used without permission courtesy of citizentruth.org

I met Greg early in the summer of 2011, on Craigslist’s Women Seeking Men section, which was my preferred dating site in those days. It had been a few years since I’d had a long term relationship, and I wasn’t really looking for a boyfriend; I was looking to get laid, early and often. Craigslist proved to be a fertile playground for me – I put the call out for a strong, older than me, mountain man-type of guy, and they answered. I’d never been poly before and when I was younger I didn’t think I could or wanted to or knew how to. At 40, I was interested in finding out if the poly/non monogamous/multiple partner/no strings attached sex lifestyle was for me. And so, I had many dates, all with nice men, some who I ended up liking a lot and seeing more than once, some whose names and faces I don’t remember. The first meeting was (almost) always platonic, an easy hi-how-ya-doin opportunity for me to give these guys the once over in a public place, usually Cesar Chavez Park, with my dog Buck at my side so he could give them the once over, too. After email and text introductions, Greg and I had our first meeting at the park, and he appeared to have all the traits I was looking for – taller than me, nice, witty, with a confidence that made him seem like he could fuck. We agreed to a second date.

In my experience, there are two types of dating – looking for a long term, exclusive relationship, and looking to hook up. When both parties are looking for something long term, a second date means dinner, conversation, maybe a hug or a kiss on the cheek when you say goodbye. When folks are looking for a hookup, the second date means fucking. And so, when Greg and I finished our dinner at a tapas restaurant in Temescal, it was clear that we were both ready to get down.

We got back to my apartment, and began to make out, get comfortable, get naked. Because I was used to hookups, I kept an easily accessible stash of a variety of condoms and lubes by my bedside, knowing that I couldn’t rely on men to bring their own protection, and also because it seemed like something a good hookup hostess would do. Although Greg was easily 20 years older than me, he was in great shape – a strong, muscular build, with not too much body hair, but what hair he had was gray and trimmed. I was super turned on, so when he took my panties off, and then his underwear, and we grinded together, it did not occur to me for one second that when it came time for fucking, one or the other of us would not pause, grab a condom, and proceed accordingly. We hadn’t had an explicit conversation about protection – I just assumed that because we were basically strangers, and because of polite society rules, condoms would be used. And yet, we were there grinding, making out, getting hot, and all of a sudden Greg is inside me.

Wait, wait! We need to use a condom.

No – I already started…

and a second later he was done.

Soon after finishing, he said he ought to get going because he had a  yoga class in the morning and I was relieved. I knew something…wrong had happened, but what? What was the name for the feelings I was having? I didn’t physically push him off me, but he also didn’t stop when I asked him to. I couldn’t (and still can’t) put my finger on what I was feeling, but I knew something wasn’t right. I was reluctant at the time to talk about it with any of my friends, and wrote it off in my mind as a sort of non issue…because it wasn’t what I consider rape (what Whoopi Goldberg famously called “rape-rape”), but it wasn’t 100% consensual, either. For a long time I took responsibility for it (whatever it was) happening because I should have explicitly had the safe sex conversation with him before I brought him home. But…don’t most people practice safe sex, especially when they’re not in an exclusive, long term relationship? Especially when they’re just hooking up? Until that point, I don’t think I’d ever had that conversation – I talked about STIs, sexual boundaries, and sexual preferences with other partners, but it never occurred to me that anyone would ever fuck a stranger without a condom.

I understand the #metoo movement – I have experienced various forms of sexual harassment since entering puberty, starting with the boys in my 5th and 6th grade classes grabbing my developing boobs and ass every chance they got when the adults weren’t looking. Up until this incident, I felt very confident that I knew exactly what sexual harassment and sexual assault looked like, felt like. If a friend had come to me with this same story, I would have assured her that it wasn’t her fault, that Greg was a complete dick and that what she experienced was, in fact, a kind of sexual assault. I would probably encourage her to seek out some kind of help to process what she was feeling about it, either through therapy or guided meditations, or to keep talking about it with close girlfriends. When it comes to me, though, with this particular incident, even after receiving support and validation from everyone I’ve told, I still feel like #metoo?




Men Without Hats


“You can see inside me, will you come inside me, do you wanna ride, inside my love?”

Minnie Ripperton, Inside My Love


There are few things I love more about sex than going bareback with a partner, and until I met John, it’s not something I’d ever really done before. Having come of age in the 80s and 90s, the practice of safe sex was drilled in to me – “The J, the I, the M, the M, the Y, the J, the I, the M, it’s Jimmy!” was a song I heard almost daily in high school, KRS One and his crew rhythmically encouraging us all to engage in safe sex. Condom use was a given – not ever a question, whether I was on the pill or not, whether I was with a partner of many years or a brand new one; the guy I was with was going to wear a jimmy hat. That’s it.

And then I turned 40, and had my whole sexual awakening thing, and started fucking guys 10, 15, 20 years older than me – men who came of age in a decidedly different time, where the worst thing you could catch was the clap or a pregnancy – both easily treatable conditions in the 1970s. These men were willing to use condoms with me since they had to – but preferred nothing at all, and told me as much. This was an entirely new concept for me to consider.

And so, after 20 years of fucking, I have discovered something new about myself – my vagina is not exactly the self-cleaning machine it is commonly expected to be. Unlike in porn movies, where a woman gets a big cumload inside her and it oozes back out, all slow and sexy – once a guy cums inside me, it settles in and stays. Gets real comfy. Languishes. As all women know, anything that stays in the vagina for too long starts to become…fragrant. Not like the botanical gardens after a July thunderstorm fragrant, more like your local supermarket’s meat counter in July fragrant. Not *quite* right.

While I acknowledge that there’s something sexy about natural smells (my number one favorite is to sniff  John’s underarms after he gets home from a day’s work), the smell emitting from my vagina a couple days after it’s been jizzed in is not cute. I am not here for it. I’ve talked to friends, lovers, and consulted the great minds of Google about this, and they’ve all assured me that I am fine, that my vagina is perfectly fine. I’ve gone to the gynecologist, 100% convinced that I will be diagnosed with BV and they tell me no, I’m perfectly fine. My friend Kelsey assures me that men like the smell.  She says I’m perfectly fine. My husband and lovers have told me that they, in fact, sometimes want me unwashed, that they like me ‘dirty’.  I oblige, because I’m a team player, but still I am not entirely convinced that its a good idea.

I drink a lot of water, take my 50 billion strength acidophilus capsules daily, wash with unscented soap, and still, I feel like there’s something more I can do on those post-coital days. One of my favorite doctors, Roxane Fiscella , once told me that occasional douching was ok. “Our mothers and grandmothers did it”, she reminded me, and said that using something gentle like vinegar and water, or even just plain water, is fine every once in a while to rinse with. I have always found Dr. Fiscella to be the comforting voice of reason.

And so, friends, my number one recommendation for cleaning out the cummiest of vaginas is a little miracle potion called YeastGard  – I don’t remember exactly how or when I found it, but I’ve been using it for years and I love it. YeastGard makes a number of products, but the one I’ve found to be most effective is the douche. You can’t find it at most drugstores – I’ve only ever seen it at CVS (standalone CVS stores, they don’t have it at the Target satellite pharmacies), and recently I discovered I can have it shipped to my door via Amazon.  It is a homeopathic formula in a probiotic base (according to the packaging), and although it is marketed as relief for the itching and burning associated with yeast infections, I find it to be an excellent cummy pussy rinse. Completely neutralizes the Ph of my vagina and rids me of all evidence of the previous days’ activities.

**DISCLAIMER**  – I am not a doctor, and I am only sharing what works for me. If you have concerns about your genital health (guys, I’m talking to you too), please seek the professional advice of a licensed clinician. And whether you are concerned or not, please see a doctor annually for a general check up. Early detection is the best prevention.









Fucking While Fat

“Wanna fly, you got to give up the shit that weighs you down.” -Toni Morrison (Song of Solomon)


Poly life isn’t all sunshine and rainbows – some of it can be really hard, and because this is a path we are all forging as we go along, tough issues sometimes come up. I’ve had to deal with ghosting, breadcrumbing, jealousy, STD scares, time management issues, insecurity – the one that’s the worst for me personally is that I fucking hate being fat. That feels like such an unpopular sentiment these days – there is so much talk of inclusiveness, body positivity, fat acceptance. I love seeing photo shoots with fats, I love seeing big women proud of themselves, celebrating their curves and rolls and folds and soft spots. Me? I am not quite there yet. But still, I’m out there in this dating world, where I regularly, shyly, openly share my body with new people who I’m not always 100% convinced love my folds, rolls and curves. My friend Aida* once told me “Fake it til you make it”, and for every new partner I find myself naked with, that is my mantra.

In keeping with that spirit, I will share with you a few stories of triumph and survival of fucking while fat:

• I am more burlesque than stripper in the bedroom – I feel self conscious about getting completely naked with new partners, and I find that strategically placed thigh highs, crotchless panties, camisoles, etc. help me feel like I camouflage perceived problem areas without coming across as an uptight prude. I was thrilled when Nigel introduced the idea of CFNM to me – I loved that there were men who were more than happy to get naked while their partner stayed clothed. I was there for it.

• Wearing clothes that don’t make me look like I order from 1-800-IGIVEUP: in spite of the fact I’m not in love with my body, I still like to get dressed, and I especially like to wear pieces that accentuate what I think are my best features – my waistline, and my cleavage. There are woefully few places that cater to size 16 & up without being matronly – my #1 go to is Torrid. The clothes are generally well made and affordable, and they are always having a sale (like right now!!). Fats, go to Torrid and get the whole entirety of your life. If you haven’t been lately, go back. Trust me on this.

• That time last year when I forgot I was fat. Or maybe more accurately, I forgot to feel bad about being fat. I was with Josh*, so nicknamed because he is basically identical to the character on Blackish – we’d been seeing each other for a few months, and he was always very appreciative of all aspects of me, not the least of which was my body. I realized one day after he left my house following a particularly intense fuck session, that he’d made me feel so good, so sexy, so accepted, that for those few moments I’d completely forgotten that I was fat. I was so fully present with him, none of that other stuff mattered. That was a good time.

• My partner Oskar* is a kind, handsome, fit Afro-Brazilian man. I am never unaware of our size difference – not because of anything he says or does, it’s just that incessant anti-fat internal dialogue that buzzes in my brain like the most bloodthirsty mosquito. One time, when we were about to fuck, he asked me to take off the panties I was wearing. I was kneeling on the bed, and as I slowly lifted my dress to reveal these, he said, “Oh! Wait, no. Leave them on.” and proceeded to caress and admire my ass in them for the rest of the evening, pulling them to the side when we fucked. Yes, please.

• When asked what kind of  woman I’m attracted to, I explain there are two types; butch dykes (my fave), and  a certain kind of femme. I’m not so much into the in betweeners. The way I explain what kind of femme I like best is this: a woman whose ass, when she bends over, forms the shape of a perfect upside down peach. I have seen women like this. I like them very much.

Last weekend Jones and I had a room at the Hyatt that featured a strategically placed full length mirror on the wall adjacent to the bed. I was relaxing when he came in, straight from work, sweaty and tired but ready to fuck. He stood at the edge of the bed, across from the mirror, and told me to come to him, pushing my head down onto the bed so my ass was raised high. As he fucked me from behind he pulled my hair and told me to look at us in the mirror, and there I saw it – that peach ass was on me! A big, luscious peach. It was exquisite to see his hands on me, delicious to feel the intensity with which he was getting in to me. I like this Jones very much.

• My incredible husband, who has always made me feel like I was the most perfect woman ever on this earth. Jon likes lingerie and sexy things as much as the next guy, but I believe him when he says he simply likes me braless, preferably braless in a tshirt. No bells, no whistles, just me, as I am. His appreciation of me as I am makes me appreciate myself just a little bit more.

And although this is not a video about fat issues, it is an interesting video about polyamory which touches on some issues of insecurity:


* you know the drill – names have been changed






Sleeping With The Enemy

Considering my penchant for insanely white guys, it was bound to happen sooner or later – I fucked a Trump supporter.

Jones* approached me on FetLife, and although I’m not actively looking for new hookups, I am also not one to pass up a good opportunity. And Jones seemed like one – he met all of my initial basic requirements; older than me, open to dating a married person, pervy, yet respectful. Through the dozens of dirty and getting-to-know you text messages we exchanged in those first few days, I felt like this was someone I wanted to get to know. When he suggested we talk on the phone and make a plan to meet in real life, I was for it. He charmed me as much with his spoken words as he had with his written ones.

But, then I did the math: Jones is male, white, 55, works in construction management, and is from a small Northern California town. Not metropolitan, diverse, Bay Area Northern California – like rural, predominantly white, State Of Jefferson Northern California. This guy voted for Trump, I thought to myself, intense dread spreading through my body. So I asked him, point blank.  His answer left me less than satisfied.

I immediately texted my friend Ella* to make sure I wasn’t crazy. Our conversation went like this:

Me: …he lives in (small Northern California town) which is total fucking hicksville. It’s Trump country. When I asked if he voted for him, there was the briefest pause followed by, “No. You don’t like him, huh?” 

Ella: GODDAMMIT WHAT THE FUCK. Trump is as bad as fucking Dahmer. And people ask that?

Me: It was a lie, right? 

Ella: OMG this dude. He better just be awkward and not have been lying. 

Me: I think I’m dazzling him with my wit and sass so he may have been awkward.

Ella: Dazzling him with your covfefe.


I like to think I am a good judge of character. Maybe it’s street smarts from being born and raised in New York, maybe it’s just from being an astute observer of the world around me. Maybe it’s because I have a complete POS for a father – I just know when people, especially men, aren’t right. I am not fooled by slick words, big promises, and sly glances. My instincts are strong, and I trust them, rely on them. Jones struck me from the beginning as a fundamentally good person, smart, someone I liked right away – but, was it possible I was off about this Trump thing? I agreed to meet him for a walk in the park, and he was just as good and smart and charming in person. Instincts aren’t science, I thought to myself. I guess you’re wrong. We made a fuck date for the next night.


Soon after, Jones asked me to join him for a second date, this time at the San Jose Hilton where he’d rented a room on the top floor of the hotel, overlooking the west side of town. It had floor to ceiling windows, and the lights of the city were beautiful. It made the perfect backdrop for our evening together. The sex this time was delicious – it was slower, more deliberate, more sensual than our first encounter. It was great. We collapsed in a heap, taking time to drink and have a little nosh while we caught our breath. As we laid there Jones said, “I have to admit, I lied about the Trump thing.” I shot up and screamed, “I fucking knew it!!”



Jones was not here.


Usually, I am so thrilled to be right, but this time it felt so, so bad. How could this be? How could this man, who up until now presented as so…rational – how could this same man have made such an irrational choice? Not just irrational – how could he align himself with a campaign which attracted such racist, sexist, xenophobic supporters? Like dude, really, WTF? I felt so lucky last year, when many of my Facebook friends complained of fanatical Trump supporting friends and family – I sat back and thought whew! I don’t know a single person who would even remotely in a million lifetimes consider voting for this fucking maniac. The only person I kind of sort of knew was the woman who had a booth next to me at the local monthly market where I work – I overheard her conversation with a customer praising Trump, and I immediately asked to have my booth space permanently changed. To find myself laying naked in a bed with a Trumpite?  I was pissed, freaked out, and sad.


So, we started talking. About my life, his life. Politics. Beliefs. Our histories. He listened to me, I challenged him. We couldn’t be more different as people, with completely different life experiences – but, for as many differences there were between us, we have been able to find so much common ground. I realized, this is the work that can be done with the average Trump supporter. Not neo Nazi, anti-choice, anti-Muslim trash – there is no reasoning with those people. But, for people like Jones, people who are not trash but for some reason made an insanely shitty choice? People who otherwise have little to no opportunity to have a meaningful conversation with POC, who have no practical knowledge of LGBTQ folks, socialists, feminists – why not have that conversation? Why not engage the discussion? I decided that this would be my contribution – to change the hearts and minds of Trump supporters, one fuck, one conversation at a time. With Jones, I’m happy to put in the work.


*names have been changed











Origin Story

The earliest memory I have of Angela is sitting in Amanda’s* living room, overlooking Central Park. Our friends gathered to talk about which high schools they planned to go to; in New York, there are specialized high schools that you have to test in to, for the arts, sciences, etc. Thousands of students apply for a limited number of spots. It is insanely competitive. I’d tested well enough to be on the waiting list for Bronx Science (at the time the second best math and science school in the City), needing to complete summer school courses in order to be considered for full acceptance. I felt pretty good about myself.

Also there that day was Angela, a recent transfer from Omaha, NE. As a native New Yorker with an attitude to match, I summarily dismissed this Johnny-come-lately, midwestern hayseed. And she liked Prince? Ugh. She thoroughly offended my urban punk/New Wave sensibilities. I was over her before she even said a word.

And then she chimed in nonchalantly, “Yeah, I’m going to Stuyvesant” (aka the #1 math and science school in the City). Without any mention of the summer school requirement! WHAT? She was smart? Smarter than me??!! Who was this girl?! My interest was piqued and from there, we were fast friends. She was clever, funny, wild, and not a virgin, which at 14 was not something I expected in a peer.

Those years were so fun; sure, there was the requisite teen angst, my life at home with my mother was terrible – but hanging out with my friends, with Angela, was a refuge. We cut school, took pictures in the park, experimented with alcohol and pot, learned to smoke, we talked about everything, we laughed so much. Spent so many lazy afternoons at Ared’s* house – another brilliant Stuyvesant dropout who, in 1985, had a computer! More than one computer, actually. His mom didn’t mind that Angela, Amanda, Ijeoma* (my best friend at Bronx Science, another crazy girl who captured my attention the first time I met her),  Jacob* (the love of my Bronx Science high school life) and I hung out in his room when we all should have been in class. Angela and I became blood sisters when I accidentally cut my finger at Ared’s – I’m pretty sure I was about to cry when Angela cut her finger too, pressed it against mine and said, “We’re blood sisters!” It was a magical time, and Angela was unlike anyone I’d ever met before. So kind, and encouraged to be smart, free, and an independent thinker by her equally smart and feminist mother, Kate. Their dynamic was totally different from the one I had at home, and I loved it. I pretended to understand Mary Daly’s writing and first heard King Crimson’s ‘Thela Hun Ginjeet’ at Kate and Angela’s house. Angela was my fearless leader, and I was so happy to be her sidekick.

The turning point in our best friendship was the summer of 1986, when, given the choice between inviting Amanda or Angela to spend the summer working with me at a lefty-hippie retreat in New Hampshire, I chose Angela. Our bond was cemented .

IMG_7313Angela & me in the staff room, World Fellowship, Conway N.H., summer 1986

Angela was sex positive from the start. (I, on the other hand, would remain a virgin until I was 19.) She had multiple partners without apology – not even boyfriends, just fuck buddies. She fucked Ared’s doorman. She fucked guys in high school whose names I don’t remember. One time we were roaming the streets of the Upper West Side and met Monk*, the son of a famous jazz bassist (you can hear him in the Tribe Called Quest clip below) . I remember I had a terrible cold that day which made my voice raspy in a way that I loved, and I felt super cool smoking unfiltered cigarettes as we sat on a stoop somewhere around 77th Street & Amsterdam Avenue, Monk and Angela bonding. They hooked up for months after.

When she worked as a dominatrix at a private S/M club on the East Side, I’d meet her when her shift was over, the other Dommes occassionally letting me humiliate a client while I waited. Angela chose to live on her own when she was about 17 – she responded to a Roommates Wanted ad at an East Village health food store – turns out it was the guitarist for the Bad Brains and his wife, looking for a roommate/nanny for their kids. Again, Angela was off on an amazing adventure, one that I gladly tagged along for.  At 18, she met and moved in with a small time pot dealer named Tingus, who was an abusive, controlling dick. I didn’t understand domestic violence at the time, I thought they just had an intense relationship.

In early May of 1989, Angela and I hung out for the day before I left for my second annual summer pilgrimage to Provincetown. We said goodbye to each other at the corner of 11th Street and 6th Ave, in front of Famous Ray’s pizza. She walked east to her studio apartment on 12th and B – I walked west to catch the 1 train home.

On May 30, 1989, Angela killed herself.

11043120_10204477817159410_4285901258687019411_oWhere I last saw Angela alive

When I was 21, I had the hottest, sweetest, sexiest affair with a much older comrade in the revolutionary Trotskyist organization I belonged to. He was almost twice my age (41) and I was on fire for him. He was a solidly working class man – a union shop steward in the city of Detroit, he wore jeans and a denim shirt at the same time, rocked a total 1970s – style pornstache. Gun enthusiast, but on the revolutionary side of the working class for once. This ‘old guy’ was so ridiculously hot and I was smitten. My lifelong attraction to older mountain-man type guys was confirmed.

But, I was also in a long term committed relationship with my boyfriend at the time. I had no intention of leaving  – I loved him very much and I absolutely didn’t want to hurt him. I just knew that I really wanted to fuck this comrade of mine. It was my first introduction to feelings of polyamory in myself, but I didn’t have the language for it. I was a cheater, and cheating didn’t work out so well for me. Plus, I was too young to fully embrace my desire for older men. I kinda put those feelings in a box and set them aside.

For the next couple of decades I had a series of vanilla relationships, with both men and women, always “age appropriate” and monogamous. My last monogamous relationship was with Zack – for the sake of brevity, let me just say Zack and I weren’t a good match, and he sucked all the joy from my soul. After we broke up, I took a two year hiatus from dating to fill my soul back up with joy, and when I was finally ready to start dating again, I thought about what I really wanted, the things that made me happy – older men, unattached sex, lots of sex in general. I asked the universe (by way of the internet) for partners, and the universe provided them (by way of Craigslist and later OKCupid, Tinder and most recently, FetLife).

Internet dating was tricky for me – my real name is unusual, super Googleable, and I didn’t want to put all my business out in the streets to these complete strangers. I thought of an alias, one that I liked, that I’d remember, that was close to my own name, and it turns out, close to my heart. And so, I became Angela.

It was a couple years later, once I met my (now) husband Jon*, that I added the last name ConPermiso. With Jon, I learned that I will do pretty much anything if I have his permission. So, he goes by Mister Permission, and I am Angela ConPermiso (Spanish, literally translates to with permission). I am so proud to be called Angela, and every day I strive to honor my beautiful friend’s legacy of sex positivity, fierceness, and fearlessness.

*names of the living have been changed

The Return of Chibs

The guys I’ve dated have been a varied bunch, all with their own unique traits and characteristics. Several of them have had the same name, so to help differentiate between them and for fun, I give them nicknames.

There was Brian*, a longtime ironworker who apparently never wore sunscreen, so he came to be known as George Hamilton Brian. A few months later I dated another Brian, who I called New Brian, then about a year after him there was yet another one whose nickname was obviously New New Brian. Now, when John and I talk about him, we just call him NewNew.

There was Robert*, who was married and refused to share a picture of himself with me before we met but assured me that I’d like him – he said he looked like Clint Eastwood. Usually I won’t meet a person without seeing a pic first, but I was intrigued by his confidence and wanted to see if his claim was true. Turns out, he did resemble Clint Eastwood in his Dirty Harry days. He was great in bed, but one weird thing is that he’d had prostate surgery and as a result when he came, no actual sperm came out. Imagine a totally normal hard cock, and a typical male orgasm, without the mess! It was kind of nice, actually. I told my friend Jin Soo about him and he instantly named him Clit Hardwood. So perfect.

There was Big Mike, Salad Mike, Conny, Coppy. Beardo. Beige.

But first, there was Chibs. I’d seen his ad on Craigslist before, but had been afraid to answer it. He described himself as a Dom, looking for a willing sub to use as he wished. When I first saw the ad I don’t think I even really understood what those terms meant – by the time I came across it again in the summer of 2013, I was willing to explore a D/s relationship, knowing that I’d do it if I could top from the bottom. After a brief email exchange we agreed to meet at one of my favorite meeting places, Cesar Chavez Park in Berkeley.

As soon as I saw him I knew I’d made the right choice. He was tall, with salt and pepper hair, glasses, and just a hint of a drawl, rugged good looks, like he was raised in the country in Montana somewhere. He looked like he might’ve once been in an outlaw biker gang. Like Chibs from Sons of Anarchy. We took a walk around the park, the conversation was easy and lively. We were feeling it. At one point he said, “I want to see your tits. Take them out.” I was like WHAT. Of course I said no, and he said, “I’ll keep watch over your shoulder while you keep watch over mine. No one’s coming. Take them out.” Now, ordinarily I would tell someone who I just met and asked me to do this to fuck themselves, for real though. But there was something about this Chibs, something sexy, and safe, and extremely attractive in his bossiness. I did it, and he said I was his good girl. We made a date to hook up the next day.

We saw each other regularly, once or twice a week for the next five or six months. I learned so much with Chibs – he was married, so I learned a lot about discretion; I was forbidden from wearing any kind of fragrance, nothing, not even deodorant. He was my first Dom, so I learned about safe words and rules – my favorite thing that we did is that we’d use the name Angela when we were playing. It turns out Angela is a complete whore that will basically do whatever is asked of her (I’ll tell you about the time we took a field trip to Secrets another time). But, if there was something serious I needed to address or an issue that went beyond our safe word, then we’d use my real name. Having that rule gave me such a sense of safety. I went farther with him than I had with anyone else up to that point. So, when he suggested that he find a third person for us to play with, I said yes. I would fuck this guy sight unseen, literally – Chibs would find the guy, vet him, make all of the arrangements. I would leave my front door unlocked and wait for them, blindfolded and on my knees in my bedroom. I did. They came, and we had fun. We always did. Chibs and I liked each other a lot.

There was always the issue of his wife, though; he’d been caught cheating before and it devastated her, devastated him to have hurt her. He was always torn between being a filthy dirty pervert and a husband and father. One day he told me that he couldn’t do this anymore, that he couldn’t continue to see me. That he was sorry, but that our relationship had to end. I knew he was serious because he addressed me by my real name. I was bummed, but I understood. This was January of 2014.

Fast forward to the summer of 2015. I haven’t heard from Chibs in over a year – he sent an email to check in with me a couple of weeks after we broke up, but other than that, radio silence. I’m working at my shop, it is hot as hell and I have the door open to let some air in. I was super focused on whatever I was working on when I sense someone behind me. I turn around, and Chibs is standing there.

We made small talk, caught up with each other a bit, and then he asked me if I was still his good girl. I said, “I never stopped being your girl” which, you guys, was a really good response!!! I felt super sexy when I said that. He asked if his girl would be willing to give him a blow job and I said that of course I would. So I did, right there on the dirty ass floor in my shop.  He finished, left, and I never saw him again.

I stalk him from time to time on Facebook – I see his profile pic with him and his smiling wife, his photos from the anti-Trump march in Oakland this past January, his lefty political commentary. I miss my sweet bossy Chibs. I’ll always be his girl.


*names have been changed


First The Funs, Then The Runs

I’ve sucked a lot of dick in my day. And, I’ve been told I’m good at it – probably because I like doing it so much. I love the challenge of seeing how much I can take in my mouth, how deep I can go before choking, I love to bring a man to the edge of cumming and then back off, making him crazy. I like having my mouth fucked til my nose runs. All of it. Its fun.

The other thing I like to do, which I guess sets me apart from many of the blow jobbers out there, is swallow. Its kind of my claim to fame, my signature move. Its the piece de resistance of any decent blow job session, in my opinion. It is loving and kind. But, I’ve come to learn, swallowing is not without its dangers…

The first time I experienced the cum shits was back in 2015. I never eat much before a date because 1. I’m always nervous 2. I don’t want to be farty and 3. it is totally not hot to get thrown up on while being deep throated. That day I had a date with Sven*, a very kind Swede who I’d been seeing for a few weeks. Logistically we were unable to actually fuck (our collective fatness made penetration impossible), but we did a lot of hot toy play and oral. Sven came in my mouth, I swallowed, and soon after he was on his way. About a half an hour later I felt the strong urge to fart, and since I was alone, I let it rip. Friends, it was not a fart but in fact a vicious torrent of liquified shit leaving my body in such a cascade of urgency as I’d never experienced before. I’m pretty sure I shit out things I’d digested in 1993. It was fast, unrelenting. Unmerciful.

I chalked it up to swallowing on an empty stomach and vowed to have a little nosh before I saw Sven the next time. I did. And, same results. Our relationship didn’t last long after that.

I’ve never had this problem with my husband, or with any of the guys who came before or after Sven – until June of 2016. I met Chris*, a cute, younger-than-me Tinder hookup who I agreed to see at a Peets in San Jose because it was close to his house – our texting had been so hot and heavy in the days leading up to our meeting that I was fairly certain we’d get down on that first date. I like to make things easy. As I drove to meet him I ate a turkey sandwich and an oatmeal cookie, had an ice tea. It seemed like decent pre hook up/cum shit preventative meal, which I finished at about 4 in the afternoon.

Chris was as cute as his pics, and as charming in person as he was over text – it didn’t take long to get back to his house and get down to business. He was great in bed – lots of kissing, lots of foreplay, and he fucked me six ways to Sunday…it was about 10pm when, as we took a break from fucking, I decided to be seductive and ask him if he wanted to cum in my pussy, or in my mouth. He chose mouth. I was happy to oblige.

I live in Richmond, which, at 11pm on a Wednesday night is about an hour drive from San Jose. As I passed through Fremont, I got that familiar, hollow, crampy feeling in my lower abdomen. Holy fuck. The Cum Shits were back. I told myself I just had to hold on for a few more miles and soon I’d be in the comfort of my own bathroom. I pressed a little harder on the gas, clenched my cheeks together and tried to breathe through the pain. As the cramps got worse, I knew there was no way I’d make it all the way home. I could try to stop sooner, but I wasn’t sure I’d be able to hold it together long enough to locate an open restaurant or gas station, ask for the key, find the bathroom. And what if someone was already in there? I couldn’t take the risk.

Luckily, my work studio was on the way home, in Berkeley, and I knew no one would be there that late at night. I screeched to a halt in front of the building just as I was no longer able to control myself and got to the bathroom in almost enough time. It was…messy. Let me give a shout out and say, Resolve is not only for carpets. It works just as well on car seats.

So what in the tarnation was going on with me? Why was this happening? Did this happen to other people? WTF? I asked my doctor at Kaiser; she had no answers and only shitty advice – she recommended that I either give blowjobs with a condom, or stop swallowing altogether. Hi? Duh. No.

Thankfully, Dan Savage had answers (and also gave me the title of this blog post):

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So there you have it folks. Some guys have more prostaglandins than others, and its just a crap shoot as to which ones do. I haven’t stopped swallowing, and I have no intention to – the only thing I do differently now is that I keep Immodium in both my nightstand and my Ho On The Go kit.

Read the whole Savage Love article here:



*certain identifying characteristics have been changed for privacy