Blind Date – Cold Comfort

yinyangmoonOne year ago today was the last time I felt that there was such a thing as OK. That dreams could come true. That the Universe could get it right once in a lifetime. That Home exists. That the lips I kissed carried the ancient, missing piece of a conversation that I’d waited for 40 or a thousand years to have, that nobody else understands.

Since I’ve been in exile, without warning or reason, without you my soul is a refugee, without mooring, wandering as the wind howls in cruel jagged edges over the raw, bleeding cracks of loss and grief. And to understand that my displacement was simultaneous with your imprisonment by those jailors you can’t shake is of no comfort.

Rosa Sparks
rosa.sparks@sexwonks.com

Photo courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net

Shiny, Pretty Things

It’s true what The Beatles opined: “Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends.” I received an internationally-shipped package today from my dear friend, Mr. Ed C. Wood. Take a little look-see:

Now, you might be wondering, “What kind of friend sends another friend a sex toy? Dude. That’s just some weird shit. I don’t even get that intimate with my spouse.”

But you know what? That’s a true friend. Ed is my gay soul mate. We “get” each other. We’re often very much in sync. And to think that when he was given this particular toy as a gift at a conference that he recently attended – and acted upon the thoughtfulness and generosity in his heart to share this with me – well, that really touches me (pardon the pun).

And isn’t that what friendship is about? Not to mention, Ed has a LOT more experience with different types of toys than I do. It’s just a fact. And this speaks to how friends (and partners, if we’re lucky) complement each other. As a friend (and fellow Sex Wonk), Ed wanted me to be able to try something new – even in the absence of a lover – in the spirit of sexual anthropology and exploration. It will help me to enhance my own sexuality at least, but hopefully it will also help you in some way if I’m able to share about the experience and make recommendations or observations about the toy’s use and maybe even (if we’re lucky) we can engage in a conversation about it and help each other.

And I believe in “paying it forward,” too – I have recently helped a long-time friend – through providing research and suggestions and after many years of trying – achieve orgasm on her own. We’ve been discussing this for a long time. I continued to provide her with encouragement and ideas – and when I got that e-mail last week with the subject line that read, “I did it!” I was overjoyed for my friend and felt so good that I had a hand (even if not literally) in helping her reach one of her most treasured goals. What difference does it make if it happened to be sexual? In some ways, it makes me sad that I was the only person she felt she could seek guidance from on this matter.

Along with my shiny new sex toy, Ed also included another sparkly piece:

You’ve probably noticed that my sound quality on our podcasts has been lacking, and we really appreciate you hanging in there with us until now – the audio should be a lot more balanced and better moving ahead because of this beauty. And it’s all thanks to Ed, our tech guru, who you may hear me lovingly poke fun at when he gets all “techy” – but the reality is, THANK GOODNESS for his mad skillz!

Are you fortunate enough to have good friends who have your back on WHATEVER kind of issues you face? Do you have soul mates who aren’t necessarily your lover or partner? Do you have any suggestions on how I can most effectively use this toy?

Please give us a shout.

Love,

Rosa

Rosa.Sparks@sexwonks.com

Letter to the Professor: Unruly Heart

“You just need to release your self and let me come in. You are my wine!”

Dear [Whatever Name You Want to Feel],

You have beautiful words. I am a lover of words and so they are important to me and I appreciate them. But I have also learned the harshest of lessons recently about what words can and can’t do. There is nothing and nobody but my own heart who can decide when it will release itself and when and who can come in.

“You just need to” is great advice, but life doesn’t work that way. Unfortunately, there is not enough room for anyone in there at this moment because it had recently filled and overflowed with the missing piece of my soul. I’m not quite sure you truly understand the profundity of what I am grieving. I’m not a teenager. I have had my heart broken and I have broken other hearts. What I am grieving is the other side of a conversation that my soul had been missing for thousands of years. An epic connection that told me my dreams were all coming true and that I’d wandered in the desert for 40 years and it was all worth it to eventually find this person.

One doesn’t “just” do anything when that inexplicably goes missing except to first struggle to even wake up each day. It’s progress when one no longer wishes for death to come in the night. It’s even enormous progress when one gets to a point of thinking that maybe the Universe will prove her wrong and that there could be hope for future love. Someday.

I have made big progress, but perhaps not enough yet. It is a process. And yes, I’m ultra aware of time. I never expected to be “here” at this point. Much as I hate to waste my precious time grieving, I must also accept that grief takes its own time and journey and we cannot force it. There is clearly a lesson that it needs me to learn for the next half of my life and I haven’t quite yet wrapped my head (or heart) around the lesson. Perhaps I am slow.

The last decade of my life has been about giving myself away to men who claim to love and accept me for ALL that I am – the “good, bad and ugly” – but who ultimately flake out because they never truly loved me – only loved the IDEA of me. Right now I must focus on healing myself and loving myself or I will not be any good to any other person who might be worthy of me or I of him.

You should ask yourself: are you really interested in a Jew with tattoos who doesn’t like to feel tied down and who runs a sex podcast and blog? I may look good on paper – I am well-educated, I have a fabulous resume and I am the consummate professional. I am loyal, playful, honest, kind, generous, sensual, loving and real. But I’ve also caused people to want to take their own lives because of my inability to commit. I’m not so sure you’re aware of the freak that I really am. I could ruin your reputation.

Even in “normal” times I am a “runner.” If things get too close or pressurized for my free spirit, I will run and leave someone flapping in the wind. And I am feeling pressurized now. My heart is not peaceful. You certainly deserve more.

You want babies. I fear the loss of my freedom and the woman I need to be first with the birth of babies. This is a fundamental divide for us. Funny, though – with the one I lost I was the woman I wanted to be and every cell in my body had cried out to make his babies as if it were Written. With him, I didn’t feel pressurized or trapped or feel the need to flee. The butterfly had found its nectar home. Or so his precious and perfect words had (mis)led me to believe.

The only person I need to let come into my heart right now is ME. I have forgotten about me for a long, long time. It cannot come from the outside in. It must come from the inside out. It has taken me 41 years to learn this.

I hope you have a lovely day.

rosa.sparks@sexwonks.com

Photo provided by freedigitalphotos.net

We Could Dream This Night Away

As Autumn shimmies in, it’s a big time for reflection. In fact, it’s the Harvest Moon tonight (also known as the Wine Moon, the Singing Moon, the Blue Corn Moon and the Elk Call Moon). So we might bask in the abundance that we’re reaping; or we might wonder if we’ve actually sown enough of – or good enough of – what we should have this past year.

A few days ago, Yom Kippur was observed. Otherwise known as the Day of Atonement, it’s the most solemn and holy day on the Jewish calendar (which, by the way, also happens to be a lunar calendar – so no coincidence that it falls during this most contemplative time of year). It’s traditional not only to do some deep soul-searching, but also to deny oneself of certain basic comforts for 24 hours in order to symbolically repent and focus. For example, one is supposed to fast, give up bathing and not engage in sexual relations to name a few.

Forgiveness is a major theme of this holy day. We are meant to be asking for forgiveness for any transgressions that we may have committed during the past year – either intentionally or unintentionally – and we are supposed to find forgiveness in our hearts as well. We ponder how we can do better for others, for ourselves and for the world in the new year.

So I got to thinking (uh, oh, there she goes again!): In terms of sex, is there anything you’d like to do better with in the coming year? Have you been true to yourself sexually? Have you done everything you can to meet your lover’s needs? Are you living who you really are – your best self sexually, emotionally, intellectually, creatively, otherwise? 

And when I say you, I mean all of us, including me. Which got me thinking even more (Red alert! Red alert!), especially upon reading Ed C. Wood’s blog from this past week, It’s Just Sex? Ed raises some really good questions when it comes to pondering if I’m being true to myself sexually. Like Ed, I am of two minds on the matter: on the one hand, sex is sex. I adore sex. I need sex. Sex is healthy. It’s part of who I am. I want it (dare I say… I’m nearly desperate for it).

Although I take care of myself liberally as needed, it’s beginning to reach that critical point where nothing but a penis – a penis attached to a real live human being who also has arms and lips, amongst other things – will satiate my profound need. I almost feel like a Hazmat situation, walking around like a radioactively charged danger to myself and others. I know that if I really wanted to, I could fuck that corner ice cream store owner with the reddish hair and the blue eyes and the pony tail who has that Viking look that so totally turns my crank (“Please pillage me?”) I’m pretty sure it would be hot and raw and that I’d catch some un-intended girly feelings. I could also (if I were a different sort of person. Read: opportunist and user) take the infatuated, kind, intellectual, poetic African professor up on his offer to pay my way to his university in Florida so we could explore the possibility of making some babies together (therein lies the rub: he’d like to make some babies; I’d like to suck and ride on a big cock sometime again in this lifetime. Are the two mutually exclusive?)

But, see, here’s the other hand of the matter. And I really sometimes wish that this part didn’t matter, so that I could just go get me some dick and move on with a freshly-fucked swagger. That is, despite the urgency of “getting my groove back,” sex is a powerful and complex thing. I’m not so sure that I could – like a decade ago – live on booty calls. Just fucking might be helpful in the immediate term, but upon asking myself Ed’s question, “Is it just sex?,” I must admit that (at least for me, and we’re all different) no – I don’t think it can be “just sex” for me anymore – much as I’d like it to be. So then, given how much I need and want sex, how can I be sexually true to myself at this time?

This past year, the lover whom I thought was my “one” (the man who broke my heart and cracked my soul and had me feeling like a widow when he disappeared inexplicably after having told me I was his “one” and had asked me to be with him and share our lives together – yeah, that man) had, while we were in the early stages of discovering the epic connection we had, enlightened me about a song by my life lyricist, Morrissey, which I had shockingly not previously known about, called, “Let the Right One Slip In.”  I must be honest here, listening to this song again is heart-wrenching because there had been no doubt in my heart, mind, soul and body that we were made for each other; that the Universe had finally brought us each “the right one” and he was the only one I wanted to let “slip in.” Forever.

Let the right one in
Let the old dreams die
Let the wrong ones go
They cannot
They cannot
They cannot do what you want them to do
Oh …

Let the right one in
Let the old dreams die
Let the wrong ones go
They do not
They do not
They do not see what you want them to
Oh …

Let the right one in
Let the old things fade
Put the tricks and schemes (for good) away

Ah … I will advise
Ah … Until my mouth dries
Ah … I will advise you to …

Ah … let the right one slip in
Slip in
Slip in

And when at last it does
I’d say you were within your rights to bite
The right one and say, “what kept you so long ?”
“What kept you so long ?”

You see, I had truly thought that I would no longer be in this quandary of either seeking out “just sex” with other people, or keeping my own self somewhat satiated whilst waiting for “the right one.” I realize that in our spectrum of sexuality, these are not my only choices, so I continue to ruminate on how to be true to my own self and my own sexuality. How to forgive him as well as how to forgive myself if I’m not getting or giving what I need.

Perhaps my dear Ed C. Wood has offered up a bit of a solution for me in the meantime. On its way to me is a new, shiny toy. Perhaps, while I’m waiting for my future lover to find me, this will help me usher in a new era of possibilities – of exploring my own sexuality and learning new things about what my body can do. And maybe even making myself better for my next lover. How lucky am I to have a friend like Ed C. Wood?! He’s such a good friend and Sex Wonks partner that if I were a dude, I’d allow him to practice prostate stimulation on me in his quest for fulfilling ass play!

Meanwhile – in the spirit of being true to myself in the new year – when it was time for the fast to end after Yom Kippur, I realized that my need for “Vitamin O” outweighed even my need for food in that moment. So I gave myself a big O. And nearly passed out. Dear Readers, should you ever decide that you need an orgasm after having fasted for 24 hours, please make sure that you are near furniture or something you can grab onto, lest you find yourself on the floor. Or do yourself a favour and eat something first before coming.

In the spirit of the season, here’s wishing you a bountiful harvest of good sex!

Love,

Rosa

rosa.sparks@sexwonks.com

*Image by Njoy

In a Blue Moon

The sea was enchanting tonight! And, as usual, it schooled me. Because of the full moon tides, this was not a “lie back and float” visit. It was more of a “let’s tango!” kind of night.

The debris and rubbish of the tourist months had cleared out, leaving the water clear and silky – and it was almost imperceptibly cooler than it has been all summer. The tide was strong and once I made it out past the breakers, the rolling waves were righteous and bountiful! Tall and big and strong (as I like my lovers). I had to keep my wits about me in order to find that place where I could have just as easily been carried out as carried in. When you play with abundance, you’ve got to be mindful. You’ve gotta learn its dance moves. Its pulls and shimmies and rhythms so you can complement each other and nobody gets lost.

There are different parts of life to which my ruminations on abundance apply (fame, money, power and so forth), but because I am first and foremost horny, and because being immersed in the sea is a very sensual experience, I got to thinking about sex in abundance. Of course, that is one of my greatest longings at the moment since I currently am without a lover. But when you’re “tangoing” with somebody beneath the sheets (or on the kitchen table, or in a field under the stars…) there are also unspoken power plays that happen naturally – whether you’re even aware of them or not. And whether it’s your first time together or your 3001st, there are moves and cues and nuances that we are managing all the time. Who’s on top. Who initiates. Who moves on from one spot to the next. Who teases. Who bites. Who bleeds. It’s all mixed up in a delicious bubble of animal interaction. And, a bit like I described in The Freak Factor, once in a blue moon you may find a lover whose toes you need to know the flavour of. Who knows the ridges of the back of your teeth. Whose tongue longs to lap the bead of sweat running down your ass crack a millisecond before it reaches the puckers of your anus.Or even after it has.

So there I was, under the August 2012 “Blue Moon” – way past where I could stand – letting the sea lead me. Once I found that sweet spot where I could let it sway and pull me, but where I knew I wouldn’t be swept out to sea (unless I wanted to be), I turned myself eastward to face the big, bright disc in the sky with gratitude and admiration for the way it choreographed the sea’s movements for me this evening. And because all of life is poetry, I found myself leaving the sea with the radio in my head tuned to Bob Marley.

My deepest hunger – my dearest desire – is that maybe if I’m really, really lucky, my true partner in crime will reveal himself in time to swim with me at night in the sea under the next blue moon – with the sea helping to direct our own sensual moves. Someone who would want to share in the adventures and delights of the seasons and nature and sex in all its power and bounty. Could I be loved? Could you?

Love,

Rosa

rosa.sparks@sexwonks.com

Photo provided by FreeDigitalPhotos.net

How Do You Do Your Nether Do?

So how do you wear your hair… down there? Whether it’s for religious reasons, practical logistical purposes or for your own style expression, pubic hair is something that we all handle in our own unique ways.

There are a few popular styles that we tend to run into. There’s the classic full bush, which is most affordable and painless, but might be a bit hindering if you’re going to be hanging out on the beach.

Then there’s the extreme opposite – the full wax (or full Brazilian as it’s sometimes referred to). While it’s initially smooth and admittedly somewhat of a novelty, it can be costly to keep up. And trends have changed over time. If you’ve ever watched 70s porn vs. current porn, you’ll notice how drastic the shift has been.

Some folks like a landing strip and some people fashion their lover’s initials. Some like to add a little colour and still others adorn their vajayjays with vajazzling. Nothin’ like some Swarovski crystals to lure a lover – after all, we know how difficult it is to get men to pay attention to pussy! The Sex Wonks absolutely adore this little gem (much as we also detest it), which would have us believe that vajazzling is the devil itself. Parents, hide your sons from the be-jeweled vaginas- they will ruin your life!

In some cultures, it is common practice to remove pubic hair, while in others – during  different periods in history – it was common practice for lovers to exchange it as tokens of affection (“here’s a lock for you, my love…”) There have also been various trends in depictions of pubic hair in art over the centuries.

As we’ve discussed in some our podcasts, particularly surrounding the alarming trend of vaginal and penile “enhancements” (read: putting your genitals under the knife), when it comes to pubic hair, it seems that porn (for all its merits) has done us all a great disservice. These days, the trend is for both men and women to shave it all off. The full monty. Some say they do this for “hygienic” reasons – that bacteria can get trapped, along with unseemly smells.

The catch-22 with this reasoning, however, is that Mother Nature gave us pubic hair exactly in order to protect our most delicate, sensitive areas from harmful bacteria and particles. As for the “smells” – as animals, nature also intended for us to be turned on by our natural scents. Pubic hair traps pheromones that attract us to each other. We’re not supposed to smell like flowers or food. We’re meant to smell like real live adult women and men. Women and men who, of course, bathe themselves and make efforts to stay clean, but human adult men and women, nonetheless. Which means that your genitalia should smell like either penis or vagina. This is what we’re hardwired to react to sexually. To connect us. If I’ve got my face down in a dude’s balls, or if I’m lovingly sucking on said balls, I don’t want to be tasting cologne. I want to be tasting cock. Hello? Is it only me?

I recently asked an acquaintance of mine what sort of pubic hair style he likes best on his woman. He said he prefers the “naked look…smooth is best” particularly when it comes to eating her out. Here’s another dilemma, folks. On the one hand, you can say that you like this look for logistical purposes – easier access, not getting hair in your mouth, etc. But at what point do we ask ourselves why we are so attracted to this “Barbie” ideal – the look that looks and feels like a child?

Merkin. I can’t tell you why this word throws me into fits of uncontrollable laughter. It just does. There’s something about the notion of a pubic wig that tickles me. It just seems hypocritical – why would you remove your own natural hair and replace it with fake pubic hair if the point is so that others don’t see your pubic hair? What? I know that it has historical significance in that in the days of yore – when pubic lice were more rampant and penicillin wasn’t around to treat various more obvious-by-sight STDs – it was common practice to get rid of the lot and wear a merkin in its place. They also have their place in fetishes (nothing wrong with that!) You might decide to get a pink neon merkin to surprise your lover. But should we ever be in the throes of passion and you decide to say the word “merkin” aloud to me, you can expect that my body will be quaking in laughter, I’ll be crying funny tears and you may need to just leave me there, rolling about, spasming. It may be hours before I can regain my composure. And don’t be surprised if, when we’re going at it later, the memory of the word trickles down into my belly and I start shaking in laughter again. Don’t say you haven’t been warned, although if you’re inside me during one of these episodes it might be an interesting – and not unpleasurable- experience for you to feel what my vaginal muscles are doing as I giggle.

My Do Through the Years

Throughout the decades, I’ve maintained my muff in different ways. The 80s was, of course, still all about the natural bush. Hell, I was a teen and didn’t know any better! Nobody ever seemed to have an issue with my hair down there, and I’m “ethnic” so my own perception is that it was really thick and foresty. However, a fabulous time was still had by all. It never affected anyone’s desire to tap that and I never had any issue being stimulated properly. It was what it was in the 20th Century, and it was good. Mmmm!

As I got into my later 20s and a different decade, I became more aware that people did different things with their genital hair-dos. It was becoming more popular to “landscape.” For several years, from the late 90s and into the 2000s, I kept it very neatly trimmed – almost like a crew cut. I did notice, truth be told, that I felt fresher and there was better access to my pleasure button. On the other hand, keeping it trimmed can be a tricky balance. You want it neat, but at the same time, you don’t want it spiky and rough. I found it a bit difficult to find the balance and was occasionally self-conscious and worried about injuring my partners’ delicate bits with my bits. Oye!

In my late 30s, I made a major life-altering bush decision: I went for laser hair removal treatment. If any of you have gone through this process, then you know that you must shave really well and totally any place that you’re having lasered. I decided to do an experiment. When the time came for the nice, re-assuring technician to address my bikini area, I told her to laser the whole enchilada! My logic was not that I wanted to be bald permanently, but that the hair would grow back finer. Of course, when you get the treatment, you are bald there at first. It was during one of these bald phases that I was with a certain lover for the first time. I was a little self-conscious about introducing my pussy to someone this way.

He was intrigued. He said that I had “delightful labia” (it still makes my heart melt to think of it). He told me that he’d never been with a bald girl before, but that it did make access for cunnilingus a bit easier. As time wore on, however, he promised me that his preference was not for hairless and that when he came to see me next (we were long distance), he wanted me to be in my natural state – ethnic bush and all. He was so adamant about it that he teasingly threatened to go right home if he found me in a bald state upon his arrival!

What I found slightly alarming post laser treatment was that when the hair began to initially grow back (by the way, if you’re not familiar with laser hair removal, it takes several treatments to make hair disappear completely), it was growing back in a patchy way. I began to be frightened that my pussy was going to be permanently patchy! That was not the case, however. I’ve since had my whole enchilada (or is it taco?) done a few times and it does keep growing back, but my original hypothesis turned out to be accurate – it just grows back thinner and more sparse. Definitely more manageable and soft for anyone who needs access (including me).

In the end, just like penises and vaginas, we’re all unique. When it comes to how we prefer our pubes, we have a little more leeway since we don’t need to seek out surgery to modify our hair. So, Lovers – both the men and the women out there – what do you do with your do? How do you like your partner’s pubes organized? Let us know.

Love,

Rosa

rosa.sparks@sexwonks.com

Photos provided by FreeDigitalPhotos.net

 

 

Hot Moon

In case you haven’t noticed, Northern Hemisphere folks, we’re smack dab in the middle of the “Dog Days” of summer. Translation: it’s fucking HOT. It’s times like these when we seek relief from the heat, and one of my favourite remedies is to get into the sea. To me, the sea is at once a place of peace and passion. Of nurturing and wildness/danger. Of simplicity and the deepest complexities. Like sex.

As I lay in bed this morning in that half-awake/half-asleep state, the sea whispered in my ear, “Come hither to me.” Actually, it was more like, “Come here NOW!” and you can’t dis’ the sea, so I immediately went. On my way through town, I passed by a woman with a violin, who was playing and singing (quite beautifully and hauntingly), Habanera, the famous Carmen aria sometimes referred to as “L’amour est un oiseau rebelle.” It couldn’t have been more perfect for what I’d find at the water, since we know that l’amour is often a frickin’ oiseau rebelle – whether it’s love with another person, love with your beloved-but-fickle pet, or love with the sea and its ever-shifting moods.

As I approached the beach, it was quite windy and the surf was turbulent. This was not going to be a day for floating. Once I dropped my towel and 8,365 SPF sun block on the sand, I ran to the sea’s edge as I’m compelled to do as though it were a lover. But I knew I’d have to step in carefully. I went in slowly so I could get a feel for the undercurrents, the danger, the possibilities. It tossed me around a bit – it was like we had something to work out.

As I got in deeper, I knew I’d have to keep my feet planted firmly (well, as firmly as one can plant one’s feet in the sea). I let it tumble me about. It let me kneel. It battered me with warm, soft foam, but I knew I could trust it as it still let me lean into it without knocking me on my ass. Sometimes I don’t ever want to get out and must force myself to leave – as though not being with it and immersed in it is contrary to my very being. So once I knew we’d worked it out, I reluctantly pulled myself out and fell onto my blanket, out of breath, and let the sun air-dry me.

Today, the sea manhandled me as I like a lover to sometimes do. It reminded me that there’s a full moon on the rise. Tonight’s full moon is called the Full Sturgeon Moon. Native American tribes used to name each full moon in order to keep track of the seasons and sturgeon were the fish that were readily caught right about this time of year. The rise and fall of tides occurs because, quite simply, Earth and the moon are attracted to each other. While the Earth is able to hold onto most of its stuff due to gravity, the moon is able to pull at our waters. And during each full moon – like right now – the high tides are at their highest. Are your high tides at their highest, too? Is your libido overflowing? Are your urges more urgent?

I’d like to think that it was the August full moon of 1924 that inspired Pablo Neruda’s Love Sonnet XII:

“Full woman, fleshly apple, hot moon…” INDEED!

Love, Rosa

rosa.sparks@sexwonks.com

Photo provided by FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Music to My… Pussy? Part II: The Crescendo

Didn’t mean to leave you hanging like that. I’m still turned on, are you? Our musical arousal has moved from a stirring to a fluttering. Now, let’s up the tempo a bit as we move things to the dance floor.

PULSING.

Bodies – strange and familiar – are brushing against each other, moving to a beat. I’m shaking my ass. It’s dark and crowded and I just felt your hard-on against me.

Donna Summer had it right back in the 70s with Love to Love You Baby.

Do it to me again and again.

The music is heady and dreamy, like we’re dancing in a trance, magnetized to each other at the hips. There’s moaning that makes it clear what kind of love I love to love you with, baby.

In the 80s, Vanity 6 expressed her desire for a specific kind of “dance” partner in Nasty Girl:

That’s right, I can’t control it
I need 7 inches or more
Tonight I can no longer hold it
Get it up, get it up, I can’t wait anymore

When she asks the question, “Do you think I’m a nasty girl?” it’s almost a challenge – the implication being that she wants you to think she’s a nasty girl. Just like I sometimes want you to think I’m a nasty girl.

And movin’ on up into this century, Gioia’s Feel You from the Inside (Junior Vasquez Mix) from the Third Season of Queer as Folk is one of those tunes that grabs me down deep in the crotch and the soul.

I want you
I wanna feel you from the inside
Would you release yourself
Step into my parlour
I could please myself
But I want you
To make me feel alive

This one makes me feel like letting everything go. Intensely. To the point of being so lost in connection and searing passion with my lover that we don’t even remember where we are. Even on the dance floor.

QUIVERING.

Slowing it back down a bit to keep us on the edge, there are your sensual R&B love-making kind of tracks. Is there anything sexier than Marvin’s Sexual Healing?

Baby, I think I’m capsizin’
The waves are risin’ and risin’

Yes, Mr. Gaye, I can relate to that like you would not believe.

Oh, D’Angelo. How Does it Feel, you ask? Well, when you tell me that you

Love to make you wet in between your thighs

… I’ll tell you that you’ve got the job done perfectly well.

Floetry wants us to cut through all the bullshit and stop denying what we feel in Say Yes:

I recognize the butterflies inside me
Sense is gonna be made tonight, tonight
All you gotta do is say yes

I’m game. Don’t leave me hanging out on the ledge alone, flapping in the wind, Love. Meet me half-way, take hold of me and don’t let go.

THUMPING.

I cannot go without mentioning The Blues as a whole genre when it comes to being turned on. The Blues is real. The Blues is raw. The Blues’ hot rhythms are sex. It’s a man plucking on his guitar strings – just like he’d play on my pussy.

One of my favourites is Muddy Waters’ Mannish Boy. I linked to a live performance here because there’s something about the sweat and the live beat of Blues that makes me feel like my eyes are closed and somebody is pumping me sultrily down on the bayou:

I’m a MAN…I’m a hoochie coochie man

Something about the way he yells “maaan” and shakes his head touches something anciently deep in my core, almost like a musical vibrator.

Then there’s Howlin’ Wolf’s Back Door Man.

When you come home you can eat, pork and beans
I eats mo’ chicken, any man seen
I am, a back door man

No matter how one chooses to interpret that, it’s sultry and a bit improper, and I can feel my panties being slowly slid down and over the bodacious curve of my rump.

QUAKING.

Sometimes you just need a good pounding. There are few hardcore tunes that get my blood racing. Like Nine Inch Nails’ Closer. It thumps and screams and gets down to our basest desires:

You let me violate you
You let me desecrate you
You let me penetrate you
I wanna fuck you like an animal
I wanna feel you from the inside

 

It’s that raw, uncontrollable desire. Yeah, I can dig that.

Stone Temple Pilot’s Sex Type Thing really gets me down in the groin. Probably because (amongst other things) it’s about somebody getting you. As I mentioned in a recent blog, “The Freak Factor,” there is something absolutely glorious about the recognition of another like you:

I know you want what’s on my mind… I know ya like what’s on my mind…

Why, yes. Yes I do. Bring it.

If you’re a 50 Shades of Gray fan, then Puddle of Mudd’s Control might be up your alley. Not only is the music hard-driving, but the lyrics also make it pretty obvious:

I love the way you look at me
I love the way you smack my ass
I love the dirty things you do
When I have control of you

Oooh, it hurts to sit down today, Darling.

DRIPPING.

For something more exotic, check out Pomegranate by Transglobal Underground with its sensual melody, its tribal drums, its pure longing.

I’m speaking to you… I wanna see what you will do… I’ll be watching you swaying, like a palm tree in the breeze… oh, splendour…

This gem makes me think of belly dancing for you in private. Of biting into the ripe crimson fruit and its juice staining my lips just before I kiss you everywhere. Or my lips stained red from the delicious pressure of you sucking and biting them as I move my hips in hundreds of different ways while you’re inside me.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this horny musical journey. Going back and listening to all of these at once has got me in a severely heightened state of arousal, even though it was really just the tip of the sexy song iceberg. I fear that I might spontaneously combust. If you don’t hear from me for awhile, you’ll know why.

Do you get turned on by particular types of music? Certain songs? Do you have a favourite “Fuck Playlist”? Give it to me, Baby.

Love, Rosa

rosa.sparks@sexwonks.com

 

All images provided by FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Music to My… Pussy? Part I: Makin’ Me Wet

I was so inspired by Mr. Wood’s recent blog on aural pleasure that I wanted to continue to explore how sounds can titillate us. I’m gonna take it now from the micro to the macro.

I love music from so many different genres. I revel in the diversity of melodies and rhythms and, being a woman who adores the written word, I love lyrics as well. I believe that there is a soundtrack to our lives. In my dorky case, Morrissey is more often than not my life lyricist. I’ve been known to try to mambo to a classical piece or belly dance to a hip hop beat. I have sometimes fantasized about cruising along in a ’38 Chevy with Glenn Miller cranked up on the radio. I typically have at least one song playing in my “mental radio” at any given time.

Music can be soothing, it can be rousing, it can tug on your heartstrings and it can evoke all kinds of memories – in much the same way as scent can. It turns on our souls. And I find that music can also get deep into my pants. Personally, I don’t think that sex always needs to be accompanied by music. Most of the time – for me – it simply requires the hard, soft, sticky, slippery, breathy and wet animal noises that we make. However, I find that sometimes different types of sex go really great with a particular song or type of music – almost like choosing a wine that’s going to sensually enhance, intensify and brighten the flavours of your meal.

STIRRING.

There are some rock tunes that always make me wet and get me in the mood, like T. Rex’s 20th Century Boy. It immediately conjures up that 1991 Levi’s ad with a young, seductive Brad Pitt. I can still recall my 20-year-old self’s mouth agape with some drool forming at the corner of my lips and some wetness seeping into my panties the first time (hell, every time!) I saw it. Mainly, though, there’s that guitar riff that just teases and toys like somebody’s tongue moving lazily but deliberately around my sex. I’m not even sure if the ad was ever aired in the U.S. (I saw it in Europe, where I was studying overseas at the time) because our Puritan sex police under the first Bush administration might’ve been too afraid of all the turned on young women – and men – walking around.

Truth be told, I miss my Twentieth Century boys. They were less uptight, less confused, less flaky, less afraid, more forthright about their desire for me and just knew how to get down to it in bed and romance. My pussy was their oyster, so to speak, and we explored like Sir Francis fucking Drake. Sigh.

Every summer when it starts to get too hot, my mind and my loins bring me to The Black Crowes’ Remedy:

If you let me come on inside
Will you let it glide?
Can I have some remedy?

Where is my remedy, people? Oh, pleeeease? Come a little closer. And lick the sweat running down my ass crack…

And although I’m not a die-hard Nirvana fan, there is something about the combination of Kurt’s rawness and the guitar that reverberates in the depths of my belly that makes me want to fuck. Particularly, when listening to Drain You:

Chew your meat for you
Pass it back and forth
In a passionate kiss
From my mouth to yours
Sloppy lips to lips

Have you ever tried melting some chocolate in your mouth – or chewing some strawberries – and passing them between you and your lover while your tongues explore every crevice of each other like you’ll never be able to get enough or wander far enough or deep enough? When your lover’s tongue goes to places in your oral cavity where your own dentist probably hasn’t even been?

FLUTTERING. 

There are some sexy hip hop brothers whom I’d like to grab me by the hair and take me from behind. In particular, LL Cool J (one of my fantasy husbands) in Doin’ It. The whole song is like foreplay. It’s mesmerizing. His collaborator on the track, Leshaun, sings exactly what I’m thinking when I listen to this beautiful man rap about wanting to knock my block off:

I need a roughneck… who ain’t afraid to pull my hair and spank me from the back

Makes me want to relocate to Queens to find my “man of steel.”

50 Cent’s Just a Lil’ Bit is a delicious tease. There’s an exotic Arabian sound winding its way around the track like a lover’s lips wending his way around my body from head to toe, that makes me think about those times when you just want to fool around a little:

I wanna unbutton your pants just a lil bit,
take ’em off pull em down just a lil bit,
get to kissin’ and touchin’ a lil bit…
get to lickin’, a lil bit

But by the time your mouths are swollen and your hands are sticky:

Clothes off, face down, ass up, c’mon.

Yes, Sir!

I’m a little short of breath now, but we’re just getting started, Lovers – that was just a tease. Hold that edge of arousal. I’ll be back with more soon. Trust me. In the meantime, let me know what songs cause your crotch to swell when you hear them. What tunes get you hot and bothered?

 

 

Love, Rosa

Rosa.Sparks@sexwonks.com

All images provided by FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The Freak Factor

“I’ll be your freak-a-zoid, c’mon and wind me up.”

At some point this past year with a new lover, in the heat of passion, I gazed deeply into his eyes as I felt something bubble up from the pit of my very existence in the form of a firm-yet-soft moany breath of a word: “freak.”  As I uttered the magic word, I’ve never smiled a wider, more gleeful, more genuinely thrilled, more grateful and more… relieved smile in my life. Anywhere. With anyone. In any venue.

We were just getting to know each other carnally over the course of several days, and as with all new lovers, our moves were not perfectly aligned. This wasn’t a romance novel or 50 effing Shades. This was pure and beautiful exploration of a connection that we felt in our minds, our hearts, our souls and our groins. There was some condom awkwardness. Somebody farted. Somebody had her period for part of the time. It was very, very real human life and intimacy. While I already adored this man to the depths of my soul – more than I’ve ever adored anyone in my entire life – the element that made me cleave even harder was the fact that as we were discovering each others’ bodies, it was also becoming clear that we were an incredible FREAK match.

What I mean by that is that we all have varied and different desires that run the spectrum of sexuality- and it’s all OK, whatever it is. But I believe that to find someone who essentially matches your wishes, boundaries, flow, interests, expressions, etc., can be quite rare. So when it does happen it can be addictive, intoxicating and even open up layers of emotional intimacy that you don’t have with others. Personally, I am guessing that I’m somewhere in the middle of the spectrum – but who really knows for sure, and who really cares? It’s not a contest.

I consider myself to be a fairly sexually open-minded person. I like to experiment, I like a few toys here and there, but don’t need a bag o’ tricks to get off. I might grope you in a dark movie theatre, but I’ll make sure that nobody can see it. I’ll let you manually bring me to orgasm while I’m driving. I’ll send you a dirty SMS while you’re at work. I don’t mind being tied up loosely on occasion, or having my hands held down over my head while you fuck me- but if you’re gonna make me use metal handcuffs that dig into my skin and hurt me, that’s not gonna turn me on. You can spank me a little, but don’t make me go all Rambo on your ass (true story) or I’m just gonna laugh – especially as I wasn’t a Girl Scout and don’t know how to tie a Square Knot if you want to be hog tied. Although I do enjoy the occasional finger gently sliding a little bit into my anus, or my salad being tossed playfully, I really don’t relish having a whole cock up my bum.

When I recently read for the first time about the old 1967 rumor that police, upon implementing a drug raid on Keith Richards’ estate, found Mick Jagger and Marianne Faithfull engaged in sex play with a Mars bar, I really didn’t feel any shock or that this was some kind of “deviant” act (by the way, according to Snopes.com, the rumor just isn’t true). I don’t know that I’d ever want a candy bar in my cooch- especially given the delicate balance of vaginal flora- but I have before engaged in some fruity popsicle play. To me that’s just not all that freaky in the grand spectrum of freak-ness. In reality, I suppose that some of you might now be thinking I’m a real perv; others might think that my predilections are kind of vanilla; and there may even be a few of you who can relate.

I have been blessed to have had some good, attentive lovers – men who really wanted to please me as much as I wanted to please them. I don’t have much complaint about my sexual history (other than wishing I had sex more regularly and really needing a lover now), but I realize that the lovers I’ve been the most addicted to- the ones who it’s still difficult to be without, six months later or twenty years later- are the few with whom I’ve shared the same level of freak. The ones who wanted to explore the boundaries. The ones who were open-minded and would go down any sexual road with me if I steered that way (and vice versa), but who would also find it just as intoxicating to fuck me lovingly in the missionary position while we came together. The ones where we could just take things as they came and be each others’ playmates in the horny green fields of sexuality.

It seems to me that this particular component of sexual compatibility might be one of the most important pieces – whether you are more conservative in your sexuality or more experimental (please understand there is NO judgment here!). In my experience, having been with someone for many years who didn’t get me sexually (or whom I suspect was intimidated); and then in finding my freak match; and mostly in being with kind men who fell somewhere in-between, it seems that this freak factor can mean the difference (potentially) between someone feeling the need to seek something outside the partnership vs. constant craving of each other; feeling demoralized or shamed vs. accepted; or  feeling threatened or pushed into something uncomfortable vs. being able to build trust, intimacy and satisfaction. The experience of being with someone sexually compatible in the freak sense actually made me feel like I was brought back into myself for the first time in a long time. And it’s most intoxicating when you can truly live who you are, knowing that there’s someone else like you in the world.

What do you think? Have you been/are you with someone on your same “freak level”? Are you currently with someone who is not; and if so, (how) does that affect your relationship? Is this an important factor to you? Is it possible to mold into freak-mates over time or is it a lost cause? How much of a freak are you? I want to know what you’re thinking…

Love, Rosa

rosa.sparks@sexwonks.com