I’m trying to rush to finish some dental work before I possibly lose medical benefits, so I have been to my new dentist’s office twice in a row. I go back tomorrow, and then again on Tuesday. It’s nothing major, just dealing with issues caused by medication and old fillings that need to be replaced.
I sent the following text messages to Mr. Amazing after today’s appointment:
I got really turned on at the denist. I really liked warm, sterile gloved hands in my mouth… and at one point he was resting his fingers on my front teeth and it was crazy hot. I felt helpless and scared and turned on. Do I have a medical fetish? Or do I just like having my face touched?
I usually don’t like having my face touched, but it isn’t like I had a choice. And he didn’t talk, he just did stuff and said things to the assistant. At one point she left and it was just quiet and him doing things to my mouth and I had my eyes closed because of the light the whole time… and I was just stuck there getting my mouth tortured.
My dentist doesn’t block mouths to keep them open, he simply taps on my lips when he needs me to open up and I stay that way until told to do otherwise.
The last time I had any hot girl-on-girl action wasn’t hot in the least, and I’m not even certain that the thing that was in bed with me was a real, live, human girl. I’m pretty certain that some awful, white-trash swamp monster and her charming husband got into the house while we were unawares. It kept speaking pigeon French and asking me for my prescription medication.
She had a vagina.
Of that much I am certain.
Taking that traumatic evening out of consideration, the last time I had true girl-on-girl action with someone who was most definitely all woman was… gosh… February?
It’s been a while to be sure.
Ideally we’d find a lovely gal to play with on a regular basis. A friend, a lover… all of that. A fully bisexual gal, and none of that “pillow princess” or bi-curious bullshit that’s so rampant on Craigslist right now. If there’s one thing I love more than getting fucked, it’s getting fucked while I’m eating pussy seconded only by tasting my own pussy on another woman’s mouth.
Women are just so soft, and they smell nice, and they’re pretty to look at.
I recently had a conversation about why I objectify women and how that relates to my bisexuality. I fully believe the fact that my father had Penthouse, Playboy, and Hustler magazines randomly boxed up around the house when I was little is where it all started. I started masturbating when I was four, and I never thought about boys. I thought about boobs. Big boobs. Little boobs. Boobs in lingerie. The whole vulva area didn’t do much for me until I was in my early teens. Then I had the glories of Cinemax After Dark soft core that I could kind of unscramble with a fine tuning button on my bedroom TV’s remote. Snowy boobs.
I remember the first woman-on-woman scene I ever saw. It was one of those movies where the bored housewife becomes a high-priced escort. A woman in a tux and top hat hires her for her services and they make soft core love.
I cried when I saw it.
I couldn’t believe women were allowed to do that.
I could touch boobs? Boobs that weren’t mine?
It was around that time, fourteen or fifteen, that I started fantasizing about being in the same room as couples who were having sex. One fantasy in particular involved having a panel in my bedroom wall that would slide aside to reveal a couple fucking really hard. The harder they fucked, the more the woman’s tits would bounce. Bouncing boobs.
I didn’t really understand my own bisexuality until I was in High School, and even then I was so very closeted about it. A girl kissed me when a group of us were being dropped off from a party and then told me she wouldn’t tell anyone so my reputation at school wouldn’t be marred. Another girl kissed and groped me in the basement of an old school auditorium where a community theater production was going on.
The first time I was really with a girl I practically date-raped her. She was straight and very very drunk and forlorn over a breakup. I was supposed to be consoling her. Instead, I took off her pajama bottoms and went down on her. I don’t remember if I made her come. I do know she didn’t talk to me after that.
She’s my pharmacist now.
I went on a few dates with a nice Jewish girl, but nothing physical ever happened. She’s happily married now. I went on a few dates with a girl from New Zealand who tasted like cigarettes. My husband and I ended up having something of a three-way with her later on.
It’s been a random parade of women since then- women and couples and the occasional single guy.
Sometimes I try to count how many people I’ve had sex with, and then break it down into how many men and how many women. It’s foggy, truly. There’s good sex and better sex and some heart break. There’s even the girl who got away.
There’s always a girl who got away.
I miss girl sex.
Fun Fact: Chicks always flake on wacky multi-partner sex at the last minute. Always.
As expected, because that is 3 out of 5 planned sexual encounters go, the girl who was supposed to come over and let my husband make nice with her boobs suddenly had to take a friend to the emergency room.
We haven’t had that excuse before, so at least there’s one to add.
The most interesting excuse we’ve ever had was from a couple. The gal informed us that her husband was stuck in NYC with no wallet and that was why they couldn’t come over as planned. Why he was in NYC when he had not been the day prior is a mystery. Then there was the girl who was stuck in a huge traffic situation and kept sending us text messages about how far she had moved up in line, and that she had just pulled over to look at a map. That went on for hours before she suddenly gave up.
Obviously she was never in the car to begin with.
The most common excuses are sick children, sitters falling through, or last minute illnesses. The reality of the situation is that people get geared up and say they are going to do something adventurous, and then have little freak outs at the last minute. They weren’t honest with themselves up front, and therefore can’t be honest with us when it’s time to act. It’s understandable to a degree, but disappointing none the less.
In light of my recent unfulfilled fantasy trauma, I have demanded Mexican food and we will be watching “Premium Rush.”
I will have fried ice cream, oh yes… in my nice, clean house.
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