It's going to take a while for these meds to kick in. I understand and accept that. What I don't understand, what I don't accept, are the side effects I've been dealing with since I went back on them. The brain fog thing I kind of get. Brain chemistry is being altered, so it's bound to cause some lack of clarity. At least that is starting to ease up a bit, and I feel like I'm able to put together full thoughts a bit more frequently.
The Wellbutrin is putting me to sleep, which I simply cannot tolerate. I am supposed to take it in the morning, so naturally I'd expect it to not make me drowsy. Last time I was on it it certainly didn't have that effect. Yet nearly every morning I'm coming extremely close to falling asleep while driving down the highway at a more or less steady 72 mph. So now I take it in my car once I arrive at the parking garage and hope I can stay awake all day.
The side effect that I'm really having trouble with, though, is actually affecting my behavior. The two meds I'm on... One is an antidepressant, the other an antipsychotic. You would think they would keep me from flipping out. Yet it is at the point I'm honestly worried I may put my job and/or my marriage in jeopardy, because small things are suddenly bothering me very much and making me really angry, and things that in the past would have normally made me angry are putting me in a state of rage that I can hardly control. I'm having meltdowns the likes of which I've never had at any point in my life, and it's scaring the living shit out of me.
I don't go back to my shrink until November 3rd. I'm trying to find other outlets for all my emotions, because I've felt way too unfocused to write, as evidenced by the rambling turns I took in the post about my grandparents.
This is the first time I've ever been afraid for myself without it being related to suicidal thoughts. I don't know how else to explain it.
I'm losing my mind.
Title is from The Spanish Friar by John Dryden.
30 September 2015
25 September 2015
Nobody Can Do For Little Children What Grandparents Do.
Grandparents sort of sprinkle stardust over the lives of little children.
There are very few positive memories of my life before I turned about 25 that don't involve sitting around the kitchen table at my grandparents' house. They lived on W. 105th Street in Cleveland, in a not so great neighborhood that was probably a lot nicer when they bought the house. If you drove past their house you probably wouldn't have looked twice at it - a two story, light blue, unassuming house with a swing on the front porch and a front lawn that was, quite literally, about 4 feet wide from the sidewalk to the porch. But to me that house was a second home. It was the gathering place. It was the hub that connected the spokes of my mother's far spreading family.
My earliest memory at my grandparents' house is actually my first memory of anything, but it's not a great one. My uncle was very sick when I was very young, and died when I was five. My only memory of him is sitting next to his bed in what would later become my grandparents' bedroom. As he lay in the dimly lit room, his body being torn apart by several different types of cancer at once, I sat in a kitchen chair next to his bed and read a Paddington Bear book to him.
When I asked my mom about this the other day, just to see if my memory was correct, she said that I would read that book to him every day, but also a Curious George book and a Sesame Street book every once in a while. She said that my uncle, who was only 23 when he died, wouldn't let anyone in his room except me and my grandparents.
When I was growing up my dad was an Ironworker. While the money was awesome, there were many very lean times for us whenever he was laid off, which typically happened at least three times a year. Sometimes it would only be for a week or two. Sometimes it would be as long as six months. During the longer layoffs, food became somewhat scarce in our house. Not only were my parents trying to feed myself and my two sisters, but for several years my cousin lived with us as well. During these times my grandparents basically sustained the four of us kids. We would eat dinner there a minimum of four times a week, and if it was summertime when my dad was out of work, some or all of us kids would stay with my grandparents for weeks at a time to help ease the burden on my parents.
Times weren't great for my grandparents during this time, either. Another uncle is only 9 years older than me (my mom is one of eight siblings - four boys, four girls). When he was 16, he was at a friend's house getting stoned with a group of friends. While screwing around, someone knocked over a motorcycle. My uncle was laying on the tree lawn near the bike, and when it fell, the gas tank caved in his skull. It took four years for him to be able to put together a complete sentence, and it was nearly a decade before he could walk without a cane or walker. Yet even with the mountains of medical bills my grandparents incurred, they still made sure we didn't go hungry, and although my parents won't talk about it, I'm almost positive that it was because of my grandparents that we kept our house.
Not all of my memories at my grandparents' house are sad ones. In fact, almost all the rest are extremely positive.
It's a mystery to most of us as to how my grandparents stayed married for so long. After my uncle died, my grandfather became a raging alcoholic. There were times when he wouldn't go home for days - he would work a twelve hour shift at the aluminum plant he worked at, get off work at 3 AM, sleep in his truck until the bar around the corner from work opened at 5:30 AM, and drink until it was time to go back to work. Yet, whenever he was home, drunk or sober (admittedly, I don't remember him being sober often), he was without question one of the nicest people you could ever meet.
He was also extremely quirky. He owned almost 300 acres of land in the mountains outside Bradford, PA, where he grew up. We would go camping there in the summer, and in the fall he, my dad, and several other guys would go deer hunting up there. One time when we were camping - I must have been 6 or 7 - I caught a frog in a creek. I ran up to him -"Grandpa, Grandpa, I caught a frog!!" He scooped it out of my hands and before I could even blink shoved it in his mouth and started chewing. The frog's legs kicked and twitched for a moment, then went still right before he sucked them in and chewed them up as well, and swallowed the damned thing. Naturally, being the emotional mess that I've been my entire life, I bawled like a baby.
He was also known to eat live snakes - head first, "Because they go down smoother." He would eat a block of Limburger cheese without flinching. Yet the moment he smelled or saw baby poop, the flood gates would open and he would puke so much it was hard to believe that much stuff was coming from one person. My sister, when we were teenagers, was at the kitchen table with Grandpa, watching TV and eating a Ho-Ho. She chewed some up and in her infinite wisdom said, "Look Grandpa! It's poop!" and opened he mouth showing him the chewed up chocolatey goodness. He didn't stand a chance. He started dry heaving, and almost - but not quite - made it to the bathroom before he puked.
Watching my grandparents interact with each other was kind of amazing. I only heard either of them say something negative to or about another person once (when we were grown {I think I was 22 or 23} Grandpa called my cousin, the one who lived with us as kids, the "laziest piece of shit" he'd ever known), yet they were rarely civil toward each other. The quote my sisters and I always use when talking about them is from one of the most random acts of "what the hell did I just witness?" They were arguing about who knows what anymore, and my grandfather yells, "Jesus Christ, Marion! We're you born on fucking Mars?" Grandma yells back, "No, Jack, but you make me wish I was! Now go fuck yourself!" If you ever wonder where I get my foul mouth from you need look no further than my grandparents and my dad.
The best memories I have from my childhood are from being at my grandparents' house Christmas Eve. It was easily the most important day of the year for our family. We would get there around three in the afternoon, and over the next eight or nine hours - we rarely left before 11 PM - we would get to visit with what seemed like everyone my grandparents had ever known. Great aunts, great uncles, distant cousins, and even my grandpa's best childhood friends who still lived in Bradford would come to town. Most of my mom's siblings would be there, and many of their friends that they grew up with would come to visit. It was a constant rotation of people coming, visiting for a while, and leaving, only to be replaced by more faces we only saw on Christmas Eve. In all the years my grandparents hosted this party, I don't remember a single argument or fight, and even my grandparents were genuinely nice to each other for the night.
Above everything, my grandparents loved their grandchildren unconditionally, but my sister and I were undeniably the favorites. It was probably because we were the closest - one of my aunts was in the Air Force lived in Brazil, Washington DC, and Florida while her daughters were young; another aunt and two uncles didn't have kids until my sister and I were teenagers; my other uncle has a son who is a year or so younger than my sister but I've only seen him once my whole life. Finally there was the cousin who lived with us for a few years, who Grandpa called lazy. Once he moved back in with my aunt, they moved to Tampa, where they've lived for about 25 years now.
I've really gotten off point in this post.
Another favorite memory of my grandparents' house involved a whole lot of law breaking. My grandparents both smoked like chimneys when we were kids. Grandma smoked Winston Lights, Grandpa smoked Pall Mall non-filters. Across the street from their house was a cigar store, and beginning when I was about 8, they would send us to the store to get their smokes. At first we had to take notes from our grandparents, but eventually the guys who ran the store knew as soon as we walked in to put a pack of cigarettes on the counter, with a pack of matches on top. My grandparents would always give whoever was going to the cigar store enough money for the cigarettes, a can of pop (I always chose Cotton Club Creme Soda), and a candy bar (Twix or Baby Ruth for me).
If I had to guess, I would estimate I spent about a third of my life at my grandparents' house up until I was 16 or 17. The vast majority of those times were some of the happiest times of my life. When they passed away, when I was in my late twenties (he went first, she went four months later) my uncle who had gotten hurt by the motorcycle inherited the house, and immediately sold it. The weekend that we moved everything out of the house was undescribably sad. No one talked very much, we all just kind of stayed in our own little worlds.
A few months ago one of my younger cousins told everyone the house had been purchased by developers, along with several other houses on the street, and that it would be torn down. One of my uncles had a cookout in late June, and afterward I decided to drive past the house to say one final goodbye.
I was too late. The house where many of my happiest memories resided was nothing but a pile of rubble.
I've never really dealt with the death of my grandparents properly. Or at all. I've only been to their gravesite once, the day we buried their ashes together. It's been twelve years and I've never gone back. I miss them every single day, and wish they could've met my kids.
The title and line at the beginning are a quote from Alex Haley.
There are very few positive memories of my life before I turned about 25 that don't involve sitting around the kitchen table at my grandparents' house. They lived on W. 105th Street in Cleveland, in a not so great neighborhood that was probably a lot nicer when they bought the house. If you drove past their house you probably wouldn't have looked twice at it - a two story, light blue, unassuming house with a swing on the front porch and a front lawn that was, quite literally, about 4 feet wide from the sidewalk to the porch. But to me that house was a second home. It was the gathering place. It was the hub that connected the spokes of my mother's far spreading family.
My earliest memory at my grandparents' house is actually my first memory of anything, but it's not a great one. My uncle was very sick when I was very young, and died when I was five. My only memory of him is sitting next to his bed in what would later become my grandparents' bedroom. As he lay in the dimly lit room, his body being torn apart by several different types of cancer at once, I sat in a kitchen chair next to his bed and read a Paddington Bear book to him.
When I asked my mom about this the other day, just to see if my memory was correct, she said that I would read that book to him every day, but also a Curious George book and a Sesame Street book every once in a while. She said that my uncle, who was only 23 when he died, wouldn't let anyone in his room except me and my grandparents.
When I was growing up my dad was an Ironworker. While the money was awesome, there were many very lean times for us whenever he was laid off, which typically happened at least three times a year. Sometimes it would only be for a week or two. Sometimes it would be as long as six months. During the longer layoffs, food became somewhat scarce in our house. Not only were my parents trying to feed myself and my two sisters, but for several years my cousin lived with us as well. During these times my grandparents basically sustained the four of us kids. We would eat dinner there a minimum of four times a week, and if it was summertime when my dad was out of work, some or all of us kids would stay with my grandparents for weeks at a time to help ease the burden on my parents.
Times weren't great for my grandparents during this time, either. Another uncle is only 9 years older than me (my mom is one of eight siblings - four boys, four girls). When he was 16, he was at a friend's house getting stoned with a group of friends. While screwing around, someone knocked over a motorcycle. My uncle was laying on the tree lawn near the bike, and when it fell, the gas tank caved in his skull. It took four years for him to be able to put together a complete sentence, and it was nearly a decade before he could walk without a cane or walker. Yet even with the mountains of medical bills my grandparents incurred, they still made sure we didn't go hungry, and although my parents won't talk about it, I'm almost positive that it was because of my grandparents that we kept our house.
Not all of my memories at my grandparents' house are sad ones. In fact, almost all the rest are extremely positive.
It's a mystery to most of us as to how my grandparents stayed married for so long. After my uncle died, my grandfather became a raging alcoholic. There were times when he wouldn't go home for days - he would work a twelve hour shift at the aluminum plant he worked at, get off work at 3 AM, sleep in his truck until the bar around the corner from work opened at 5:30 AM, and drink until it was time to go back to work. Yet, whenever he was home, drunk or sober (admittedly, I don't remember him being sober often), he was without question one of the nicest people you could ever meet.
He was also extremely quirky. He owned almost 300 acres of land in the mountains outside Bradford, PA, where he grew up. We would go camping there in the summer, and in the fall he, my dad, and several other guys would go deer hunting up there. One time when we were camping - I must have been 6 or 7 - I caught a frog in a creek. I ran up to him -"Grandpa, Grandpa, I caught a frog!!" He scooped it out of my hands and before I could even blink shoved it in his mouth and started chewing. The frog's legs kicked and twitched for a moment, then went still right before he sucked them in and chewed them up as well, and swallowed the damned thing. Naturally, being the emotional mess that I've been my entire life, I bawled like a baby.
He was also known to eat live snakes - head first, "Because they go down smoother." He would eat a block of Limburger cheese without flinching. Yet the moment he smelled or saw baby poop, the flood gates would open and he would puke so much it was hard to believe that much stuff was coming from one person. My sister, when we were teenagers, was at the kitchen table with Grandpa, watching TV and eating a Ho-Ho. She chewed some up and in her infinite wisdom said, "Look Grandpa! It's poop!" and opened he mouth showing him the chewed up chocolatey goodness. He didn't stand a chance. He started dry heaving, and almost - but not quite - made it to the bathroom before he puked.
Watching my grandparents interact with each other was kind of amazing. I only heard either of them say something negative to or about another person once (when we were grown {I think I was 22 or 23} Grandpa called my cousin, the one who lived with us as kids, the "laziest piece of shit" he'd ever known), yet they were rarely civil toward each other. The quote my sisters and I always use when talking about them is from one of the most random acts of "what the hell did I just witness?" They were arguing about who knows what anymore, and my grandfather yells, "Jesus Christ, Marion! We're you born on fucking Mars?" Grandma yells back, "No, Jack, but you make me wish I was! Now go fuck yourself!" If you ever wonder where I get my foul mouth from you need look no further than my grandparents and my dad.
The best memories I have from my childhood are from being at my grandparents' house Christmas Eve. It was easily the most important day of the year for our family. We would get there around three in the afternoon, and over the next eight or nine hours - we rarely left before 11 PM - we would get to visit with what seemed like everyone my grandparents had ever known. Great aunts, great uncles, distant cousins, and even my grandpa's best childhood friends who still lived in Bradford would come to town. Most of my mom's siblings would be there, and many of their friends that they grew up with would come to visit. It was a constant rotation of people coming, visiting for a while, and leaving, only to be replaced by more faces we only saw on Christmas Eve. In all the years my grandparents hosted this party, I don't remember a single argument or fight, and even my grandparents were genuinely nice to each other for the night.
Above everything, my grandparents loved their grandchildren unconditionally, but my sister and I were undeniably the favorites. It was probably because we were the closest - one of my aunts was in the Air Force lived in Brazil, Washington DC, and Florida while her daughters were young; another aunt and two uncles didn't have kids until my sister and I were teenagers; my other uncle has a son who is a year or so younger than my sister but I've only seen him once my whole life. Finally there was the cousin who lived with us for a few years, who Grandpa called lazy. Once he moved back in with my aunt, they moved to Tampa, where they've lived for about 25 years now.
I've really gotten off point in this post.
Another favorite memory of my grandparents' house involved a whole lot of law breaking. My grandparents both smoked like chimneys when we were kids. Grandma smoked Winston Lights, Grandpa smoked Pall Mall non-filters. Across the street from their house was a cigar store, and beginning when I was about 8, they would send us to the store to get their smokes. At first we had to take notes from our grandparents, but eventually the guys who ran the store knew as soon as we walked in to put a pack of cigarettes on the counter, with a pack of matches on top. My grandparents would always give whoever was going to the cigar store enough money for the cigarettes, a can of pop (I always chose Cotton Club Creme Soda), and a candy bar (Twix or Baby Ruth for me).
If I had to guess, I would estimate I spent about a third of my life at my grandparents' house up until I was 16 or 17. The vast majority of those times were some of the happiest times of my life. When they passed away, when I was in my late twenties (he went first, she went four months later) my uncle who had gotten hurt by the motorcycle inherited the house, and immediately sold it. The weekend that we moved everything out of the house was undescribably sad. No one talked very much, we all just kind of stayed in our own little worlds.
A few months ago one of my younger cousins told everyone the house had been purchased by developers, along with several other houses on the street, and that it would be torn down. One of my uncles had a cookout in late June, and afterward I decided to drive past the house to say one final goodbye.
I was too late. The house where many of my happiest memories resided was nothing but a pile of rubble.
I've never really dealt with the death of my grandparents properly. Or at all. I've only been to their gravesite once, the day we buried their ashes together. It's been twelve years and I've never gone back. I miss them every single day, and wish they could've met my kids.
The title and line at the beginning are a quote from Alex Haley.
11 September 2015
I Climb The Walls Of My Mind
I haven't been in a very great place mentally lately which is surely not a surprise to anybody. Or maybe it is. I've gotten better at hiding it, it seems. One major issue is that I haven't been on my meds in a long, long time, so I finally decided to remedy that. I went to my psychiatrist last week for the first time in over a year, and she has altered my meds a bit. So, you know, fingers crossed and shit.
During the conversation with my psychiatrist I told her how I've been struggling with my gender identity, as well as about being a cross dresser. She admitted she has no expertise in this area but steered me in a few directions to get some help, or guidance, or whatever you want to call it.
The first thing she gave me was the name of a psychiatrist who specializes in LGBT issues, as well as sexual/intimacy issues. (My current psychiatrist doesn't know I'm having problems in that area, I just noticed it when I looked up the new doc.) I've already decided I'm no longer going to see the other counselor I'd been seeing, because of the way she seemed less and less like someone I feel comfortable talking to. Hopefully with this new psychiatrist being someone who focuses in the areas she does, I'll finally be able to get some help that is actually useful.
The other bit of information she gave me was about a support group for cross dressers and their spouses, family, and friends. From reading the information in their website, I'm very torn, for several reasons.
First, I feel this is exactly the kind of group I need, to help me understand more about myself. The website describes the setup of the meetings, which seem designed to enable a lot of socialization. There is an initial social period followed by dinner, then a speaker, then another social period at the end. In reading some of the testimonials it seems these social periods are the most important parts of the meetings.
The meetings also require that, well, the men be dressed as women. This is where I become torn. Other than panties, which I wear nearly daily at this point, I've only worn any female clothing out of the house a couple times - I've worn tights/leggings/whatever to work two times, and one day back in February, when my wife was in Kansas and I was off work a few days, I wore one of her negligees to the library, the mall, and the grocery store. But in each of those cases everything was concealed and nobody knew what was under my clothes.
I don't know if I'd be able to wear a dress or skirt in one of these meetings, even with knowing the other men in attendance would be in drag as well. The idea of dressing up in public gives me quite a bit of anxiety. I'm just not sure if I can do it.
The other issue is that I don't think I'd be able to go alone. With my wife being completely uncomfortable with the idea of seeing me dressed as a woman, I can all but guarantee she would not be willing to go to one of these meetings. I couldn't ask any of my friends to go either, so that would leave me going alone. Being alone would mean I'd have to rely on myself to interact during the social periods of the meetings, and that's simply not going to happen because I am absolutely terrible in social settings, unless I'm the right amount of drunk, right before I become obnoxious.
All that being said, all anxiety and inhibitions aside, I am going to attempt to attend a meeting by the end of the year. I feel it would benefit me immensely. Even if I only end up attending one meeting, I need to at least try it.
Today's title is from "Crazy" by Barenaked Ladies. It's a good song. You should check it out.
06 September 2015
My Anaconda Don't Want None (part 2)
One of the main reasons for writing my last post was to discuss why I didn't like sex. Then I spent most of it taking about the things I like about sex. Yeah, I'm a dumb ass.
As I said in the previous post, while I am a pervert and a flirt and talk about sex a lot, I don't actually enjoy having sex. While the reasons behind not enjoying getting head should be pretty obvious by now, the actual act of intercourse is only slightly more enjoyable for me.
Sex has always caused me a lot of anxiety. I become extremely self conscious and feel really awkward. One of the biggest complaints I've always gotten from women is that I'm too quiet during sex, because I don't make a sound. Several partners (my wife included) have commented that the only way they even know I'm having an orgasm is because my breathing changes very slightly.
At least this tendency to be silent is extremely easy to explain. The walls in our house were paper thin, so when I was a teenager I had to be quiet when I masturbated so my parents and sisters didn't know what I was doing. Also, I had to be quiet with Mark so anyone around didn't hear us.
I almost just wrote that sex doesn't really interest me, but that would be inaccurate. It certainly interests me, it doesn't excite me. The only time I'm really extremely excited about it is when I'm with someone for the first time.
The other thing I don't care for about sex is that it really just doesn't feel that great, to me. Orgasms border on painful, plus my body is such a fucking mess that there's really only one position that's comfortable. So it gets kind of boring, too.
I think the strangest thing about all this is that while I don't care for sex, I still masturbate at least once a day. Usually it's hiding in the bathroom right when I get home from work, and more often than not it's while imagining my wife with other people, usually men. Sure there are times when I'll think about different women from work or whatever, but I'd say at least 80% of the time I'm imagining the wife with another guy or several guys, and 15% of the time I'm thinking about her with other women, or another couple.
I'm sure you are getting sick of listening to me bitch, so I'll end this here. Hope I haven't chased too many people away with these last two posts.
As I said in the previous post, while I am a pervert and a flirt and talk about sex a lot, I don't actually enjoy having sex. While the reasons behind not enjoying getting head should be pretty obvious by now, the actual act of intercourse is only slightly more enjoyable for me.
Sex has always caused me a lot of anxiety. I become extremely self conscious and feel really awkward. One of the biggest complaints I've always gotten from women is that I'm too quiet during sex, because I don't make a sound. Several partners (my wife included) have commented that the only way they even know I'm having an orgasm is because my breathing changes very slightly.
At least this tendency to be silent is extremely easy to explain. The walls in our house were paper thin, so when I was a teenager I had to be quiet when I masturbated so my parents and sisters didn't know what I was doing. Also, I had to be quiet with Mark so anyone around didn't hear us.
I almost just wrote that sex doesn't really interest me, but that would be inaccurate. It certainly interests me, it doesn't excite me. The only time I'm really extremely excited about it is when I'm with someone for the first time.
The other thing I don't care for about sex is that it really just doesn't feel that great, to me. Orgasms border on painful, plus my body is such a fucking mess that there's really only one position that's comfortable. So it gets kind of boring, too.
I think the strangest thing about all this is that while I don't care for sex, I still masturbate at least once a day. Usually it's hiding in the bathroom right when I get home from work, and more often than not it's while imagining my wife with other people, usually men. Sure there are times when I'll think about different women from work or whatever, but I'd say at least 80% of the time I'm imagining the wife with another guy or several guys, and 15% of the time I'm thinking about her with other women, or another couple.
I'm sure you are getting sick of listening to me bitch, so I'll end this here. Hope I haven't chased too many people away with these last two posts.
03 September 2015
My Anaconda Don't Want None
Warning: This post talks about sex. A lot. Some of it may be a bit too much for some of you, but I hope you'll all still at least try to read it. I honestly thought about keeping this a very bland analytical post, but honestly that would be a disservice to me as writer just as much as it would be to you as reader. So some of this may get graphic - I don't know quite which direction I'm going to go with it yet - but it will definitely not be graphic simply for shock value or just to be rude. If it's there it's to serve a purpose. I'm also probably going to use a lot of indelicate language, because let's face it, saying "blow job" is a lot more fun and honest than "oral sex." Oh, and there's a reason the quote in the title stopped where it did. On with the show.
I was having a discussion last night and this morning with a friend, and was telling her how exhausted I am from the crazy work schedule I've had this week. At one point she jokingly made a comment suggesting that my exhaustion was due do too much sex with my wife, at which point I admitted something I don't really admit to anyone - I don't actually like sex.
This will come to a surprise to a lot of people who know me, because I am a massive pervert and talk about sexual things quite often. But talking about sex, writing my erotic short stories, and flirting with people hides the fact that I generally dislike the actual act of having sex.
I like the idea of sex quite a bit. I'd be lying if I said otherwise. Hell, I've even had very vivid fantasies about at least a dozen women at work in the past week alone. But fooling around with them in my daydreams is way more appealing to me than the thought of actually physically doing anything with any of them. And that is not some kind of "I'm married so it can only be fantasy" kind of thing, because we've had some extramarital fun and I still didn't give a damn about sex. (More on that later, I'm sure.)
Obviously my earliest sexual experiences probably have a lot to do with my feelings toward the act now. The very first blowjob I ever got from a girl (no clue what her name was) was when I was 16. She used her teeth so much that i was actually bleeding in at least five spots (I even still have scars in two spots). I told her multiple times to quit because it hurt, yet she kept going, a little bundle of enthusiasm and incisors. She kept telling me it was fine. It was supposed to feel that way. I may have been a completely inexperienced teenager who had only been sucked off by a middle aged man, but even I knew that I wasn't supposed to be bleeding. I sometimes wish I knew that chick's name so I could find her and tell her she's an asshole. Unfortunately we met at a party and it's the only time I've ever seen her. Oh well.
Because of that girl, as well as Mark and all that crap, I have never liked getting blowjobs. I met my first real girlfriend about three months after that party, and she insisted on giving me head. I finally let her do it, on night in the middle of my dad's front yard (he has a huge unlit front yard and we were about a hundred yards from the house, another fifty or sixty from the street). I didn't enjoy a second of it, even though there were no teeth involved, but she seemed to enjoy herself, so that's really all that matters.
Over the years, several women I've dated or hooked up with have been completely fine with not blowing me so it really hasn't been much of an issue. Most women, though, get upset for some reason when I say I'm not into it. I find that somewhat amusing, because there's kind of always been this message put out that women don't enjoy giving head, yet most women I've slept with have pretty much insisted on doing it. It's just kind of baffling.
When my wife and I first met, she was one of those who insisted on doing it. When we were discussing it, I mentioned to her how no woman had ever gotten me off by blowing me (she already knew about Mark so the "no woman" part didn't surprise her). She actually took this as some weird kind of personal mission, that she absolutely had to get me off with a blowjob. Her determination paid off, as she was successful, but it still didn't change the fact that I don't like blowjobs, which disappointed her quite a bit because she loves doing it. This was actually one of the biggest factors that led to us having our extramarital fun. (Again, more on that later.)
I do find it odd that with as much as I dislike sex, and hate blowjobs, I enjoy going down on a woman more than anything in the bedroom. I could eat a woman out for hours and love every second of it. The irony? My wife hates that about as much as I hate blowjobs. She also isn't a fan of my other major fetish either - feet. I love feet and she can't stand to have hers touched, even for a foot rub. It's really quite sad. (Hmm... Maybe one of these days I'll just write an entire post about fetishes. That could be fun.)
While blowjobs have never done much for me, actual intercourse has at times been something I enjoy very much, but usually in less than normal situations. When I lost my virginity, for example, I was 17 and the woman was 25 or 26. I still remember she didn't believe I was actually a virgin because I lasted for well over an hour. While she and I never hooked up again, I still look back fondly on our night together as being very enjoyable. The next time I had sex, however, was about six months later and it was the first time where I really didn't feel anything at all afterward, positive or negative. It was with a girl who was about a year younger than me that I went to school with, and it ended up ruining our friendship because neither of us really knew how to deal with the aftermath. We weren't dating, it was just a random hookup at a party she was hosting, and it just created way too much awkwardness between us.
The times that I have really enjoyed sex, as I said, where in less than normal or ideal situations. My ex-fiance Missy (who I am working on a rather lengthy post about) and I had a pretty decent sex life during our 7 years together, especially once we began introducing other people into the mix. Whether we were being joined by another woman, playing this hybrid strip poker/truth or dare game with a married couple we knew, or I was watching her with my best friend, there was always something different going on. After she and I broke up, the first two women I had flings with were both married, and that sex was outstanding. The first was a woman around my age and we only hooked up twice, and I would have given everything I had at that time to get her to leave her husband for me. The second woman was much older than me - I was 28, she was 56 - and we slept together at least twice a week for almost a year. I didn't particularly like her as a person, but the sex was absolutely amazing.
Which brings us up to the wifey. When we first met I flat out told her, before we even met in person, that I was not interested in a monogamous sex life, regardless of what level our relationship went to, and she was completely fine with that. When we first started dating we went to the fetish balls held at various bars in Cleveland. They are held monthly, with two major annual events, one held at Halloween and the other usually around Easter. While there is no nudity allowed at these events, the definition of the word nudity is definitely pushed to its limits. Women commonly walk around with nothing but a tiny g-string covering the naughty bits, and electrical tape covering their nipples. Men are usually much more modest at these events, but have been known to be nearly nude as well.
Through these fetish balls we met some single women as well as other couples who were open to fooling around with us, but most of these ended up being dead ends, as we would make plans and sometimes even get together, but some spark would be missing and nothing physical would happen. While I would normally sympathize with my wife's disappointment, inside I would be more or less unaffected. There was one woman we would usually hang out with at these events that my wife has had a bit of a relationship with for the past decade and who we still see on a fairly regular basis, but other than her we don't talk to anyone from that scene anymore.
The time I've enjoyed sex the most in my life so far was the period of about three years before our first son was born. There are several bars in and around Cleveland that are swinger clubs, and for nearly three years we belonged to one of them. We would go to this club almost every weekend, usually both Friday and Saturday. We hooked up with several other couples, but for the most part I got my enjoyment from watching the wifey with other people, either gender. There were quite a few times where I didn't participate in any way shape or form, and I actually preferred it that way. She could hand out blowjobs like they were candy, fool around with other people, then we would go home and have some great sex. It kind of worked out perfectly. Then came kids, and it was like turning off a lamp - one weekend we were at the club like usual, that Wednesday we found out she was pregnant, and we just never went back.
Since then, we have only had sex once, maybe twice, every three months or so. And it is completely because I just don't want it. When I got my dick pierced a few years ago, once it healed there was a period of about three months or so where we were fucking like rabbits again, but other than that it's been very infrequent. When I get my second piercing (finally!!!!) on October 1st (the anniversary of the first piercing) perhaps we will have another several month period where we have sex more often. I hope so, simply because my wife enjoys sex about as much as a 16 year old boy - she wants it all the time. Hopefully I'll be able to accommodate her for a while.
Title today is obviously from "Baby Got Back" by Sir Mix-A-Lot.