Nymphotine

In spite of the deprivation that likely awaits me abroad, I'm itchin' to get back to France. Or, more appropriately, back under my French man. The sexual withdrawals are staggering, I may soon loose my ability to walk, and I have seemingly no outlet. Living in my parent's household under my infamous and non masturbation friendly picture windows, even my once sympathetic lover, the Skype chat window, has gone frigid.

I know it couldn't possibly replace real sex, but it has to be better than nothing, right? TMI, whose dreadful faux title no longer means Too Much Info but The Man Intime, has ruled it out as frustrating.. -and I'm ruled as utterly frustrated. 

Do they make a chewing gum for this?

Le Respect, la Relation, et le Risqué

Dad I know you read my blog from time to time and this is one of those posts that I ask you avert your eyes and skip over. Seriously.

Keeping an anonymous blog is harder than one may think. That said, I want to again address something I mentioned lightly before. Respect, and the risque. Can we objectify in the bedroom and retain respect in a relationship? Specifically, must we only make love to stay in love, or can we also have sex? Where is the correct medium between slipping into the banal and crashing into the unacceptable?

I'm currently in a very sexual relationship, and I find myself regularly conflicted about what's the most healthy for us. I worry that if we don't have enough sex, or enough exciting sex, things will get boring and we'll cool off into a typical long term; or that we'll go too far and loose a necessary respect for one another. I'm not sure if the later is even possible - granted I haven't seen signs of it, but, (and now for the not-dad-safe sentence) could any amount of oral or anal sex somehow skew our positive feelings for each other? Admittedly, we aren't worshipping one another in these situations; we're objectifying one another. In spite of how much we enjoy it, I can't decide if this is wildly healthy or flat out detrimental.

On the other end of the spectrum, a friend who volunteers with me in my little Dijonaise cafe faces relationship problems amusingly inverse to my own. She's passionately God-fearing, and refuses to have sex, or even extensive physical contact, before marriage. (I know, I know! I thought France was predominantly devoid of that!) This is a kind of love I know nothing about, and, for that matter, can't even begin to imagine. Sex is such an immense part of romantic connection; an integral facet of truly knowing someone, and the final frontier of openness and trust to your partner. Yet she, like me,

-I just found chocolate smeared on my keyboard and have no idea how it got there-

Yet she, like me, spends hours hoing, humming, and heart-aching over what she believes is love.

How much does sex define a relationship? Does it make it or break it? And, if it's such a powerful element, as I believe it to be, can it govern our feelings outside of the bedroom?

What is it With Guys and Porn?

The great mystery of modern relationships.

I, beknownst to those of you who know me or read my blog, am a borderline sex addict. (Namely in my current relationship, as I find my partner irresistible, delicious, and I'm in love with him.) Contrary to common relationships, I, the female, am the one regularly complaining that I want more sex. For the record, I'm cute, in shape, always 100% ready and rearing to go, and yet lately I feel I must always initiate and sometimes even ask for sex. All this, and here I discover he's watching porn while I take a shower.

Can someone explain this to me please? I doubt there is really a man in existence who ceases to watch the stuff while he's in a relationship, granted; but why? Especially when he may have a spunky lover like myself? And, if such is the unavoidable case, how do I manage to live with it and not take it personally??

Sex and the Self

It's the beginning of week two back in France and I have been utterly awash with schoolwork as my first term of online graduate studies body-slams me into commencement. Still, I'm thrilled to be back with my much missed mate and safely installed in our rustic French attic.

Yesterday, however, in one of my episodes of insecurity, which come and go like stingy-pissy jelly fish on the tides, I got to thinking about sex. (Big news,I know.) And how much my addiction to it is pleasure based, and how much of it is nested in self validation. I'm comfortable with saying 80% of it is the healthier former, but I do catch myself in sexual encounters where my own enjoyment is totally shelved in place of the enjoyment of my partner. Sometimes forcibly out of the picture.

I'm inclined to think this isn't just me and may be part of the young feminine condition. ..Or maybe just me. At times my need for sex comes with a strong need for affirmation; that I am attractive and loved. I imagine this is going to go away with maturity but for now it has me puzzled. Do men ever find themselves in similar situations? Why or why not? And, if I'm not alone on this, why do some of us need sex to validate the self?

Doin' it Distance

I am in love. I mean, crazily deeply in love. I can be jumping and undulating in the gym's "body-jam" class and still, he's the predominant thing on my mind. But like usual, my opening lines aren't what I actually want to talk about.

Yesterday I was trying to have the ever helpful but very frustrating savior of many long distance relationships, Skype-sex. The challenge in this is that my childhood bed is situated squarely under a picture window which also happens to be at the top of the stairs to my family's porch. So the first vision anyone has, human, alien, serial killer, etc, when coming to the house is my helpless form on the bed.

So there I was. Strewn naked below this dangerous window and in the throws of distance love-making when my parents decide to have a lawn-ornament-themed argument on the deck. TMI and I were both trying to bring it on home, so to speak, and I had to suddenly dash under the blankets as either parent stomped by the window 4 or 5 times and bickered in the yard. I got the impression dad was heading up to the garage so I got up to make sure my bedroom door was closed... but he's coming back down! I hit the dirt and slither under my bed until I hear that he has passed. I assume the position with my computer. Mom bursts in and I snatch the covers over my naked body. (Pink and purple tie-dye dildo left uncovered on the edge of the bed.) "Will you hurry up so I can talk to you?!" She yells.

..I think I've had just about enough of visiting the family. Oh private French apartment.. oh weekends spent naked in noisy passionate sex-a-thons.. Did I know how good I had it? Why did I leave again??

p.s: if you haven't all ready, please remember to Fight for the Phoque, and send a message to the Canadian prime minister.

Addict

February 27th. Four days (but technically five since France is ten hours ahead) since I've cuddled with the man of my life. Roughly 1/9th of the way, and my body is freaking out. I'm desperate for the deep comfort that comes from being pressed up against his warm body; my face in his neck; his smells, his sounds, his breath. The loving sentiments expressed just from his hands on my shoulders or hips as we dose off together. Sometimes I suspect habitual physical intimacy is among the world's most difficult addictions to come down from, and the withdrawals are kicking my ass.

Four weeks! We're only young and hot and this sex crazed for a short period of our lives. I hate to be wasting even these weeks of what could be a sexual/cuddle & nuzzle marathon. And let me tell you, I think there are teenage boys currently thinking about sex less times in a day than I am.

I'm exhibiting all the symptoms of withdrawals: scratching, teeth grinding, irritability, nail biting.. Bottom line, I'm physically addicted to my boyfriend.

And, throughout all of this, I'm getting dad time. Yes, yes, family before all else. But in my case "dad time" means a constant but futile attempt to escape his flatulent blast radius in a too small ski-resort lodging, changing in the bathroom, igniting arguments, and sleepless snore-interrupted nights.

Tough times.

Save the Receipt

So I finally got my dress back from the seamstress; it seems to fit well enough. And now the really big question: do all the items I bought separately and mostly for more than I can afford go well together? The necklace is breathtaking and I LOVE IT.. but I'm unconvinced it goes perfectly with the dress. And the shoes.. well, ahem. uh, the shoes...

Lets just be glad I got them on sale. Soft leather, platform black ankle boots, totally gorgeous, but totally wrong with the dress. ..Sexually inspirational, however. I modeled them for TMI while scantily clad which, naturally, lead to love making in a dangerous standing position which in turn lead to, ... .. well, some stains on the shoes that despite my best efforts I don't think would get them accepted at the returns counter. It's so very ironic I think I laughed and cried at the same time.

In other news I triumphantly went to the prefecture today for what I thought would be the last time to get a temporary carte de sejour while they process my renewal. I waited around the office all morning, as is customary, drowning in multi-ethnic screaming children. I got the receipt and started home.. only to discover that my mother's last name was spelt wrong. I rushed back only to find I was too late to take another number.

Looks like that adventure still has some nuts and bolts to sort out.

The moral of the story: save the receipt and the sex until after you've tried on the whole outfit. Oh, and double check all spelling of important names.

Smooth Road, Boring Drive

I can't help but notice the effects a perfect relationship with a gorgeous French man has on my blog. Without the changing sexual partners and scale of sexual quality to complain or boast about, the writing does tend to get a little... domestic.

Last night on Sex and the City, (go ahead, shoot me) someone was complaining about "mind blowing sex" intellectual connection, and the apparent impossibility to have both. I almost thought, with a kind of mild creative dismay, that I do have both: Everyday I have mind-blowing sex, ranging from intimate to dirty and dangerous, and at the same time I have daily affirmations of lasting love, intensive intimacy, and a seemingly infallible connection. That's all great for my well-being, but for my literary life it's been taking it's toll.

The sex is still averaging at 3 times a day, we order take out sushi and eat in front of reruns of Sex and the City and old French filcs, we read in a bed like an old couple and play video games together like a pair of adolescents. As though to damper my present bonheur, however, my mom sent me a bunch of affirmations for the New Year; one of them was "remember, no matter how good or bad a situation is, it will change." Good news for those who are suffering and simultaneously bad news for those having multiple orgasms. Do all good things come to an end? My blog is probably hoping so.

Under Unusual Circumstances

After our Parisian misadventure I finally have mom back in my Dijonaise home town; quite a sight for soar eyes after the crowded streets of Paris. With her staying in my tiny studio, however, and a temporarily homeless friend of TMI's staying at his place, (he's waiting for the keys to his new apartment) appropriate territory for making love has become increasingly hard to find. -And, let's face it, for a couple as famously frisky as we are, times are tough.

Last night, given the choice of sharing a bed with another guy and sleeping in my tiny 12 x 12 apartment with my mom and I, TMI chose the later. My mom is installed on a bunk bed situated over mine.. And, would you believe it, in the night and encouraged by the sounds of her snoring, TMI and I had our usual wild, crazy, but this time forcibly silent, sex.

..It was ok. But really. Sex while you can hear your mother snoring above you? Simultaneously great and profoundly disturbing. Every time there seemed to be a break in the snores TMI and I would freeze in horror, potentially caught in the mom-scaring 69 or worse, and wait until she resumed before we dared move again.

I have to say that was the first time I've ever had sex under such weird circumstances, aka, my mother. Let the record state I feel thoroughly bizarre. -But, this morning, while mom sat in my tiny kitchen doing crosswords and TMI and I lingered in bed... we did it again. Desperate times call for desperate measures, I guess.

Tying Loose Ends

With TMI finally back in town, my apartment has been stage to a literal non-stop sexual marathon for the past three days. And, to make things even better, we recently took another leap into the dangerous and the delicious: Finally getting over the shyness of expressing a mutual interest, TMI pulled off his belt and tied my hands to the head board.

Wow. What can I say? The temperature in the room was so high I wouldn't be surprised if my neighbor could feel the heat (or heard it, anyway); and the results were SO rewarding that we did it repetitively plusieurs fois all afternoon and into the evening.

Ah, young love in Eastern France. Honestly, I can't believe I stayed 5 years in a relationship where the sex remained so comparatively tame.. -and here I was fortunate enough to find a partner who, within 4 months, I've been able to break nearly all of my sexual boundaries with. I guess it's called sexual chemistry, and I think it's growing on me.

Can Lovers Love it Rough?

When it comes to sex, there are few who can honestly ignore the undeniable hotness of getting roughed up a bit. Several days ago, in a conversation with one of my closest and best loved ladies, the two of us got to talking about a mutual appreciation for getting a little aggressive in the bedroom. TMI and I, though the sex has always been passionate, spontaneous, and.. high energy, have recently started pushing into the realm of throwing one another down on the mattress, bra ripping, and hair pulling; and, hands down, its been fantastic.

But I can't help but wonder: before sentiments start to sneak into the relationship, a lack of restraint during sex is usually nothing to bat an eyelash at. But once "I love you"s get into the mix I for one start to feel a little conflicted. I want to be frisky, but I also want a relationship based on mutual respect. Is this possible if we allow ourselves to be objectified in the bedroom? Is it dangerous to talk dirty and get rough if you're attempting to build a heathy partnership? Should lovers stick to calling it "making love" or can we cut loose and yell "fuck me!" once in a while?

Disappointingly, previous relationships of mine never dared breach the boundaries of slipping anything less than pious language during sex. Everything had a safe and cutesy nickname and we didn't do anything that could ever feasibly be more "sex" than it was "love making."

What I'm happily discovering, however, is that going over the edge has only strengthened my relationship. Knowing that we love each other makes getting crazy feel safe. Where I might have risked feeling a little victimized with more casual encounters, placing myself in compromising situations with TMI feels exactly like it should: daring, indulgent, and impossibly sexy. ..And I STRONGLY recommend it.

Giving and Getting: Reciprocity and the BJ

Allow me to get a little down and dirty here. Last night, while suffering through what a large majority of wives, girlfriends and adventurous dates must suffer through in every sexual relationship, I had some disheartening feelings. Blow Jobs. Yes, your partner loves them. Yes, if you're lucky, you may even love your partner, in which case "taking one for the team" isn't so bad: their feeling good makes you feel good, right?

But, last night, after pushing myself through several gags and enduring the very unpleasant taste, complete with encouraging groans of enthusiasm and a loving smile, I started to feel like I was giving a little more than I was getting.

I've heard it said that the only point of doing it is reciprocation, and I partially agree with this, but, as one of the majority of the world's women who find orgasm during sex very elusive, I can't help but start to feel I'm getting the short end of the stick. And I most certainly mean that figuratively.

Don't get me wrong, my current relationship is easily dishing out the best sex I've ever had; and where I'm not having orgasms from actual intercourse or even oral sex, we have been managing to fit them in regularly and TMI is very considerate to my sexual well-being. But still: dang! Giving a blow-job, well, blows! Dealing with teeth placement, jaw stress, gag reflex, all the while moaning while breathing through your nose and bobbing up and down, honestly, "they don't call it a job for nothing!" I have to wonder: Would a man ever suffer to such an extant for their partner's sexual pleasure?

What's the verdict on this? Always worth it? Enjoyable? A fair trade? Or are women just in the habit of giving too much? In fact, forget about BJ's; what I'm talking about here is something more than that. Zorba, my favorite Greek to quote, wags his big gnarled finger and insists, "Never forget boss! A woman gets more out of the pleasure she gives than the pleasure she takes!"

Taming the Turtle Neck

Every girls night out and after the first glass of wine, the classic question always finds its way to the table. The topic has shifted to love, relationships, and that all time favourite, sex, when someone puts her drink down and says “circumcised or uncircumcised?” The answer is almost always unanimous in support of the former, but, honestly, most American women, myself included before coming to France, had never even met the later. Why so much hostility for the unknown? I admit I was one of the strongest anti-uncut advocates in the group, but I'd have to be honest: I all ready found the penis quite horrendous to behold, so who was to say it was capable of being worse?

My only exposure to the dreaded au natural before coming to France was some frightening looking drawings in an everything-you-need-to-know-about-sex book written and illustrated in the 80’s. They were scary, droopy things that looked like long hanging socks, and my friends and I were fairly convinced we wanted absolutely NOTHING to do with them; nor could we really fathom how the dang things even worked.

Welp, I have been to the other side,(only 14% of the men in France are circumcised) and I have, after several months and several sizes, shapes and temperaments, tamed the turtle neck.

And I think they're great! The little sheath is kind of a protective cover for the sensitive tip. If pulled down, the penis looks exactly like we're accustomed to- but it has a magic trick. Once, I was lying in bed with TMI, and, pretty much like always, he had an erection. We weren't planning on doing anything about it this particular instance, so, while I happened to be watching, TMI reached down, and, casually and carelessly grabbed hold of the skin on his penis and yanked it up to cover the tip. I gasped. “Doesn’t that hurt?!”

He didn’t even realise he had done it as it was apparently second nature. Wow! They can actually put the things away when they're not in use. Something about that is just a little too practical and.. polite for me to not be in support of. Lets be honest: the penis is hardly something enjoyable to look at,(unless you’re a man, as they undoubtedly find them magnificent,) and the sheath sort of hides it; covers up the blunt details. This pleases me! You can actually tell the guy to "put that thing away" and he actually can.

It's really rather amazing how circumcision has become the norm to such an extant that many women of my and even the generation before have never even run into the the natural version. What do you think? Is it really fair that the uncut get the short end of stick?

"Taming the Turtle Neck" is a guest post written for

The Peanut Gallery:

Delicate Details

So I think I may owe a little elaboration. I wanted to get into the delicate details in the last post, but, seeing as the topic was confessions of love, I didn't feel it was well placed and highlighted and deleted what I thought didn't meet the sentimental milieu.

What I meant by "unbelievable sex in every sense of the word: literal, suggestive, and up for interpretation:"

Many will remember when I deemed myself a hopeless wistful without. Lately, however, I'm fairly confident that my current sex life could leave Anakin and Padme trembling with jealously from their distant planet paradise. Sex no longer needs SEX: we've discovered that we can make love by rubbing, grinding, squeezing, nipping, tugging, licking, caressing, talking, and breathing; sitting or standing, outside, inside or in a stairwell, clothed or unclothed.

The loudest lesson coming from all of this is that sexual pleasure and, particularly, orgasm, is easily over 70% mental. TMI's savory French urging me along breathily in my ear can nearly push me over the edge sans physical contact. It's otherworldly.

What it got me thinking about today is how truly good sex, and, listen up here, relationships, come with a powerful degree of egoism. A necessity to put yourself first. Thinking too much about your partner leads to a lot of "I dunno, what do you want to do?" and "I only did it because I thought you liked it," which frankly doesn't get anyone anywhere. If you mean something to one another, your well-being is collective. The better you feel the better they feel: applicable inversely, backwards, and all over the place.

AND IN THE COMPLTELEY UNRELATED:

I spent the day today working in a fair-trade coffee shop, pulling espressos, toasting waffles with powdered sugar, and speaking French like a champ. RAD.

Indepedance

This month is a slightly unusual month for me. Normally, like hundreds of thousands of other women, as I approach the 4th week of the month I start gripping my sheets and whining and kicking like a little kid, pleading that the universe grace me with just one more week, one more day, one more hour, before the dreaded menstrual cycle.

But this month, something flat out magical is happening. As I tweeted a few weeks ago, Yasmin oral contraceptives are around €5-8 a month in France. Without health insurance, one packet in the US is gonna cost at least $60. So! Before heading to the South week before last, I made a doctor's appointment, pretended to understand a bunch of medical French, picked up my prescription at the pharmacy, and have since been literally rocking on my heels waiting for the cramps to kick in so I know I can start the first pill.

I took oral contraceptives when I was younger and here is what I'm pretty much ecstatic about getting again: 1) WEIGHT LOSS. Dear god, yes. Just, yes. 2) Bigger Boobs. 3) Easier, more regular periods, and, the reason that started all of this, 4) TMI and I can have sex anywhere, everywhere, and all over the place. It turns out a mutual turn on is going for it where we absolutely should not go for it, (trains, stairwells, movie theatres, crumbling architecture from the times of antiquity) and fumbling with a condom is a serious mood breaker.

But this is all "silly and inappropriate for blogging." Ahem.

So what I really want to say is that, yesterday, I put myself on a bus that led me out of the medieval bubble I live in and into the civilized world, where, at the French equivalent of Walmart, I bought a printer. This is important because now I no longer have to venture into the stinking cave of B to print my exercises each week for my English lessons. This IS NOTHING TO SNEEZE AT. When I arrived in France, I was completely dependent on the guy: I needed him for food, French, a place to stay, moral support, everything. Now, with the purchase of this printer, I have at last snipped that last shred of umbilical cord that kept me connected to that mess of a person. And it feels great.

The Sheets of Scrutiny

For anyone not in the know, IFFTP is a secret. It is written under a pen name and linked on no personal social networks. This is necessary for me to harbor even the smallest hope of a functional relationship on any level, let alone not having to talk any lovers down from the ledge.

Alas, the current squeeze has found it. And, while I long ago made the decision to plow forth uncensored and unashamed, I'm getting the strong impression that IFFTP has irreparably scarred TMI. Knowing that our life between the sheets is currently in publication has seemingly put the pressure on to such an extant that the poor guy behaves like he's going to jump out a window each time the sex is anywhere below mind-blowing.

Frankly I feel terrible. I would hate to be trying to make love to anything under such assumed scrutiny.

The Loving Lead On

After a weekend in bed which could feasibly be called a hostage situation, I find myself in two states of mind: in a sexually explorative haven, and in a frustrated envelope of "The Lame Side of Love." When we're cuddled up, locked in one another's arms, or staring into one another's eyes (which I'm almost CERTAIN is a challenge to get the other person to say it) the words "I love you" are running through my mind like news stories under a television reporter. But despite this impulse I know, now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I absolutely am not falling in love. And, as I seem weather beaten and armored enough to recognize that I'm merely growing attached to his affection, I'm confident that I won't fall into the delusion that it's him I love; he feels wrong for me. The result is feeling a little guilty, a little depressed, and wondering why I can't seem to end up with the real thing.

I haven't talked to him since he left, but when ever I'm considering spilling the three words, I remember Harry, and I know that it would be wrong.

On the positive side, (debatable if you share my mother's opinion) the days spent in bed submerged in constant arousal, hours of foreplay, and French spoken lustily in TMI's rewardingly delicious voice, were wonderful. For instance, after being locked all morning in a passionate hugging/squeezing each-other-until-breathless marathon, (seriously,) TMI said "show me your tongue." A little shy at first, but coerced by his long sensual fingers at my lips, I did. TMI stared and breathed "ho la la..." as he pushed the two fingers into my mouth. Extrêmement agréable.

Later however, in a rare moment of privacy when he had gotten up to jump in the shower, I wrote mom about the insatiable sex drive of my partner. She wrote back "careful, he sounds a bit obsessive." Then referring to one of her best girlfriends in the 55-60 box, said "Lilly's husband is a sex maniac and she HATES it!" I laughed aloud.

All these good and bad feelings together got me thinking about the label "leading" someone on. Or, as it is often morphed to beyond high-school to sound a little less juvenile, "stringing" someone along. What exactly is that? Am I doing it if I can almost certainly say I will not fall in love with TMI? If I were a good person would I say so and stop seeing him? And honestly, when having great sex and growing attached to someone, does ANYONE really have the strength of conviction to do so?