Date: December 18th, 2010 11:29 AM
Author: glittery psychic philosopher-king
and more azn me-so-horny blogging here:
NYC Financial Analyst Zoe Yang slutty pics/blog
Zoe Yijing Yang might call her blog Strictly Platonic, but
it hasn't always been that way...
Back in the day, before Zoe Yang started her stint at
McKinsey & Company, she was at Ponoma College,
where she caused quite a stir as a sex blogger.
Sex columnist Zoe Yang had some explaining to do after she wrote
a column she wrote last week that described how she used to do a little
role playing with her former boyfriend. I'll save you the sexually explicit
details and just say that Ms. Yang likes to pretend she's a Vietnamese
prostitute and her boyfriend is an American G.I circa the War Against
North Vietnamese Communist Aggression.
Zoe Yang blogged about sex and drugs (but not, AFAIK about rock n' roll).
Two of two happened one weekend night towards the end of the semester. C and I stayed in for some reason, and we decided to smoke. The week had been tough and we both needed to relax. I don't love weed; I always feel stupid for days afterward so I rarely touch it. But if there's one thing I do love about it, it's how it makes sex 80 times better.
When I give massages when I'm high, I put on music with a strong, steady rhythm, and I end up almost hypnotizing myself with the task. I knead like some master baker, only more creative with the body parts I use. Did you know that elbows are particularly excellent for working the deep tissue of butt muscles? I can tell how the person under my me feels because my whole being has melted into his skin. People tell me it's the best massage they've ever gotten. I also often dance when I'm high, just moving and spinning by myself for hours.
Sex usually follows massages and dancing - which often becomes lap-dancing, and it's the same investment in physicality. I hear meditation is supposed to make you more aware of everything happening inside you and around you. Stoned sex is like meditating, like the nerves in my brain have migrated into more pleasurable places and all my little body parts are as obscenely sensitive as tentacles.
The sad thing is, my memory of that night in April (or was it May?) is really, really hazy due to the same culprit. Weed giveth and weed taketh away. It probably did start with a massage. My memory begins with C sliding down my body as I lay back, too lazy to dissuade him. As with Malcolm, I had held off on letting C put his face in the general vicinity. Guys usually don't put up much of a fight when you grab their cocks and tell them you'd rather fuck.
His mouth was tentative, but at least he knew where to put it. Together, we explored: "harder," "suck..." "yes, like THAT," Through the green veil, everything felt sharper, slicker, better, like I was seeing a porno reel of what we were doing in my head and the nerves were juicing from two different places. A small tingle appeared and disappeared in my abdomen and I realized that maybe, just maybe...
"If you're doing it right, she should be humping your face," the sex educator from Babeland had announced to over 100 students gathered in Walker Lounge earlier that year. "Your entire face should be wet and your eyelashes should be like, gumming together afterward." Her words were the ones I recalled as I realized I had laced my fingers around the back of C's neck and was smothering him in my cunt. I was amused by the memory, but also briefly distracted. I pushed it away and returned to the possibility at hand (or mouth).
With Malcolm I hadn't dared move or even touch him, to say nothing of gyrating with abandon. He had been sweeter and sexier for the restraint his presence induced from me. It was a first, and with him I'd felt like a virgin. But C was my steadfast consort. His role in my life was not intrigue and adrenaline but a vanilla sort of pleasure, regardless of how kinky the sex itself was. A very delicious, but very safe flavor.
So even though holding his head and grinding against his mouth was probably the girl-on-guy equivalent of blowjob handlebars, I didn't worry about it too much. He pulled back slightly every few seconds to catch a breath. Pressure, I wanted to tell him, I need pressure like the pressure of your pelvis against me when we're fucking. I'm pulling you in harder and deeper because your mouth isn't cruel enough. I'm shivering because I'm close, and I can no longer say this in words, but whatever you do, don't ease up on the pressure.
But maybe the antithesis of pressure works too. In the end, it was mostly the sucking that did it - his lips and teeth a tight seal around my clit and some sharp intakes of breath and I was gone, digging my toes into the mattress and pushing even harder up against him to wring out every last shudder. I was making up for last time. This time I could definitely say, yes, I came, I came so hard I truly could not stop myself from screaming even though I tried, for our neighbors' sakes.
"Damn." He sat up slowly and gingerly dabbed his nose and chin with tissues.
"Haha sorry, I guess I kind of smothered you."
"That's ok. Just...wow." His expression was dazed awe. I didn't have to reiterate that it was only the second time I'd come from oral for him to treat my orgasm like it was special. I liked that. I deserve that.
Zoe Yang blogged about her "daddy issues" (though, note, she WAS drunk at the time...)
Drunk blogging is 80 times worse than drunk-dialing or drunk-texting. How self-indulgent of me, to let my whiskey-unleashed id scamper across the keyboard like that. Last night's post was one I hadn't planned on sharing until we'd been acquainted a few moons longer/never, but since the sentiment is out, I might as well elaborate.
I have Daddy issues. He made me feel generally inadequate all my life. I've never gotten close to friends, but I spill my guts to the person I'm fucking. That person is usually emotionally unavailable, because that's the type I need to prove that I am adequate and worthy to. That person is invariably no more capable of understanding me than anyone else in my life, but at least he can make me feel better by putting a penis inside me. When we break up, I cut him out of my life completely because he knows too much, and I find myself another. Repeat. That, my friends, is how sexual dependency is born. Even though I talk like it, I am not the poster girl for healthy sexing. Moving on.
A recount of last night:
Lawry party with about 100 people too many: 1
Sober striptease that didn't end in sex: 1
Sloppy sex hours later that I was too drunk to clean up: 1
Zoe being at the right place at the right time: 0
Drunken coeds, oedipal issues, bad grammar, cum...it's all here, folks!