Sex and vulnerability – missing pieces.

I’ve had some interesting conversations of late with someone whose input I’ve come to love for the differences in our perspectives and the way we approach things. Some experience, some insight and a different perspective have brought into clarification something that I had been missing.

The new FWB, he needs a name. Let’s call him Cernunnos after the horned god.

During our very long and very very extensive coupling a few days ago I’ve gone over and replaying a lot of things that happened. Which is a good thing, a lot of what happened was fantastic and wonderful and joyful and orgasmic in so many many ways.

But during all this, Cernunnos decided that during our last love-making of the night, he would rock me steady and sure with long slow strokes. As he did this, with my head buried in his neck and shoulder and his head buried in my neck was that for every orgasm I had in this position, I felt a layer peel off me exposing something I haven’t purposefully exposed before. For every roll of our hips I felt a bit of my armour shatter and crumble. Somehow this great big beast of a man was exposing parts of myself I wasn’t aware that I hadn’t been exposing before. If he’d kept going I was pretty sure I’d have cried. And this, from the woman who used to scoff at all those women in films that cried during sex because it was so emotional.

Something clicked in that moment. I was grateful we didn’t keep that pace up and going for longer than we did. I wasn’t and still am not sure I’m ready to face that kind of vulnerability with just a FWB.

But what does this all mean? 

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A friend-three-some? A pleasant blast from the past…

It’s been one of those weeks where I’ve been pretty sick and some guy messaged me on OKC.

He didn’t objectify me or make me want to stab him repeatedly in the eyeball with a rusty spoon. He looked vaguely familiar from his pictures and I couldn’t place him, I thought he looked like someone my old roomie had the hots for but I couldn’t be sure because I didn’t really spend that much time staring at his face – or any other part of his body when he used to come over. We spend time chatting outside while we smoked together and then I’d head in and do my thing and they’d do theirs.

So anyway, back to the story. This guy messages me. He’s smart, articulate and engaging. I’m sick, curious and vaguely interested if only because he’s not going for the kill and sexualising everything. So I message him back and give him a pat on the back for not being a jerk-off with the first few emails backwards and forwards.

Fast forward to today, I’m feeling a wee bit more human, my ovaries still feel like they are trying to chew their way out of my body but I’m functioning to a degree.

We go from OKC to Kik and he sends me a picture of himself cuddling with a cat. Said cat and him look even more familiar. I put it off to someone I must have a passing acquaintance with.

Then he asks me if I ever lived where I used to live a few suburbs away from where I am now. And like a jigsaw, all the puzzle pieces fit into place and I died laughing. No really, I did.

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