Object of Desire

Colleen reached out to me over the holidays. We hadn’t seen each other since last spring. It was nice to hear her voice. After meeting for coffee (one of her passions) we tentatively rekindled our relationship. I’m accompanying her to hear Rachmaninoff’s Symphony No. 3 this weekend.

Colleen is smart and lovely. She’s a companion for coffee dates and Bible study, for walks in the park and chaste hugs at the end of the night. Yet I find it hard to develop any sort of sexual attraction toward her. Even the vaguest erotic thoughts about her are quickly suppressed. Her commitment to purity negates her as an object of desire. She’s a “good girl” – virtuous, innocent, chaste, virginal. By putting her on a pedestal, I’ve de-eroticized her.

So my gaze wanders to the Whore. The Whore is impure. Debased. Stripped of any pretense to sanctity, the Whore is the one who’ll give me a dirty blowjob on her knees in a dark corner. That fallen “daughter of Eve,” the temptress and seducer who entices me to yield to my corruptibility: “For although the devil tempted Eve, yet Eve seduced Adam” (Malleus Maleficarum, 1484).

My attempts to sublimate my sexual drives have proven unsuccessful. I continue to date “good girls”:

Yet I continue to lust after sluts:

Seeing Colleen only intensifies the dichotomy that defines my sexual life. With Colleen I’m considerate and unfailingly chaste. I can’t even imaging doing anything inappropriate with her. The sinful flesh will not be denied, however. My aspirations for purity are no match for my erotic impulses. Today I made an appointment to visit Betty.

Betty has moved closer to my residence, making our regular rendezvous even more convenient. She met me at her spartan incall apartment wearing a skin-tight black dress that highlighted her ample bosom. I set down the donation, and we made small talk on the couch. Perhaps she sensed I was in an especially amorous mood, for she asked if we would like to get “comfortable” after just a few minutes. Her black dress came off. So did my pants. The condom came on. Soon I was running my fingers through her soft black hair as she orally pleasured me. Then Betty accommodated my request and bent over the bed. I moved behind her and slowly entered her. Through it all, I was conscious of my impending date with Colleen. Guilt over my transgression hovered over me. Yet I confess that it also produced an erotic charge that intensified the pleasure I experienced. As I furiously fucked Betty, I gloried in my shame (cf. Phil 3:19).

Cold Fuck

The stress of looming deadlines begets frustration. Frustration that yearns for the relief provided only by sexual release.

I encountered that cute barista at the coffee shop again. I fantasized about accompanying her to the storeroom, pressing her up against the wall, and fucking her mercilessly. I don’t even know her name. A zipless fuck was all I wanted.

Afterwards I discreetly called Joyce. To my delight, I discovered that Sara had returned from her hiatus. Despite my busy schedule, I set up an early evening appointment.

I arrived at her old city loft in the brisk winter twilight. Her athletic body was covered only by red Santa-themed lingerie. There were a few friendly words between us, but no substantive conversation. No matter. My attraction to her was purely carnal.

We sat on the couch and immediately started making out, our tongues exploring each other’s mouths. My hand reached underneath the fabric of her lingerie and clasped her breast. I positioned her to sit on my lap; I wanted her to feel how hard I was. Our bodies writhed, signaling their immanent coupling. She suggested we move to the bed. I got up, unbuttoned my shirt, pulled off my pants and boxer briefs. She tossed aside her thong panties. We positioned ourselves on the bed.

Then we fucked.

Sex is nothing but sex. Sex is not love. Sex is furor and rapture, the quest for the self-oblivion of orgasm. As I vigorously fucked Sara, overcome by Dionysian fury, “lovemaking” was not my intention. It was a cold fuck. It was sex without emotion, without attachment, and without meaning. Nothing more than a robotic release of sexual tension.

Rabbi Shmuley Boteach, author of a book entitled (no joke) Kosher Sex, admits of a disconnect between sex and love:

“What I don’t understand about sex is the fundamental contradiction it poses to love…. [S]ex is stifled by relationship and routine. It seems to thrive most through novelty rather than intimacy, through new flesh rather than old love.”

This insight should lead us, one critic of the rabbi’s approach to kosher sex says, “to internalise that we are – despite everything – animals, and that we have fierce desire to match.”

I recall my hookup with April, the girlfriend of a classmate. Her unsubtle flirtations in the bar led us straight to her bedroom. There I learned that the hookup code stipulates that displays of affection are verboten: no kissing, hugging, caressing, cuddling. In our sexual sophistication, we had no intention of making love. (“We’re going to fuck, right?” she asked to reassure herself of our intentions.) We quickly undressed. There was a certain coolness between us, as if any earnest display of emotion would sabotage our lust. Certainly no professions of caring and concern could be voiced. Only my erect member demonstrated any excitement. There was no need for niceties. As I looked down on her pleasuring me, I felt a dark lustful pride. In fact, lust was the only emotion I felt. We were strangers to each other, united only by having surrendered ourselves to lust and our cold, mechanical fucking. As soon as we finished having sex, our bodies disengaged. There was no kiss goodbye.

I am quite adept at separating emotions from sex. In fact, I can only have sex when the emotional component is minimized. Even when I was with someone I had affection for (such as Rhonda), I emotionally detached myself during sex. Generally, men more easily separate sex from emotional attachment than women. (Samantha on Sex and the City famously wanted to “fuck like a man.”) Sexual liberation, moreover, emphasizes the removal of restraints and the exploration of expanded possibilities (i.e. multiple partners, varied activities). Emotional commitment is an obstacle to sexual freedom. It may also be antithetical to the nature of the sexual act itself.

“But the cold fuck is the fuck,” philosopher Alan Soble writes. To conceive of sex in terms of consideration and mutuality “ignores (what Augustine did not) the spontaneous, uncontrollable arousal, the turbulence, the frenzied passion, the involuntary jerkings, the quest for omnipotence, the primitive infantilism, the acquisitiveness, and all the rest of the eros in the sexual.” Sex is not nice. To pretend otherwise “disregards the essentially amoral, Dionysian dimension of the sexual.”

The Moment Came

“Promise me that you’ll jerk off to me.”

It was an interesting request. Then again, “Siobhan” is an interesting girl.

A self-described twentysomething “hippie floozy” with curly red hair, she was on tour from New England. Siobhan was surprisingly soft spoken and shy at first. I had secured an appointment with her after seeing her posts on Twitter. As dusk settled on the city outside her hotel room windows, she opened up about her interests: gardening, sci-fi, political activism. And smut. (She quizzed me on what types of porn I consume.) She’s a practicing pagan, and she was curious as to my thoughts on her religious practices. (A form of interreligious dialogue, I suppose.) She grew more effervescent as our conversation progressed. She talked about her girlfriend and bondage. Meanwhile I anticipated the moment when she would remove her black skirt.

Finally the moment came. I unbuttoned my shirt and unzipped my pants. She pulled down her black panties and revealed a glorious red bush. My throbbing hard-on signaled that it needed attention. She positioned herself on her knees in front of me. A passionate, sloppy blowjob ensued. Then we migrated to the bed, where she straddled me. Her hairy cunt engulfed my cock. My explorations in paid promiscuity have enabled me to sexually experience a vast variety of women. I’ve developed an erotic palette for different textures, sights, smells, sounds (and even tastes). All my senses are engaged when I’m with a woman. Now as Siobhan rode me, I was wholly engaged in the act, except for the random thought that as civilization bustled around us, we were keeping faith with that primal nature that can’t be civilized.

And, yes, I since have jerked off to her.

‘Tis the Season

The stress of this holiday season has been brutal. Completing my dissertation proposal has proved harder than expected. Church is abuzz with activity. I accepted an invitation from another local Lutheran church to give some presentations on the infancy narratives in the gospels. An impending move has only compounded the stress.

And my libido has gone into overdrive.

But each one is tempted when he is carried away and enticed by his own lust (Jas 1:14).

As I write this at the coffee shop, I’m stealthily eyeing the cute barista with brown hair tied in a ponytail. Petite but busty, wearing black leggings, she’s definitely triggered my lust. Ambrose acknowledged, “A woman is a delight, a bodily enticement.” I felt that ache that’s only relieved by being inside a woman.

Fucking’s a form of anxiety reduction.
Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Despite being extremely pressed for time, I snuck away for an erotic holiday escapade. I reunited with Alexandra, the fetching young BBW, at the downtown hotel where was hosting. She had dyed her hair and become a sultry brunette. Her black dress showed off her ample full figure. She exudes a sexual confidence I find irresistible. As we conversed, she again mentioned her fundamentalist upbringing in the Deep South with its exhortations against “worldly” concerns. Her blossoming interest in art, philosophy, and the sciences was a reaction against that narrow worldview. As our discussion wrapped up, she began playing t.A.T.u. to set the mood.

Then she moved to take off her dress.

Some kissing and caressing. Her brassiere cups runneth over (size 44H), so I reached around her back to unhook her bra. She wiggled free of it, then I immersed my face in her ginormous tits. I kissed and licked and suckled. The rest of our clothes came off. She started gently caressing my rock hard cock.

“God created pleasure for a reason, right?” she sweetly asked.

The duality between the carnal and the spiritual vexes me. Despite my advanced theological training, I continue to viscerally experience sex as sin. Yet the intensity of sexual pleasure — pulsating, rhythmic, spasmodic — proves irresistible.

She bent down and started to lick the head of my cock with her tongue.

Then when lust has conceived, it gives birth to sin (Jas 1:15).

Drops of precum trickled out. Her lips wrapped around my shaft. Her mouth was hot and wet. I tousled her hair. Her tongue again darted around the head, producing jolts of ecstasy. The muscles in my penis started to contract. My body tensed as I tried to resist the oncoming climax. It was exquisite agony.

Then came the juicy ending.

She cleaned me up, and I recovered quickly. More kissing and caressing. She grabbed a condom. I moved atop her fleshy body and positioned myself to enter her. I experienced the sensation of being sucked into her pussy. I momentarily refrained from thrusting to absorb the distinct pleasure of penetration. Then, slowly, I start rocking my pelvis back and forth. I maintained a steady rhythm for quite a while. The desire to penetrate her deeper overwhelmed my self-discipline, though, and my pace quickened. I felt her hips rise off the bed, meeting me thrust for thrust. Now my thrusts were frenzied. Almost unrecognizable guttural sounds escaped my mouth. I was fucking her with all my strength. I felt her nails dig into my skin. Then I cried out my pleasure.

Primal Nostalgia

There is nothing more feminine than a blowob. You naked on your knees. Your guy with his hand resting on the back of your head. A really good blowjob confirms some primal nostalgia. It puts the world in balance.
Chloe Thurow

Is there such a thing as a politically correct blowjob?

A feminist posed the question back in the ’90s. She acknowledged that for a man “having a woman on her knees” is “the penultimate erotic charge.” The charge derives from the “intensely erotic phallic-power associations engendered by the sight of a kneeling woman catering enthusiastically to [his] needs.” This is vexing for a feminist. One academic writes, “Some [females] agonize whether they should agree to perform blowjobs in a kneeling position (or do that other submissive stuff lots of guys seem to love) because complying means assuming blatantly servile postures….” Furthermore, “a fair number of them…get their own erotic buzz from performing the handmaiden role….”

Rhonda was an avowed feminist. She was a single mom by choice. The litanies of postmodern progressivism readily fell from her lips. Yet she willingly dropped to her knees in adoration of the “divine masculine” and paid obeisance with her pretty little mouth. Her technique was exquisite, and it felt good. There was more to it than the raw physical sensations, though. She had animated my dark masculine energy. The sight of Rhonda kneeling in front of me, taking me in her mouth, gave me an almost indescribable feeling of power. Having a woman service me seemed to confirm the natural order of the universe.

Rhonda never articulated why she loved to give head, but identifying as a “sex positive” feminist, she would probably justify any consensual sexual act as consistent with her ideology. I would argue that a blowjob is inherently submissive. Oral sex is by its nature transgressive. As cultural historian Thierry Leguay observes, “Fellatio sexualizes the mouth, makes the mouth a sexual organ in and of itself.” The mouth, which is “an organ of the spoken word,” is rendered inarticulate. “Fellatio, in this light, sullies the mouth.” The act itself, however arousing it may be for the one who performs it, can involve considerable discomfort. As Samantha on Sex and the City noted, “They don’t call it a job for nothing.” Telling a woman to “Get on your knees” shatters any pretense to a forced egalitarianism.

So, no, there is no politically correct blowjob.

Faintness and Abandon

Another engagement with Sarah in a hotel by the airport. I’ve visited her at least a dozen times, but the erotic delights she provides do not get tiresome. When I was younger and striving for purity, I thought the fascination with sex must wear off after repeated exposure. I discovered instead that my erotic appetite is insatiable.

Now I’m behind her on the bed. I grab her hips, then slowly push my cock inside her. I hear her moan. I begin pumping my cock into her slowly. My fingers dig into her waist. “God….” she sighs breathily. My cock rhythmically moves in and out, in and out. Her moans are like music, and I keep thrusting, harder and deeper. I’m getting lost in the moment. The cosmos is concentrated in this hotel room, on this bed, in this woman. It’s just the two of us right there, and I’m losing myself in her. As pleasure overwhelms me, my rational faculties dim. My hips instinctually rotate back and forth in a muscular frenzy. Grunts and groans escape my mouth without permission. I start to feel that “faintness” and “abandon” described by Shelley.

Bataille insisted that the “whole business of eroticism is to destroy the self-contained character of the participators as they are in their normal lives.” In my normal life I put a premium on self-control. I’m obsessed with propriety. I rigidly schedule my time. I’m excessively rational. I’m painfully self-conscious. I’m stuck in my head. What is so frightening, and exhilarating, about eroticism is that it forces me to “let go” and plunge into ecstasy. It’s a release from my ordinary repressed self and my mundane concerns. In the heat of passion, no longer subsumed by my identities, I’m reduced to my erection. There’s an absence of moral judgment. It’s as if I enter an erotic trance, and “what was expected of heaven or fear’d of hell” (Whitman) is banished from my consciousness.

Orgasm is surrendering to the experience. Philosopher Sara Heinamaa observes, “Orgasmic experience does not manifest the threefold structure of experienced time.” The temporal order of past, present, and future organizes most experience. Memories of prior events and the anticipated future mold the contours of the here and now. The experience of orgasm is different. “It dislocates the experiencing subject temporarily and seems to raise her above time or press her underneath its surface,” according to Heinamaa. Orgasm is experienced as a loss of consciousness (la petite mort) and is analogous to artistic inspiration, spiritual illumination, and even madness. It is the experience “of stepping outside oneself and transcending one’s limits.” Ekstasis. No wonder films have commonly alluded to orgasm through depictions of naturalistic “images of overflow and explosion” such as waterfalls and fireworks.

Afterwards with Sarah, I tried to recollect myself. Post coitum omne animalium triste est. Her itinerary will next take her to Orlando. I quietly dressed. She gave me a kiss on the cheek, then I exited her room.

Sinful Sunday

An Episcopalian colleague invited me to Evensong at his church this evening. I initially accepted. But that was before I made an appointment with “Alyssa.” The compartmentalization of my religious and sexual lives extends even to Sundays. I had spent most of the day at church being “holy.” Now this Sunday was to turn sinful.

When I arrived at the hotel early this evening, Alyssa texted me her room number and asked that I give her a few more minutes to prepare. I waited a short while in the lobby then went up to the room and knocked on the door. The door opened. I beheld a lithe blonde in a tight black dress. She extended her hand and introduced herself before welcoming me in. I set the donation on the table. Ambient music played in the background.

Alyssa is originally from Eastern Europe and speaks with a charming accent. She’s transplanted to California and is touring the East Coast. There were some friendly words spoken between us, then….

She undid my belt buckle. I started unbuttoning my shirt. She pulled off her dress to reveal a black bra and black thong panties. She unhooked her bra and revealed a perky pair of breasts. By now I only had my boxer briefs on. We kissed, and I sucked on both of her nipples. She worked her way down to my growing erection. She stroked and kissed my balls and my cock before taking me into her mouth. I let out a slight groan. Her hands grabbed my ass and drew me deeper into her mouth. I looked down to see her as she knelt before me, admiring the artistry with which she pleasured me. Then she stood up, pulled down her panties, grabbed a condom, and moved to the bed. She put the condom on me, briefly lubricated herself, then got on her back and spread her legs.

”Fuck me,” she softly moaned.

I got on top of her and slipped my hard rod inside her. With a series of deep thrusts I explored her depths, with the attendant indescribable sensations. Then we switched positions and she mounted me cowgirl. I grabbed her tits with my hands as she gyrated on top of me. I wanted to fuck her from behind. I asked her to get on all fours. She got on her hands and knees. I only lasted a couple of minutes behind her before I was overcome by ecstasy.

Time was almost up, and she asked me if I wanted to shower. I accepted her offer and washed away the sweat that had resulted from my exertions. After I dressed, she gave me a sweet kiss. Then I departed her hotel room.

Other Kind of Worship

“You intrigue me.”

“Alexandra” was attired only in a sheer black robe which revealed her bra and panties underneath. She hosted me in her hotel room as she was visiting. The information I had provided for screening had piqued her interest.

“I’ve never been with someone from the church before.”

She went on to say that she attended a conservative high school and was “extremely religious.” She was raised Baptist and was active in her church: Bible study, youth group, Wednesday night service. “But now I’m into a whole other kind of worship!”

She then unhooked her black bra (size 44H!).

I immersed my face in her soft breasts. My tongue circled around her large areola, then it danced around her hard nipple. I took her nipple into my mouth and started to suck. Her mammaries received exquisite devotion on my part. Then she sighed:

“God, I’m so wet.”

She pulled off her panties and spread her legs on the bed. I lightly traced a finger between her labia and felt her wetness. I positioned my head between her legs. Her feminine scent was intoxicating. Gently spreading her lips apart, I slowly inserted my tongue into her pussy. She moaned as I ate her out, her hips slightly bucking against me.

After being pleasured for several minutes, she rolled over and grabbed a condom from the nightstand.

“What position?” she asked.

I told her to get on her hands and knees. She playfully jiggled her round, plump ass. I positioned myself behind her, inserted myself inside her, grabbed a hold of that ass, and started to pump.

We were both a long way from youth group.

Intense Pleasure

“I love giving head,” she said sweetly.

Her hand moved up and down my shaft before her mouth engulfed my manhood. I felt her tongue flicker over the head of my cock. Then she took me deep in her warm, wet mouth. After several minutes of intense pleasure, she gave me a naughty look and asked if she could have my cum in her mouth.

A few seconds later I lost control and filled her mouth with my cum.

“Amanda” was visiting at a nearby hotel. I scheduled an appointment with her via text message. After my obligations at church were fulfilled, I drove to her hotel and was at her door. She opened the door in sexy black lingerie. She’s a BBW with long brown hair, a cute face, and a cheerful demeanor.

Shortly after I climaxed, she sensed I wasn’t finished. I was soon standing at attention again. The condom went on. She positioned herself on the bed: face down, ass up. I positioned myself behind her ample rear, slipped myself into her, and grabbed onto her wide hips. I thrust deeper and deeper into her as sweat trickled down my body. Then I couldn’t hold back. I shuddered as I climaxed.

Amanda cleaned me up, then we lay in bed for a few minutes. Our conversation was casual (much of it was about baseball). Then I got dressed. We shared a final kiss, and I was on my way.

Voluptuary

I’m attracted to asceticism. Self-abnegation in the quest for spiritual perfection appeals to me. Part of me would welcome the monastic life.

There are certain pleasures, however, that can’t be found behind the walls of a monastery.

Pleasures like “Daniella.”

Visiting from out of town, Daniella is a petite (4’9″) blonde in her early twenties who looks younger. In accordance with my request, she met me in her hotel room in a short plaid schoolgirl skirt. She’s busty for her size; her tight white blouse barely contained her breasts. Her innocent countenance added to her appeal. As we innocuously chatted, I took notice of her mesmerizing green eyes.

Then she started unbuttoning her blouse.

“It’s the complicity of sin. It’s man and woman, finally awake, looking at each other for the first time since the apple fell on somebody’s head. It’s time! This is the gravity of sexual hunger.”
William Anselmi

The ascetic impulse dissipates in sexual frenzy. As my thrusting intensified and grew more urgent, smashing into her buttocks, the voluptuary asserted his preeminence. It was not the time for monkish self-denial. As our communion of the flesh reached its consummation, I experienced that “soft silent rapture and ecstatic bliss.”