Category Sex

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My husband humped me last night. At least he didn’t screw me. God be praised it wasn’t a fuck either but it sure wasn’t a bang, let alone making love. It was just your basic, non-descript hump. We fooled around in the kitchen, he got me into bed, got our clothes off, got me hot and put it in. Half a dozen thrusts and he shoots, sex was over but at least he didn’t pass out. He actually did hold me a while but a hump is a hump. Me being me, putting things in order.

Maybe it was Statistics or it might have been Sociology. One of the two or both maybe. Somewhere down the line in college basic acts became things to be categorized. Put into neat boxes and arranged orderly. Identified by labels and therefore in some way more understandable. That’s about the only way it all makes sense. About the only way I can endure it at times.

That wasn’t the way I thought it would be so many years ago, two days before I was going to be married. Talk about stupid, I actually believed romance novels. There was no doubt in my mind every time would be making love, a total seduction of two willing partners consummating the ultimate passion. That, my friends, is the place that is called La-La Land, but there I was. Me, the innocent maiden, him my dearly betrothed, alone for an afternoon and not wanting to wait anymore. Me, expecting the seduction. Me, getting fucked.

Sorry but I am an honest woman. I’d tried to look so pretty and be so totally seduced. My dear husband finally knew he had his chance. Him growling those romantic words, “God, I want to bust you so bad.” His life’s desire, to pop a cherry and trust me, it popped. I was solid as a brick and it was a total disaster, at least for me. Not that it mattered. At least to him. After all, I was sure to get better. Right about then I was beginning to realize reality and romance novels tended to be mutually exclusive groups.

Having established what a fuck was, it was only a matter of time until other art forms of the Ankara travesti sex act would be revealed to a most willing me. I had to agree, if not me then the act had to get better, as lousy as the first time had been. In fact it was just a couple of days later, on my actual wedding night, that I began to understand and form the opinion on differences in doing it. At least in that hotel room I didn’t get fucked. I got screwed.

To be screwed, slightly more romantic than a fuck, but only by a degree. I, the willing bride, felt my clothes being taken off, a touch of foreplay simply to get his pecker up and then the insertion, riding me until satisfied and then rolling off, the deed sealed with a kiss and a nod. An act that is meant to be repeated as soon as the male is prepared and continued as long as he so desires. A screwing.

Granted, there are occasional advantages to screwing. Two of my three daughters were created that way, one under a Christmas tree and one in a hot tub. I love them so very much, it did make the act bearable, to say the least so that was fine. Screwing also maintains the male ego, conquest of the mate and all that shit too so he grants me certain liberties in return. There’s that, but for the most past screwing is the domain of the young studs still able to do a woman more than once. Once the boys past 40, screwing far too often becomes nothing but a hump.

The hump, what he did to me last night. What he does with decreasing frequency as the years have moved on. It begins with a kiss that has a little more intensity, a little more passion. Generally, given we’re sometimes considered seniors, the first overtures begin before 8pm with a good chance of the score before 9 so he can go to work the next day. A few things get unbuttoned, maybe a zipper let down. The traditional giggling and movement to the bedroom follows. Undressing, usually left to the individual but at least there is some foreplay. Last night he played Konya travesti the hungry baby needing fed. I go on my back, he mounts, he’s in and there is an occasional “I love you” thrown in before climax. A little cuddling, he passes out, I shower and that’s the show, folks. The basic hump, also known as balling by some. The sex act between the willing but still lacking that next level of intensity. Intensity found in the bang.

Please, I am honest and yes, I have been banged. Many times, in that same honesty, if you must know. The other daughter was made that way, two with a screw, one with a bang. By far more preferable to me than any of the previous acts, to say the least. Banging requires a degree of lust in both partners not found in humping, fucking or screwing. There it is unilateral but to be banged is to want it too. To give and to respond, to respond and to give. Occasionally alcohol will be involved but only to stimulate the desire already existing. For the most part it is all a matter of want and baby, I’ve wanted.

Just because my husband is capable of being a moron that doesn’t mean there aren’t times he’s made me crazy with heat. Wet underpants, hard nipples and ready to go. There’s no rule of thumb as to what caused the heat, it just happened. For the most part there never was any objection anyway. Two bodies locked in passion with the objective being mutual orgasms. Primarily the domain of the younger people and the first ten years of marriage, it still can happen when there’s snow on the roof. Actually enjoyable, at least for a woman who has every urge she should, but it’s still not the Promised Land of Sex. Babe, it’s not making love.

Making love, the ultimate expression of passion between two human beings totally, completely committed to each other. Beginning with the first steps of seduction, continuing on through the lust of sex and on to the afterglow of sharing lives as one, that is the ultimate objective, at least İzmir travesti to this woman. It’s an objective she’d even see in her every daydream.

That I can, I can see everything. It would be a day just like today, mid-morning, the sun shining and the neighborhood quiet. I’d sip my coffee and steal a glance at the clock. 10:30, it won’t be long now. In that beautiful world he’d be on his way to me, a handsome lover who seduces me with just a glance. China blue eyes, graying hair, muscle on top of muscle and yet tender as a newborn babe when he takes me in his arms. Yeah, right out of a romance novel. My best friend and I am his. Driving a black SUV, no doubt, casually dressed but still enough to turn my head. Enough to turn down my sheets.

Me, the married woman who got humped and having a daydream like that, but I can see it all. Him on his way and me sitting here, waiting. Me in a slinky little silk robe, barefoot with little black underthings just for him. Knowing it will turn him on and he’s going to have to have me. My hair just right, my heart all a flutter. He’d pull right up our drive, get out, pull out a rose and saunter up to the house, the most confident man on earth and so in love with me. Me, waiting for him right at the door. I can see it all.

I can see the door open slowly and the love in his eyes. No words, he steps inside. I push the door shut, locking it and then turning to him. A long, slow kiss. He opens my robe just enough and then slips the rose between my breasts. I would be in total heat as he takes me in his arms. A long, long kiss, my robe falling off. I pant, “Upstairs. Hurry,” and he carries me up to my bed. Gently he lays me down, unhooking my bra and pulling it away. He strips, his cock rock hard. Kisses, licks, he works his way to my breasts. Hungrily he feeds, lifting me up as he suckles, stripping off my underpants. So naked, so in love, we have to be one. One forever. Such a pleasant daydream. Perhaps there’s more but you must excuse me now. Company is here

A black SUV has just pulled in and I have to go. Is my hair all right? I hope I didn’t embarrass you sitting here in my underthings and robe. Sorry if I did. Oh look, he has flowers.

Excuse me, I won’t be right back.

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