Archive for std
Stickers, Hair Clips and an Unidentified Ransom
Posted by: | Comments“You left a pair of sandals. I’ll hold them for ransom.”
As I was driving to the airport at 5 o’clock this morning, my intuition kept badgering me about something I’d left behind at Tank’s home. I’d been careful to pack separate bags and suitcases—the one for Saturday night’s party containing my little black dress with a balloon skirt that I just love and my five inch spiked sandals from my last New Orleans trip, the one with my travel clothes and shoes for today and two large roller bags for my engagement in Philadelphia.
2.25 hours of sleep, even with a 90 minute nap after dinner last night had knocked me off kilter by a mere heartbeat. I know better than to deliberately leave anything at Tank’s home. Especially after he’d shared a story about a woman he slept with who left tons of items at his home after their first night together. He countered for their second and last date by going to the drugstore and buying five toothbrushes, various types of flowery deodorant and countless other products and leaving them out in full view for her to see—and not fucking her. I gotta hand it to him. She never showed up again, which was his intent.
Tank and I began our hanging out together time on Saturday by seeing the late morning matinee of “How to Train Your Dragon.” I found it to be a delightful flick—with a great message about how a young boy’s refusal to see the world through his father’s eyes sparked an innovation that ultimately saved the town in which he lived from future strife.
Then it was on to Costco for stuff. I love stuff. Heck. I love shopping. Doesn’t matter for what. It’s the looking part that seduces me.
Followed by a paddleboat ride that Tank is surely not to let me forget. You see—I’m uncoordinated. I can fall merely by walking in flat shoes on flat ground. Getting into the boat almost had me tipping it over. And getting out? Well. I tried a few times to do it first. But I couldn’t seem to stand up and hold the dock without moving the boat on direction or the other, which meant getting thrown back into my seat. I’m very fortunate that Tank is a patient man. Notwithstanding he chides me forever about moments like these. Which only finds me laughing along with him.
Then came a Greek meal for four that’ll get Tank through Monday (maybe J) and the nap, which I only take in dire circumstances. Which meant tonight we were going to an invite-only swing party—the one I’d invited Drew to originally, only he didn’t followed up with me about it.
What intrigued me about this gathering was that it was in a locale far from my home—so I sensed we’d meet people we’d not seen before. And I was right. Except for the two people that Tank recognized from work-related activities over the years (who didn’t recognize him) and the guy I’d communicated with prior to the New Year, we didn’t know anyone else in a group of about 80.
As soon as we entered, we were given an icebreaker activity—and stickers. Kiss a person. Get a sticker. Have sex in a public area of the home, get a sticker. Have sex with multiple people you don’t know, get lots of stickers—one from each of them. LOL
Of course, on the entry that said: Bare a breast, your ass, your pussy or your cock, Tank decided to pull up his shirt when a GILF (grandmother I’d love to fuck) did the same. The irony of the situation did not evade me. He also took quickly to the item that encouraged women to let others fondle their breasts. In fact, I think he gave up a majority of his stickers to the cause.
That’s my man!
I was more reserved. Observant. Atypical for me. But tonight it just was.
I didn’t feel the need to fuck or suck anyone but Tank. We’d started the afternoon with a bang. There’d been no men in my stream of consciousness worth fucking since our last soiree (see “Oh, What a Night”). That was a full two weeks earlier. Oh, what this guy can do with his tongue and lips on my clit and his fingers in my pussy. I’m left breathless here in Philly just thinking about it.
The game caused us to meet more people than we usually do. That’s when I discovered a lot of newbie’s were in our presence.
The phrase to remember came from a woman who lived in Toronto and had come to town with her hubby for a conference. Tank and I saw her attaching large hair clips to the V-neck on her shirt. So he inquired.
“What are those for?”
“A girl never knows when she might need to pull hair back.”
That made me wonder which hair and whose hair that might be.
I did meet a fellow who’s acted in a few porn flicks. A gorgeous hunk of a guy. What fascinated me is he’s very picky about who he plays with and how much he knows about them. A year or two ago, his doctor put the fear of God in him when she told him he could get STD’s through oral contact. Up until the time we left at 1:15 in the morning, he hadn’t played with anyone.
But we had fun. The Toronto couple joined us on the same bed for a while. Tank finger fucked me in the hot tub while a husband caressed me. I got to stroke his lovely cock while he was close by. And we joined the Toronto couple in another room as her husband slowly—and I mean slowly fucked her while she lay on her back and sucked down the entire dick of the guy I met over the holidays. That reminds me: I need to ask him how it felt.
You curious about the ransom? Me too. Tank hasn’t responded yet to my request. Lord only knows what he might have up his sleeve.
CNN, Are You Serious?
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I first read this article (“The Downside of ‘Friends with Benefits’”) the day it was published. The premise is that “friends with benefits” have more “concurrency” (several relationships at once) is speeding up the transmission of STD’s because they don’t protect themselves given they know each other. Evidently, people in romantic relationships tend towards monogamy and thus don’t have this issue.
Really? Huh. What’s wrong with this picture? Who made the assumption that people with multiple partners don’t use protection in their sexual relationships? Or that “friends” don’t talk about the subject? Or that romantic relationships imply monogamy?
When I was 26 years old and divorced from my first husband, I went to work in a hospital in the town in which I’d gotten my college education. One of my closest friends was a woman in Human Resources, Barbie, who interviewed me when I came to the organization. She was gorgeous: tall, perfectly proportioned no matter what she ate, dark brown shoulder-length hair long and thick eyelashes, and porcelain skin accentuated by a perfect smile. I idolized her.
Not only did we see each other at work, we exercised at the same gym four nights a week and went out together on Friday evenings for happy hour as part of a group of about ten women. One of those evenings she stumbled onto Jim. He projected as the perfect gentleman—and had a terrific job. They quickly fell in love and saw each other every moment they could. The rest of us loved him too. We all socialized together. What a gem of a guy.
Several months later, I sauntered to Barbie’s office—we had planned to go to lunch together that day to plan the upcoming weekend’s activities. Only I was told she was home ill. Ill? I’d just seen her the evening before and she seemed just fine. Something didn’t feel right. SO I took a chance and called her at home. Her ex husband, who I also knew—a really sweet guy—answered the phone.
“What are you doing at the house in the middle of the day?”
“I’m doing some laundry for Barbie.”
“Laundry?”
“Yeah. She needed some help.”
“What’s going on? What’s the matter with her?”
“Hold a sec. Let me see if she wants to talk with you.”
Barbie sounded fine when she got on the phone. Didn’t seem like she had a cold or the flu.
“Hi. I was worried about you. They said you were sick so I thought I’d call and see if there was anything I could do to help.”
“No. Nothing you can do.”
“You sure.”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“You ok?”
“No. Not really.”
“What’s going on, Barbie?”
“Jim and I broke up.”
“Over what?”
“He didn’t tell me he had herpes and now I have it too.”
“Oh my God.”
Only what she didn’t know was that the “oh my God” was not so much for her as it was for me. My mind immediately flew back to my activities two weekends earlier. Barbie had gone out of town for a conference. And Jim had called me, wanting to know if I’d like to play tennis. Having nothing else on my calendar, I immediately accepted. We played outside for hours. Afterwards, we went back to his condo for a beer. When I tried to get up to leave, my whole body ached something fierce. Jim had me lie on the floor on my tummy and proceeded to give me a slow, sensual, full body massage. Before you knew it, we were fucking our brains out in his bedroom. We went through a box of condoms. He had great endurance. The (unprotected) oral sex was also fantastic. Before I left, we both agreed not to say a word about what had happened.
And now, here I was, listening to Barbie tell me he has herpes. And that she did too. I panicked. I wondered if I did. Who would I see? In a hospital, words gets around, no matter which physician you saw or the Hippocratic Oath. Nothing stayed confidential.
As soon as I hung up the phone, I made an appointment at Planned Parenthood, the only place I knew I could go and spill my guts.
Twenty-five years later, I can still recall that phone conversation as though it happened yesterday. It left an indelible imprint on my mind. And a lesson that’s served me well through the years.
Suffice it to say, I don’t buy that people in romantic relationships are monogamous. All you have to do is look at the number of people on the Ashley Madison website where affairs are GUARANTEED. Or that the communication about sex and STD’s is heightened in these sorts of relationships. Nor do I buy that people in concurrency relationships—people like me—aren’t strict about the use of protection. Because we are.
But then again, that sort of story wouldn’t ever make the news.
Welcome to Randi Buckmen's adventures in intimacy—beyond the world of sex. Hear how I’m embracing the possibilities of what can be while remaining a “good girl” in the public’s eye. How did I go from being celibate for three years—and wearing flannel pj's to bed with socks when I was married—to where I am today?
