Continuing the belated celebration of my 30th birthday, one of my girlfriends presented me with a bag of books. Grownup books. Immediately I reached for the candy: Life's Too Short for Tantric Sex: 50 Shortcuts to Sexual Ecstasy. Concisely written and stunningly illustrated (I was especially stunned by pages 41, 73 and 99), this little volume is a show and tell of everything -- and I mean everything -- you ever wanted to know (and a few things you didn't) about pleasing yourself and another in bed. Or in the kitchen, or the backyard, or the IMAX theater at the Air & Space Museum. Whatever launches your rocket.
Now all I need is a study partner to go with my new textbook. That's what the weekend is for. (Kidding! I don't pick up random men in bars. I pick them randomly from my little black book, that way I know what I'm getting. Kidding again! I have no such book. It's all digital. A joke! A joke! But it would be nice to have a few in the stable... Please, somebody stop me.)
This naughty birthday offering was no doubt inspired by my friend's own recent sexual awakening. On the cusp of her 38th year, still steadfastly single and loving every minute of it, she's arrived at this deliciously indulgent state of body and mind in which there are no substitutes or compromises to be made when it comes to great sex. If you are sleeping with my friend A, do not be selfish, do not be lazy and for God's sake do what you're told. You will give her what she needs or she will cut you loose. No discussion.
Now, I'm a bit younger and less experienced than A, so I tend to be more forgiving in this area. I believe in working on it (up to a point) because it's rarely as simple as good sex or bad.
Take, for example, my ex-boyfriend S. His skills were few but well-honed and he always followed the law of Ladies First. But he was only generous so he could be greedy: My satisfaction was something to sweep out of the way so he could focus on his own pleasure unencumbered by the pressure to make me happy while he was enjoying himself (which, really, is the point of sex, isn't it? to do it together?).
Of all the things I learned from S the most memorable was that foreplay can be dangerous. That was a lesson that stuck with me -- for a couple of weeks, in the form of a bite-shaped bruise on my right butt cheek. S had a little problem with self control and...well, he wasn't a leg man if you know what I mean, and he just got carried away once. Or twice. After the third time I stopped enjoying sex with him altogether because I was always on edge, waiting for the next time a playful nibble would escalate into a vigorous chomp. "This must be what people mean when they talk about using sex as a weapon," I thought. His empty apologies did nothing to console me; Teeth on the tushie is the sort of pain you don't easily forget.
Wow, I've aired some laundry before but this is by far the dirtiest. I wonder if I'll regret it in the morning. Whatever: As my friend A would say, "Check your inhibitions at the door or get the hell out of my bedroom." You have to respect a woman who doesn't mince words.