I really didn’t know what polyamory was until I fell into it at 27. I was arguing one day with a couple I’d been sleeping with for about a month, when BAM! I ended up in a three-way relationship.
I’ve always been open-minded as far as sexual relationships were concerned and was sleeping with a male/female couple. That day, Dan was being overly critical of Ellie. I told them the nit-picking was bothering me, but it really wasn’t my business how they treated each other, since, you know, it was their relationship.
That’s when they looked at each other and asked me, “Well, aren’t you kind of… with us?”
Hmm. “Fine,” I said to Dan, “Be nice to my girlfriend then.” Keep reading »
I double-checked my bag: Wallet, bus pass, lip gloss. A bottle of cheap wine. A variety pack of condoms. My favorite vibrator and a pair of handcuffs.
My husband and I were attending our very first sex party and — by God — I wanted us to be prepared.
I wasn’t sure what to expect that evening. My libido levels had been low as of late, and intimacy with my husband was suffering. As someone who often relied upon a vibrator, was I really planning on possibly masturbating in public? Were Michael and I actually going to pull out that set of never-before-used handcuffs in a public setting? Was I going to allow myself to actually feel something? Keep reading »
“I’ve never even kissed a woman,” Adam said. One of my best friends on the planet, Adam was unequivocally gay—the kind of caricature personality who lisped, wore pink, plucked his eyebrows, flicked his wrists, and decorated his apartment in rainbows. He was my first call when a guy I was dating was being a jerk, the one who was always up for an impromptu shopping mission or who’d dance with me until the wee hours of the night at an ’80s club. Technically, he was everything I’d want in a boyfriend: smart, funny, kind and gorgeous—too gorgeous to be straight, as the saying goes. But since he was gay, I barely noticed.
But as he said those words, our faces were inches apart and we were locked in that trance-like pull of an inevitable kiss. We were at a party, dancing to New Order. And soon our lips locked and we were full-on making out. As I felt his hands squeeze my butt, I backed up and stared at him. “You’re an amazing kisser,” he said, with a wink.
Next thing I knew, we were back at my place. Keep reading »
We met when I delivered his mail, a task performed by all the interns. But I liked to think I was different: I was an eager little NYU journalism student, desperate for attention, and I chatted with all the editors as I passed their cubicles. Many magazine editors on the top of the masthead are a bit standoffish and see interns, especially ones who want to talk while they’re busy, as an annoyance. But the Older Man was actually inquisitive and kind; we’d chitchat a little bit, a welcome reprieve from the other editors who could be cold and snappish. Keep reading »
As a single lady who has lived in a big city for years, and now moved to a new one, I’ve had my fare share of one-night stands. I’d never call myself someone who makes a romantic life out of having a lot of random sex. In fact, my heart stands more on the traditional side where I look for sex after the relationship connection, knowing I usually wind up hurt in casual flings and that I actually disdain the thought of adding another one-nighter to my “list.” Keep reading »
When I first set out to write about swinging for an article about the lifestyle, the last thing I expected was to find myself nodding when a slim, curly-haired brunette asks if she may take off my panties. It’s a windy Friday night and I’m in a cozy, apartment-style swing club in Midtown Manhattan, my short, cherry-red dress folded down to my waist — all in the name of research, of course. The bartender, a curvy blonde, leans over to kiss me. Keep reading »
I thought I’d had “rough sex” before; I’d been spanked on my butt plenty of times, had my hair pulled, even been caned once while strung up with my hands over my head. That hurt, and I cried, and I liked it, because I’m submissive like that, but it was just a one-time thing. I’d had plenty of encounters with talking dirty, spinning all sorts of nasty fantasies, where, most of the time, I was on the receiving end of some very hot epithets. But I’d never wanted to be choked until I got together with the guy I’m dating now. Keep reading »
My first spanking was at my 16th birthday party. My guy friends tackled me on the kitchen floor and took turns giving me 16 spanks. And maybe one for good luck. I don’t remember. Once freed, I was livid. I was mortified.
And I was totally turned on. Keep reading »
It began with my high school English teacher. I was 15 and shy; he was 30 and moonlighted as a poet. He also cursed in class, horsed around with his students, and (despite his age) still had jet black hair. I got nervous and sweaty whenever we interacted, and my childish crush raged until high school ended. I visited him while I was home for winter break, but when he mispronounced my name and forgot which university I attended, my puppy love subsided. Keep reading »
“So when can we meet him?”
This is a question that most women long to hear from their friends after dating a great guy for a couple of weeks. It is the last thing you want to hear, however, when your current beau is unattractive. Alright, I am sugarcoating it — this guy was ugly. Now, please hold your judgment; I have always prided myself on being able to look past a pretty face and see a man’s inner hotness. Keep reading »