owner: one who owns; a rightful proprietor; one who has the legal or rightful title, whether he is the possessor or not (master, possessor, proprietor)

Three men have “owned” me. My father: parents own their children. As children, we are their property, their responsibility.

The other two men were Dexter and my boyfriend before him, Alexander. A man doesn’t own a woman until he owns her vagina. And in order to own her vagina, he must own her clitoris.

If an orgasm is the greatest natural somasensory pleasure a human can experience, it’s only fitting that the person who can provide you that pleasure can wield the greatest power over you. Potentially.

If a man cannot own my clitoris, I will never be truly his. I am too much of a sexual being to not have this need met. Dexter and Alexander both owned my clitoris. Both of them were able to go down on me and make me orgasm to the tune of 3-5 a session. Both of them were able to elicit 40 orgasms in one round of oral sex (after 40, I have always been too dizzy to continue counting and I don’t necessarily think it’s a good thing to have blood detracted from the brain this long).

Most men I’ve slept with go down, or try to go down, on me. But I always bring them up. They may or may not assume I’m uncomfortable with oral sex – which is not the case. Partially I’m phobic about STDs, so unless I’ve verified he’s clean and we’ve discussed his sexual past, I pretty much relegate sex to prophylactic intercourse. But the truth is, until I’ve invested in a relationship with a man, he doesn’t get full access – he doesn’t get the map and he doesn’t get the keys. I taught Dexter and Alexander everything they needed to know to own me. I was their teacher; they were both eager and attentive students – who then became the masters.

A man can own me, but in order to own me, he most own my vagina. In order to own my vagina, he must own my clitoris. And in order to own my clitoris, he must have my heart.

I believe that my best sex will be with my greatest love.


Closer to the darkness…the closer to God?



1. Intense joy or delight
2. A state of emotion so intense that one is carried beyond rational thought and self-control
3. The trance, frenzy, or rapture associated with mystic or prophetic exaltation

If Dexter controlled my relationship with him, I controlled my relationship with Billy. Some relationships have a sense of balance, with a natural ebb and flow of parity and partner dominance. Some relationships don’t. You can’t have two partners leading when you dance and in my dance with Billy, I led. Pretty much all the time. He had his opinions and inclinations but in general he always deferred to me to make a decision. At the time, I needed that. One, because he actually listened. He cared. He paid attention. And two, he made me feel that I was perfect “just as I was.” There was no conflict.

The night I went out with Billy at the beach…we ended up at this beachside, outdoor conduit for hooking up. As we sat at a cocktail table, drinking our drinks, I realized Billy had nothing to offer me. I had no interest in him. He was fun and playful but he was not an intellectual challenger and he lacked any type of worldly experience to interest me. I literally looked around and thought, “What am I doing here?”

To create a distraction to fill in for the lack of our conversational substance, I tried to get him to hit on some women at the club, but he dismissed my request with a cocky response and instead sat there across from me, waiting and staring expectantly and smiling. Again, I needed to make a decision. It was either sit there in an awkward silence of anticipation. Or dance.

I love to dance. I can go to any party, anywhere, without a lick of alcohol and just start dancing. Even if there’s no music – I’ll make my own. And I don’t care who is watching or what they think. So that’s what we did.

We moved to the dance floor and Billy continued to let me lead. Initially I was mindful to keep an appropriate space between us, to maintain an orthodox display of an engaged woman interacting with a junior co-worker. I even gave the no-hands-on-the-ass and no crotch-thrusting mandate as soon as we hit the dance floor. But with each song the DJ played, I grew more and more entranced, and Billy and I drew closer and closer. Finally our bodies were pressed against each other – that’s when the red flag went up.

Dancing, in many ways, is tantamount to sex, but with your clothes on. So I turned around in the effort to avoid the escalation of contact that could ensue by facing each other.

Why did I bother? Why, after all these months of flirting, did I care if I dirty danced with this boy? Because I wanted to be faithful to Dexter. I didn’t want to cheat. I wanted to be in love with one man, who I could believe in and who believed in me, and I didn’t want to get that from someone else. But that’s the thing about cheating. People cheat because 1) they’re not happy with what they have and 2) they have options.

There we were dancing, with Billy behind me, his hands hugging my hips, and this song came on – one with the type of rhythm that to dance to it is like engaging in foreplay.

And the most erotic thing happened. Billy pulled me in a little closer and he, standing at 6’1”, positioned his head so it was directly over my left shoulder. Me, ever mindful of my dance partner and the sheer quantity of hair I have, swept my hair to the right, exposing a bare shoulder and neck.

My neck is the most sensitive part of my body (clitoris aside). The first time I made out with my first boyfriend in high school, he discovered this was my sweet spot and I came home with 15 hickeys. It looked like a case of leprosy. I went to church the next day to confess my sins and ask for forgiveness. I wore a turtleneck all week. When my mother spotted my neck, she exhibited an equal mixture of mild outrage and disbelief, accusing my boyfriend of being a vampire.

For months Billy had attentively listened, on the phone, on IM, out at lunch, to me talk about women and sex and relationships. And in those moments, I revealed my own preferences, my own wants, my own desires, and my own fears. I had opened up. I told him things about me and Dexter that nobody else knew. I exposed myself. And on the dance floor, I exposed myself again with my bare naked neck.

Somewhere, floating out on Flickr, Facebook or another photo sharing site, there most likely is a picture of me dancing with Billy. And this is why. Billy started breathing on my neck. Or blowing on my neck. Whatever it was, he knew what he was doing. His lips and face never touched the surface of my skin. But the touch of his breath on my neck resonated throughout my entire body and as we danced, with his hands resting on the curves of my shoulders, I felt an ecstasy I hadn’t felt in over a year. However we looked, it was interesting and compelling enough for some random person to take a picture of us.

I never fucked Billy. That night is as far as it ever went. I needed something or someone to wake me up, to bring me out of my stupor. For an entire year, I tried to stay the course, deluding myself with inaction and reserve. I now realize that was the product of not having the knowledge and guidance to pursue any other path or direction.

“All the ills of mankind, all the tragic misfortunes that fill the history books, all the political blunders, all the failures of the great leaders have arisen merely from a lack of skill at dancing.” ~Moliere


  1. To take in as food; eat or drink up
  2. To purchase (goods or services) for direct use or ownership
  3. To destroy totally; ravage
  4. To absorb; engross

This is what I want: I want a man to consume me.  For breakfast.  I want to wake up and instead of a morning poke from behind, I want to look across the pillow and see a man  who makes me smile.  I say “hi.”   And then he kisses me, just a peck on the lips and says “hi” back.  That’s how it will start.

Then the peck on the lips will move to a peck on the cheek, and the nose, and the forehead.  Followed by the ears,  and then the neck…I want every inch of my body kissed.  Under a big fluffy, white, soft as butter comforter.

What will this achieve?  Any man who does this will discover my trigger points, those specific spots on my body so sensitive that I am immediately disarmed.  This is will become part of his artillery.  And instead of having a quick morning fuck and me throwing off the comforter and feeling the urge to get on with my Saturday agenda, the entire morning will be spent having sex – and the morning will slip into the afternoon.

The problem with this scenario is that it can’t be done with just anyone.  There needs to be trust.  After all, I am offering myself as an entire meal.

If I’m not going to jump out of bed in the morning, I’m committing to staying in bed, with the man that lies there.   I can’t do this with a fuck buddy or a one-night stand or a friend with benefits.  That kind of sex seems bland and tasteless compared to what I’ve had and what I want.  So how do I achieve this?  I have to stop putting up the roadblocks and the walls and every defense mechanism I’ve used in the past and be open for consumption.  And yet every definition of the word consumption makes me recoil.  I am not willing to give up myself.

hindsight: perception of the significance and nature of events after they have occurred

There is only one way I can write this post: as a third party, condemning the acts of me, the accused, without providing an opportunity for defense.

Exhibit #1: The first night I met D, I felt an unmistakable attraction for him* and I acted on it by flirting with him, even though I was in a monogamous, committed relationship with S. More importantly, D was thoroughly drunk and obnoxious.

Alcohol has always presented a challenge for my father, who vacillates from drinking in excess to not drinking at all. He is also known for making the most obnoxious of comments and this aspect of his personality has been the source of reoccurring embarrassment for my family.

*Note: There is a school of thought called schema therapy that says in a relationship, one person’s schema can trigger another person’s schema and escalate repressed childhood issues. Schema therapists assert that head-over-heals romantic attraction is often a sign of bad schema chemistry because we essentially associate the new partner with the parent or adult figure that caused us childhood discomfort. More on this later.

Exhibit #2: For months, I continued the flirtation, while still in my other relationship. This included some provocative instant messaging as well as coffee and lunch outings.

Cheating does not necessitate physical sexual action. This is one of those silly little loopholes people exploit all the time. I should have ended things with S by this point.

Exhibit #3: S read an email I sent to one of my ex’s revealing my feelings that I didn’t believe S was an intellectual equal.

I was sending an ex (fuck buddy) an email explaining why me and S weren’t right???

S was a late-acting rebound to J and Dr. T, who both did superb jobs mind-fucking me. After J, I was afraid of subjecting myself to an intellectually provocative male. I knew S provided a very non-threatening relationship which I essentially controlled.

Exhibit #4 : D revealed during one of our common “the question game” chats that his greatest fear was not having children and I responded by setting D up with one of my best friend’s Liz, who had a similar fear.

I hate this one. At this time in my life, children instilled a state of panic in me. I had no idea if I ever wanted children. Why did I set D up with Liz? I’m still working on my motivation for this move. Maybe I was simply committing a nice act. Or maybe this was my way sabatoging a relationship with D? Or was I testing his interest in me?

Exhibit #5 : Upon introducing D to Liz, he expressed an interest in her and I proceeded to feed him with reasons why the two of them wouldn’t work out.

Friends don’t sabotage friends. I have always had a competitive relationship with Liz, ever since Peter, who we met at the same time. I told Liz that if she didn’t make a move for him, I would. So she did. No big deal. I wasn’t interested in him besides sex. They started dating and still no big deal BUT at the Halloween party, when Liz made the comment about the length of my “naughty schoolgirl” skirt, something to the effect of my skirt was a little “slutty” and maybe that was the reason why she was in a relationship with Peter and I wasn’t, she left a scar.

Never diss a girlfriend with the sheer intent of getting in a dig. Maybe D was payback for that comment. I gave her Peter. I wasn’t giving her D.

Friend with Benefits: someone you know, genuinely like, and will hang out with during daylight (sober) hours but isn’t relationship material so you don’t date but when the moment strikes you right (perhaps you’re drunk and horny and he or she happens to be in your presence ) you hook up, on occasion

Fuck Buddy: someone you hook up with but don’t really know (and don’t care to know well) and call drunk when you realize he or she is your most viable option for sex for the evening OR someone you don’t particularly like but the sex is too good to resist

Boy/Girlfriend Stand-In: someone who is there for you whenever you need a body to go to a movie with, or move a sofa, or bring you soup when you’re sick, but isn’t getting any from you and you know that he or she desperately wants to sleep with you which is why he or she is putting in the effort and the time

The point of this post: my ex (once removed) was each of these at one point (over the course of 6 years).

When we first met at work, we “greatly disliked” each other. He was the gregarious, frat boy who skirted through college on a fluff major (aka marketing) and I was the anal-retentive, Type-A overachiever who would not help him during training, even though he was my partner. Everything changed once I realized that training had absolutely no bearing on my career and he was an amusement ride of fun.

He started out as a Friend with Benefits. That was inevitable since we were housemates and although we didn’t have intercourse while living under the same roof, I slept in his bed on a regular basis. Girls love to do because it makes us feel safe, warm, and fuzzy and guys like to do this in hopes of having sex.

Then he got a girlfriend, and my benefits ended. Which pissed me off (hence me not particularly liking him) so we became Fuck Buddies. This continued after he broke up with his girlfriend but then I got a boyfriend (J).

I broke up with J, and we transitioned from Fuck Buddies to Friends with Benefits. After I realized he wanted more than just sex, I refrained from having sex with him, at which point he became the Boyfriend Stand-in. Enabling a person to be a stand-in in your life is a truly shitty, selfish thing to do. But I loved him (even though true love is a completely unselfish act) and wanted him in my life and so it continued until he told me he thought was should date and pursue a relationship – I remember every detail of the evening that he brought this up and I have a shoddy, borderline Alzheimer-like memory. It was a Sunday night. He showed up at my apartment. He had candles and flowers and music and I before he could even ask, I told him not to, because he wouldn’t like the answer.

Telling someone you love them and want to be with them when you’re not sure if the person feels the same is one of toughest things to do in life. It takes guts to put yourself out there. It’s also tough to hear no, but two weeks later he asked again, and this time I said okay.

When I agreed to go down the rabbit hole, I did so with blind, wish-for-the-best optimism, the kind I assume most people who walk down the aisle embrace. I thought, “Maybe this can work.” On a selfish level, I wasn’t ready to lose him and knew that I would if I said no. I also knew that if the relationship didn’t work out (which meant we didn’t get married and spend the rest of our lives together), there would be no friendship afterward.

In the back of my mind, I always knew it wouldn’t work. After a few months of dating, a little voice crept into my head, telling me the relationship wasn’t right. And the voice got louder and things started happening, like me having panic attacks when we talked about engagement rings and houses or me noticing other guys. And we finally broke up.

When I look back I don’t think, what if we hadn’t of slept together, would he still be in my life? No, we slept together for a reason. We had some of the most amazing, wake-up-the-neighbors, call-the-cops sex. We literally learned how to be great sexual partners, because we had an incredible amount of trust between us. We picked each other up during some tough times in our lives. We were there for each other. But our friendship was also immature and childish, and we did a lot of stupid things together and we finally outgrew “us.”

What I learned is that the Friend with Benefits, the Fuck Buddy, and the Boyfriend/Girlfriend Stand-In are double-edge swords (and illusions). You may think you’re getting something good out of it, but when you fill your life with one thing, you can prevent something that you really want from entering.