Relax. Sit down. There’s no race to win. Stop being the rule maker. Stop telling everyone what to do. Enjoy yourself. Smile. Laugh. Play music. Cut up. Life is too short to live it any other way.
That’s what I had on repeat in my mind last night as I awaited my husband’s return from work. He did let me know he was playing on his new toy, that small boat, taking it over to a friend’s house and might be an hour or so late.
We watched two videos last night. Both were sent by a dear friend who suddenly began to enjoy squirting orgasms in her 40s. Both videos were on achieving the vaginal orgasm.
My intention was for us to make love afterwards with a few more pussy tricks in mind, but that’s not what happened, folks. A knock down drag out emotional argument ensued instead complete with crying, frustration, passive aggression and stonewalling.
We missed our sex yesterday. Fuck, that makes 7 times in 2019. I don’t like starting a month from behind already. But we missed because he fell asleep and was nearly impossible to stir to life. Believe me, I took off his pants and tried. It’s a funny thing about a fat cat. My husband […]
Yesterday I did research.
Am I the only woman who thinks my clit is evil? Surely other ladies have come to this conclusion too. And surely those ladies (or gentlemen) will have some wisdom to share. But how exactly do you ask Google for this information? I tried a variety of options.
Stop touching clit. Minimize clit stimulation. Clit is bad.
Hell if I know how the people in this new community refer to their well hidden discovery! Perhaps there’s some popular hashtag only those in the know know to use? This is all new to me.
He came in me not once but twice last night, and I was a ravage beast, fucking him like a whore in heat and begging for more, more more. The back massage worked and what I ended up with when we were laying down in bed was my old husband again, the horny one dying for pussy.
“I haven’t orgasmed in 36 hours,” he said wanting me to feel sorry for him.
“I haven’t orgasmed since Friday or Saturday or… I forget now,” I tease back, “It’s just been so fucking long.”
He ate me out for an hour at least, licking my clit and fingering my pussy. I liked the short strokes pressing on the back side of my clit. My husband calls that the little dick guy. I don’t know exactly which of his fingers he was using, but it felt kinda like a thumb. […]
Our alarm went off and we assumed the puzzle piece position of our love. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Stella, my queen, my whore, my lover. I’m so in love with you.”
“Happy Valentine’s Day my king. I love you so much too.”
I ordered my own red, pink and white roses, and planned to make tacos for dinner. I hope he doesn’t buy chocolate hearts and dorky cards. He should know at this point I’m picky and only eat a few types of dark chocolate.
You know sometimes you just next to stay home, watch Netflix, and drink wine and let your usual yoga class slip by unattended. That was my night last night except that I also cooked dinner in my new InstaPot, red beans and rice with grass fed turkey sausage. It took a few glasses of wine before I could figure out how to use the darn thing without hurting myself.
While it heated up, I whipped up some mashed cauliflower with real mozzarella cheese. My husband loves that stuff but I accidentally ate it all between sips of my pinot. Oops. Not sure eating an entire head of cauliflower is healthy however you want to spin it. I believe that everything is good in moderation, which also means that everything is bad if taken to the extreme.
We had sex for two minutes this morning. It was two minutes longer than I desired.
It’s funny how you can be so attracted to someone and want to touch all over them constantly yet not feel an immediate pull to fuck. That’s what it feels like for me right now.
It’s a moving target, my daily horniness rating that is On my days it ranges from absolutely nothing to a twinge of interest followed by an extreme annoyance before landing on a momentary acceptance . Occasionally I’m dying to be smothered under my husband’s masculine body and aching with the impact of each progressively deeper thrust, but it’s not as often as I’d like it to be and no where near as much as he wants.
I tore my clothes off last night and pranced across the room to my side of the bed. My husband lowered his phone and watched with anticipation his eyes aglow. I think even a whistle fell from his lips.
When I reached the bed, he was already folding the cover down inviting me to join him in the cozy comforts of our well-worn love nest. I jumped in and on him planting kisses like a happy girl. He smelled like a clean man and his arms felt solid as he wrapped them around me and squeezed. Like puzzle pieces, we fit together so well, so perfectly. But my feet, they were cold like ice and he pushed them away.
