I would like to be able to tell you readers that in the time since the last sex blog ended, D. and I have been swinging from the proverbial chandelier, inventing sex positions warranting an updated 77 Positions book, and setting records for most orgasms had in a day.
That would be a lie. We've been in a—ugh, I don't even want to say the word—rut. Now, I think that D. and I have fairly high standards for what a sex life should be so my definition of rut might be different than another chick's. But let's just say if I normally consider myself a sex goddess, I've been more of a half-deity recently. I'll get specific with you: we've been having sex a couple times a week. And it's been good sex. But just like with macaroni and cheese, I'm prone to believe that quantity can be just as important as quality. Ammiright, ladies? (Incidentally, I imagine heaven to be a place plentiful in both of these things.)
What I'm trying to say is that when my editor emailed me with the challenge you guys selected on Facebook, I was excited.
"Well, looks like we're chugging pineapple juice and goin' down on each other," I said to D.
"It beats eating ice cream and falling asleep next to each other."
Yikes. Maybe things were even more dire than I had thought. Operation Pineapple was just what we needed!
Had you invested in pineapple products this week, you may have seen a slight increase in returns today because I made it my business to consume the fruit like crazy. Rings at breakfast, chopped pieces on my salad at lunch, glassfuls when I got home from work. D. had been eating/drinking a lot of it too (though I don't think he'd gone as all-out). If, like they say, you are what you eat, D. and I would be big pineapples. Actually, as of last night, D. would be my hoo-ha and I would be his peen. Sorry, couldn't resist.
Anyway, after a few days of keeping the pineapple industry afloat, we met at D.'s place (he moved into a studio and no longer has a roommate so we're free to get freaky anywhere and anytime we want!) to complete the challenge. He had been boozing with coworkers and was especially frisky. I was wearing a brand new lacy bra and thong. (Yeah, I know the thong's dead, Cosmo, but I resuscitated it and brought it back to life.)
We started making out in bed and I found myself feeling like I did right before the first time D. and I had sex. Nervous and excited. It had been a little while since I'd been on the receiving end of el sexo oral (I've been getting laser hair removal ergo I can't get waxed ergo I'm often unkempt down there ergo I don't let D.'s face get too close), so I think it was that combined with the anticipation. Add into the mix that I wasn't sure if we were going to 69 (can someone please come up with a better term for that already?!) or perform one after the other, and you've got the recipe for nerves and excitement!
I won't hold you in suspense: there was no 69-ing. D. started on top of me, kissing my neck, my chest, my nipples, and my stomach, but he went on like this for a while and didn't make any moves to go farther south so I had the genius idea of taking charge and treating him to an orgasm before I collected mine. That "genius" was sarcastic, bee tee dubs. You'll see why shortly. I sat up so that D. was forced to get on his knees (with my legs around his calves) and started to kiss his torso. This foreplay lasted all of three seconds before I went straight for the business. I don't think I've ever given a beej in this position before (have you?). You sort of have to lean forward and curve your back, which is a tad uncomfortable. And I'm sure the rolls on my stomach would have been enough to deflate D.'s erection faster than an air mattress when you take the stopper out (actually, bad analogy, those things take freaking forever to deflate, but you get the point), but my bobbing head blocked his view so I was blissfully un-self-conscious.