Sunday, June 14, 2009

Taking a message.

A sexblogging colleague, brilliantly, also coordinates a site focused on shared experiences in educating kids and parents about sexuality. She tweeted recently to seek submissions from readers about how their children had been introduced to the topic in the home, and it sparked a memory in me. I responded. Here is a much more adult version of what I had to say.

I was barely nineteen, she was twenty-four, and this morning I was making her late for work.

She had this massive waterbed, and it was a few weeks after I moved in before I really figured out how to best use its motion to our advantage. Sex with Diva was always really, really good, but once I learned that I could use the wave motion to help me push my thrusts even deeper inside her, her moans grew to arched-back peals and eyes-screwed-tight screams that resounded throughout the apartment.

When I fucked her missionary, she would raise her ankles high into the air, legs spread, and the motion of the water would push me harder and deeper into her lightly-tufted blonde pussy. She could tilt her hips in a way that would be otherwise impossible on any other surface, and it gave me angles to pound her that brought stars to my eyes. Likewise, when I took her from behind, the motion of the water lurched her back toward me as I clung to her hips, gripping them tightly and bringing her ass to my pelvis with all the force I could. Sex on a waterbed, if its timed right, brings extra verve to move bodies in urgent ways when you want them to.

It wasn't a very large apartment, and the walls were thin. The door to her 4-year old daughter's room was less than five feet from her (our) bedroom's. Her daughter, ever quick-witted and as sharp as the tacks that she left in the middle of the hardwood hallway, simply knew what was going on.

The phone was ringing off the hook this morning, and we were either ignoring it or in too much bliss to hear it brrrringinginging brrringinginging in the kitchen. But her daughter did, and pro-active girl that she was, naturally she answered it.

I had just pulled myself up from Diva and whipped a towel around my waist. By the time my feet were in the hallway (carefully avoiding the crayons and, thank God, no tacks this time), the wee one had the phone to her darling, ruddy face. On the phone was her Mommy's boss, wondering where her Mommy was. I knew this the moment the wee one spoke.

"Mommy can't come to the phone, mister," she said with matter-of-fact, unembarassed calmness. "She's busy dinkying."

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