHFULLY YOURS,

His Parents

I refuse to use the term 'in-laws' when talking about RS' parents.

In a practical sense, we're not married. The law has no current place in our relationship. There is no legal binding between RS and I, let alone between us and anyone else. The law hasn't yet created a 'family' around us, so on a pure semantic level, the 'in-law' title just doesn't fit.

They say you can't choose your family - I humbly disagree. Blood does not give you the right to be involved in my life. Family or not, you have to earn your place at my dinner table. For me, family isn't about Christmas dinner and in-the-mail birthday cards; it's about the interwoven lives that reach out and continue to weave themselves into one another. The law can not create that, and I refuse to pretend that family can mean so little.

My Mother raised me, guided me, and cultivated the person I am today. As my parent, she has been the single most important person in the formation of me. I refuse to accept the idea that marriage magically bestows the title of 'parent' on anyone, regardless of qualification or ability. My Mother is a wonderful, strong, intelligent woman who I admire and respect more than anyone else; using the term 'mother-in-law' would require that I drastically alter my conceptions of 'Mother', for no mother-in-law could ever stand on equal footing with my Mother. I would never wish to dilute the meaning of Mother in such a way.

For these reasons - and perhaps a million more - I refuse to use the term 'in-laws' when talking about RS' parents. I don't yet have a term for them. I don't yet know if they even deserve their own title, their own classification in the grand scheme of my life. For now they are just 'his parents'. Nothing more.

FAITHFULLY YOURS,

Are We Kinky Enough For This?

When I first started studying human sexuality exclusively, I was surrounded by beautiful, strong, and amazing individuals of incredible diversity on a daily basis. I admired them greatly. For every experience my textbooks touched on, there was someone next to me living it, breathing it, and embracing it.

I'm a middle-class white heterosexual and cisgendered female; it wasn't long before I began to wonder how I could belong in this group of strong and unique individuals. I couldn't help but wonder what I could possibly have to offer.

Eventually I managed to reconcile such feelings in the academic arena, realizing that my social location didn't define me, that I could (and always will) have something of value to contribute to any discussion at hand. I don't need to live something to speak to it, nor do I have to live something to advocate on behalf of it.

Truthfully, I still start to feel that way sometimes though, but in a much different arena.

When surrounded by other wonderfully kinky individuals, I often start to lose focus on my journey with kink, instead weighing myself down with realizations that I may be X,Y,Z, but I'll never be Q,R,S. Suddenly Q,R,S emerges as the epitome of kink for me, and I just don't measure up.

I love my kink; I value it and embrace it for what it is. My kink is my own, and that's all I could ever want. There is no trophy for the kinkiest bitch out there - I'm not striving for that title. One persons kink is another persons vanilla; it's all subjective. I love all things kinky, and yes, I still get swept away with it all from time to time.

I'm learning (and trying) to stop this habit. It's destructive and unhealthy. I don't believe in keeping up with the Jones' in any other aspect of my life - I don't intend to do it in the bedroom either. I like where RS and I are in our sexual development; we're always trying new things and navigating our way in this crazy space where everything and anything goes.

I'm still just getting my feet wet in a lot of different ways, but really, aren't we all? If we aren't chasing new sensations and opening ourselves up to new experiences, well, what's the point?

I'm surrounded by beautiful, strong, and amazingly kinky individuals of incredible diversity - but I guess perhaps I'm one of them too.

FAITHFULLY YOURS,

Battle Scars

Since a little bit of pain is always a good thing in my book, it's always a surprise when that invisible line is crossed and tears ensue. The line isn't about what has and hasn't been negotiated; it's the line between good pain, and unplanned accidental 'I'm-so-sorry-are-you-okay?' pain.

It's happened two nights in a row now, and I sort of feel like a bonafide sex veteran; I've got the battle scars to prove that our sex life can get a little rough, and I'll probably discover a pinch of PTSD the next time RS attempts to gently caress my face.

The first night graced me with a sore eye after RS skimmed me rather roughly, nearly gouging my eye out - the thought of which probably hurts more than the actual skimming - and a stiff neck after being thrown down and having my neck slammed against the headboard. We were entirely unaware of how close we were to it and how far away we were from the nice soft pillows - a mistake we won't make again any time soon. Naturally, I claimed paralysis and stuck to it despite RS' attempts to prove that I was not, in actuality, paralyzed.

Which it turns out, he was right about - but you can never be too careful with neck injuries you know, it's serious business.

Last night's battle scar wasn't technically achieved while having sex, but since I'm pretty sure it was RS' intention and end goal all along, it counts in my book.

Without any sort of warning whatsoever, RS leapt up from his seemingly-sleeping state and punched me square in the face. At first I thought he had broken my nose or something equally as ridiculous, but it was soon apparent that my lip had taken the majority of the impact and my nose was quite fine after all.

Swollen and sore, RS dutifully got me some ice to take the swelling down despite my protests, because icing a swollen lip is incredibly unsexy, and I thought sex might still be in the forecast. (Hint: it wasn't.)

He apologized the entire time, claiming that he had meant to tackle me, but missed my arms and hit me in the face instead. Suure, no one's believing that for a second. I'm sticking to my version of events, wherein he was still angry about a conversation we had been having previously, and he just didn't want to admit to domestic battery.

See, there was this joke when we first started dating, that went sort of like this:


MY SISTER: RS, what happened to your laptop?

RS: *moving one closed fist into the palm of his other* 
          It broke.

MY SISTER: Boston, what happened to your face?
                           *moving one closed fist into the palm of her other* 
                            It broke.

Laughter ensues and we all make light of the severity of domestic abuse. All fun and games, right? Yep, there will be more fun and games when I get to make that joke to my sister today and make it so that RS never hears the end of "that time, you know, when you 'accidentally' punched me in the face?".

FAITHFULLY YOURS,

Disclaimer: I don't actually believe that RS purposely punched me in the face. Accidents happen, but only to me, which is actually kind of questionable perhaps. Also, we in no way endorse domestic abuse or battery, and in no way believe it is acceptable to make light of such situations.

Walmart Hates My Sex Life

First and foremost, I'm a student.
I come from a middle-class single family home, and I'm blessed to receive financial assistance to fund my education through provincial loans. I do, however, also work to finance my education in hopes that I won't have forty-thousand in repayment once my degree is completed. I have to work - there's no ifs ands or buts about it.

I worked at Tim Horton's in high school, and the only good thing that came from working there was RS - I knew I couldn't return to that sort of working environment, and I vowed that I would find a job away from food and drive-thru's. And far far away from coffee and it's (now) dreadful scent.

I ended up at Walmart.
 I started as a cashier and worked behind a register for a year. I eventually tired of the monotony and was having severe wrist pain - as a result of my elite cashier skills obviously - and decided to take up an offer to become a Customer Service Manager (CSM) and stretch my managerial wings. I would be in charge of the daily running and maintenance of the front end; from the cashiers throwing grapes at each others, to the elderly greeters guarding the doors, and outside to the cart boys hitting your car with the force of forty carts.

With a thirty-cent pay raise and the freedom to throw away the unbecoming blue vest, I became just about everyone's bitch: it was my job to pick up the slack wherever anyone else dropped it; it was my job to work late, to skip breaks, and to cut my lunch short for the sake of others; it was my job to make shopping easy and enjoyable for customers who made my day anything but.

Don't get me wrong though, I loved being a CSM. It was an absolute joy to interact with each and every associate who worked in the front end. It's easy to bond over the shared hatred of regular asshole customers, and there's never a shortage of horror stories to share across the breakroom table. It probably isn't the team building Walmart would like, but it works; we become united against a common enemy: that customer, that one - right there. See her? Right there. Bitch.

I've made great friends as I've stood at my podium overlooking the front end, and I've enjoyed the opportunity to spread my managerial wings, but it was a hard job.

I was told there's no such thing as a perfect day in the front end.
And that's true. There isn't - not even close.

I wasn't told, though, that I would be cursed at and belittled on a daily basis. I wasn't told that I would ever have to retreat to the handicapped stall of a Walmart bathroom to cry.

And I definitely wasn't told that I would leave work so incredibly angry, tired, and frustrated that it would affect my daily functioning, and ultimately my sex life.

I know it doesn't look like I own
an iron, but I promise, I do.

Walmart obviously hates my sex life.

Jobs, work, and careers will (every now and again) get in the way of your sex life - I get it. If we could all just spend our days lounging in bed fucking our lives away, we'd all be much happier creatures I imagine. But life doesn't work that way, and you have to find a way to make it work.

RS works ten hour days five days a week, which leaves little time in the evenings for the hours-long sexual sessions we once enjoyed. When the weekend comes and he's ready to fuck two days away, I'm running through Walmart trying to catch my sanity before it runs out the front door alongside stolen big-screen TVs. I come home absolutely exhausted from running ten miles (I wore a pedometer, no lie) and knowing I've ten more to run tomorrow.

It was exhausting. and far from sex-inducing.

But this past week I've made a move into a tiny little accounting office (a hidden room in Walmart where all the cash is hidden - shh!). I get a chair and a desk and a computer. I get standardized hours and can decide when I'm done for the day. I get to clock in and not wonder if I'll have even a minute to breathe that day. And the best part? No. Asshole. Customers.

I'm crossing my fingers and hoping that this will be better for our sex life. It's only been a week in my new position, and even though I've come home with a headache each night and have postponed sex for a perpetual tomorrow, I know that once I can go into work without feeling bombarded by information and instructions, we'll be back at it - and back at it hard.

FAITHFULLY YOURS,

Reunited - And It Feels So Good!

I've spent the last few days in a state of near ultimate bliss. I'm home, back in my own comfortable space, sleeping in my own beautiful bed, and living alongside the man I love. I’m back where I belong, and RS has made sure I know it.

When I came home Thursday afternoon, our change in travel plans brought us in a few hours earlier than RS would be off work. From 2:30 until 5:00, I counted down, minute by minute. Turns out RS wouldn't be home until nearly 5:45 that night, and those extra forty-five minutes seemed an eternity. When he did finally make it home, the wait was certainly worth it – I wrapped my legs around him and made him carry me around while he tried to unload his work gear.

We’ve spent the past few days perpetually intertwined, holding hands and exchanging displays of affection anytime and anywhere. We’re having sex in much the same way - whenever there’s a moment we can sneak away, off we go.

We’ve also rekindled our love of morning sex – there’s absolutely nothing better than falling asleep after sex and waking right back up to it.

I’m getting back into the swing of regular day to day life. I’m answering emails again and thinking about my exams at the end of the week. I haven’t unpacked yet, and each morning I promise RS that today’s the day it will get done, but five days later, it’s still sitting there.

Perhaps I’m trying to hold on to my vacation as a reminder of the power of space and distance in a relationship and the loss of the erotic in the face of constant availability and perpetual accessibility. Perhaps that bag laying sprawled across the bedroom floor is a reminder that it doesn’t take much to reignite passion and affection, and I’m trying to hold onto that for as long as possible.

Or I’m just lazy as shit some days.

Perhaps today will be the day it finally gets done.

FAITHFULLY YOURS,

Yes, We're Halfway There

Today is the half-way mark of my vacation. We’ve been here a week, and in one more we’ll be on our way home again. I’ve been thoroughly enjoying lounging around in my bathing suit and getting some much needed sun, and the lake is sure as hell a beautiful sight to wake up to every morning.

But day after day I become more aware of the fact that RS is at home, that life goes on as usual for him while time stands still here. We text whenever we can and talk on the phone every second day or so, but it just doesn’t seem like enough.

When I finally tucked into bed last night, I felt lost. I laid there for three hours, just staring at the ceiling, numb. But when 3am hit, I lost it. I cried until I couldn’t breathe, and I just couldn’t stop. All of my self-calming methods went straight out the window, and I didn't even try to catch them on their way out. My roommates slept on, unaware while I lay there convinced I was surely dying – surely you can die of loneliness.

After a half hour of non-stop bawling, I finally decided to do something I hadn’t done since I was a child: I went and crawled into bed with my Mum.

As all Mothers do, she gave me a hug, a pillow, and a Tylenol to help me sleep. We talked for an hour until the Tylenol kicked in, and it just made everything better. Tucked into bed listening to her tell me all about the novel she’s reading, the numbness goes away and the feeling comes back. The tears dry up.

Two weeks isn’t very long, but each year it seems more so than the one before. I’m accustomed to feeling RS hug me tightly each morning before he leaves for work and waiting anxiously for him to return home to me all day long. I’m used to having him in arms reach, having him there to gather me up in his arms for the smallest kiss and there to tackle me to the floor and tickle me until I’m laughing uncontrollably and screaming for him to stop.

The simple truth is that I miss him.

I miss him more than I thought I would. I’m missing my best friend, the person I share countless inside jokes with that just don’t make sense without him here to laugh at them. Don't get me wrong, I’m my own individual and I’m fully capable of surviving as an individual without RS, but I don’t want to. I'm a better individual with him beside me, and who would want to give that up, even for just a moment?

Distance makes the heart grow fonder; I just keep telling myself so, reminding myself that in one week’s time I’ll be home with him again and we’ll be refreshed and reminded to treasure and rejoice in each other each day.

Tonight is another night. I've already taken my Tylenol, and I’ve talked to RS for two hours, clogging the phone line for as long as my family would allow. When we talk I feel better. I hear his voice and close my eyes, and I feel him. We laugh and joke, and for one hour and 59 minutes, I’m happy.

But in that final minute, goodbye comes again.

O blissful Tylenol-induced sleep, here I come.

A Birthday Resolution

My Birthday has always been a day of solemn reflection, a day to look back on the year and think about what I’ve done, and who I’ve become since the last one. Truthfully, I make birthday resolutions the way normal people make new years resolutions - I probably stick to them as long as those people stick to theirs too.

When I was fifteen, I remember thinking: hey, by this time next year I’ll probably have a wonderful boyfriend and we’ll be soo in love. And then when sixteen hit a year later and I was still alone, I was actually sad about it. I was upset over something that hadn’t happened, even though I probably had plenty of things to be upset about that had actually happened. And oh boy, when seventeen came and still nothing – let’s just say I was a mental fucking wreck. And this wasn’t all about dating and love and typical teenage girl bullshit – I made goals for literally everything and had a timeline for every aspect of my life.

I soon realized, just after turning into a mental wreck at seventeen, that perhaps it was time to give up the birthday resolutions, that my goals just weren’t worth it when my year was finally up. Sadly, I’m a goal-oriented person and life just doesn’t seem right without at least a couple of goals to keep me moving forward. So I still make a few loose resolutions, a few simple guidelines for my life over the next year.

I’m 21 this year, and entering into my last year of my human sexuality program. Endings and new beginnings are on the horizon, and I can’t even begin to imagine where I’ll be this time next year. All I can hope is that these few resolutions keep me moving forward in the direction I always strive towards.

So here they are – my hope is that a year down the road someone will hold me accountable to them, if I don’t do so myself.  

I resolve to. . . be more fully myself in every aspect of my life. I don’t need to hide certain sides of myself that are, in many ways, the most important in my sense of self.

I resolve to . . . make my commitments wisely and see them through to the end. My word is all I have, and if it means nothing, then I have nothing.

I resolve to. . . live freely and in the moment, to be open to the experiences this year will undoubtedly grant me.

They’re only three small goals, three small resolutions that in a years time I only hope I’ll be able to look back and think: yes, I did all of these as often and with as much of myself as I could. I didn’t do it half-assed, no, I did it the best I could.

Contaminating His Vanilla

If my sexuality were an ice cream flavour, it would probably be a peanut butter raspberry fudge jubilee – with sprinkles. 

From the beginning of our relationship, it was apparent that RS was as vanilla as vanilla could be – and still is in many ways. Hell, when we first met I was vanilla too, but let’s face it, I was seventeen. I didn't know shit about sex in general, let alone the great expanse of kinky pleasures waiting for me.

With eyes opened to the kinky realm through my Human Sexuality program, I quickly discovered my kinky self and wanted to explore it fully. I'm still exploring it. I'm still developing that part of my sexuality. RS has followed right along with me and has been happy to assist my every kinky whim and enjoys it immensely. He will (when out with close friends) disclose our kinky adventures as ours, rather than mine alone. So perhaps it’s unfair of me to label him vanilla, for surely he wouldn’t label himself so. For some reason or another, I still see him as vanilla though - there's always that nagging question in the back of my mind that asks:

Is this really the direction HE wants to go?

My kinky whims are our only kinky experiences - RS doesn't contribute to our kinky repertoire, and I can't help but wonder whether I'm contaminating his vanilla sexuality or if he's simply embraced my contaminations as blessings.

Of course we talk about it often and in great detail - we believe in open and honest communication in all aspects of our relationship. It's a topic that just keeps surfacing, and each time we talk until there are no words left. And then we fuck, of course. But before we get to the fucking, he always insists that he doesn't have any new or differnt fantasies or kinky desires that are outside our repertoire. He says that until I bring it up he doesn't know it exists, and if he doesn't know it exists, he can't want it or desire it. And it makes sense. I’ll bring something up, and he’ll look at me like he hasn’t got a clue. I’m always surprised, mostly because I’ve realized that I have certain expectations of what men learn from porn in their early years.

Now that we live together though, I'm excited to finally be able to watch porn together (undisturbed – it’s never ended well before!) and expand our kinky desires together and hopefully stir some of his own kinky fantasies – and more of my own probably!

And we are moving in that direction - the other day RS actually asked me if my favourite sex toy store sold strap-ons. It came completely out of left field. Of course I jumped on it and bought one, along with a few other anal-specific toys. He’s maintained an “exit-only” stance whenever I bring up anal play – perhaps he’s read something while I’ve been away that’s changed his mind. Either way, the harness and toys have been bought and are on their way, so he’s getting an ass-fucking whether he likes it or not! (not really though – safe, sane and consensual all the way!)

My Precious Orgasm

Let me clear this up before I begin: I love orgasms. I enjoy and relish each and every one. There are not enough words to describe just how much I truly love them, but I’m sure you understand - I love them as much as the next girl.

I have to tell the truth though – orgasm isn’t the crux of my sex life. I firmly believe that orgasm should never be the end goal of our sexual encounter nor the tool we use to measure performace. Rather, pleasure itself is, and should be, a desirable end in itself. Some of my best sexual experiences with RS didn’t end in orgasm – the pleasure of pleasing him is all I crave some nights, and other nights the pure pleasure of pleasure itself is all I need. Orgasm just isn’t the be-all-to-end-all for me, and I don’t think it should be.

I happen to have a somewhat interesting relationship with my orgasm, simply because, for the first two years of my relationship with RS, she eluded me completely.

I was seventeen when we began our relationship, and prior to our dating, my sexuality was undeveloped and undiscovered. Masturbation? Sure, I remember touching myself as a child and adolescent, but it never evolved into anything further, and I surely never experienced any orgasmic pleasure from it, even once I moved into my teen years. I’m still unable to orgasm using my hands – RS can however bring me to orgasm using his fingers, so it’s not a physical issue. Perhaps it’s some sort of mental block on my part, but believe me, I’ve tried.

My lack of orgasm continued unchallenged in our relationship, and we didn’t talk much about it. RS was a virgin when we began dating, and we were both coming into our partnered sexuality for the first time. When we look back on those days, RS expresses such regret at his lack of understanding of my needs. His hands in my pants was a game of how many fingers he could get in there at one time – I slapped him at four and told him to grow up.

He didn’t know how to please me, and I couldn’t help him – I didn’t even know how to please me.

It wasn’t long before it became an issue in our relationship. I perfected my fellatio skills and wanted nothing more than to please him any way I could, and at times I felt like he didn’t try hard enough. It started to wear on me, and I later learned it did the same to him. It became an issue, and our sex romps ended in tears and frustration. We were trying too hard, and I wanted it too badly, and it just wasn’t going to happen.

From my studies I knew I should learn to please myself before expecting anyone else to know how. I knew this. I knew it the way I know my times-tables and the periodic table. But I just couldn’t. I had naive notions of my first orgasm with RS at his hands. I didn’t want my first orgasm to be my own. RS was my first in every way; he was my first kiss and my first taste of love. With him I wanted to experience every first love could offer me. And my first orgasm seemed to fit right in there, and I refused to let go of this ridiculous notion, no matter how much unhappiness it caused me.

We did eventually get there though; it was Halloween, and we had just passed our second anniversary. I had, in many ways, completely given up. My lack of orgasm still bothered me, still wore away at me, but I resigned myself to thinking that there was something inherently wrong with me, that it just wasn’t meant to be.

And then it happened.

Like divine inspiration, RS’ hands moved before I even knew what I wanted, what I needed. It was a beautiful moment – I was free. Free of the worry that I would never know the pleasure of orgasm, free of the fear that RS would give up on me and move on to someone who could fully appreciate him as a lover. I was free to explore my own pleasure – that first orgasm was all that mattered. After that I could, in my mind, go on and have fifty more without him.

I was elated. In those moments, I couldn’t have been happier. And RS, the orchestrator of it all, had no idea it had even happened. I don’t know what he thought it would look and feel like, but mine obviously didn’t register as one for him – in fairness I’ve since learned my orgasms and know how many varyingly different ones I have based on stimulation and positioning and what not. RS is still sometimes unsure, but we have an understanding now that ‘when in doubt, just keep doing what you’re doing until I tell you to stop’. It works well for us.

My long and arduous relationship with my orgasm has undeniably changed my understanding of sexuality, and for that, I can only be thankful. Two years without orgasm were not a waste; in those two years I experience more joy than I ever thought possible, the simple bliss of love. I wouldn’t change those two years now. I firmly believe that everything happens for a reason, it just takes a while to figure out what that reason might be.

I have a much better relationship with my orgasm now. We’re good friends, and we know each other well. But I know I can’t take her for granted, and every time we meet, I’m truly grateful. She’s a precious member in my sex life, but she’s not the only member. My sex life does not revolve around her. And I’m incredibly grateful for that.

Our Beginning

I'm a chronological person by nature - I like to see things from beginning to end. It's the reason I can't start a book and quit halfway through, no matter how bad it is; it's why I will make you repeat the beginning of your story, no matter how far along you are in telling it; and it's the reason I want to tell the story of my relationship with RS now, from the beginning, before anything else.

RS and I met at Canada's most widely acclaimed eatery - Tim Horton's. It was my first job and it paid just enough to give me a little spending money to throw around in my high school years.

My first day of work was a blur of new faces and quickly forgotten names, and his was one of them. He stood out partly because he helped me cheat on the computerised training system by giving me the answers so that we could spend the time between quizzes chatting and laughing instead of watching the informational videos. And partly because he was so damn good looking. Mostly because he was so damn good looking.

I worked for the next month and very rarely saw RS. When I did, it was in passing between overlapping shifts that lasted only a few brief moments, and our interactions were friendly at most.

He stopped into work one night on the way to a bar and caught me cleaning tables away from the rest of the staff and made his pass: he gave me his number on the ripped corner of a tray liner, but I never called it. I didn't know what to say and I didn't know how to manoeuvre the dating realm - he would be my first, after all. A few days passed and I didn't think any more of it.

One Saturday morning, however, I got pulled from the floor at work and told I had a phone call. It was RS, calling to reiterate his interest and ask for my number. I happily gave it to him, and we made plans to see each other a few days later. When my Mother asked about this stranger who would be coming to take me out, I realised I knew absolutely nothing about him - what I knew was limited to his first name and that was it. Because of this, our first "date" took place in my bedroom where we cuddled up in my bed and watched a movie he had brought along with him - 'House on Haunted Hill' (we watch this each and every anniversary). He had to scramble up out of my bed to meet my Mother, and it was awkward all around. We weren't naked or in sort of compromising position... now that would have been an interesting introduction to say the least!

All in all, it was an innocent and PG-rated date all around - and it stayed that way for three months (well, aside from letting him get his hands in my pants from the second date on) until we had sex for the first time. It was simple and comfortable, the first time for both of us. We stayed in his bed for hours, fucking and cuddling, laughing and embracing. We were virgins discovering sexual intimacy for the first time, and from that moment forward, we began our journey of sexual discovery and evolution.

Our beginning was not only the beginning of our relationship, but also the beginning of my own sexual discovery and growth. Our beginning was exciting and exhilarating, but our journey since then has proven tenfold so. And I can't wait to tell you all about it.

Sex, Sleep, and Sadness

Sleeping with RS is one of the simple joys in my life - and I mean physically sleeping, not the good stuff that usually preceeds it.

Last night was the last night of drifting off into subconscious space fully aware that I was not, and wouldn't be, alone. It's comfortable to be able to reach out and touch someone in the middle of the night; it's reassuring to know that your pillar of strength is perched resolutely beside you in the darkness; and it's incredibly sexy to watch the rhythmic rise and fall of a great phallus during sleep and using every ounce of restraint against the desire to reach out and embrace it.

When I finally crawled into bed last night beside RS he was already fast asleep and my mind began to race; How could I leave in the morning without one last sexual encounter, without one last orgasm, without one last naked embrace?

But once my naked body curled in beside him, instict took over and his dick settled into the contours of my ass and legs while his hands found their way to my nipples, and in the darkness and silence he began rubbing, turning, twisting and pinching. Orgasm and sex followed, and at the end of it all, we fell back into bed happy and satisfied.

And though I will undoubtedly and without question miss our sexcapades, that space between spent silence and welcome sleep is what I'll miss most while we're apart.

In a few short hours I'll surely be cocooned in the bed couch listening to sad sappy music and weeping uncontrollably while I fall asleep alone.

The only thing that could potentially make up for sleeping alone might be sex dreams - good ones, and lots of them.

Bring it on.

Why This And Why Now?

Almost a year ago - for some unknown reason - I joined the Twitter community (@BostonBliss) and began documenting my life and experiences as they pertain to my sexuality and my sexual experiences. Sounds nice, right? Sounds somehow classier and more academic then just putting a picture of my boobs on the internet and talking about my sex life - which is exactly what I did.

Here's the thing though - I've never been particularity pithy and 140 characters is just never enough. I had an English teacher once who scrawled "pithy, pithy, pithy. BE PITHY" on every paper and every page I ever submitted to him. As much as I adore Twitter, 140 characters is just never quite enough for me to fully articulate any thought or impression. I'm wordy and proud! And here begins the birth of my desire to blog.

The 'why this' was an easy one, but the 'why now' goes quite a bit deeper than character limits. In a nutshell, I leave for vacation tomorrow, and when I do, I will be leaving RS behind for three agonizing weeks. Each year those few weeks seem a tad bit longer and just a pinch lonelier. But aside from the loneliness and similar feelings, the simple fact is that the next three weeks are the only three weeks of the year that I trudge through without either sex or masturbation (the joys of shared roomings, Oh, how I don't miss thee).

Each year I spend my holiday by the lake reading online erotica by the grace of my smart phone, and journaling and private letter-writing by moonlight. As romantic as pen to paper by moonlight is, by it's very nature it's an entirely private experience. This is great and remains part of my daily routine  as an important piece in my own self-care, but I've also realized that my sexuality need not be as private as I had previously held it. I want to open myself up and share my stories and thoughts and all the things that circulate through my own understanding of my sexuality.

... Or I'm doing this now because I'll be horny as fuck and will have no outlet for it - and it sure as hell can't be contained by 140 measly characters.