I needed this chick weekend. After the exlapsing, and finally shipping him 2,000 miles away to the West Coast, I needed girl time, big time. And I got it, big time. But it made me want a guy, big time. I finally broke down in a sex-toy store, holding a flogger. What can I say, I’m weak.
It started out innocently enough. There was a happy hour, and a few $3 cocktails. Then someone got the bright idea to walk down the street to a sex toy shop, because there’s nothing that makes us girls feel more powerful than new sex toys and the ability to be the masters of our own domains and all that crap. Amid the brightly colored sentinels of sensuality, we can convince ourselves that these are not all just substitutes for cocks. Cocks; those things that are attached to the men we don’t currently have in our lives.
Look, I like toys. A lot, actually. And god knows, there are times when some good porn and a vibrator is WAY more appealing to me than a guy. But the truth is that I like toys even better when they are shared WITH a partner. And I was, at the time, still freshly-fucked enough to remember the last 3 days with the ex. The explapsing, as I’ve come to call it.
So I see the anal toys, and think “Eh, his cock can do that better,” or, “oh, yes, both at the same time, nice.” Then someone picks up a riding crop and I remember last weekend when he finally got all equestrian on my ass…. Yah, I’m jonesing. I don’t want to miss him, but I do.
But it was a flogger that did me in. It had long, thin, rubber strands, like a horsetail, but better. And I just lost it. I picked up my phone.
I put down my phone. I picked up the flogger instead, and hit myself with it, in the head.
I put down the flogger. I picked up the phone.
I slid open the keyboard. I typed, “I have had 3 cocktails and am standing in a sex toy store playing with a flogger, I am weak. Very very weak.”
The phone buzzes back. I have a Pavlovian response to it. I tingle as I slide it open to read it.
“Oh ya, tell me about the flogger. Would it leave marks on your delicious ass? How much could you take?”
“I can take anything you can give me.”
“I can give it to you all night, in lots of ways, and you know it. I’d love to see my cum dripping down the red marks you your ass.”
“Like a kinky candy cane!”
“I know how you like to suck.”
Ahhhhh, all better. And no, I did not sext the ex. I Sexted the guy I’ve been sexting for damned near a year now. Hot sexting. I have videos and photos. He has shared intimate secrets with me, and vice versa. It’s an unconventional relationship, for sure, but it’s based on trust, intimacy, enjoyment and respect.
We have sexted for hours, all manner of things to do with each other – and other people. Some sweet, some filthy, some toys, some…. You name it. We have the best sext you can imagine. Sometimes I just get a single one, without warning, “cumming.” I love this relationship.
This is all we do. Sext. We “met” on an online dating site. I was looking for a relationship, he was looking for sex. I don’t like to have sex outside of a relationship, and somehow we settled into this sexting thing.
We did meet for a drink once, and I thought it went well. It ended in an incredible kiss. That’s the only time we’ve met. For a while I hung on to the idea that we’d date – he’s actually kind of perfect for me. But we never did. We sext, a lot.
We stopped sexting while I was dating someone else, but when I stopped dating that guy, we started Sexting again. Every now and then he says he wants to actually go out and do stuff, but we never do. (We actually have similar interests and lifestyles outside of sex too. I suspect we’d be great together, but…)
But it has become this really safe place to get the sexual energy out, without the mess of actual sex.
Anyway, the evening rolls on, my girlfriends and I hobble to one of our homes and the drinking continues. As does the sex talk. There is snuggling and drinking, and smoking and snorting and hot tubbing. And then one of my friends whips out the flogger. SHE BOUGHT IT! She’s standing in the middle of the room smacking her hand with the flogger and looking around, asking for volunteers without saying a word.
My phone vibrates. I’m excited for the hot message that I know is coming. I am disappointed when it’s the ex, saying something sweet but show-offy about what a great time he’s having with his friends. Nothing about me, or us. “What are you up to?” he asks.
My response: “Tequila, coke (the good kind), friends, a new flogger and a hot tub.”
I didn’t hear back from him.
I turn my gaze back to the party, where my sexy girlfriends are snuggled up and chatting in various stages of unclothed, going between hot tub and the couches and fire. One of my friends is on all fours, being flogged, with her pants on. (Yes, on this night, my life is like a porn film, minus the actual sex, bad music and pizza delivery man. It’s actually all very innocent and powerful, but I don’t know how to make it sound that way, given what it looked like. And yes, it looked really hot.)
My turn. I stand up, take off my pants and let my friend have at it with her new flogger. It felt so good. Partly just because it felt good, but partly because it was so great to trust my friend and know how happy she was. Partly because we were all just in this place together and incredibly safe – in this room was all the magic that any of us want out of relationships. And partly because the ex wasn’t there, this was just about me.
When she was done, my ass was stinging. Red, welted, puffy. Complete. I handed my phone to another friend, who knew, without being told, that a picture needed to be taken. It was.
It was then sent to my sexting buddy. 5 minutes later, I got a one word response. “Cumming.”
Honestly, this is one of the most satisfying and consensual relationships I think I’ve ever had. It just works.
Unfortunately, at the end of the night, I was weak. And I sent the same photo to my ex. His response came the next day, “aw, your cheeks are rosy.” It was sweet. But he revealed nothing about himself. I had revealed everything.
I realized then and there what the difference was. There is no game and no mystery with my Sexting Buddy. It is totally direct and mutually satisfactory. There are no questions, there is total trust and generosity. With my ex, it’s all a game. A bargain. A mystery. There is no trust. No shared understanding.
I don’t know what my ex actually thought of the photo, because he would never tell me. Was he jealous? Turned on? Afraid? Curious? Did he want to do that to me? Did he want to watch someone do that to me? I have no idea, his response had NOTHING to do with him. He showed me nothing, shared nothing with me.
My Sexting Buddy? “Cumming.” That says it all, and let’s me know that he felt me in a very real way, and it moved him. And he wasn’t afraid to let me know. That’s hot.