Not only was I addicted to my phone, but my phone case was also my wallet, which meant that I had no ID, no MetroCard, and no money.
Commence panic.
First and foremost, I was worried that someone was already using all of my credit cards to buy weird shit off Etsy and second, I was worried because it made me vulnerable.
Corwin and I were friendly acquaintances, but I didn’t know him that well. What if things went off course and I needed to leave or call for help? What if I wound up in danger and had no way to escape? It occurred to me, for not the first time, that I had issues with safety.
I didn’t know if it had to do with my paranoid parents or was just the by-product of being a woman, but I still felt unsafe around most men.
I didn’t think Corwin was going to cross any boundaries or I wouldn’t have been there, but even so, things could happen. I needed my phone. I sat down in the middle of his marbled lobby and clutched my bag to my chest. Without money or a MetroCard, I didn’t have a lot of options.
I buzzed Corwin’s apartment because there was nothing else I could do.
When he opened the door, before he could even hug me, I blurted out, “I lost my phone and my wallet and I’m freaking out.”
“Oh shit, what do you want to do?” he said.
“Can I use your phone to cancel my cards?”
“Of course. Do you want to reschedule the rose thing for another night?”
“No, no. I’m already here, let’s still do it.”
He brewed some tea for me as I called my bank. After twenty minutes of screaming at automated messages, I tried to calm down for his sake because he seemed uncharacteristically nervous. We never had trouble chatting, but we were both being awkward and jumpy. I didn’t know if he was picking up on my vibe, but this evening was off to a rocky start.
“Everything’s good?” he asked.
“I think so. I can’t do anything else about it tonight. Should we get started?”
We headed upstairs to his bedroom. Although I had been to Corwin’s apartment many times, I had forgotten how incredible his room was. It was the size of my whole apartment with an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling windows and a private balcony that had a perfect view of the Manhattan skyline. He had art on his walls that he didn’t buy at TJ Maxx. There was a sitting area with a classy couch and a bar. It was a gentle reminder that Corwin and I had very different-looking bank accounts. He never flaunted his wealth or made anyone feel bad about their own. In a city where people tried too hard to be impressive, that was something I really liked about him.
“What should I wear?” he asked.
“Whatever you want. Something comfortable,” I said.
He changed into a light blue matching pajama set covered with cartoon owls. On anyone else it might have looked silly but on Corwin it looked good.
“Should we put on some music?” he asked, pacing the room.
Corwin was a music fanatic. I knew the right music would calm him down.
“Let me make a playlist.” He kept checking in with me to make sure I approved of the song choices.
I sat on the edge of his California King, admiring the lights of the Empire State Building, trying not to worry about my missing phone and the fact that he was about to see me naked for the first time ever. We had never even kissed or touched each other a little too long. We were, at this point, purely friends, about to do this really intimate thing together.
When he finished his playlist, he joined me on the edge of the bed.
“So how does this work?” he asked.
“I’ve never done it before, so I’m not exactly sure, but I wrote out an agenda for us,” I said, scrambling for my backpack to find the piece of paper I had shoved back in thirty minutes earlier.
“First we’ll do some breathing exercises. We’ll breathe in and out together and on the ‘in’ breath, we’ll squeeze and hold our genitals.”
I was repeating the instructions verbatim from a website about Tantra for beginners. I abbreviated the rest of the agenda, “Then some arm touching and finally the rose stuff. The whole thing will last sixty minutes, and everything is timed. Is that cool?”
“Of course,” he said, smiling at me.
I looked at his face and saw, for possibly the first time, how kind his eyes were, how soft and gentle his face was. He had lines around his eyes and smile.
I looked at him looking at me and had a revelation. I had to stop treating this like he was doing me a favor. He wasn’t; he wanted to be there. This was about owning my sexuality and taking without feeling guilty.
“Let’s start with the breathing. Can you set a timer on your phone for ten minutes?”
We sat down facing each other in the middle of the bed, crisscross-applesauce style. I took his hands in mine and noticed how soft they were.
“Ready?” I asked.
He nodded.
I took a deep breath in sync with his and squeezed my pussy.* I could feel it tingle and wondered if Corwin’s body was having a similar reaction. We breathed in and out, my breath mixing with his.
We repeated this, breathing in and exhaling together.
I wondered if breathing in sync meant that our hearts were beating in sync as well.
The timer went off and we both smiled at each other.
“Next is arm stroking, close your eyes and pay attention to the feeling of my hand on your arm,” I said.
He stuck out his arm and I ran my fingers down it. I touched him intentionally, moving my hand softly down his arm toward his wrist before increasing the pressure. I tried to send all my energy out through my fingers and into his arm. When I arrived at his hand, I massaged his palm with my thumb before moving on to each individual finger.
Right when we were starting to connect and relax, the alarm buzzed. It dawned on me that maybe I was missing the point by using the alarm but I didn’t know how to course correct and I was still too afraid that we’d get bored if we didn’t use it.
“Your turn,” Corwin said, interrupting my thoughts.
I stuck out my arm and closed my eyes as he massaged my arm.
His touch was light and gentle, but I couldn’t focus.
I was worrying about my phone again. Someone was probably stealing my identity at that exact moment and getting free coffees with all of my customer loyalty cards.
I was ruining the whole thing by worrying.
If I had been alone, I probably would have let myself return to the rabbit hole of dread, but Corwin had agreed to do this with me and if I didn’t calm down, I was wasting both his and my time.
I called on the focusing techniques I had learned during OM’ing (one of the most useful things I had learned) and put all my attention on the feeling of his fingers against my palm.
His index finger circled my wrist. Breathe.
His thumb rubbed my thumb. Breathe.
He massaged my hand. Breathe.
He stroked my pinky between two of his fingers, pulling it gently. Breathe.
The timer went off as I forgot all about my lost phone and wallet.
“Am I doing this right?” Corwin asked.
“You’re doing it perfectly,” I reassured.
I jumped off the bed and plucked one of the roses from the bouquet, handing it to Corwin.
“How should I stroke you? Like this?” Corwin asked holding the rose upright, “Or like this?” he said holding it at an angle.
“I think either one will be just fine,” I said, smiling at his desire to do this properly. I liked that he was taking it seriously. He could have treated this like it was silly but he was making an effort, for both of us.
I peeled off my shirt and lay down in the middle of his bed in my best black pushup bra. I closed my eyes as I felt Corwin lower the rose to my collarbone. The rose petals felt cool and smooth on my skin. He ran the rose across my collarbone, over my bra, and down my stomach, repeating this pattern a few times. When the timer buzzed, I sat up, took in a deep breath and unhooke
d my bra, falling back into his smooth, Egyptian-cotton sheets. I thought I’d be nervous, but I wasn’t. It felt luxurious to be partially naked in his extra-large bed, overlooking the Manhattan skyline.
Instead of nervous, I felt safe.
I was alone with him in his apartment, doing this crazy thing and I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t worried that he was going to cross boundaries or make me feel disrespected. Corwin made me feel safe in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time.
He slowly stroked the rose around the swell of my breast. Underneath it and then on top. He dragged the rose across my nipple, bringing it to a peak. It felt like silk being dragged across my body.
I arched slightly to meet the touch of the rose.
Seeing my response, he replicated the same pattern for the next ten minutes, running the rose over the swell of my breast, pausing slightly at my nipples. I relaxed into the sensation, appreciating the repetition.
The alarm buzzed, signaling that it was time to remove the rest of my clothes.
While I was definitely savoring the sensations, I wasn’t feeling overtly aroused. Perhaps I had made the whole thing too platonic by adding in the timer and reiterating, ad nauseam, that it wasn’t going to escalate.
“I’m going to get fully naked now, okay?” I said checking-in with Corwin.
“Yep.”
I peeled off my pants and my underwear and lay back down.
I closed my eyes as Corwin dragged the rose down my stomach, stopping above my thigh.
He hesitated, seemingly uncertain where he should stroke.
I opened my legs slightly to let him know it was okay and he carefully touched the rose to my inner thigh.
He stopped again, for only a second, before rubbing it slowly around my outer labia. He went back to my thigh before circling back again. He continued this for several minutes and finally my body responded with heat. A small moan escaped my lips as he circled my thigh one final time before the alarm buzzed.
That was the end of the sixty minutes.
I lay there for a second before rolling over. Even though I was undressed, I didn’t feel vulnerable so I motioned for him to lay down next to me. When he did, I scooched my body close to his and rested my head on his pajama-clad chest.
“Thank you,” I said, looking him in the eyes.
“My pleasure,” he replied.
A wave of tiredness hit me as I looked at the clock. It was 1:30 a.m.
I snuggled closer, burying my face against him.
“Your chest feels like clouds,” I said drowsily, yawning into his body.
He wrapped me in his arms and we both fell asleep, nestled together. Me fully naked, him fully clothed.
I woke up a few hours later and accidentally woke Corwin in the process. I sat up, stretched, and said, “I should get going.”
It was late and I was tired, but I knew I shouldn’t stay and he didn’t invite me to.
Forever the gentleman, he offered to pay for a car home since I didn’t have my wallet.
He walked me to the door and hugged me goodbye.
I fell asleep on the way home and realized my dreams were about roses and Corwin’s cloud-like chest. I wasn’t fantasizing about him or wishing he’d ask me out but I was grateful. Losing my phone, in some ways, meant losing control. As a recovering control freak, that was hard for me. I had to trust Corwin. And he lived up to it by not pressuring me and making me feel safe. The whole point of the Tantra exercise was about letting someone care for me and feeling beautiful in the process. Corwin had created a space that felt secure enough for me to relax and feel sexy.
I woke up late the next morning and when I checked my Facebook, I had a message from someone who had found my phone. They returned it, all of the cards fully intact.
I texted Corwin, who wrote, “See, people can be good. You gotta trust, Olive.”
Compared to where I’d started, I was feeling pretty good about my progress.
* At some point in time I transitioned from vagina to pussy since vagina wasn’t technically the right terminology.
SQUIRTING LAB
The liquid that comes from a woman while squirting both is and is not pee.
At least that’s what I wrote down during the first part of the Squirting Playlab. I was the only one taking notes and only one of four people who wasn’t part of a couple.
The Squirting Playlab was precisely what it sounded like. The promise was to teach participants how to make their partner squirt, assuming their body was capable of that sort of thing, which apparently, with the right moves, many bodies were.*
Only in NYC could someone’s Friday night involve dollar pizza and a squirting class.
Going to the Squirting Playlab was simultaneously the best and worst idea I’d ever had. It was a great idea because I was interested in squirting. It was a terrible idea because it involved learning to squirt in a room full of other people.
Also, in this class, it was a two-person activity and I was unattached.
I had been on two dates with a boy recently, but I could hardly ask him.
I imagined how that conversation might go, “Hey, I know this is only our third date but wanna go to a squirting class with me? Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you, I’m writing a book about crazy sex stuff, so, see you at nine and bring goggles.”
No thanks.
I’d have to fly solo and cross my fingers that maybe some dreamboat was also at the class, flying solo. Maybe we’d fall in love and then we’d have to make up a totally different “how we met” story to tell our grandchildren.
A girl could dream.
Up until that point, almost everything I had done, I had done privately, excluding the BDSM class, which felt light years away. In reality, it had been about a year and a half. It was one thing to learn and then try out the skills behind closed doors. It was a totally different thing to ejaculate maybe/maybe-not pee in a room full of people. Doing something this bold in public made me feel like I was finally ready to leave the sex kiddie pool. Either that or I’d been on this voyage for too long and I’d lost my damn mind. Either way I was diving in.
The Playlab was held at La Casa, a prominent player in the New York sex-positive scene. Renee was a member and spoke highly of the community. La Casa hosted workshops, seminars on ethical non-monogamy, and sex parties. It was also a residential community for people who wanted to live with other sex-positive people.
La Casa was located in a discreet apartment building in the East Village. I arrived fifteen minutes before class and paced outside before entering. Despite my false bravado, I was a beginner compared to these people. I was worried that everyone else was going to be La Casa regulars, people who attended orgies and had long ago made peace with their sexuality.
Maybe I should have stayed in the kiddie pool.
La Casa had no identifying markers of being a sex-positive community. On the outside it looked like a regular apartment building. I rang the doorbell and was invited inside and asked to remove my shoes.
I walked down a flight of stairs into a large room filled with oversized, purple velvet cushions. There was a chandelier in the middle of the room and fancy curtains covering the windows. There was an outdoor patio with a hot tub, a luxury I had never seen at a residential property in New York City. It seemed like no expense had been spared in turning La Casa into a swanky sex haven.
There were some couples seated on the cushions, talking quietly among themselves and kissing occasionally.
There was an uncomfortable silence over the room. It was clear we were all uncertain how to behave. I must have been wrong about the class being full of sex-positive regulars.
I thought about being the badass who broke the ice, but instead I did what everyone else was doing and took forever to set down my stuff, went to the bathroom a few times, and hovered near the food table.
When I’d finally run through all my avoidant behaviors, I plopped myself down next to the only other solo person there and introduced myself.
His name was Willie. He looked older than me with gray hair and wrinkle lines on his forehead. Like me, Willie was tired of being alone and scared of sex.
I had met many people like Willie, comrades in sexual experimentation, celibates, and inexperienced amateurs. We’d run into each other in the different scenes, in person at workshops or online, registered on Fetlife. Most of us had fallen into this world accidentally, desperate to save ourselves. Some of us had become good friends. We often compared notes and lamented about how much easier this would be if we were in relationships. Two more unaccompanied men filtered in. So far, I was the only single woman. In addition to us solo players, there were about ten couples, eager and ready to learn.
Willie left to grab food, and within two minutes, one of the other single men sat down next to me. Unlike Willie, he was sitting a little too close.
As I was trying to avoid the new guy’s advances, a couple walked in. I recognized the woman but couldn’t figure out how. I was racking my brain, running through the sexy adventures I’d had in the last few months, trying to place her.
It took a few seconds, but I realized that she was an HR director at one of my biggest corporate clients. I had taught her and her team public speaking in a very professional way. I didn’t recognize her because she was out of context here.
My palms started getting sweaty and I could feel the blush spreading up my face.
I’d only ever seen this woman in a suit and she’d only ever seen me buttoned-up as well.
Here we were, at a squirting class together.
I felt like I’d been caught in the act. I wondered if I was going to have to tell my boss.
As I deliberated about how to handle the situation, she walked up and gave me a big hug.
“Olive, it’s so wonderful to see you!” she said.
She introduced me to her husband. We chatted about public speaking and how she’d used the tips I’d given her. She was cheerful and unapologetic, so I followed her lead.
We chatted a little more before our instructor, Thomas Lovefell, entered the room, his long hair tied up in a ponytail. I doubted that was his real name as it was pretty common in the sex-positive world to have an alias. Thomas was famous in the sex-education world, handsome yet accessible. I’d seen him shirtless on the Internet, and the man was ripped.
The Coitus Chronicles Page 17