A Latina’s Guide to Spirituality and Sex

*Warning:  this is one of those sappy moment entries!  Ok, now that you’ve been warned, please proceed!*

I wore this for you today.

Flattering black skirt, hugging my curves.  Kitten heels.  Black tee accentuating the nipples you loved so much. 

Even the most remote possibility that you would see me pushed me to grab it.

I was wearing it the day I met you.

Sgt. Pepper’s.  Chicken Philly.  Our friends…the reason we met.

My rendition of Alphaville’s Forever Young making people bleed from the ears, but not you.

You seduced me outside.

You seduced me with the idea that I had found my soulmate.  Found a man to share my vision.  To share my life. 

You kissed me by the car.

You knew what this was and so did I. 

You ran to it.  I ran away from it.

And now, you’re the one running away and I’m heading straight for a brick wall going 100 mph.

I guess it’s obvious to everyone that my sexy blog has morphed into some sappy, ridiculous breakup blog and I’m quite sick of it.  I say that, however, you may still see entries from time to time (actually this one could randomly turn into one in a moment) that reflect that I’m mourning my relationship.  This fact, however, should not impede my ability to write smut.  So…

Have you ever masturbated in your parent’s house?  I mean, (men stop laughing or saying of course…let me finish), once you’ve moved out, entered adulthood, had kids, but your house has mold and you broke up with your boyfriend so other than your ex-husband’s house (who is presently living with his girlfriend, her 3 kids, her 2 brothers and his father…I’d feel a little cramped or maybe this blog would become even more interesting since I would have to share a bed with the ex and the girlfriend, though I’d rather not because she isn’t really my type), so you end up on your mom’s couch.  Don’t get me wrong, my mother is amazing, and I’m not just saying that because I know she’s reading this blog, but she really is a strong, supportive player in my life.  And though I get the smut thing from my parents, it’s still strange to feel the urge to jack off in her house.

But, it was 4 a.m. 

I wasn’t going back to bed. 

Thoughts of boyfriend shit filling my head…

Was it my fault? Was it his? Is there a chance left? 

Suddenly, it started turning to…

I wonder if he’d be up for a booty-call?  How about if I showed up naked and acted like a one night stand, no strings?  God, I wish he was here to suck my tits, stroke my clit, get me off, and lull me to sleep.  Oh and Clark Kent in Smallville sure looks fucking hot…wish he’d grope me in the elevator like he did that girl in Season 8, episode 4.

Now I’m horny.

Went to the room with all my shit.  Pulled out the rabbit he bought, hid, and thought I might not find.  Tiptoed to the bathroom (mom’s a light sleeper).  Turned on the shower. Turned that fucker on and got myself off twice.  It wasn’t him, but it did the trick.  Took a shower.  Sulked a little like I like to do in the mornings lately .  Made a french press.  Went onto the glorious balcony with my coffee and bitcherette and watched the sunrise.

Position:  Masturbating at mom’s house at 4am.

Days to go:  I have no fucking clue…this break up crap made me lose count.

Sitting, overlooking the grandeur of the ocean from a fifteenth story.
Feeling peace.
Knowing that however painful it is, it was for the best.
How could we possibly keep going like this?
Love is not an excuse it’s a blessing, and lately it’s been trying to justify the nastiness we’ve been inflicting upon one another.

I can’t get it to stop.
It hurts every time I remember that tattoo around your arm,
or the gently expression in your eyes when the love was pouring out.

I can’t get it to stop.
It hurts every time I remember when you called me a cunt,
or threw in my face the fact that I was living in YOUR house.

I can’t get it to stop.
It hurts every time I remember watching the sunrise over New Smyrna with you,
or making love in the ocean outside that shitty little place that was all ours.

I can’t get it to stop.
It hurts every time I remember how the venom starting trickling outside that beautiful cabin in Jefferson,
or right before we left to Orlando and it seemed like the end.

But no, the end came now.
It caught us both by surprise.

That damn bath mat.
Our damn tempers.

No doubt we loved each other.
Maybe too much?
I’m not sure.
I know I miss you and love you, hate you and am glad that you’re gone.
I’m feeling a mix of emotions that I can’t seem to grab onto and control.

I wish I could stop this all.
The pain.
The hurt.
The anger.
The differences.
The negativity.
But I can’t, it drowned us.

I will love you always. I know you’ll never see this since you never bothered to read my shit anyways.
But I will love you always.

It’s amazing how resilient we are.

Life can give you a crushing blow, and there’s that moment when you think to yourself, how much easier it would be to simply lay down, stop trying, stop caring, stop exerting anymore energy into the force that just knocked you down. However, there’s always that curiosity of what comes next, what could be hiding around the corner, because maybe, maybe it could be the most spectacular gift life has yet to offer. So you get up. Dust yourself off. Straighten yourself up a bit. Try to look the part of someone who plans on trying even if it’s in the most minimal way. Then you begin to walk again, uncertain of the direction, but walking, moving, experiencing the constant flow of life.

I can’t imagine sleeping.

Nor eating.

I can’t see beyond this devastating moment.

He’s gone.

Two years are gone.

I feel empty, numb, void of any will to go about my life.

Routines seem to me a false sense of security but somehow they are the only things making me deal with the world.

Bye lover. Bye best friend. Bye.

I did call you an asshole this morning.

But you did act the part, did you not?

I did tell you I was smarter than you by leaps and bounds…just not very structured I think I tried to reassure you with.

You have freely admitted that you’re not the brightest apple on the tree, have you not?

And it goes without saying that me and structure are like oil and vinegar…it works, but not as harmoniously as we’d both like.

See this is where we are very different…

At this point, I’m over the fact that you threw everything you do in face as you often do,

Or that you threw me out of the house as you often do,

Or that you were nit-picking what my kid does as you often do.

At this point, I’m feeling frisky and want you to channel all that rage at my pussy.

Do you think you can do that?

Of course not, because I’m the guy in this relationship when it comes to sex.

I’m the primate that smacks you on the head with a head of lettuce, dragging my knuckles, translating into lets stop arguing and just fuck.

Position: Monkey sex.

350…

Tie me up, tie me down. Fuck me sideways. Fuck me any way you like.

Gagged.

Bound.

Ecstasy.

I told him to do it.

That little black number I bought at Vicki’s…y’all remember it right?

It was barely out of the bag, when I looked up to see his face, reddened, with a big, fat smile.

“Put that away. I’m gettin’ a chubby. Put it away unless you want to get fucked.”

Is he playing chicken with me?

“So fuck me.”

In a flash, I stripped down, put on the tiny little black thong with a soft, silky t-strap, put on the garter, pushed my boobs into their proper place, rolled on my little black thigh highs, had him attach the snaps of the garter, and then…

I told him, “Why don’t you tie me up?”

Face became an even deeper shade of red as he happily (I felt almost skipping) went to his ties, pulled out two and I replied,

“You’re gonna need more…my hands and feet.”

Spread-eagle.

Black garter.

Ankles tied.

Hands bound over my head.

Getting fucked by my dear, selfless boyfriend.

Position: Tie me up, tie me down.

351…

The rain outside is gently rapping at my window, soothing the hurt I’ve been feeling.

Relationships are such rollercoaster rides. Well, at least for me they are.

Yesterday, I was on the phone, in sex therapist mode with one of my dearest friends. As soon as I took that hat off, the dense weight of reality came crashing down on me.

Friend, this entry is for you.

There are very few of us that can say the relationships we have meet the romanticized vision we have in our minds. I only know of a few that do, and who continue to inspire us with the hope that fills us with the strength to keep trying.

How do you overcome differences in lifestyles and beliefs?

Or differences in sexual appetite or prowess?

What couples make it? Can you see the makings of a failed relationship from its inception?

Is my father the smart one? Selfish, out to satisfy his needs completely with little or no regard for his partner, but they are together and happy from what I hear.

Do we need to stop thinking about the other person’s happiness and just focus on ours? The less we concede, the less frustrated we are, the less repressed anger we have towards someone who is not at fault for our choices.

The rain has stopped and this early morning rambling is winding down.

Today’s position is more a question of the ingredients in a successful relationship.

Is it the two opposites with great sexual chemistry? The two similar people without the intense sexual connection?

Or the two friends who’ve known each forever, who have complete awareness of one another’s virtues and shortcomings, have always had that untapped sexual chemistry building below the surface, slowly bubbling, awaiting the moment to explode?

I guess the last one sounds interesting, but I’m an idealist so don’t let my romanticized fantasy persuade you…

352 days to go…

Early mornings. Problems washed away with the night. Life is anew.

And so is my libido. His is sleeping. Actually it’s not but he is.

A little grind. Subtle. Is she trying to cuddle or screw?

He gets up. No signs of molestation anywhere.

Does the early morning evacuation.

This is it. If its happening, it’s now.

Nope. Shower on.

Storming in, I kick him. Why he asks?

Because I’ve been wanting to screw since last night when I was rejected for…Entourage! Really? Yes. He’s stupid.

Fine. He’s in a hurry to get to work. Close bathroom door.

Take my new companion the Jack Rabbit out.

No need for a lot this morning.

Turn off penis impersonator. Turn clit lover on high.

Shit! I find myself sexy enough. Who fuckin’ needs him anyways? (At least this morning.)

Minutes later, my body is relaxed.

Back to the bathroom. Grab mild soap and washing J.R. off.

Opens curtain. Why are you so mad? he asks.

I look up at him through the mirror, never moving from what I’m doing.

Staring him down with venomous spite, I reply, No worries, I got myself off.

Oh. he says.

Position: Early morning sexual frustration followed by early morning masturbation.

353 days to go…