This is an older photo, taken back in 2010 on my 32nd birthday. Not as old as I’ve made it look, though! I adore the view of Auckland behind me in this shot, and I’ve edited to make it look like the old pictures in my family photo album. If my parents had been up Mt Victoria in Devonport before I was born and taken a photo? Then this is similar to what the picture would look like, I think.
You only ever get one first kiss. Trite but true.
But there are other ways for a kiss to be first. Sometimes, when events go well and energies click, you get to have a new kiss experience. A first-kiss-with-them. A memory of flesh and emotion made together.
Before that, though, there’s the dance. Do you like me? Do I like you? Are we both wanting to do this thing? Sometimes it’s a subtle dance of glance and smile and head-tilt and lip bite. More often (in my case, for sure) it’s the blunter two-step, coming after an overture of long hugs, conversation, shared jokes and little touches upon shoulder or waist. “I like you.” “I like you too.” “I’d like to kiss you.” “Okay, then!” Or words to that effect. A desire to dance. But what is the rhythm we should move to?
So, having bemoaned the loss of my libido a wee while back, I am delighted to say that it is now back with a vengeance! Why had it vanished? How did I get it back?
Well, there were a few steps, and I thought I’d share my Libido Resurrection Programme™ for anyone else out there who is also hunting for their missing sex drive. The steps went like this:
Determination & Application
I love to be bitten. Teeth sinking into my skin makes me weak at the knees, and frequently wetter than I thought it was possible.
All my lovers know this – and more than a few of my friends. Most are delighted to put teeth to flesh; some because it gets me hot, and some because it gets them hot. But everyone bites differently. It’s surprising the variation you get between folks. Allow me to provide examples.
A word from the heart goes straight to the heart. – Abbé Huvelin
Words hold a lot of meaning for me. I’ve always been strongly impacted by the words people choose to use when talking to me, describing me, or denigrating me. Not for me the easy ability to shrug off phrases I dislike – instead they can pierce me deeply.
But at the same time, compliments and positive feedback settle warmly in my chest, and I need them frequently. I get a lot of happiness from receiving positive feedback (recognition of my actions is something I need from all my relationships, be they lovers, employers, family or friends). And over time there are phrases which particular people have come to use with me often, in the form of a ritualised compliment, or nickname, or recognition.
It’s just a couch. Not particularly pretty – verging on exceedingly ugly, in fact – its pilled brown fabric has seen years of laundry piles, children’s feet, dumped shopping, and tired bottoms. It’s really a practical couch. It takes up one wall in the dining room, close enough to the kitchen to sit and talk and drink a glass of wine (once you move some laundry, that is). It’s near the dining table, near the computer, near the bookcase, near the la-z-boy. More than just practical, it’s convenient.
You can tell your mutt your girlfriend is a slut
You can use my dildos when I’m gone
Or you can tell your mates that I fucked on tape
When I was going for job interviews recently, Hermes made a point of telling me that I am ‘made of awesome’ – a wonderful statement which made me grin, and which I promptly took to heart. I know many things (good things) about myself, but that one had, for some reason, escaped me.
Ever since, it’s become something of a catchphrase, mantra, and useful reminder. I am made of awesome. Yup, I am made of awesome!
When we left our intrepid exhibitionist, she was in the process of de-clothing herself whilst seated in a Skoda …
Alas, taking off all of my clothes was not a practical notion – although I promptly divested myself of my shoes (in the depths of the footwell), my cardigan (somewhere on the back seat), and my singlet I know not where (bra? there was no bra!). Also stripping off some layers, Hermes removed his hat and hoodie, leaving him clad in t-shirt and jeans.
In which Dee muses about the combination of car interiors and lust:
Messing about in cars seems to be a peculiarly teenage pursuit, for the most part. When there is nowhere else to go for that make-out session, oral action, or fucking, the lure of the automobile is most potent indeed. There are, however, a few requirements for this – all of which I managed to procure at various times in my youth:keep looking »