We all turned around and saw Lola standing, one hand to her mouth, surprise on her face, her bare feet standing in a puddle of booze and a silver shaker spinning on the ground. Even the dogs froze in their frisky flirtations with Suzanne.
“Whoops!” said Lo. “I’ll clean it up. I’m so sorry. I feel like such a fool!”
I went over to her and followed her into the kitchen where she grabbed some rubber gloves and cleaning stuff. I was grateful for the excuse to get out of the crosshairs of Collin and Suzanne.
Lo returned to the living room and went over by the entranceway where she spilled, and she got on all fours to clean up in her little black nighty that she had been wearing.
. . .
Everyone was already watching as Lo cleaned up. Now they were gawking. . . .
[The mini-series “Mount Bliss” continues from “Dutiful Niece.” We apologize for any delay and concern that the delay may have caused. Working on being more consistent content creators.]
“I don’t think this is a story I can tell,” I said to Lo as we were driving back home from the bizarre weekend in the mountains with Lily, Jim, Lily’s Uncle Collin and Aunt Suzanne.
“It sure did get weird fast,” she remarked, looking with a vacant stare out the window as the scenery streaked by.
“The whole thing was weird,” I remarked.
“That’s true,” she said, “but it got even more so once you got there.”
A little background may be in order here, dear reader. Lily and Jim are our very good friends from home. They’re married. Lily is Lo’s age and of her same temperament. Jim is slightly older, with a few hang-ups. Lily’s Uncle Collin had invited the four of us up to his lake house in the mountains for a week but, due to our work schedules, only Lily and Lo could join him for the first five days. During that time, Collin hit hard on Lo and Lo lapped it up, returning his advances with explicit flirtations. Lily, during this whole extramarital exchange, reassured Lo that Uncle Collin and Aunt Suzanne “had an understanding” and that it was fine.
Because Uncle Collin and Aunt Suzanne have separate bedrooms and the former sleeps alone and the latter with her two dogs, the night before Jim and I were to arrive, Lo finally “slept” with Uncle Collin. But it literally was just sleeping together because, as she found out that night, Uncle Collin, virile as he is, he is also impotent and suffers from E.D. due to an accident that injured his spine two decades ago.
The next morning, when Lo confronted Lily about this, it was revealed that Lily was a coconspirator with Uncle Collin to help him gave the female companionship he so long to enjoy with Lo. But, not only that, it turned out that Lo was only the latest in a long string of sexy young friends whom Lily had enticed to spend “quality time” with Uncle Collin.
Saturday morning, Jim and I were headed straight for the eye of this swirling sordid affair.
Just to add even more spice to the already simmering pot, he and I were hard-up from a long five days apart from our respective hotwives and I had just come off of a terrible week, losing my big case that Friday.
I was so wrapped up in my own need to reconnect with Lo and my own dark and stormy cloud from the past week, that I hadn’t even put thought to how horny Lo would be, or Lily for that matter. The last I had heard, Lo, Lily, and Collin had gone to a resort on Thursday and so I had no idea that Lo wasn’t getting her fill of good fucks by Uncle Collin there. But I had heard from my reliable informant about Lily’s big reveal that she adheres to the ‘A.O.L.’ (Anal Only Lifestyle.) A fascinating little tidbit of knowledge that had piqued my curiosity.
After we stopped for coffee and a quick breakfast sandwich at a highway rest stop, we were on the road for a good couple of hours. Once we were a good distance outside the city, as the sun was burning off the morning mist, we saw some horses over in the field on the side of the road.
“You remember last time we all saw Uncle Collin?” asked Jim, slightly bemused by the horses.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Remember what we did?”
“You mean the candle lit therapy session?”
“No,” he said, snapping out of it. “I mean the breeding farm he took us to.”
“Oh yeah, for his ‘prized stallion,’” I said, a little snarky.
“Yeah,” said Jim. “Lo was really fascinated by that,” he remarked. Clearly the experience had stuck with him.
“She’s a size queen,” I blurted out as a half joke, but immediately regretted it when I recalled Jim’s own diminutive size.
He turned to look at me with a quizzical expression. “Then why does she like me?” he asked, genuinely.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that she both pities him and also loves to tease, so I said simply, “She thinks you’re cute.”
He let it drop and resumed his original line of questioning. “So being a ‘size queen’ extends to other species?” he asked, getting to the point.
“To be honest, I think she’s just mesmerized by cock. All cock. She enjoys the power she exerts over it. The power to make it hard, to make it cum, to put someone under her power of seduction. It’s a power trip to her. And part of that power trip is also the power that she feels by knowing she can take something so incredibly large. Call it ‘the power of the puss’ if you want,” I said, laughing to myself about the turn of phrase.
All Cocks
“Has she ever. . .” began Jim, not able to even ask the question.
“Is this our turnoff?” I asked, evading his question.
He looked at his phone to check the map and he said, “The girls are asking if we will be eating breakfast with them.”
“When will we get there?”
“E.T.A. is about 11:00,” he said.
“Let’s plan on lunch.”
“Turn here,” he said.
As I got in the right lane, I saw the sign that read, “EXIT ONLY.” It made me think of a woman I once knew who was adamantly anti-anal sex and remarked to me, “That is an exit only orifice.” I chuckled to myself and thought of what a dirty old man I am and how Lily’s “Anal Only Lifestyle” is not a turnoff, but a real turn-on for me.
“Did our session by candlelight help you and Lily?” I asked, venturing into a topic he hadn’t revisited with me since that fateful night. I suspect he had “confessor’s remorse” after admitting that he didn’t know how to fully please her.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, did you two talk about bringing a bull into the relationship or a little BDSM?”
“It’s more complicated than that. She’s different than you think.”
“How so?”
“I mean, you know that, like you two, we’re in an open relationship.”
“Yeah.”
“But, unlike Lo she. . . .” He trailed off.
“Jim we’ve known each other a long time. You’ve been with Lo. Lily has been forthright and open with us. There’s nothing you should feel inhibited from telling me. I hate to pull this card, but I’m older. Maybe I have some sage advice.”
“Lily has a Catholic girl hang-up about sex,” he finally blurted out.
“What?! Other than Lo, she’s one of the most openminded people I know.”
“It’s true. She’s never had sex. We’ve never had sex, properly.”
“OK, now I know you’re putting me on.”
“I wish it was a joke, but it’s not. She grew up being told that sex is wrong, sex is bad, and girls who engage in sex are doomed to Hell.”
“But they only say that about fornication – sex outside of the marriage.”
“Well, that’s how she got started before marriage and, I guess, she still likes it that way.”
“How do you feel about that?” I ventured to ask, fully aware that I was treading over delicate, as if hiking along a cliff that could fall through at any moment.
It was as if a switch went off in his mind. This normally mild-mannered, easy-going guy became enraged. “I fucking hate it!” he blurted out. “It’s so fucking dumb. We’ve been married almost a year now and every fucking time I want to fuck her, she flips over on her belly and sticks her ass in the air, spreads her ass cheeks and says, ‘I’m ready for you now.’ What the fuck?! Why can’t we just have real, loving intercourse?” He punched the glove compartment.
“Hey, take it easy,” I said, concerned about the damage he was doing to my car and that he’d set off the airbag.
“Sorry, but this has been frustrating me since. . . well, since forever.”
“Have you talked with her about it?”
“Of course I have.”
I felt stupid even asking him, since he was so abrupt with his reply.
“I’m sorry, H, but. . .”
“I understand, Jim. You and I, we’re both frustrated. We haven’t seen Lo or Lily in five days and. . .”
“Yeah, how are you doing with that?” he interrupted to ask.
“With what?”
“With her being around Uncle Collin?”
“Whatever,” I said, dismissively and disingenuously since that thought had been consuming me for days now.
“I forgot, you don’t get jealous about her fucking other guys,” he said, as if bating me.
“As long as she’s honest about it,” I said, continuing to dissemble.
Soon we were pulling down a long dirt road leading to the cottage.
“I’ll text Lily that we’ll be there in a minute.”
“OK,” I said, feeling tense with no appetite other than for Lo.
We pulled up to the circular driveway in front of the picturesque villa. I parked the car and Jim, who had been there before, let me around back to the deck where the girls and Collin and Suzanne, as well as the two dogs, were relaxing.
Lo and Lily were both naked as they day they were born. They got up, their tits swinging and jiggling, their asses looking sweetly tanned, their unabashed display of their bodies admirable. I saw how Collin watched Lo and his niece greet us as we appeared on the deck. His eyes carefully watched ever move, every gesture, every subtle sign, deciphering its meaning and adducing the nature of the relationship. He was a limp snake in the grass. But, mind you, at that point, I still was in the dark as to what had transpired between him and Lo.
I wanted nothing more at that moment than to sweep Lo off of her bare feet and bring her to the bedroom (or the kitchen, or the bathroom, or really anywhere, even right there!) and discover all her stories while plumbing her depths with my philosophically penetrating apparatus.
[The mini-series “Mount Bliss” continues from “Sun Shower“]
It was Friday. Though I couldn’t wait to be reunited with my little nymphet, Jim and I wouldn’t be getting on the road until early the next morning. Soon Lola, Lily, and Collin were in the Jeep on their way back to the cottage. They got back just in time for dinner with Suzanne. After dinner and some drinks, Lily said to Lo, “I’m feeling tired. I’m going to bed, but why don’t you join Collin on the deck?”
Suzanne, apparently, had already gone to bed. Always the accommodating guest, Lola took her friend’s suggestion and found Collin sipping his whiskey as he sat in a double-wide swing outside, overlooking the lake.
Lo joined him on the swing and they made some small talk before he invited her to join him in the bedroom.
“What about Suzanne?” asked Lo.
“We sleep in separate bedrooms,” said Collin. “She sleeps with Shadow and Bandit,” he said, referring to the dogs. “It’s been this way for a while.”
Lo followed him through the quiet house to the master bedroom. It was enormous. The square footage of that room alone was probably bigger than our living room and kitchen together. It had a master bath attached in an open plan layout. Lo said she’d like to wash up before bed. She dropped her denim shorts, removed her cutoff top and turned on the shower. She stepped in as Collin watched her. There was no door on the slate tiled shower. The water just poured down from a waterfall fountain near the high ceiling. Lo washed up and then dried off with one of the plush terrycloth towels.
She walked over to the bed where Collin was lying in just his flannel pajama bottoms. She must have missed the brief moment when he changed. Sitting on the bed near him, she removed the towel and passed him a bottle of lotion she had found by the sink.
“Moisturize me,” she said.
She was lying on her tum and he began with her shoulders. His large, strong hands gently rubbed the scented cream into her skin. She let out a moan. “That feels soooo good.”
Collin continued down her back and pushed up from her hips toward her shoulders in long, slow strokes.
Finally he worked his way around her bum, grabbing with his fingers and thumbs and spreading her ass cheeks apart so he could get a good look at her special spot in a slight variation from his performance the day before.
“Clean as a whistle,” he remarked, taking note of one of Lo’s most remarkable features.
“I used the pink grapefruit bodywash in the shower.”
Gettin’ a Dirty Girl Clean
“Looks it,” he said.
“Does it taste like grapefruit?” she asked.
He continued his exploration of her anatomy with his palms sliding down her thighs to her calves. He simply ignored her question.
His hands massaged around her ankles and then her feet. His thumbs pressed into the arch of her feet and he rubbed in sensual circles, bringing her close to climax.
Pink Grapefruit
Before she had another accident, she turned over and looked at Collin.
“Why don’t you get out of those pjs?” she asked, straining to see if he was hard.
To her great surprise, he agreed and soon he was as naked as she. But to her greater surprise, he was as flaccid as a well-cooked strand of spaghetti, though almost as long.
“Lo,” he said in a quiet tone, “there’s something I have to tell you.”
Lo’s eyes widened.
“About twenty years ago I was badly injured in a horse riding accident.”
“Oh no,” said Lo, even before hearing the details. She gave him space to explain.
“I was riding one of my prized stallions and I thought I had trained him a lot better than I did. He saw a shadow or a branch or something. Maybe he thought it was a snake. Maybe it was a snake. I don’t know. It was a long time ago and it happened fast. He reared up and threw me off.”
Lo covered her mouth as she gasped.
“The fall wasn’t that bad, but then he bucked and his rear hoof went right into my back. I had a serious injury to my thoracic spinal nerve 11, or T-11. For a long time I was in a wheelchair, which is why this room is on the first floor and is designed to be completely wheelchair accessible. I had a number of surgeries and eventually, after a lot of physical therapy, I was able to walk again. But, unfortunately,” he looked down, “I never recovered to full functioning.”
Lo looked at Collin’s lengthy, beautiful cock, longingly.
“Nothing?” she asked a little tactlessly.
“Nothing. Suzanne and I tried everything. For years. Surgeries, pills, pump. Nothing could get me hard or keep me hard.”
“No orgasm, I guess,” she asked, unable to conceal a tone of disappointment from her voice.
“Not in over twenty years.”
“Desire?”
“So much desire,” he said.
“What can I do for you?” asked Lo, always eager to please.
“Lo, your visit has been a godsend.”
“So you don’t want to finger me or have me suck you off or anything?”
“I actually just enjoy talking to you.”
“Naked?”
“Well, that makes it more interesting.”
“Can I?”
“Can you what?” he asked and then understood. “Oh, give it the ole college try?”
Lo nodded.
“See for yourself.”
Lo wasted no time. She got between his legs with her face and finally gave free reign to her pent-up desire. She licked, lapped, sucked, slurped, teased, touched, kissed, caressed, pressed, pulled, stroked, sloughed, and finally ceased, all to no avail. Not that it wasn’t fun for her, but it did not bring about her hoped for result.
Spent, she lay back and stroked herself, but, without instilling a similar arousal in her host, she quickly became bored of it.
“You’re a remarkable woman,” said Collin.
His words fell on deaf ears. Lo couldn’t help but feel let down by her mere humanity. She had hoped to perform a miracle. To raise Lazarus, to bring forth a baguette from a lump of dough, to at least fulfill some longed for fantasy.
In the end the two of them just sat together on the bed and they traded fabulous story for more outrageous tale.
It was said by the renowned sex researcher, Alfred Kinsey, that “A nymphomaniac is someone who has more sex than you do.” It would seem that modern psychology has caught up with Kinsey’s insight. The dictionary of psychological disorders, the American Psychiatric Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual (DSM), removed nymphomania from its list in 1980. But does that mean Nymphomania no longer exists?
In popular culture “sex addiction” has been used as a catch-all for a number of “disorders” that have been named and described: hypersexuality, compulsive sexual behavior, erotomania, hyperfilia, etc. But the DSM puts almost all of these under one listing: Sexual Disorder Not Otherwise Specified. This heading is as ambiguous, amorphous, and as slippery as the subject itself.
However, let’s keep in in mind that no matter how something is categorized or listed, it’s not a “disorder” unless it is distressing to the person exhibiting it or has detrimental effects in one’s life. If the result of the behavior is a net negative, then it could be labeled a disorder. That net negative could be manifested psychologically, as in feelings of guilt and remorse, or could result in actual physical harm to oneself. Other net negatives could include weakening of relationships, loss of a job, or other harms external to oneself.
Fan, getting off to Lo at work
In modern European and American culture, nymphomania has as checkered a past as the women diagnosed with it. Even though there is a male correlate to it – satyriasis – the two labels have been employed in radically different ways. Historically, the ascription of “nymphomaniac” has been applied to women who, had their gender been ascribed to men and the behaviors described as those of men, rarely would they be described as afflicted with satyriasis. In other words, historically, women exhibiting the same healthy and robust sexuality of men would be diagnosed with a disorder while their male counterparts gained the praise and admiration of others as Don Juans.
But, in the last decade or so, with the rise of internet porn, the term “sex addict” has been increasingly utilized in less stereotypical and gender specific, patriarchal ways. Famous actors such as Rob Lowe, David Duchovny, and Charlie Sheen all have come out as being sex addicts, making it easier for others to do so.
Despite the DSM debunking the myth of nymphomania and our modern society’s willingness to embrace a more gender-neutral term applicable to men and women, the term “nymphomania” and its connotations continues to live on in the culture’s consciousness and the collective unconscious.
Fan, getting off to Lo
Nymphomania is a concept that has a history to it almost as old as civilization itself. In Jewish lore there was Lilith, the contemporary or predecessor of Eve, who refused to be subservient to Adam and, supposedly, insisted on taking the “top” position during sex. Her name is derived from the Hebrew for “night” and she is associated with other female night demons who seduce men. As such, she is a succubus. This tale probably has its origin in explaining men’s nocturnal emissions.
Throughout history, assertive women and sexually promiscuous women have been associated with the demonic. Accusing a woman of being a witch was one way of marginalizing or eradicating powerful and lustful women. In more recent times, diagnosing them as hysterical was another. Perhaps if we rewrote history as “hystery” (from the Greek, hyster, meaning “womb”) we would have different stories to tell. But, from the ancient Mesopotamian Epic of Gilgamesh, in which the goddess of love, Ishtar, unsuccessfully tries to seduce the hero, and the temple prostitute, Shamhat, successfully seduces and thereby defiles the natural man of the wild, Enkidu, to Helen of Troy, whose face and unfaithful figure launched a thousand ships, to the Sirens and Calypso, all the way through to Gatsby’s fair Daisy Fay Buchanan, wanton women have been revered and rebuked by the West’s confused attitude toward female sexuality.
In the West, only Virgins, like Mary, and doting, devoted wives, like Penelope and Henry James’ Isabel Archer, get univocal approval.
(The East, by contrast, is not as uncomfortable with strong, sexual, and wise women. From Cali to Guan Yin, not only are they revered and worshiped, but even the gender ambiguity of Vishnu is given prominence.)
Even in the contemporary medium of myth-telling – movies – the nymphomaniac is never depicted as anything but pathological and her fate is always a morality tale told from the point of view of the negative exemplar. Lolita, the touchstone of our modern-day horny heroine, has been made into a movie twice: once in 1962 by Kubrick and once in 1997 by Adrian Lyne. Based upon the classic book by Nabokov, the films and the book stand in a league of their own. The ultimate fate of Nabokov’s Lolita (spoiler alert) is morally ambiguous. Clearly a letdown to the pedophile protagonist, Humbert Humbert, when he finds his life-long love at the end of the book, we are never given any insight into mature Lolita’s feelings of fulfillment in family or lack thereof. However, it is, perhaps, too hasty to say that there have only been two Lolita films made. One of the most popular tropes in porn is Lolita. In this way the myth of the nymph lives on and on.
Lola Down, 21st Century Lolita
Other films, such as Lars von Trier’s Nymphomaniac and Craig Brewer’s Black Snake Moan, put nymphomania front and center. However, in both, the female protagonist is depicted as pitifully damaged and pathologically in need of redemption. In the latter film, that redemption takes the form of Christina Ricci, dressed only in her panties and a cutoff t-shirt, being chained to a cast iron heating radiator by a strong black man (Samuel L. Jackson). As psychologically dubious as this “treatment” might be, it could be said that the film gets to some deep, underlying archetypical images and fantasies buried in the American collective unconscious by playing on race, gender, and slave tropes.
The former film, Nymphomania, as drab and sexually non-stimulating as it is, does get to some diagnostic characteristics. As Robert Weiss, founder of the Sexual Recovery Institute, has discussed in his “Thoughts on Nymphomaniac: Volume I,” in the Huffington Post, March 20, 2014:
Nymphomaniac: Volume I is “sex addiction accurate.”
Joe’s sexual exploits start out (rather early in life) as innocent and fun-seeking, but before long she’s using them less for enjoyment and more for escape. This is typical. Simply put, addicts of all types engage in their addictions not to feel better, but to feel less.
• Joe views men as objects — a means to sexual gratification — rather than seeing them as equals and potential partners in emotional intimacy. When her lies actually ruin one man’s life, she feels nothing for either him or his wife and kids. Nor does she change her behavior.
• Joe spends nearly all of her free time pursuing sex. She has no other interests or hobbies.
• Joe’s sexual activity escalates in both amount and intensity. She has more and more partners as her addiction progresses, and she engages in ever-more risky behaviors.
• Joe’s response to any sort of emotional crisis is sex. When her father is terminally ill in the hospital, she has sex with an attendant. Later, she experiences sexual arousal at his deathbed.
• Joe seeks a sense of control and power through sex. For instance, she ‘allows’ or ‘forbids’ certain activities. At one point she speaks to Seligman about ‘privileges’ granted to one of her regular sex partners. Using sex to feel ‘in control’ is common with sex addicts, especially with female sex addicts.
• Joe appears to have not bonded appropriately with her ‘cold hearted bitch’ of a mother, relying on her father for kindness and nurture. Her childhood flashbacks show that she learned ways to ‘please’ her father, and that doing so was incredibly important. Even though their relationship does not appear to have been sexual or otherwise abusive, it is clear that she learned early on that the way to get love from men is to please them. This type of dysfunctional childhood bonding is common in sex addicts of both genders.
• By the end of the film, Joe’s entire life (not just her sex life) has become ‘monotonous and pointless.’ She compares her daily movements to those of a caged animal. Everything she does is rote and repetitious, and nothing has any meaning — especially not the sex. At one point she says to a partner, during sex, ‘I can’t feel anything,’ and it is clear that she is talking about both physical numbness and emotional numbness.
Though Weiss points out in the article that female sex addicts are often ascribed “highly shaming labels” such as nympho, slut, tramp, and whore, “that society routinely attaches to women who have a lot of sex, regardless of whether they do so because they enjoy it” or not, he does not in any way discuss the possibility of a positive nymphomaniacal experience in which those labels are coopted into accolades.
The linguist Geoff Nunberg has pointed out that many one-time derogatory and profane words have been coopted and reappropriated by the subjugated, marginalized, and oppressed populations against whom the slurs were originally leveled. As he says about the term “slut,” “after a Toronto police constable told a crime prevention meeting that women should avoid dressing like sluts if they don’t want to be victimized,” “slut walks” served as a way “to protest the whole culture of slut-shaming.” He points out that, “it is hard to imagine ‘slut’ being reclaimed the way ‘queer’ was, as a respectable label for academic programs and cultural centers.” (“Slut: The Other Four Letter S-Word,” on Fresh Air, WHYY, NPR, March 13, 2012)
This sort of reevaluation of values is exactly what Lo is literally embodying, pushing psychology today to free itself from the prejudices of patriarchy. She wears the labels “slut,” “tramp,” “whore,” and yes, “nymphomaniac” proudly (and she often wears little else). Between us, we use the words “nymphomania” and “slut” as honorifics rather than stigmatizing terms. Every slur can be reclaimed and used subversively by the oppressed.
There is some evidence that lustful, liberated women are making inroads into the tyranny of normativity. Thinkers such as Rollo May have proposed a theory of the daimonic, hearkening back to the origin of “demonic” as coming from the Greek “daimon.” For the Greeks, daimon meant something more akin to a personal deity; a guiding angel, you might say, rather than a guardian angel.
May uses the term “daimonic” to denote a drive that is not univocal in nature and, in one word, is akin to Freud’s dual Eros/Thanatos drives. As May says of the daimonic, it “has the power to take over the whole person. Sex and eros, anger and rage, and the craving for power are examples. The daimonic can be either creative or destructive and is normally both.” (May, Rollo, Love and the Daimonic, p. 123) It is worth mentioning here that, before May and Freud, there was a theory of human psychology in Judaism that posited two chambers in the heart: the yetzer tov and the yetzer ra. The former, “the impulse for good,” and the latter, “the impulse for evil,” worked in tandem and the rabbis believed that neither was “evil” (unlike the proverbial Christian good angel and devil on one’s shoulders), but that the yetzer ra was a force that propelled humans to creativity and sexual union, but it needed to be bent toward the yetzer tov in order to avoid its destructive tendency and be sublimated into socially acceptable expressions and activities that benefited society. One can easily see the parallels between that and Freud’s Eros/Thanatos theory. Perhaps “parallel,” is too benign. Maybe Freud was more plagiarizing from his own tradition. In line with this theory of complementarity, May has said, “The daimonic (unlike the demonic, which is merely destructive), is as much concerned with creativity as with negative reactions.” (Diamond, Stephen A., Anger, Madness, and the Daimonic: The Psychological Genesis of Anger, Madness, and the Daimonic, from the Forward by Rollo May, p. xxi)
In the nymphomaniac, the daimonic drive has been described as a propensity toward indiscriminate, compulsive, and often risky sexual behavior. To the extent that this is dangerous, harmful, and results in negative net results, it is “pathological.”
But that’s not the whole story.
As was mentioned above, the daimonic is also the engine driving creativity and the nymphomaniac can use her prurient powers for good, positive, “healthy” outcomes. As Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, the pioneer psychologist in the study of “flow” or “optimal experience,” has said, “One manifestation of energy is sexuality. Creative people are paradoxical in this respect also. They seem to have quite a strong dose of eros, or generalized libidinal energy, which some express directly into sexuality.” (Csikszentmihalyi, Mihaly, “The Creative Personality,” Psychology Today, 1996, p. 38) I believe that the reverse of this is true as well: One manifestation of sexuality is creative energy. Perhaps that is because, as Csikszentmihalyi also says, “a certain spartan celibacy is also a part of [the creative person’s] makeup; continence tends to accompany superior achievement. Without eros, it would be difficult to take life on with vigor; without restraint, the energy could easily dissipate.” (Ibid.) Of course, the nymphomaniac is characterized by her lack of “continence,” but that does not mean that her prodigal participation in pleasure isn’t also a creative, artistic, and perhaps even a performative act. Seeing sex and art as two separate realms is the fundamental error in this analysis. Sex can be every bit a creative endeavor, full of “flow” and genius as a Picasso or Pollock painting. The only difference being that the “results” are fleeting, ephemeral, perhaps even “dissipated.”
In my particular case, I would say that writing about Lola Down, my own personal high priestess of porn and beloved nymphomaniac, is also a result of the daimonic and the writing often flows of its own accord in peak moments, like autographia. According to Csikszentmihalyi, flow is the experience of intense concentration during creative endeavors. For me, that describes the act of writing. For Lo, that describes the act of fucking. For me, the restraint and “continence” is crucial to produce just the right amount of effulgent energy. But for Lo, her creative power may be more akin to “the woman who identifies with the archetypal role of Muse or femme inspiratrice, providing sexual love to artists.” (Diamond, Stephen A., “What Motivates Sexual Promiscuity?” Psychology Today, 2011)
This is not to say that Lo doesn’t have her own creative endeavors, her own talents, interests, and areas of outstanding achievement. Far from it! But she does love being celebrated as muse, not only by me, but by all the artists who have been inspired to draw or paint her, as well as those who have written lovely verse and prose to her and about her. In addition, she frequently hears from women and men and couples who credit her as an inspiration in the bedroom. Frequently these accolades are accompanied by “tribute” photos of the men, women, and couples cumming to her inspiring images.
As much as all this worship is proudly welcomed by Lo, it is also of concern how many people – mostly men, but some women – write in to lament that, for them, the nymphomaniac is akin to some sort of mythical figure, a unicorn, a phoenix, or the Holy Grail. These awestruck admirers cannot believe that one actually exists, in the flesh, as it were. They had heard rumor of such creatures, but had never met one or received confirmation of their reality. Lo, like the Holy Grail, is for them a receptacle into which they can pour forth all of their hopes and dreams (and bodily exuberances) and also a cup that runneth over, spilling forth for all who thirst for her baptismal water.
Is this perceived paucity of nymphos due to the stigma attached to the term, repression of sexuality, or a failure to recognize and reclaim the term in a positive light? I don’t have the answer to these questions, but one thing was clear early on in my relationship with Lo – I was unable to find anyone writing about their nymphomaniacal girlfriend and the great challenges such relationships entail. So I began writing about it in a public forum in order to inform others and also to find out if others could inform me. It’s been a fun and enlightening journey and I thank all of you for your words of wisdom, encouragement, and envy. But most of all, I thank Lo for opening me up to all new vistas of life’s possibilities.
You
know, dear reader, not everything between Lola and me is hotwife, cuckold,
chronic masturbation, fetish, bukkake, squirting, spanking, MILF lust,
sadomasochistic, bestiality, giant dildo, public fucking, anal massage,
strap-on, nymphet, perfect vulva, high heels porn, cockfest, ejaculation,
climaxing crazy sex, lesbian sex machine, leaking pussy, ass fingering,
self-pleasuring, jilling-off, Ben Wa Balls, thongs, giant cock, swollen vulva,
candid cleavage, strippers, erotic boudoir, summer skirts, ass pounding, public
pussy, sapphic lovers, sexy volleyball, legs spread, open crotch, love juice, naked
beach volleyball, kneeling rosary beads, orgasm face, MILF parties, babysitter
sex, men jerking off, nude art classes, wet panties, vibrators, leashes, short
shorts, foot fetish, erotic indulgence, nympho in heat, gangbang, clit
stroking, protruding nipples, exhibitionist teachers, negligee nympho, fisting,
cunnilingus, wild poetry and naked reading, sucking cocks, bare mons pubis,
tantric solo sessions, and horse cocks.
(OK, I may have developed that list from the search terms people have
used to find the blog.)
Sometimes,
my voyeuristic companion, Lola and I just simply engage in wordless, intimate
erotic lovemaking. Is that so hard to
believe?
Take
for instance the other night. It was a
Tuesday or a Wednesday. There was
nothing particularly special about it.
We may have watched a movie or a couple of short comedies. We grew tired of lying on the couch
decompressing from our busy workday and went to bed. The usual: brushing teeth, remove clothes,
hop under covers.
I
was tired. She was tired. I thought nothing would happen, but then she
reached over and grabbed my package under the sheets and fondled until she
achieved the desired result. She spread
her legs, slapped her pussy twice, and said, “I’m open for business.”
I
climbed on top of her and slowly slid the seat of my desire inside. She squeezed her breasts with her hands and
said, “Suck my nipples, Daddy.”
I
complied.
She
moved her right hand down to her crotch and began stroking her clit in slow, vertical
movements. I could feel the tip of her
index finger on the base of my shaft. I
could feel the knuckle in her finger up against my pelvis. I could feel her wrist bent just under my
bellybutton each time I thrust.
She
slowly moved from her clit into her chamber.
Her finger was noodling up the length of my rod, trying to make its way
to her G-spot. I felt her getting
deeper, crowding me for space. Then she
inserted her middle finger as well. The
two fingers worked in tandem. I could
feel the knuckles on the top of my cock and the fingertips at the tip of my
cock. She had reached the spot. She masturbated as I fucked.
“There,”
she said, as if to me, but really as if to say, “Yes, my fingers, there is the
goal of your journey.”
She
came, a quiet, deep moaning orgasm. Her
pussy clenched then loosened. She
inserted the rest of her fingers of her right hand to make up for the slack. Then she grabbed the other side of her pussy
with her left hand and I could feel all eight fingertips like some sort of sea
anemone wiggling and wriggling inside her, flowing with the waves. She pulled the side walls of her cunt apart
with her hands so wide that I no longer felt anything.
“Daddy,
do you think that if I spread myself like this as a gang of men surrounded me,
that each one of them could go in me, cum, and then let the next one in?”
It
was a bizarre question. It didn’t quite
make sense, but since when does sex make sense?
The imagery was vivid enough for me to do just that – cum inside her
gaping hole.
“I
love you, Daddy,” she said.
“And
I’m balls-deep in love with you.”
OK,
so I lied. I don’t know if we ever
actually do have wordless, intimate erotic lovemaking. But, so what?
I like it and so does she.
“Fuck! I hope that never happens again!” she blurted
out as she entered the house.
I
had been quietly sitting on the couch, perched in my usual spot, writing, when
she burst in with a flare for the dramatic.
“What
happened?” I inquired, merely raising an eyebrow.
“Get
in the bedroom and I’ll tell you.”
That
can only mean one thing.
I
saved my work, closed my laptop, and followed her to the bedroom. By the time I got there she was already
naked, her legs spread wide, her right hand slapping her pussy with a small
splash.
“What
are you waiting for?” she asked impatiently.
“I
came as fast as I could,” I said as I began removing my clothes.
“Well,
don’t cum as fast as you can now if you want to hear what I have to tell you.”
I
slid into her already lubricated puss and she let out a gasp of relief.
“Am
I wet, Daddy?” she asked.
“A
juice box,” I said. “What is going on?”
She
didn’t speak immediately. She was
enjoying the ride. Her hands had moved
to her sides and she was pulling her ass cheeks, spreading herself as wide as
she could go.
“Can
you feel me?” she asked.
“Almost
not at all. Like fucking a bathtub full
of warm water.”
That
was enough to bring her to a mild squirting orgasm as her puss gently gurgled,
soaking me, the bed, and her ass.
“Harder,
Daddy. Faster.”
“If
you tell me what’s going on, I’ll fuck you like a jackhammer.”
I
sped up my rhythm and increased my force.
“That’s
it,” she said, her eyes shut. “I’m so
wet. So fucking wet.”
“I
can tell,” I said, “but not for me I bet.”
“I
was at the gym,” she began, as the scene played out before her shut eyes, “in
my grey yoga pants.” She paused.
“Yes,”
I said, bringing her back to the here-and-now.
“And
I was on the adductor machine, working on my inner thighs when I noticed the
guy in front of me. He was doing pull
ups directly in my line of sight.
Unconsciously I was watching his body go up and down while I was working
my legs. Then I noticed that I was
watching him – his bulging biceps, the ripples of his shoulders, his broad
chest. His shirt was short, so I could
see his abs, and then I looked a little lower and saw just how huge his cock
was. Every time he went up and down, I
was spreading and then clenching my legs together. I became self-conscious of what I was doing
and looked up to see if he noticed me.
Our eyes met for a moment and then. . .”
She
climaxed again; this time much harder than before.
When
she regained her composure, I asked, “And then what happened.”
“Daddy,
it’s too embarrassing!”
“What?”
“As
I was spreading my legs, completely involuntarily and without warning I. . .”
she trailed off.
“You
what?”
“I
came. I squirted. I felt myself drenching my yoga pants until
they were dripping. And he saw it
all! I immediately closed my legs
together and pretended to take a sip from my water bottle and somehow made it
look like I had spilled it on my lap. I
ran out of there as fast as I could! Oh
my God! I can never go back there
again!!!”
As
she told me this, I had slowed and almost stopped thrusting, I was so engrossed
in her story. But then she rebuked
me. “Don’t stop. Come on.
Fuck me. Use me. Fill me up.”
“Lo,”
I said apologetically, “I can’t even feel you, you’re so wet.”
“Forget
it!” she commanded, angry at me.
She
pulled away so I slid out of her. She reached
under the bed, grabbed her horse-cock dildo and said, “You can watch, if you
want, but I need something that’s going to really fill me up.”
She
stuck it to the headboard of the bed and backed into it as I was on my knees in
front of her, stroking my cock.
“Are
you thinking of him?” I asked as she thrusted back into the cock vigorously
with her eyes closed.
“Yes,”
she said honestly.
“You
think he’d fill you like that?”
“Yes,”
she said.
I
could see that I may have been distracting her from whatever fantasy was
playing out in her mind, so I continued with my masturbatory movements in silence
as I watched her tits hang down and rock back and forth, thinking about what
that guy must have thought of her in the gym.
Suddenly I came, shooting my pent-up love all over her face. It was a surprise to her because her eyes
were still shut. When she realized what
I had done, it sent her into a violent hysterical paroxysm, the likes of which
I had not seen in a very long time.
Her
arms spread forward and her body bowed down making a “Downward Dog” movement as
her cunt clenched the long, thick cock behind her.
When
she regained consciousness, she said, “Maybe I’m just not made for city
life. Maybe I’m meant to keep in shape
by working on the farm.”
We
were out on a double date with Mark and Stephanie. Despite, or perhaps because of, Lo’s slutty
ways, especially around Mark, they invited us out again after the beach
experience. They had hired a sitter for
their kids and this time it was just the four of us at a local restaurant. Because it was so crowded that Friday night,
we took the first table we could get – a high-top in the bar area.
Lo
was wearing her sexy little black skirt and heels with a neon blue blouse that
had one too many buttons undone, revealing her cleavage and part of her lace
bra. She was sitting kitty-corner to
Mark, and when she laughed, she would put her hand on his forearm, his knee, or
touch his bicep. She did this in a
friendly, yet flirtatious way.
After
the day at the beach with them, there was no way they would be surprised by
this. I was wondering to myself if they
were actually interested in propositioning Lo, or both me and Lo, but were too
inhibited to come out and say it.
If
Lo was trying to get me jealous with her fawning over Mark, she was doing a
good job of it. Usually I’m not the
jealous type – especially not with a hotwife like Lo. But Mark was too perfect. He was smart – a teacher in fact – and
handsome, he worked out at the gym and was in tip-top shape, he had a perfect
smile, and he was about four inches taller than I. As if that wasn’t enough, Lo was perpetually
reminding me of how large his cock is, as she ascertained through his pants and
his bathing suit. If he had any flaws
that made his wife not want all that every night, I was unaware of them. To make matters worse, Lo kept on inquiring
of him about his personal habits. “How
do you stay so fit? How do you keep in
such great shape?” she asked, as she rubbed her hand down from his broad shoulder
to his elbow.
He,
for his part, was lapping it up. He went
on and on about his workout routine as Lo licked her lips just imagining
it.
What
Stephanie felt or thought during this, I don’t know, but in order to avoid any
bad feelings, I inquired of Stephanie how her work was going and how the kids
were doing. It was boring polite dinner
talk. I really wanted to blurt out and
ask her, “What do you think of my little slut making moves on your hunky
husband?”
However,
all this flirtatious frivolity came to a screeching halt when Julie approached
our table. Julie is a woman who moved to
our neighborhood recently and has earned the ire of Lo. She is just about Lo’s age with a teenage
son, which means that she must have been pregnant when she was about 16. She’s single and she gives Lo a run for her
money. She’s tall and has an All-American
look about her that says she’s nothing but innocent sweets and smells of apple
pie. She uses this to her advantage in
order to charm every guy she meets. She
hasn’t spoken more than the casual hello to Lo (or any other woman in the
neighborhood), but will go out of her way to chat up any of the men on our
block.
Julie
happened into the restaurant alone, but I doubt she planned to leave it that
way. Seeing us – or rather, seeing me –
she approached and gave me a warm hug hello with a kiss on the cheek. To the other three, she merely waived and
flashed her sparkling whites at them. I
felt Lo kick me hard in the shin under the table. I was glad of it. After all the torment she had given me thus
far that evening, it was my chance to return the favor.
Though
Julie was only going to say hi, I asked what brought her to that restaurant
that night. She said that her son was at
a sleepover and that she just felt like getting out. Much to Lo’s silent consternation, I insisted
that Julie join us and get to know Mark and Stephanie. At first Julie declined the invite, but I
insisted.
“I
couldn’t possibly. There’s not enough
room at this table,” she said.
“Nonsense. I’ll make room for you right here,” I said,
sliding my stool over and grabbing another one for Julie so that she was very
cozy between me and Mark.
Lo’s
eyes were shooting ICBM warheads at me.
Ha!
Despite
Lo’s displeasure, the addition of Julie really helped the evening’s
conversation. The awkward pairing of Lo
and Mark trading googly eyes at each other while Stephanie and I tried to
pretend like nothing was happening was disrupted by Julie’s asymmetrical
addition. Now Lo was forced to pay
attention to me at the expense of her romantic overtures to Mark. I enjoyed that very much.
The
night came to an early end for us because Lo insisted she had to get home “at a
decent hour” in order to prepare for some fictitious event. When I began to express perplexity at this
excuse, I received another swift kick to my other shin. I wasn’t sure how I’d walk home on those two
injured legs of mine.
As
soon as we were out of the restaurant, Lo stormed off at a brisk pace ahead of
me.
“What?”
I asked insincerely innocent.
Silence.
“Lo,
come on. Slow down and talk to me. What’s the matter?”
“You
know very well what’s the matter,” she said from ten feet in front of me.
“No
I don’t. What’s the matter? Come on?
Please slow down.”
She
waited for me.
“Oh, Julie, there’s plenty of room for
you. You can come here and sit on my lap,”
she said in a mocking manner.
“I
did not say that.”
“Whatever.”
“Does
it upset you?”
We
had just arrived at our apartment. We
got inside. She went right to the
bedroom and got naked.
“Mmmmm,
you look good,” I said.
“This,”
she said, sliding her hands over her sexy body, “is not for you.”
“I
suppose it’s for Mark,” I responded.
“It’s
for anyone except you,” she said curtly.
I
got naked and into bed and she slid under the covers next to me and shut out
the nightstand light.
From
the darkness I heard, “Daddy, do you like her?”
“Who?”
“You
know who.”
“Julie?”
“Yeah,
Julie, that slut.”
“Careful
Lo, ‘slut’ is a compliment in your book.”
“Only
for me. And you’re only for me. You hear me?”
“Yes,
Lo, I hear you.”
She
reached down and grabbed my cock and began rubbing it. “This is mine. You got that?”
“Yes
Lo.”
I
was getting hard. She dove under the
covers and began sucking my cock. When
she reemerged, she asked, “Do you want me?”
“Yes,”
I said.
“Well
get behind me and fuck me.”
I
did as she commanded. She was wet and
willing. She came within seconds of
penetration.
“Why
do you want me?” she asked when she caught her breath.
“Because
Lo, I’m like a dog. If you reach down
between my hind quarters and fondle me and suck me till I’m hard, I’m going to
want you.”
That
had her cumming again.
“Either
I get to have you,” I said, “or I’m going to be left painfully hard-up and full
of liquid desire for you.”
She
loves the thought of me (or men) suffering physical anguish in the groin for
her sweet release. This made her climax a
third time.
“Cum
in me. Use me. That’s what I’m here for. You don’t need anyone else. Just me and my cunt. Fuck me, you horny dog.”
I
did as she commanded, filling her full of my froth.
She
fell forward and I cuddled her.
“Daddy,
do you love me?”
“So
much,” I said.
“Then
why do you make me so jealous?”
“Honestly
Lo, it’s just to reassure me that I’m still your favorite. I don’t mind sharing you, but I do really
fear losing first place to someone else.”
“Daddy,
you’re silly. You know that more than
half the reason I flirt with other guys is because I want you to fuck me
fiercely. I want you to fight for me and
subdue me with your cock. Make me know
that you’re my Daddy.”
Hearing
her talk like that got me hard all over again and so I mounted her again and
asked her what she was.
“I’m
your bitch. I’m your horny, slutty,
dirty bitch.”
“You are beautiful.
Your eyes are beautiful. Your
mouth is beautiful. Your breasts are
beautiful. Your cunt is beautiful.”
I was reading a message Lo received on her phone from
an admirer of the blog.
“A regular Shakespeare, that one,” I said.
“I think it’s sweet,” she responded, as her left hand
began to fondle her pussy lips under the covers.
“Sweet?! He
left out your hair, your nose, your neck, your shoulders, your tum, your ass,
your legs, your feet, and your toes!”
“I’m sure he was going to get there,” she said
matter-of-factly.
“Can I get there?” I asked, sounding a bit desperate
for affection, or her attention.
“Get where?” she asked, playing with me.
“Anywhere.
Between your legs, ideally.”
“Let’s see where this goes,” she said about her
internet friend, unfortunately, and not about my bid for her caress.
“I know where this
goes,” I said, putting her hand on my hard rod.
I was hard because her internet friend had sent a slew of photos of
himself jacking off to her pics and cumming all over them. She looked good in the sexy photos.
“Daddy,” she said, protesting, “I’m busy trying to
please my loyal fans.”
“I don’t mind, as long as you do it while spreading
your legs.”
“I’m spreading the love.”
“Can you spread the love wide enough for me to get in
on it?”
“Your pussy looks pretty and gorgeous,” wrote another
fan.
“It is pretty, gorgeous, wet and waiting to be
filled,” she wrote back.
“Me, me!” I said, “Pick me.”
“Calm down, Daddio,” she said, full of vanity fed by
her fans’ flattery.
“Tell me more about you,” wrote another internet
correspondent.
“Read the books,” typed Lo, “There’s
too much to tell and too many people to tell it to.”
“You’re hard, girl,” responded the inquirer.
“Funny, everyone tells me I’m easy,” quipped Lo, “and
that makes them hard.”
“I love your stories,” wrote one female fan.
“H.H. writes. I
inspire,” wrote Lo to her.
“Do you inspire with your body?”
“And my wit.”
“I’m inspired right now!” I said to Lo as I grabbed my
cock firmly. “They all are cumming to
you. Can I cum to you?”
“Cum to, on, in, with, over, under, around, beside – I
provide the pussy. You pick the
preposition,” she said, dismissively.
I got up on my knees and stood over her, jacking my
cock.
“Just don’t cum on my phone,” she said as she
continued to scroll through her contacts.
She continued to fondle herself beneath me for a while
before she said, “Daddio, lie down next to me.
I’ll help you.”
I lay down and she grabbed me by my shaft. “I’m your righthand man,” I said as she jacked
me off with her right and scrolled with her left.
“My wife is nothing like you,” wrote one desperate,
sad husband.
“You two should
read our blog together. It would open up
her mind. . . and pussy.”
“I could never
suggest it,” he wrote, “she’d freak!”
“But you like it?”
asked Lo.
“God yes,” he
sighed through the medium of type.
“Tell me what a young, sexy, slutty person such as
myself does for you.”
“I’d love to eat your yummy, sloppy, used, cum-filled
holes,” he wrote.
“Another bard!” I opined sarcastically.
“Shut up and cum,” commanded Lo as she tugged more
aggressively.
“Are you in a rush?” I asked.
“Both hands are full,” she said, “leaving nothing for
my snatch.”
“I’ll happily fill that gap.”
“You stay right where you are,” she ordered.
“Has she ever caught you jacking off?” wrote Lo to her
married man.
“No. It would
be a big deal if she did. It would be an
even bigger deal if she caught me jacking off to you and not to porn.”
“I am porn,” protested Lo.
“I mean, it’s one thing to get off to anonymous,
vacuous, impersonal, professionally produced porn and it’s quite another thing
to get off to you.”
“That’s more like it,” responded Lo.
“That’s it, I’m getting up and out of bed,” I said.
“But nooooo.”
“Yes. You’re
just treating my cock like it a joystick to your favorite video game.”
“A game I always win.”
She continued stroking.
“Are you into length or girth?” asked her internet
interloper.
“I’m into cock.
And cock gets into me.”
“Once again, I must protest!” I said. “You’ve got a very capable, compatible, and
coveted cock right here, but you’re not letting it into you!”
“What, ole man, my right hand isn’t enough for you?”
“Not when you’re teasing those guys about how fast and
loose you like to play.”
A new fan chimed in, “I
have to stop sinning. I’m religious,
that’s why I can’t go on doing this.”
“Sex is
spiritual. And I’m a sex goddess. Worship at my alter,” replied Lo.
“Now you’re
offering theology lessons?” I chided.
“No. Just encouraging them to be good
semenarians.”
“That was
terrible. Low hanging fruit,” I replied.
She cupped
my testicles and said, “Very low hanging.”
“Oh, does your wit never cease?!”
Now
she squeezed my balls to show me that I had better be careful about mocking
her.
Another
woman asked Lo if she liked taboo tales.
To which Lo responded, “How
taboo are we talking here?”
The woman said she was into watersports and bestiality.
Lo wrote back, “Let’s knot.”
“Don’t you mean. . . oooooh, I get it,” I said.
“Woof!” she said to me.
The woman, whose name was Mila Beijne., went on to tell a little story.
I was a model a
few years back and after doing a shoot I was talking a bit with the
photographer, the lighting guy and his assistant. They invited me to their home. I trusted them and liked them. We were all horny and I was willing, I admit. At the photographer’s home we had some drinks
and then they slowly undressed me. They
got naked too. They were all good looking men and one was really hung. They
kissed me everywhere and started fucking me in my mouth, pussy, and ass. I was very horny. After quite a long time,
they changed positions, each taking a different hole. Then they rotated again and fucked me a long
time again till I was exhausted. They
filled me up in every place they could. But
the fun was not over yet. One put me on
the floor and the other started urinating over me. Then the other two joined in.
It was a lot and all over my body and in
my long hair. There was no shower, so it
was a special experience driving home.
It was my first time doing that and I liked how the act showed their dominance
over me.
I could see Lo getting increasingly more excited as she read the short little story from Mila. She quickly wrote back, “Yeah, HH does that to me. I love it. Being below him, feeling his warm stream flow over my back and butt.”
“We haven’t done that in a while,” I
reminded her.
She ignored me because another fan
had written to her. This guy was
old. I mean, like twenty years older
than I and I’m in my 50’s! His name was
Bob and he wrote:
Hi Lola, and thank you!
You are an inspiration to me. I
hope you can give me some advice.
I’m in my 70’s and I’ve been in a relationship for over 25 years. No passion or sex for the last 20 years. I’m at a loss as it has become impossible to
talk about it with her. I’ve made the
mistake of combining our lives and living situations this whole time. It has become all about her for the last
several years. I feel I’m too old to
begin another relationship with a woman, yet I still admire all women and all
that I see on your blog. I’ve even
become curious about men as I feel that may be the only way to explore my
unresolved sexual fantasies. Yet I’m
still conflicted as I long for an intimate relationship that I’ve missed in my
life.
Do you have any suggestions??
Lola wrote back, “To tell you the truth, Bob, I’m just good wanking material, but I’m not a sex coach or a sex therapist. You might want to check out one of these trained professionals to get some expert advice on having more sex with spirit.” She provided a link. Then she added, “But if you’re looking for a real hotwife, cum to me.”
“What?!” I said to her, shocked that
she’d even offer that to him.
She ignored me and
typed, “I have a very soft spot for old married men whose wives no longer have
sex with them. Would you like to see
it?”
Of course he said
yes. Lo sent him a naughty pic of the
place between her legs that she was denying to me.
“Lo, that’s just
cruel!” I said.
“What? Soon you’re going to be that old and you’d
want the same from me. Wouldn’t you?”
“What’s cruel is
that I’m that old man who is being denied right now!”
“If what I’m
giving you isn’t good enough, then take matters into your own hands,” she
said.
As
she said it, another married man was singing her praises in a message that
read, “I’ve come to worship your holy holes.”
“See,”
she said, “I’ve got fans who know how to woo me.”
“Woo
you? They worship you!”
“What’s
the difference?”
After
some flirtatious back-and-forth, Lo asked to see a pic of the man’s wife.
He
asked why she wanted to see that and Lo responded, “I like to see who I’m
beating out when guys are beating off to me.”
The
guy sent a photo. His wife was
beautiful. But apparently she lacked the
‘personality’ of Lo. He wanted to know
more about Lo and he asked her questions.
“I’m
like an open book, there for anyone to read,” she responded, “You just have to
know where to find me. Are you familiar
with the Dewey Decimal system?”
“Like, in the library?”
“Yeah.”
“So, I can find you in my local
library?”
“If only,” wrote Lo, “I’m indexed
under XXX.”
“As in 30?” he wrote with a winkface
emoji. “Still pretty young.”
“Pretty, young, and slutty. I’ll tell you what, you can virtually finger
my folios at: mysexlifewithlola.com,” she said, “and you can also buy the books
there. I suggest you get a few copies of
each and donate the extras to your local library so everyone can spread my
centerfold for free.”
As Lo was typing, she guided my cock
to her mouth and wrapped her lips around the tip. She looked up at me as her hand continued to glide
back and forth from the base to her mouth.
I began to cum and she hungrily held me in place so as not to spill a
drop. I was so worked up that I couldn’t
control my convulsions. I began
breathing deep, heavy breaths. Lo looked
up at me and said, “What?! Are you having
a stroke?”
When I finally managed to catch my breath, I looked
down at her and said, “Yeah, I’m having a stroke. A really good stroke.”
Lo
wrote a final line to her fans: “Good night all you kinky sexy rogues. Dream of me in your debauched nocturnal
thoughts.”
She put her phone down, grabbed her Hitachi, lay back,
shut her eyes, and began vibrating until she was the one violently convulsing,
squirting, and gasping for air.
When she was done and had removed the Magic Wand from
between her legs, she grabbed my hand and placed it on her bare pussy for me to
feel how wet she was. She’s proud that
she can turn on the tap almost at will.
“Pull my pussy lips, Daddy,” she said. I stretched them. “Harder.”
I pulled more. “Harder Daddy,”
she complained.
“Lo, if I pull them any further they’ll be down to
your knees.”
“Try it,” she said.
She likes the pain or pleasure.
As I pulled I asked her, “What were you thinking about when you came?”
“I think about you.”
This line from her was as false as Marlow telling Kurtz’s
betrothed that Kurtz’s last words were her name.
“OK, that’s enough of that,” I said, calling
bullshit. “What did you really think about?”
“I think about you,” she said. “And I think about cock. I think about a lot of cock.”
“That’s it?”
“And pussy.”
I gave up there knowing that the
litany of licentious thoughts could go on endlessly. I sat silently and she mistook my silence for
judgment.
“You don’t know
what it’s like to be me!” she blurted out defensively.
“Oh yeah, you’ve
got it so hard,” I said sarcastically.
“I wish,” she said
even more sarcastically as she lifted up my flaccid member in her hand.
“You know,” I said, “your porn persona and your
personality are not consistent.”
“What are you talking about?”
“All those people out there thinking you’re a
nymphomaniac, thinking that I am so inundated with your pussy that I barely can
find a moment’s peace, yet the reality is that you denied me just now.”
“There’s no inconsistency.”
“How not?”
“Because I know you’re going to write about this and
so it will be part of my porn persona.”
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.”