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I know I’m at least a little kinky.  You don’t fuck your boyfriend against a lit window to a busy street, or masturbate to the thought of strangers groping you, without being at least a little kinky.  You don’t paddle your lover or kneel over his face and demand he make you come, without being at least a little kinky.

But there’s a big wide world out there beyond “a little kinky” and I’ve no idea where I’d like to visit or whether I’ve gone about as far away from home as I can handle and I just don’t know it yet.

That’s why I’ve never gone to a munch or any other sort of meet up.  Even though I’m curious.  Even though if nothing else I’d like to make some friends who are more open about their sexuality than the circles I currently run in.

I don’t know if I’m afraid that I’m more vanilla than I thought, or way kinkier than I thought.  But I’m afraid of something, and that’s why I haven’t gone.


Why go when you can take a quiz that tells you what you are and what you like?  I am, apparently:

Exhibitionist / Voyeur
Degradation Lover

That actually looks about right to me – I’m deeply curious, have an exhibitionist streak, enjoy topping (although I think I get off more on subbing), and like humiliation play much more than pain play.


A party just isn’t a party without people fucking under the porch.

A few weeks ago I went to a party.  I’ve been pretty desperately horny lately.  It’s been nearly a year since I’ve slept with someone, and over a year since I’ve slept with someone who knows my body and how to make me squirm and cry and come.  For some reason, I can’t do casual dating.  I do serious relationships and fuck buddies.  Lacking any real prospects for a serious relationship, I’ve been pursuing fuckbuddies.

I met a guy at this party, a couple of years younger than me and cute in a shaggy, earnest way.  We both had a few drinks, stole down to the trampoline to watch the stars, and did that whole awkward sequence of long looks and brushing palms before we started to make out.  He was a decent kisser.  My skin’s gone untouched long enough that his hands on my shoulders and at my sides were enough to make me suggest we go somewhere more secluded.

He seemed eager.  A little too eager, actually.  His hands moved around my body like he was playing connect the dots, and he frequently stopped in the middle of whatever he was doing to make sure I had the opportunity to stroke him.  It felt a little like putting quarters into a vending machine.

“Hey,” I said, softly but firmly as the groping got less and less effective.  “Why don’t you tell me what you like, and I’ll tell you what I like.”

He shook his head.  “We’ll figure it out.”

How, exactly, did he expect to figure me out?  He was already missing all of my non-verbal signals, the little moans and sighs and shifting of body weight.  And I certainly couldn’t read him.

I paused, trying to think of the most tactful way to end the encounter, when he stood up and positioned himself so his dick was hanging in front of my face.

I gave up on tactful.

“Are you trying to hint at something?” I asked.


I folded my arms across my bare chest.  “Really.  Are you sure there isn’t something you’d like me to do for you?”


“Oh.  Okay. Just had this weird impression that you wanted me to give you a blow job.”

In the darkness, I could see his eyes light up.  “Would you?”

I considered explaining to him that accepting unprotected blow jobs from strangers was going to put him at serious risk of STDs.  I considered reminding him that the polite thing to do is spend a while getting your partner off before asking them to spend a while focusing solely on you.  I considered telling him that if you’re not emotionally mature enough to say out loud that you want a blow job, you don’t deserve a blow job.

Instead I stood up.  “No, I won’t,” I said, and thought: He’ll figure it out.

I put my shirt back on and gave him a smile to show there were no hard feelings.  “I think I’m done.  We’re just not communicating well.”

I was, at this point, still willing to talk, although I was pretty well turned off for the night.  But he just said, “Oh, okay.”  He zipped himself up and stood around awkwardly while I looked for a lost earring.  By the time I’d found it, he’d disappeared back to the party.


As I told a friend of mine later, losing that earring was the only regret I had that night.  I went after something I wanted, and politely but confidently rejected it when it turned out to be dross after all.  Casual sex is a game of chance, after all – you’re not always going to roll double sixes (or flip a jack, or draw five gold).  May all my failed encounters end so indifferently.

Still, I wonder about this guy’s behavior.  Why was he so resistant to talking?  Was it inexperience?  Was it shame – was he not as comfortable with casual sex as he appeared, but felt pressured because he was a guy?  Is he just someone who finds talking about sex while you’re having it to be a big turn off?

I’d have been fine with any of those three things alone, but together they led to an experience where I felt neither valued nor respected, like I was expected to follow a script with no chance to change the lines.  When I flipped the page and saw slutty girl sucks off awkward hipster I gave up on the play altogether.

I have high standards for relationships.  I guess I have high standards for fuckbuddies too, although the standards are different ones.  You have to show you respect me.  You have to show you desire me.  You have to show me that casual isn’t a synonym for “selfish”, “shameful” or “half-hearted” to you.

Let me be clear: I have no hard feelings towards this guy.  I have been there, caught up in an unexpected moment, way too shy to explain what I want or don’t want.  And being a girl, it was easy for me to default into being quiet and passive, easier for me to not accidentally hurt someone with my confusion and my nerves and my naiveté.

I hope this guy figures himself out, or barring that, finds a girl who likes intuitive sex and giving blow jobs.