Her Porn Addiction

How deep, how dark, how degraded, just how far down the rabbit hole of porn do you go?

Lola and I had a wedding to attend.  Yes, another wedding.  I couldn’t find my nice black leather shoes.  They weren’t in the closet.  They weren’t under my side of the bed.  So I looked under Lo’s side of the bed – yes, that side where she keeps her dildos, vibrators, anal beads, and other pornographic paraphernalia.  I knew I was entering dangerous territory, but what choice did I have?  So I began methodically opening all the brown shoeboxes, discovering that there were no shoes to be had, but only the mechanical instruments of female pleasure.

But then I came across it – the one box that was heavier than the others.  In it was not a pair of men’s shoes, but rather four or five books – all related to sex.  Among them, Erica Garza’s Getting Off.  There wasn’t much time.  I had to pack and be ready to go to the airport in a matter of minutes.  I grabbed the small volume and resolved that I’d just have to wear my brown belt and brown shoes to the wedding.

The flight was five hours, coast-to-coast.  Lo was exhausted because we flew the redeye after a long day at work.  She fell asleep on my shoulder as I used the time to read the book cover-to-cover.  There were certain pages marked with dog-ears and certain sentences underlined.  Almost all of them had to do with becoming inured to “conventional” porn and seeking every more degrading and debased images and scenarios.  One passage read:

 

My preferences were changing all the time.  I loved ‘old and young’ clips.  I’d also taken a liking to watching drunken girls get walked around on leashes or fucked by groups of men. . . .  I’d discovered the category of ‘bukkake’ and felt simultaneously disgusted and excited every time I watched multiple men come all over a girl’s face. . . .

 

 

I wondered about Lo and her late-night phone usage.  What depraved, debauched, dissolute, degenerate, dangerous and deviant electronic alleyways had my dear Lo followed that she should be so interested in these passages?  I was well aware of her penchant for multiple penises, how pee piqued her curiosity, her prurient interest in punishment, her salacious soliloquies on slut faming (the opposite of “slut shaming”), not to mention her downright dirty devotion to diddling while dreaming of bestial bullocks.  But had her fantasies, obsessions, and external stimuli ventured beyond these already extreme bounds?  I was in the dark.  I looked over at my delectable sleeping nymph by my side and pondered the extent of her perversity.  I recalled how years ago on a similar redeye transpacific flight she had utilized a highlighting marker as a dildo and got herself off in the crowded cabin as most of the passengers slept.  I would be fooling myself if I didn’t admit that these indiscretions were at least part of why I loved her so.

We suddenly hit some turbulence on our descent and Lo awoke from her slumber suddenly.  She saw me reading her book and asked, “What’s that?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

She sat up.  Recognizing the book, she asked, “Where’d you find that?”
“I’ll give you a hint, it wasn’t with my black shoes.”

Slowly an expression of cognition appeared on her face.  “Oh,” she said, conveying everything.

I flipped through the pages showing her each and every passage that she underlined.

“That’s private!” she said as she pulled the book from my hands.

“Is that so?”

We landed and Lola tucked the book into her bag as we deplaned.

We walked through the busy terminal and I said, “It was quite a read.  Did you like it?”

“Some parts,” she said.  “What did you like about it?” she asked.

“I liked that it reminded me of you.  Why didn’t you tell me you were reading it?”

“Because, you don’t need that book or any book like it,” she said, obviously referencing the other illicit tomes in the shoebox.  “You have me,” she said, putting her thumb to her chest, “and I’m all the sex-addicted, porn-watching, nympho you can handle.”

“That’s true,” I said as I dodged people rushing for their departing flights.  “But that doesn’t answer my question.”

“What question?” she asked, talking past all the commuters.

“What porn have you been using to get off lately?”

“Define lately?”

We were outside in the sunshine and we found the taxi stand.  We hopped in and told the driver our destination.  In the backseat we continued our conversation.

“Look,” I said, pulling the book out of her bag and opening to the passage quoted above, “why is this underlined?  Have you been seeking out something. . .”

“You know, already.  I like bukkake, dirty old men like you fucking young beautiful women like me, facials, BDSM, female humiliation porn.”

I looked up and saw the taxi driver look at me and then at Lo through the rearview mirror.

“And?” I asked.

“And what?”

“Bestiality?” I whispered under my breath.

“Yeah, so what?  You already knew that.”

“What else?”

“You know it all already.”

“Do I?”

“Well, I also like seeing big, hung men fucking fat women or big fat men fucking sexy thin women.  I like cumming to gangbangs, machines fucking women incessantly, and also sensual massages.”

“So, basically everything you’ve ever done?”

“You could say that.”

We got to our destination and I paid the taxi driver in cash, giving him a generous tip on top of the juicy conversation he got to listen to on the way.

“You enjoyed that,” I said.

“Enjoyed what?” she asked coyly.

“You know what.  Saying all those filthy things in front of complete strangers.”

“Did I embarrass you?”

“No, but you are a loose cannon.”

“I’m loose alright.  And that reminds me, I also love to watch women with large labia and saggy tits.”

“I bet you do,” I said.  “I have an idea.”

“What’s that?”

“Why don’t we go inside and fuck to my favorite porn.”

Her tongue licked her sparkling white teeth in anticipation and she asked, “What would that be?”

“I bet you could think of a few possibilities, but I’m not going to ask you to suggest anything and I’ll just come out with it.”

“I hope so,” she said, grabbing my crotch.

“My favorite porn is fucking you from behind as we both are looking at ourselves in a full-length mirror.”

“Mine too,” she said as we got in the hotel room.

Once we were in the room, we immediately stripped and I bent her over the dresser as we both looked into each other’s eyes reflected in the mirror above it.  I pulled out my throbbing rod, what she once called a “Truth Stick,” and slid deep inside her as she moaned with pleasure.  Once I had pinned her hips between my crotch and the corner of the dresser, I put her to the test.

“What else?”

“What else what?” she asked.

“What are the kinds of porn you didn’t tell me?”

“Oh, Daddy, please.”

I pulled back as her cunt squeezed my cock right out of her and she squirted on my bare feet.  I thrusted forward again, mounting her.

“Tell me.”

“Daddy,” she pleaded.

“If you want this, then you’ll speak,” I threatened, temporarily removing my pleasure pole from her wet snatch.

“NO!” she said.

I was confused at first.  No, I’m not telling or. . . .

“No, don’t pull out.  Deep.  Deep.  Please,” she continued.  “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“What gets you off?”

She looked up at the mirror and into my eyes that were watching the expression on her face.  She couldn’t tell me while our eyes were locked.  She dropped her head and her thick mane of hair covered it as her tits flopped forward and back with each thrust of my cock.

“OK,” she said in a tone of defeat.  “I like seeing my guy fans send pics of themselves to me wearing sexy women’s panties.  I like to see them hard-up for me in those sheer lace panties.  I like to see them cum in them.  I like them to cum to me, to my pics, to your dirty stories of me.”

Saying this, she came.

“What else?”  I knew she wasn’t done.  Not by a longshot.

“I like seeing women diddle themselves to me.”

“I knew that.”

“I like to see pregnant women get fucked hard.  I like to see women with giant bulging breasts and huge round nipples lactating.  I like to see lesbians sucking those huge tits, sucking the milk out of them.  I like to see women being milked like cows.”

She came a second time.

“Keep going,” I commanded.

“There’s not a deep, dark, dank corner of the internet I haven’t explored.  I’ve searched it all.  You name it: sex with aliens; gay men masturbating to my pics; couples having sex while watching me; teacher/student sex.”

I wanted her to continue, but at this point all her limbs went limp and she collapsed in the puddle she had made on the carpeted floor.  The orgasm was still causing convulsions and tremors through her flesh.

I let her lay there on the ground like a limp, wet pile of towels as I sat on the bed, my cock in my hands.  I watched her as she gradually regained consciousness.  She crawled across the floor to the space between my knees.  She looked up at me.  Her lips quivered as she tried to speak.

“That,” she said in a raspy whisper, “was fucking a-mazing.”

I’m an Addict

 

Lo, as everyone knows by now, has her drug of choice: sex.  I have mine.  Now you may be thinking that my drug of choice is Lo, and you wouldn’t be wrong about that.  But my addiction to Lo needs to be placed in a bigger context, a larger frame, a wider understanding of love and addiction.

I am one who is addicted to life.  Now that may sound tautological since just about everyone who is alive wants more of life – I mean, it’s the one thing we just can’t live without, right?  But not everyone living is really alive.  Are you alive?  Are you really alive?  Are you living life to the fullest?  And by that I don’t mean climbing Mount Everest, skydiving, or falsely claiming to adhere to the trite banality of “living every day like it’s my last.”

I mean living intensely.  Feeling acutely.  Spanning the extremes of emotion, exploring the treacherous terrain of thought, loving with passion and depth.  Do you do that?  Or do you go about your humdrum day as if dreaming of a life without ever living it?  Is the closest you get to real life the vicarious thrill of observing it in others – whether on TV, the movies, or in books?

Well, this isn’t about you.  This is about me and my addiction to joie de vivre.  My love of Lo and all of her endearing idiosyncrasies is an extension of my own personality which oscillates between the extremes: manic-depressive, bi-polar, emotional rollercoaster ride, whatever you wish to call it.  This amusement park of life’s possibilities can be euphoric and energizing or catastrophic and terrifying.  Often both.  Loving Lo is one part of it.  But it also encompasses my relationship to work, money, and most pervasively, art.  My writing is an obsession, an addiction, a compulsion, a release, a mania, and also my great downfall.  I do everything for it and it does everything for me – everything, that is, except provide me with any semblance of stability.  The only constant in my life is my perpetual state of peril.  Perhaps that precarious existence leads to the anxiety and the anxiety to stress and stress to the manic-depressive episodes.  Maybe it’s all a vicious circle.  I don’t know.

But one day Lo might wake up and come to the insight that I’m no good for her.

We recently watched the movie Battle of the Sexes together and it cut to the quick for me.  It is ostensibly the story of Billie Jean King’s fight for women’s rights and the focus of the movie is on her much hyped 1973 tennis match with Bobby Riggs, dubbed “The Battle of the Sexes.”  However, despite a powerful performance by Emma Stone as Billie Jean, Steve Carell steals the show with his portrayal of the manically compulsive gambler and former tennis star, Riggs.

In the movie there is a scene where, at the insistence of his wife Priscilla, he goes to a Gamblers Anonymous meeting.  I’ve taken a little liberty with the dialogue from that scene:

 

BOBBY: My name is Bobby and I am an addict.               GROUP: Hi, Bobby.               BOBBY: At least that’s what Priscilla says. She’s gonna leave me unless I quit gambling. Puzzles me, though, that word: “Gambling.” Whenever Priscilla gets a car out of the garage, she’s gambling big time. Never checks the mirror. Sticks it in reverse. Puts her foot down, right out onto the highway. Jeez Louise, that’s gambling! But here I am, Gamblers Anonymous.               FACILITATOR: And your point is what, Bobby?               BOBBY: My point is this: Life’s a gamble, right? That’s the thrill of it! You know, you folks aren’t here because you’re gamblers. You are here because you are terrible gamblers. Well, let’s face it, that’s the problem. You lose, and that’s why you’re here.               FACILITATOR: Okay, Bobby…               BOBBY: I’ve been looking at you guys yammering on about all of your stuff and…“Oh, woe is me” and “This is terrible.” But you know what the problem is? The problem is you don’t have a “thing.”               FACILITATOR: Can we just…               BOBBY: They don’t have a thing. They need an edge. You need an angle, an inside track, something. . . that’s gonna turn you from being a gambler to a hustler.               FACILITATOR: All right, Bobby, thank you.               BOBBY: From a loser to a winner. Why should we give up the one thing in life that we really love? Why should we give up what makes us come alive? We just want to feel alive, the thrill of the chance, the risk of losing it all or cleaning up. When Priscilla pulls her car out of the driveway, we don’t call that gambling because she isn’t aware of the risk, or she doesn’t feel it. But we, we know the risk, we take the risk, we feel the risk, and we love the risk. Life’s a gamble. We just bring the gamble front and center, we make it more intense and that makes life more intense.  There’s the difference. These folks don’t need to stop what they’re doing, they just need to get better at it.                Later in the film, as you might have surmised, Bobby not only didn’t stop gambling, he took it to new heights by bringing his gambit public on live national television and, with the greater stakes, Bobby’s mania grew as well.  Priscilla finally had to get out of the maddening relationship.  In that scene the following exchange takes place:                 PRISCILLA: Bobby, I love you.               BOBBY: Well, I love you, too.               PRISCILLA: I love how you make me laugh. I love your crazy ideas and all your schemes. And the way you walk into a room and you fill it up. I love the way you make me feel. I miss that a lot. But. . . I need a husband. I need someone who is steady. Someone that I can rely on. And that is not you. And that’s okay. It is more than okay. It is wonderful, because that. . . is who you are. I just can’t be with that person anymore. I just can’t. I’m so sorry.               BOBBY: No. I’m sorry.                That was the scene that really brought it home for me because I could see Lo saying those very words to me.  They all seemed to fit.                But one of the fascinating things about the movie is its hidden symmetry.  Just as Bobby has his gambling addiction, so too does his nemesis, Billy Jean, have her own obsession.  As her husband, Larry King, tells her lover, Marilyn Barnett, late in the film, “Tennis is her true love. If you get between her and the game, you’ll be gone.”                 It’s fucked up, but Lo loves me, at least in part, because of my writing.  But it is my love of writing that may lead to losing Lo.

Subspace: Pleasure Spiked With Pain

Subspace: Pleasure Spiked With Pain

“No!” she said firmly, “I’m not calling him.”

“OK,” I said, not putting up any argument to her decision.

“I mean, he didn’t bother to call on my birthday,” she went on to explain her reasoning, “or to even ask how I’m doing when I called him for his birthday.”  She paused, and I could see now that her lower lip was trembling a bit and she was allowing her mind to feel all that pain again, the way one presses on a bruise just to be reminded of how much it hurts.  “So, fuck him!  Maybe it will give him some much needed silent time to self-reflect about what an asshole he is.”

To be fair, she really had only touched on the tip of this iceberg of harm, neglect, and self-absorption.  All her life he had been a palpably present absentee father.  By that, I mean, he was there in body, but his mind was eons away alone on a raft floating in a sea of vodka.  And in the past few years – the years she had been with me – his very active passivity had ramped up in ways that had caused serious damage to just about everyone around him.  Like Jonah, sleeping in the hold of the ship while his choices caused the ship’s crew to risk life and limb in a tempest, Lo’s father was a whirlwind of destruction cycling around a ghost of the shell of a broken man.

And now it was Father’s Day and unfortunately Hallmark doesn’t make cards that say, “You didn’t try.  You didn’t give a shit.  I tried.  I keep on trying.  You lie and you keep on lying and I’m sick of it and so you can go to hell.  Happy Father’s Day.  Better luck next year.”  So Lo didn’t get a card.  She didn’t go to visit.  She didn’t get a gift.  And she sure as shit wasn’t going to call him.  Yet, that decision put her into her own personal torment with the guilt of imagining her father alone on Father’s Day.

I held her for a while as she cried her eyes out.  Perverse as it may be – I can’t help it – I find her crying and holding me arousing.  She felt my barometer rising and she held me tighter.  Tears were dripping down her cheek onto my shirt.  Her hand slid down under my pants and grasped my shaft, holding it firmly.  We began to kiss and our bodies danced horizontally of their own accord as our minds were locked on each other’s thoughts.

I entered her as she whispered in my ear, “I love you, Daddy.”

“Who do you love?”

“I love you, Daddy.”

“Say it again.”

“I love you, Daddy.

She repeated it again and again, each time with a slightly different inflection as her hips rose and fell and pulsated and clenched.

My hand was behind her head, cupping her.  I grabbed a tuft of hair.  She reached up to my hand and tugged on it.  She brought it to her cheek and held it there a moment.  Then she pulled it back and forced it toward her face.  I knew what she wanted.  I gave it to her.  Once.  Again, harder.  A third time, even harder.

Then she said, “Make it hurt, Daddy.  Take away the pain.”

I opened my hand and threw it down with a whap.

“Again” she pleaded.

This time I used my left hand against her right cheek.

“Yes.  Make it hurt.”

I continued with ever greater force and intensity until she was screaming, squirting, shaking, and then quietly breathing in a mind-state beyond consciousness.

I caressed her cheeks softly.  I stroked her hair.  I held her until she muttered, “I love you. . . Daddy” one last time.

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Are you a Nymphomaniac?

Well friends, the posts for “October is Orgasm Month” have cum to an end.  With the last post recounting our Halloween experience, it brings the month’s tally to this:

 

Lola: 70+ (The plus is due to the fact that there were many solo-sessions when Lo masturbated to orgasm without me and without keeping track of the O’s.  There were also a few nights that I lost count of her successes.  So, the conservative number of O’s for Lo in October is 70.  That averages out to a little more than two per day.)

H.H.: 18.

In response to the question, “What is a nymphomaniac?”  Alfred Kinsey replied, “A woman who has sex more than you do.”

With that in mind, we’d like to hear from you: Ladies, are you a “nympho” (which in this context means more than 70 orgasms a month – solo or with a friend or friends?  Gents, are you a satyr (more orgasms than 70 per month)?

Give us your take on it.

Thanks,

Lo & HH

dildo party1

p.s. – I’m reminded of this post by our dear friend over at Creativenoodling.