TABOOTY – PART 3

By now, at the tender age of 33, anal play had become quite a staple in my world of sex. The first time I had a finger in my ass I was still in high school. My boyfriend and I were making out under the stairs in his house and our bodies were pinned against each other. I was in jeans and he slid his hands inside my pants. As his middle finger began to tease my booty-hole, I got extremely wet. When he finally stuck his finger in my ass I was totally under his control. With every flick of his finger I writhed with pleasure; until his grandmother came downstairs and we ran back to the couch. It would be years before I dabbled into full-on anal sex; but ever since that day, I loved fingers in my ass. 

The first time I tried anal sex, it was an ill attempt to maintain my “virginity”. He tried to stick it in my ass, but the pressure was too much, so Pop! Went my cherry! The first time I actually had anal sex was with my Dominican Bae. We were in his room and I was completely naked on his couch. He took his time to play with and lick at my pussy, to get me ready. When he finally went to enter my ass (being quite endowed); he took his time. He waited for my body to adjust to his length and girth; he waited for me to give him permission to keep going, and finally, only once my body was ready, he slowly thrusted in and out. As he fucked my ass so tenderly, I rubbed at my clit until I reached my orgasm. That was the pleasurable first experience of anal sex I was glad I had. However, the few that followed were not so good. 

I have a love-hate relationship with porn. I love watching porn for the sake of enjoyment. But I hate the fact that society has become so jaded on what sex looks like and/or is, because porn is such a fucking lie. No female squirts across a room. Not every woman wants to be abused and/or man-handled. And for crying out loud, my ass (and the average woman’s ass) is not a vagina. A vagina is a self-lubricating orifice that can stretch to accommodate penetration and child birth. No ass-hole self-lubricates and the average human’s poop is no bigger than 1” diameter (It’s been proven- I think!). The muscles that keep my shit from free-flowing, will always resist an attack; so, if desiring entry, one must take it slow.  

I tried anal sex twice; both in the missionary position, which is supposed to be easier, and it was painful almost the entire time. Only having one experience to go off of and the exaggerated porn, I allowed my partners to find their pleasure, and disregarded my discomfort. It would take years before I would agree to anal sex ever again.  

By now, I was well versed in anal play. I loved and yearned for fingers, tongue and on occasion, the filling sensation of a butt-plug; but I was still hesitant to allow my partners to enter my ass. I had set up a rule for myself.  The next partner to enter my ass had to be able to demonstrate an extreme amount of restraint. Men would enter with patience, but one inside they would go ham; and I was not having my ass abused like that.  

The weekend I finally revisited anal-sex, I just so happened to be on my period. My partner had previously mentioned that he “didn’t run red lights” so, I was prepared for a weekend of cuddles and delivering him oral. Eventually that position was tossed out the window when I got out the shower with my diva cup in and started to give him oral. As I sucked at his dick, he positioned my vagina to rest on his chin and he licked at my clit. It got to the point where he wanted to have sex and he suggested anal. With a very stern voice, I made it abundantly clear that he had to take his time and if he hurt me, I would punch him.  

I bent over on my bed and he positioned himself behind me. He lubed up my ass and slid in his fingers, one then two. After playing for a bit he got a condom and applied lube to his penis and slowly entered me. With my womanizer vibrator on my clit; coupled with the sensation of him entering my ass, it felt amazing. Once he was fully inside of me, I turned up the setting and I gave him permission to “fuck my ass”. As his thrusts grew more powerful the sensation on my clit intensified. What started as moans, grew to screams, and peaked at a howl as I had my orgasm. With my clit numb and the orgasmic bliss radiating all over my body, I fell into the mattress as he continued thrusting until he had his orgasm; then he collapsed on top of me.  

It took a few days for my poops to feel normal again (I wonder if that’s a thing after anal sex? I still haven’t gotten an answer from Reddit). It was quite possibly the best sexual experience I had in years. For the days following, I found myself stopping and reminiscing. I was happy I found a way to enjoy anal sex again, and I was even more happy with my partner. Originally, I had promised my ass to another partner, but since time kept us apart; I’m glad my experience was with someone I now love.  

In the future, anal sex will become the seasonal item on the menu. I have no desire to have anal sex everyday but, I’m delighted to know that it’s there.  

DEFINING LOVE

Love is defined as: an intense feeling of deep affection; a great interest and pleasure in something; and the list goes on.  

On some level, we all can identify something or someone that we love. I love my family; although I may not always like them; the love I genuinely feel for them is undeniable.  

Another thing I love are desserts; especially Applebee’s Triple Chocolate Meltdown. Even though, I hate what it does to my waistline and my conscience, I can’t deny that; when that microwaved chocolate cake with chocolate syrup center, drizzled with way too sweet white and dark chocolate, with the scoop of ice cream comes to my table; the outside world does not exist. From the first break of the cake as the chocolate oozes, and I try to repeatedly gather the perfect bite with just enough ice cream, to the final bite; I can undoubtedly say that I am in love; if only for 5 minutes. I can scream from the mountain top, the love I have for something that has probably, single handedly, been the cause of all the new diabetes diagnoses, since its inception. But telling someone I love them… Ugh! Can we just eat cake! 

I grew up with the image of love as one person to another. Sure, I always knew of polyamorous love; I just never saw examples of it working in real life. When I decided to live a polyamorous life, after years of being a serial monogamist, I wasn’t sure what to expect; all I knew was that I loved the feeling of butterflies and I needed that aspect to intensify any connection I would garner. Then I met you.

I felt your love for me early on. Maybe it was how often we spoke; or the fact that you always wanted to be around me. But, from the very beginning, when you first laid eyes on me; and I was in a threesome with two other men; I didn’t have to be anyone but myself. Sure, you didn’t love me that night, but after our first few dates, I was certain you soon would. 

You said (actually texted) the words when I was going through a dark patch with my family. I knew you was going to say it before the message came through; and although it was great to know your true feelings; it did absolutely nothing to make the situation better. It just meant that you were going to be there for me, and that was enough.  

The last time I said I love you was in 2013. In 2012, I met my now ex-boyfriend. We had connected on the dating app Badoo; I was so confident that he was the one, and that there would never be another. So, within a month of us online dating, before we even met in person; he told me he loved me and I told him back. We dated for just over a year before the once strong and undying love I had for him actually died. When I finally ended the relationship; he told me that I never really loved him. Hmm? I was certain that I did, in fact, love him, at some point during our relationship. I looked back at our pictures and they looked like love. I though back to all the times I cried for him, (I cry very easily, so maybe that’s not the best example). When I looked at all that I had done for him during our relationship, I knew that I wouldn’t have done any of it, if I didn’t love him. So, what the fuck was he talking about? How could tell me, the feelings that I had for him were never real? Then, years later, it finally hit me… His love was not my love.  

My love isn’t the jump off a cliff, walk into the fire, sacrifice my life for you love; like his was. My love is practical yet whimsical. My love is stern, but it can also be pliable; it can be loud and it can be quiet, it can be suffocating and it can be distant. However, above all things, my love for another will never be stronger than the love I have for myself. I can love someone with all my might, but if that relationship no longer brings me joy, I have no problems walking away to be on my own.  

So, after him, I reserved the declaration; because if tomorrow comes and I want to go back into my shell; it’s important to know what we shared was real and it was love, even if it didn’t and/or doesn’t last forever.  

I was sitting at a jazz show, listening to the music being played. As the lady on the stage sang about love; it was in that moment I knew I loved you. It struck me as odd because I was at the performance to see one of my other partners perform; but, the thought of you ran through my mind and found a home in my heart. I started to get warm all over, it could’ve been the 3 drinks that I had; but then it happened again. When I was walking down the street talking to myself (as I sometimes do); Boom! There you were again. I tried to apply logic and reason, I picked the way I felt about you apart, I dissected it like a dead frog on a metal table, and it still came back – love.   

I could drive myself mad trying to define and break down what it means to be in love while polyamorous, but I just know I love how I feel now. The love that we share doesn’t have to look like everyone else’s, because we are not like everyone else. I simply want to live and love in this feeling for as long as we’re meant to.