Monday, February 24, 2014
Sunday, February 23, 2014
The guest and the anchor of the show agreed that security must have been good because there were no major incidents.
Then the anchor asked, "Did the security cause a problem for any of the athletes or visitors?"
The correspondent answered, "Not really, unless you were a member of the band Pussy Riot."
"Yes, Pussy Riot was questioned intensely several times at the protest area, and two of the members of Pussy Riot were detained while walking in the Olympic Village. Most recently, Pussy Riot members were harassed by the Cossacks."
Sounding legitimately shocked, the anchor then said something like, "Wow, this was a bad time to be a member of Pussy Riot, I guess."
The correspondent chuckled and added, "Well, as you know, Pussy Riot has been both an inspiration for protesters and a lightning rod for government attention and disapproval."
It went on, but you get the point, right? I think he must have had a bet with someone that he would say Pussy Riot a certain number of times, probably because they never get to say pussy on the news. I felt like I was in a junior high locker room when somebody said "pussy" and everyone giggled.
I'm sure they have the record for the number of times "pussy" was said during a broadcast. In fact, I think it was probably the most times that pussy was said in a 24 hour period (or longer) on any news channel.
Pussy, pussy, pussy.
I hope he won the bet.
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
I smiled, rolled over, and positioned myself on my knees and forearms. He slid himself inside me and fucked me slowly for about 30 seconds, then he pulled out and pressed his cock into my ass. I squealed and pushed back against him. As he pounded my ass I had a split second flashback to a time about a year and a half ago when he told me that he didn't mind if I screwed around with someone else as long as I remembered that my ass was his.
I was about to giggle about that, but I was yanked out of my daydream by the burning sting I felt when he brought his hand down hard on my bottom. I flinched and squealed. He slapped me on the other side. I flinched again. I waited for another slap, but it didn't come. Instead, he rabbit-pumped me - hard!- until he came.
He leaned over and kissed my back, and then he rolled back onto the bed next to me and we kissed some more - not frantic and demanding kisses, but gentle and passionate ones.
"You know," I told him. "It's been well over a year since I had any anal and that was with you."
He smiled and said, "Good," and continued kissing me.
I suppose my ass is his.
In between kisses, we talked again, this time about what's going on with his work and how our hotel has changed ownership again. We figured that it had changed ownership about 4 times since our first time there. There's a poster on an easel in the lobby showing the newly renovated rooms, but the room we were in, one of our regular rooms, was exactly the same. Same mirror covering the whole wall at the head of the bed. Same carpet. Same ugly curtains that had come partially unhooked. The good news was that it was a bit cheaper now (Woohoo!).
He silenced my chatter by kissing me some more, and he got no argument from me. I've always loved his kisses.
Unexpectedly, he got up on his knees and patted my back.
"Come on," he said.
I raised an eyebrow. "Again?"
This time when he entered me I was in need again. I closed my eyes and didn't think. I just focused on the feelings and sensations. I was torn, wanting to come, but also wanting it to last forever. In the end, I had no choice. My body took over and I shuddered, then relaxed into the pleasure flowing electrically through my whole body. Through the fog, I felt him come. Then he leaned over and kissed my back, then my lower back. The contrast between the power he shows when he fucks me and the gentleness when he kisses my back like he does melts my heart every time.
We curled up together again and kissed some more. It occurred to him that we should check messages since both of our phones had been buzzing and beeping for the last hour. My messages didn't have anything that couldn't wait. Unfortunately, he had a message from his wife indicating that she needed him, so he had to go early. We took another 15 minutes, though, to cuddle, kiss, and talk. We cleaned up and got dressed, and before we left we agreed on the next time we'd meet. Parting was easier because I knew when I'd see him again.
When we got to the parking lot, he kissed me at my car, and then walked to his and drove away. And so our encounter was over.
This morning, I miss him. I'm sore from our playtime, but it's the kind of soreness I love. It reminds me of the passage from The Underfucked Pussy post that talks about a woman needing to fucked wide open by a man, needing his strength, his firmness, and his masculine energy. The soreness reminds me physically that I experienced that...
.....and that my ass is his.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
I replied, "Geez, you're already there?" He was about an hour early. That's ok. Eager is good.
I had to wait another 10-15 minutes before I could leave without attracting attention, but as soon as I could, I texted, "Leaving now."
The 30 minute drive went quickly. I wondered what it would be like to see him after so long. Would it be awkward? As good as before? Better?
When I pulled into the hotel parking lot, I sent my final text, "I'm here."
I walked in the front door and headed straight to the elevator and up to the second floor. Room 201 was close to the elevator. The door was propped open by the slider lock. I pushed the door open and returned the lock to its proper position before closing the door.
I stepped in."Hello?"
He walked around the corner and stood in front of me. I smiled and said, " Hi, JJ." He slipped his arms around me and said, "Hi, Baby" just before kissing me deeply. We stood there kissing for a long time. Eventually he pulled off my blouse and bra and touched a breast. I sighed what would be the first of many sighs acknowledging both the pleasure of the sensations and memories of experiencing them before.
He reached a hand into my pants and started stroking my clit. I wiggled out of my pants to give him easier access. His was an experienced touch. He knew exactly how to please me. He should. He's had years of practice.
I started tugging on his shirt, trying to get it off. He pulled it off for me, then his pants, and we jumped into bed. It made me smile that before we did, we followed the same routine of pulling back the bedspread - him on his side and me on mine - and then the blanket and sheet. It had been 11 months since we'd seen each other, but those little routines and habits were still there.
We got in bed and I curled up next to him, feeling a comfortable understanding that this was where I belonged. It felt right. He kissed me again and again before sliding his hand between my legs. He slid a couple of fingers inside me, finger fucking me. After a couple of minutes, he rubbed his palm across my clit with each stroke. That was like flipping a switch. I was still kissing him, and I screamed into his mouth as I came, bucking against his hand.
I knew that was his warm up. As soon as my shuddering subsided, he said, "Get on your knees." I scurried into position. He moved behind me and slid his hard cock into me slowly. I sighed and moaned this time. Ohmygod it felt amazing, filling me completely.
Not only do I *love* JJ's cock, but I haven't had a cock inside me for a few months. I know. That's crazy, isn't it? Me! After a while, you tell yourself that you don't really need it, and that works until you are fucked again and reminded exactly how much you do need it.
"Fuck me!" I moaned loudly, hoping he would go faster, and he did. I got dizzy when he started pounding me full force, not because it hurt, but because it was pure pleasure - all control taken away, grabbing onto the sheets and bracing myself by putting a hand on the wall in front of me to keep from being pushed into it, his fingers digging into my hips. The orgasm came on me like an explosion, like the dizziness was the burning fuse and the launch propelled me to another level of pleasure. I screamed and bucked against him. Soon after I came, while I was still coming, actually, he released into me, groaning loudly, pulling me back onto him as he took his final thrusts.
After he came he pulled out and collapsed next to me. Holy shit! I thought. I have missed that so much. I looked at him and realized I've missed him so much.
I curled up next to him and we kissed some more. In between kisses, we finally talked.
"I've missed you."
"I've missed you, too."
"I never stopped loving you."
"Don't ever leave me again."
Eventually, we started talking about ordinary things. Had he started training yet for that upcoming race? How my boys are, what's going on with his family, you saved how much when you switched from AT&T to T-Mobile?
More kisses, then he reached between my legs again. Time to go again? I thought. He answered that unspoken question a moment later when he smiled and said, "On your knees again."
To be continued.....
Saturday, February 15, 2014
I watched the first several episiodes of House of Cards on Netflix last night. In episode 2, one of the main characters reveals that she had been raped in college. She had kept it quiet for 25 years, telling no one but her husband, but then her rapist appears in her life again briefly. He acts like nothing ever happened and he even leaned over and kissed her cheek. A few days later, she publicly shared what happened and named her rapist.
Seeing him brought back the memories and the feelings surrounding the awful event, and finally, 25 years after the fact, she took her power back and put the pressure back on her rapist. Will that make her feel better?
Maybe. Priobably not. But it's worth it to her if there is any chance at relief. Relief from what?
Watching her situation play out triggered my own memories. Her assault took place about 25 years prior to the accusation of her rapist. Mine was only 11 years ago. Writing that feels so strange. Eleven years. That was before my youngest child was born. That sounds like a long time ago, but it feels like last week.
I was just watching the show, excited that the new new season was finally here, and my heart started racing, I felt sick to my stomach, and my eyes quickly filled with tears. When that happens, I know I can't close my eyes because then the images will start flashing in front of of me, but the longer I hold out, the more likely it is that I'll start seeing the images anyway.
That's when the full blown PTSD hits. Then I can't see anything. I can barely breathe, and emotionally it feels like I'm right back there - fighting back until I had no fight left; feeling every blow, every cut, every thrust; wondering if I'd ever see my family again.
Sometimes it hits out of the blue. It will be sparked by a particular smell or the way shadows fall on the street or a man wearing a brown sportscoat. Then I feel a sense of panic and all that goes with it - rapid heartbeat, queasy stomach, sweaty brow and palms. Imagine the emotional and physical sensations of being chased by someone with a weapon who wants to kill you. Then imagine them just erupting within you when you're not in immenent danger at all, just because you passed by someone in a the grocery store wearing a certain cologne or you hear a car door slam. Sometimes you have no idea at all why it hit you.
So you isolate yourself. Sometimes it's isolation in a crowd, where you seem to socialize a lot, but you're careful not to let anyone really know you. You try to bottle up feelings that can't be bottled up. Eventually, they'll explode. Until then, you'll be alone.
Over 22 million women in the United States have been raped. That's about 1 in every 6 women. Almost a third of rape victims develop PTSD at some point in their lifetime and 11% still have PTSD today,
In addition, 30% of rape victims suffer from major depression. They are 4.1 times more likely than non-crime victims to have comtemplated suicide, and 13 times more likely to attempt suicide than non-crime victims.
And it doesn't only happen to women. Almost three million American men have been raped, going way beyond the estimated 600,000 inmates in the prison system who have been raped.
While only 70% of female rape victims withhold the information from their families, 90% of male victims don't tell anyone. It took me 8 years to tell my husband and that was because the PTSD was so bad I had to either tell him or let him think I was crazy.
It strikes me that there are millions of women walking around as survivers of sexual assault who have PTSD and/or are suffering from other negative effects who are not even aware of what's really going on.
They don't want to say anything because they think they'll be judged, and all the evidence indicates that they are right. People expect soldiers to have PTSD, but they don't expect it from a homemaker or businesswoman.
What if we just assumed that whenever a woman exhibits behaviors like those I described above she just might be suffering from something? What if we just assumed that she had suffered and was recovering from an unforgettable event? What if we chose to be compassionate without knowing exactly what's happening?
For women who have been raped and end up with PTSD, recovery takes place over decades, not months. The impact of that one unforgettable event lasts a lifetime.