Alter Egos

In life we learn skills. Then, we practice those skills. And once we’ve practiced those skills enough, we get good at them; we have become more than acquainted with the basics and get comfortable. To avoid having comfort evolve into boredom, we start bringing our natural, god-given assets to the table and develop a style for our skill. In effect, the skill becomes one with our identities. Nobody says, “I had sex,” after joining me in a sexual setting. He says, “I had sex with Isabella Bardou.”

I find it fascinating to compare and contrast a man’s everyday identity to the one he obtains upon entering a naked woman. I don’t disagree with the majority of women who prefer getting to know a man intellectually before familiarizing herself with him physically. Considering many women are looking for relationships, I would actually be confused if they didn’t. However, for the independent single woman, a man’s sexual performance reveals much more than the colloquial mannerisms he strategically uses to depict himself. I see his vulnerability from a trembling wall. I test the extent of his creative expression. I see the man whom he fantasizes about being.

This is how I can tell when a sexual partner lacks experience: is he going through the basic in-and-out movement and top-to bottom position switcheroo? Or is there an unfamiliar style that disables me from detecting what comes next? Of course, the presence of a sexual personality does not necessarily yield better sex, but it definitely provides further entertainment for me. I’d say it makes the experience worth my while. It makes the experience more memorable.

Unless we are talking about two people who are in love, it is not consciously expected to make a psychological discovery about a person while being physical with him, or her. But frankly, I don’t trust that the representation each man verbally gives me in public is completely accurate. He tells me what he wants me to hear. But in the bedroom, or an establishment that offers me the necessities of a bedroom, I am able to extract from him the secret, honest components of himself which I do want to hear. Physical activity enables manipulation. Sometimes, though, I come across men who refuse to reveal to me what I want to hear because they are so consumed with having the “upper hand” in sexual action. Ironically, this fixation on the “upper hand” reveals to me their fears of inferiority, which silently declares my given superiority. Isn’t it interesting how with some men it’s all just a mind game?

Here are just several sexual personalities, or alter egos, worth mentioning which have depicted men’s reformed and renovated versions of themselves. It is the alter ego that makes me tick and tick about a man. I read his subconscious thoughts, and they enchant me.

The Assy Bossman: This guy is a seemingly nice Jewish boy who smiles and says hi to me at the bar every night. I have never really associated him with sex, but every once and again when he’s extremely intoxicated, he firmly grips my bum. This is what made me decide that I was enticed. So on a recent night, I concurred with the idea of going home with him. Once we landed on the bed, his hands pulled at my hair and neck until I became temporarily paralyzed. I was feeling sensations 50% arousal and 50% pain, but I didn’t stop because I was too curious to tune into what would happen next. Instead of moving down to my boobs, he dug right in and ate them like one would a steak. The next day a friend would tell me she knew where I was last night because of my detectable scream. It had to have been when my boobs were getting chomped to death. It just had to have been. Then, right after I started to give him head, he grabbed my head, obviously by my hair, and quietly but sharply threw me my orders: “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to suck my dick. Suck it fucking hard. Then, you’re going to lick my balls.” Okay, I’m thinking, I can do that. Sounds reasonable. “Then, you’re going to lick my assho–” What the fuckkk. Since when are there tingly nerves on the asshole. I like anal sex because it allows a hitting pressure on the back of my g-spot from a completely different angle. But never have I felt inclined to put somebody’s tongue on it. Afterwards he preached that every man would like his ass licked but would never be the first to come out and say it. Is this true? His articulation of what it felt like was too insufficient for me to understand why this would be a rather lovely sensation. Hiding the lower part of my face behind his balls, I started to graze what felt like hair follicles with my tongue. I moved down a little lower. Still hair follicles. This wasn’t working. I was so confused. I’m still confused. Can somebody explain to me the appeal of getting the anus rim licked? Regardless, he ended up coming on my face.

The Camera Operator: Sometimes in the middle of some type of sexual activity, I will notice a recording device sitting proudly in the hand grip of my partner. He doesn’t tell me it’s there, I just look up and hocus pocus there’s a camera. But the strange thing is, the camera operator always ends up being a peer who is extremely shady and alienated from gossip society. So I end up having fun with the camera and it always works out. These sessions are the least intimate, but are basically virtual reality pornographies. My arousal comes completely from myself. My partner is solely the camera operator helping me come. His sexual personality labors below me in my social hierarchy.

The Model: This one has a mirror on every wall of his room. Wherever I stand in his bedroom, any square foot, I can find my reflection on a wall. Now, when I have sex I’m usually too occupied to look at myself in the mirror. Sure, I enjoy looking in the mirror. And I’m aware I would look great in the mirror during sex, but I’m just too enthusiastic in the matter to multitask. That’s just me. When this pretty boy is inside me, he is multitasking all right. While he’s on top of me, thrusting into me, I look past his face and it looks like there is a vacuum sucking at him from above. This vacuum is defying gravity. No, my eyes are not fooling me, something actually does not look right. As he is facing down on me, holding himself up, his stomach is sucked the fuck in. I immediately realize the effort in his eyes. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. This dude is holding in his stomach and flexing his abs while having sex with me, and while on top! I can’t believe it. Wait, he is licking my boobs. Oh, upp, he’s coming up to my face. Licks that, too. Hmmm. I have not further investigated the correlation between mirrors and licking, but maybe I should.

The Blank Bullet: Xanax. I am so sick of fucking soulless beings. If you take Xanax, do me a favor and don’t waste my time in bringing me to your bedroom/fuckplace. It’s just inconsiderate. I like to fuck humans, not just bodies.

A lot of the time I find men who are extremely skilled in sex who just play the role of themselves. These boys are the ones I find myself having fun with on a more routine-like basis. They become a regular in my rotation. Sure, there lacks the comic relief of an inferiority complex, but it avoids the tediousness of a self-conscious brick wall. These boys are just extremely comfortable with themselves, making me extremely comfortable with myself. Who wouldn’t want to be surrounded by an aura like that on a regular basis?

Overall, I take the dark with the light, and I end up having a beautiful swirl of variety. I am living the good life. There is no doubt about that.