Bastard Life

I don't date much, and hooking up with a stranger for sex just seems too risky for me. But phone sex—I love. I just feel shy about my penchant for it? Now what?

Q: Friend Finder, Manhunt all make it easy to hook up. Hell, at any bar I can go in and walk out sure to get laid—but that's just too unsafe for me. I like phone sex; after I get off, I'm glad I chose it over the guilt of actually having intercourse and the rest of it with someone I don't know. But how can I be honest about the fact that this is what I'm into?

A: First, your life can be as private as you want it to be today. Just as folks hook up on Adult Friend Finder and Manhunt totally anonymously, so too can you practice your chosen way of getting off—anonymously. What's better, you will soon learn that many of your potential conquests will find it hot if you get their number or offer them yours, as phone sex makes a great first 'hook up' date. And if for you it's the only date—that's just fine. 

Key Tip: When you aren't the kind to go home with or take home a total stranger for intimacy—phone sex can be a great way of getting off with someone else where there really are no strings—or diseases—attached.—N.B.

From Yes, Sir: Erotic Stories of Female Submission by Rachel Kramer Bussel. On sale now, and worth it.—N.B.

Something about Gabe brings out the brat in me. The little girl who wears pigtails, sticks out her tongue, and throws tantrums. The grown-up woman who’s been longing her whole life for someone to put her in her place, firmly, forcefully. What I love best about him is that he sees right through me, and has since we first met. He’s never tolerated my teasing or taunting, never wavered in his belief that what I really need is someone to lead so I can follow, even if I pout the whole while. Ultimately, as bratty as I may act, I know deep down that he knows what’s best for me, that’ll he’ll do everything he can to both protect me and push my buttons. I wouldn’t have it any other way, and believe me, I tried for a long while with men far more withholding than Gabe. 

I’ve been a kinky girl ever since I first started getting laid. Fortunately, my first lover was fifteen years older and knew just what to do with his belt—lash it against my tender, nineteen-year-old ass. He made me scream, Bob did, but oh how those screams have echoed in my head for the last decade, even as I’ve learned to scream harder, higher, happier, in my own way. I love screaming and crying when I bottom, but I’ve found that a lot of so-called tops can’t quite go there with me; their inner anxiety about whether I’m really enjoying myself takes over. I can sympathize, up to a point; I’ve spanked a few asses along the way but anything more just doesn’t feel right to me. So until I met Gabe I was looking for someone who’d be my equal, my complement in kink, and I just so happened to find him. 

We met when I was looking for a personal trainer. I’d been going to big, fancy gyms for years, and I knew all the games I could play. I realized early on that most of the trainers had good intentions, but their financial motivation allowed them to let me get away with slacking off. They were fearful that if they pushed me too far, I’d stalk off, never to be heard from again, not quite realizing that what I really needed was to be ordered around, in a voice that meant business. With them, I could always flutter my naturally long brown lashes and give a sexy smile to get out of doing the really onerous exercises, the ones that made me grunt, the ones that I knew were good for me but, like wheat germ, I just couldn’t really stomach. I got by like that for a long time, never truly pushing myself. I looked good, but not as good as I could look, and after I’d escaped from the gym, the high from getting away with doing very little soon wore off. I wanted someone to really kick my ass. Just the thought had my blood racing, as I walked even faster across the Brooklyn Bridge, imagining a man literally cracking a whip behind me. I knew this would never really happen, but a kinky girl can dream, can’t she? 

But when my latest trainer moved out to California, I started searching for a new one. I found Gabe online and, I have to admit, I was attracted to his body first, before I even read his credentials and philosophy. Those were in keeping with my ideas about fitness, too; he didn’t seem interested in simply pumping out overly muscled men and women, but cared about nutrition and lifelong health as well. I debated what to wear that first day, and settled on a new matching purple tank top and pants, ones I thought looked good against my skin. I knew that wasn’t really the point, but I wanted to look good. Something told me that Gabe was going to become more than my trainer—at least, if I could help it. 

He scoffed at me when he saw my attire, insisting that next time I find something else to wear. “Pastels are for pussies,” he said, and just hearing him say that second p-word had my own aching. “Remember that, doll,” he said, making the last word sound like an insult of the highest order. Then he put me to work, with barely any chitchat. I wanted to let my mind wander, meandering from his firm chest down to what he was hiding in his pants, but there was no time to do anything but focus. Right away, we were pumping iron, and he didn’t give me an inch. When I started to whine or complain, he got right up in my face. “You’re paying me good money to tell me how to run things? I don’t think so, princess.” Every time he got close to me, my heart beat faster, and I pictured him slamming me against the wall, rigging my hands above my head, showing me how he was going to keep me in line—with his cock. I kept picturing him naked, and lucky for me, that helped me lift even more weight. 

We continued like that in the following weeks, the tension between us mounting, but neither of us acting on it. I got firmer, stronger, tougher, but inside, I was still looking for the man who could break me, who could make me whimper and sob and submit to him completely. The man who’d make me go to my lowest point, grind me to a pulp, then put me back together again, better than I was before. The man who knew what a girl like me needed. I hoped Gabe was that man, but part of the thrill, as maddening as it could be, was waiting for him to make the first move. 

It happened two months later. We were alone late at night at the gym. Nobody ever came in after nine. The window was open but nobody was looking at us. We were alone, and even in the huge gym, that same tension swept over me with every move. I was doing pull-ups, and after eight weeks of practicing with a large red rubber strap around my leg as an aid, this time, it was all about me. Gabe wanted me to learn to do it without assistance. Ten reps. It doesn’t sound like that many, until you try pulling against a metal bar with all your might and barely being able to move. I was smaller than I’d been when I joined his gym, but more muscular, and pulling my own weight up over the bar was hard. I was about to conk out after three attempts. My arms just hung there stubbornly, and when I tried to lift myself, my body seemed to get heavier, gravity fiercer. “Grrr,” I said through gritted teeth, like he’d taught me, but still, I couldn’t pull myself up. I’d inch upward a tiny bit, then drop down, my arms almost useless. 

“You can do it,” he said, his voice low and encouraging, good cop for once. I pulled, feeling the strain all through my arms, gritting my teeth, but just couldn’t make it to the top. My eyes skimmed over the bar, but my chin couldn’t get past it. I dropped down to the wooden box below me and gave him my patented fluttering eyes/sexy pout combo. He responded by reaching out and pinching my lower lip, the one I’d thrust out just that little bit more. His fingers were firm and hard, and I gasped, but I couldn’t deny that my pussy responded just as firmly as if he’d been touching me there. I’d been pinched before, but never there, and I’d had no idea that my lips were that sensitive. He kept his hand there, finally dropping it, only to rake his fingernails down my chin and over my sweaty chest. They were clipped and neat and didn’t hurt, but I felt their scrape nonetheless. 

“You know what, Jen? You know what you need? I think you are just so used to being a spoiled, selfish, entitled brat who’s got every guy she meets wrapped around her little finger that you don’t know what to do when someone really pushes you.” He’d raised his voice, the vibrations as powerful as his tone. He stepped closer so we were only about three inches apart. His fingers tugged my sports bra and thin white T-shirt downward, causing pressure at the back of my neck. “What if I made you do this workout naked, huh? What if I made you come in here every day and strip in the bathroom and walk out totally bare?” His words hung in the air, totally surreal but nonetheless making me completely, utterly horny. As if by instinct, I glanced to my right, looking out the window and down on Third Avenue. Both of us knew that if I were naked, anyone looking up would see me. He dropped his hand. 

“Actually, it’s not a question. It’s an order. Take off those sweaty clothes. Maybe it’ll make it easier to lift yourself up.” His eyes surveyed every inch of my body, catching my hard nipples beneath the layers, the outline of my pussy under my tight black workout pants. I wondered if he could tell how completely wet I was. 

I wanted to plead for him to change his mind. And, of course, I could’ve stalked off and walked out, and I didn’t think he’d have stopped me. But even more than I wanted to leave, I wanted to stay. I wanted to make him proud—and horny. But I didn’t want to give in too easily; I got the feeling he liked that I wasn’t a pushover. Instead of begging, I turned defiant. “Make me,” I said, the brat in me coming out full force. 

“Make you? Make you? You know, Jen, I’ve suspected just what kind of dirty girl you were since you first walked in here, but now I know for sure. You can damn well bet I’m gonna make you.” And with that, he lifted me down from the box, then stripped off my workout pants and my soaked panties in one move. I had to jump out of the way lest he make me trip. “That’s better already,” he said as he looked down at my bare legs and the dark fuzz covering my pussy. If I’d known I was about to be naked in front of him, I’d have gotten waxed. Then his hand went up my shirt and pinched one nipple through the fabric of the bra. I gasped, but it was clearly a gasp of pleasure. He kept going, his fingers working me just like they’d held my lip, strong and steady. We were so close his leg was touching mine. “You can stop me at any time,” he grunted into my ear as he twisted my nipple. “Say ‘fire’ and I’ll stop touching you. But until I hear that, I’m not gonna stop.” 

He looked deep into my eyes and that’s exactly what I saw there—fire. Heat. Lust. He wanted me, but he wanted to make me bend. He just kept pinching me all over—my nipple, my lip, the inside of my arm. Then lower. My stomach, that thin layer of flesh I’d been trying to shed. Then my hip, and then my clit. It was slippery but he managed to grasp on to it. I gasped but didn’t say a word, the warmth spreading throughout my body. How I wanted him to fuck me, but I wasn’t gonna beg. 

“Are you ready yet, Jen? Has this been motivation enough? Because I’m gonna make you do it before you leave here tonight, no matter what. And if you wait until after I fuck you, it’s just gonna be all the more difficult. You might want to conserve your strength.” While he was speaking, his fingers had moved from my clit down to my wetness, tracing it, navigating along my lips, testing me further. I wanted to give in, but I couldn’t just yet. 

Then he lifted me up and put me back on the box. “Put your hands on the bar and hang there. I’ll be right back,” he said, and, like a robot, I did it. Unlike a robot, I was soaking wet, my heart pounding, my mouth dry yet hungry. I was torn between my natural brattiness and the spell he’d cast on me. When he returned, he had an evil grin on his face, and a purple butt plug and bottle of lube in his hands. “I think I was too easy on you before. Now I want you to do it with this up your ass. That’ll make it more interesting, don’t you think?” I nodded, and let him wrap his arms around my waist and lead me to the ground. 

“Get on your hands and knees. Like a dog,” he said, adding the last bit because by then he could see how every time he slighted me, I got off on it. He didn’t tell me to spread my legs, he just pressed them apart until my ass was way up in the air, my legs spread wide, the breeze greeting my pussy. Then he poured the lube directly between my cheeks. I felt the cool liquid sink between them, working its way into my puckered hole. “That’s it, Jen,” he said in the voice he uses to encourage me when he knows I’m almost there with my exercises. “I have a feeling you’ll like this.” Then he was pushing the head of the plug inside me. I let my head drop and my ass rise to meet the toy, and while I wiggled, he pressed, until it was snugly between my cheeks. Then he gave them each one firm, strong slap.  

“Yeah,” I whispered into the air. 

“No more spanking until you do what I want you to,” he said. “You’re paying me, remember?” When I realized that it was true, I was indeed paying him—not to fuck me, exactly, but we were still technically on the clock—a fresh wave of humiliation, oh-so-arousing humiliation, swept over me. It was one thing to want a man to dominate me, but to pay him for the privilege? I was truly perverted, and the thought made me practically come on the spot. 

And that’s the thing. In the end, he made me, but really, I made myself. I hoisted my horny, sweaty, naked body up over that pole, again and again, energized not by rage or humiliation but pure lust. The butt plug only egged me on, not moving, just sitting there, reminding me that my ass was his in every way. My ass, my arms, my back, my legs, and most of all, my mind, my soul, were his for the taking. Because he’d earned it. Because he’d made me want to fight, want to snarl, want to be the bratty girl who gets what’s coming to her. And as I raised and lowered myself, I felt a different kind of fire burning through me, one that somehow connected my arms and back to my pussy, giving me strength I didn’t even know I had. By then, I almost wanted someone to be watching, wanted someone to see just what I could do, what Gabe could get me to do. What we were about to do together. By then I was in my own zone, and went far beyond the ten reps he’d initially demanded. When I finally stepped back down, my body shaking from exertion, I felt like I was in a trance. 

I was no longer his brat or his sub or his underling; I was an equal partner in this tug-of-war we were just about to start. I was naked and he was clothed, but suddenly, that didn’t matter. “You’re something else, you know that, Jen?” he said, chuckling as I stood there, waiting for him to direct me. “I think we’re going to make that butt plug a permanent part of our workouts. But I don’t want to train you here anymore. It’s just not right. We’re moving our sessions to the bedroom. At least, after tonight, we are. Right now I think you need to get back on your knees.” I did, immediately, jumping down off the box and returning to my kneeling position. He gave me his cock to taste, and I slowly licked around the tip, but only for a moment, before he joined me on the floor. He guided his fingers between my legs, finding me totally wet. I leaned my head against his shoulder, most of my energy gone but my arousal through the roof, the plug still in place, growing increasingly insistent that I respond to its touch. My pussy clenched, quickly followed by my back door, as Gabe sank his fingers deep inside me. 

“Come, Jen, come on my hand, give it to me,” he said. 

“Make me,” I said, stifling a giggle as his strokes increased in urgency. “Make me.” And just like the first time I’d uttered those two words, that’s exactly what he did.—Rachel Kramer Bussel

Photography by Igor Amelkovich. Buy your own Amelkovich today.

Your friend is prolific in the hook up department. You want to confront her about her promiscuity because you care about her. Now what?

Q: My girlfriend is newly single, but even if she isn't, she goes home with a new man every night. At first it was funny, but I am worried about her health. How do I talk to her about this without making her feel judged?

A: The best thing about close friendships is their elasticity. If she gets offended when you sit her down to show your concern, chances are she will get over it—especially if she walks away learning something and feeling loved. First, come to the table with information, which may mean you need to brush up on what's safe these days and what's not, too. Everyone thinks they know what safe sex is, but there is a lot of new information out there. If you're not into such talk, bring up your concerns and hand her a piece of paper with a couple of websites that are meant for these very kinds of discussions. Second, follow up, be there for her. If you admire her sexual prowess, do so by bringing up the hard questions like, "Did you use a condom!?!" You want her to have her fun, but you also want her to be alive and healthy for a good long friendship.

Key Tip: The truth is, it takes the support of your friends to help each of you maintain the discipline required to always practice the safest sex possible. Be there for each other. And be safe.—N.B.

Love. "I don't remember her name, but I was in love with her from the moment she fumbled for her apartment keys—lost it seemed in a giant black leather handbag—while we made out in the foyer of her Tribeca building. As we walked up the stairs to her apartment, I stared at her ass, shrink wrapped in a short tight black skirt. With each flight of stairs we climbed, I imaged what I'd do to it. Inside her place, I took off every bit of her clothing in slow motion, our lips locked and sucking the entire time I unwrapped her, savoring what I knew she was about to give to me. And then she did: first, the rim of her panties on my finger tips as she allowed my hand passage, then the warmth of her micro tuft of hair, then her wetness, allowing me inside of it. The perfect curve of her breasts. Her taste. Her scent. Staring in her eyes as we both came. Unreal. No, I don't remember her name, but I was in love with her.—Lance, E. NYC

"It all started on a bench in a park just outside of Hermosa Beach in LA," Edward says, kicking back a Budweiser at The Abbey in West Hollywood. His bright green eyes light up as he steals a sideways glance at his husband Lorenzo of 15 years, "Remember how good and messy we got that night?"

Lorenzo turns from the bar and hands me a Bombay & Tonic and snides, "Oh yes. I only wish we had gotten caught though. That would have been hot. Or if some guy had walked up and joined us."

"Yum," groans Edward.

Edward and Lorenzo's first taste of passion in public—the exhibitionist thrill, the unpredictable consequences—gave them such an unparalleled rush that the two found themselves wanting, and wandering LA for more. After long days lost to the career machine (Edward is a black suit slick advertising executive with an office in West Hollywood, and Lorenzo is a Public Relations Director with a roster of celebrity clients he tries to keep out of US Weekly) the couple would loosen their ties, turn out the lights and take advantage of their apartment's excellent views, scanning the LA sprawl and galaxy of distant scattered lights for new outside sex spots to try.

Edward and Lorenzo are hardly alone, approximately 22% of Manhunt.com postings are solicitations for sexual encounters in public places, marking an era when the lure of the public taboo is no longer so taboo anymore.—J.B.

“I want to get my clit pierced.” 

She stared down at the marred counter rather than up into his dark eyes. “My clitoris,” she stammered after. Maybe “clit” was too colloquial. What was the proper way to ask for what she wanted? She quickly scanned the walls of the tattoo parlor/piercing studio, landing on an image of a impish Devil Girl with a spiked tail stuffed violently up the ass of a innocent-looking Angel Girl. Maybe “clit” was okay.

“You’re not ready.” 

When she looked at his face, she saw that he was grinning—the lines deepening around his eyes. He liked her. She could tell. She’d guessed that when he’d pierced her ear, his breath on her skin so she could feel the heat. The flash of pain had been over in a second—far too quickly—the whole experience taking less than ten minutes from the time she handed him her neatly folded cash to when she walked out the door onto the glittery grit of Melrose Avenue.

Afterwards, she’d spent hours sitting on the fire escape of her apartment, touching the silver hoop in the middle of her right ear, twirling the metal, holding it. She had the usual ear piercings from when she was a teenager, but this one, high up on her ear, felt different. Somehow the new hoop there had made her life the tiniest bit less lonely.

Weeks had passed before she’d had the nerve to go back. She was a good girl, after all, with a respectable job and a decent salary. She wore sensible clothes, low-heeled pumps, suitable for work in an accounting office on the Miracle Mile. Piercing/Tattoo studios weren’t places her friends visited, or discussed, or fantasized about. Nor were the boys who worked there. Tattooed boys who made her heart race.

She requested nipple piercings next, standing in front of the counter wearing a white t-shirt and a white bra, chinos from Talbots, glossy brown penny loafers. He gave her a hard look this time, as if he didn’t believe what she’d said. Not someone as normal—or in her mind, boring—as she was. Embarrassingly normal. The freckles on her pale skin. The sleek dark hair that would not hold a curl. Slim-hipped body. Hardly any curves.

“You’re sure?” he’d asked once he’d taken her into the private room, and she had tried to look brave as she removed her shirt and sat down, flinching when the sticky plastic coating on the chair met her skin.

Her breasts were extremely sensitive. Wearing the right—or wrong—bra would create such pleasurable friction she could almost climax. So when he rolled her dark pink nipples between his gloved fingers, she’d had to stifle a moan. Her eyes were closed the whole time. If she stared at him, she might say something. Something she’d regret? Perhaps.

Something she wished she’d said now?

When he’d told her to prepare herself, she’d licked her bottom lip, sucking it into her mouth, something she did when she was scared. “You’re sure?” he’d asked again, right before sliding the needle through, and she’d simply said, “Yes. Please.” 

For a month, a solid month after her nipples had healed, she’d been able to make herself come by tugging on the sterling rings adorning her tits. Just a little tug to start, working harder, imagining him pulling them with his mouth, biting into her. On weekends, she’d started wearing tight t-shirts without bras, loving the way her decorated breasts looked beneath the stretchy fabric. Yet soon the ache started up again. That and the loneliness. 

Her belly button was next. She didn’t have to get naked this time. She lifted her shirt, let him see her nearly concave stomach. His breath here made her clench her thighs together under her knee-length plaid skirt. 

“Breathe, baby.”

She looked down at him, startled. Had he called her baby?

But he didn’t repeat the word. Didn’t act as if he’d said anything unusual at all. She wondered if he understood the big picture—they were working down her body in a silver-studded game of musical parts. If he did, he kept quiet, professional in every sense. She watched his head bent over her, and thought of telling him that at night, she envisioned him fucking her asshole, the gloves, the lube. The tears that would streak her face when he thrust in deep.

He’d only touched her with gloves so far, and somehow they existed in her fantasies. Every last one.

There weren’t many places left. She could have gone with her nether lips. But why wait? She was going to have her clit done, and she knew exactly how it would feel. She’d done the research online, understood the procedure.

How many times had she imagined watching him slip on the rubber gloves? Smelling that sweet sickly scent of antiseptic. The sensation of him touching her through that barrier, coaxing her clit to attention before slipping on the clamp.

“Not your clit,” he said, looking at her. “The lips first.”

Her eyes widened as he slid a photo album forward. Here were close-up shots of women, bejeweled parts on display, and she blushed immediately, even though she’d been fantasizing about this moment endlessly. Each time she went to the studio, she’d meant to ask for this, but had failed herself again and again. What else would she have to pierce to make him understand?

“The clit’s extreme,” he said. 

But she knew, she wanted to say. She knew what it would be like: The needle. The slow thrust forward. The pain shot with ribbons of pleasure. She was going to come when he did it. 

“You’re not ready.”

She hadn’t been expecting this. The customer was always right, after all. She had the money. She had the nerve. But then she realized—her clit would be the finale. The end game, and she nodded—fine, let him decide. He led her back to the private room once more, and this time, for the first time, he seemed to really see her.

The door was shut. He came forward, slid his hands up under her skirt, pulled down her simple white panties. Her throat was tight. He turned her sideways, unzipped the skirt, let the fabric fall. Now she was half naked, and that felt wrong. He understood, pulled the t-shirt up over her head. This was better. Totally naked, with her silver-ringed tits on display, her belly button decorated, her body so pale and pretty. 

Jesus, pretty. For the first time ever, that’s how she felt.

He sat in her the chair, spread her thighs, handed her a mirror. “Like this,” he said, “we could pierce you here,” and she trembled all over. “Or here.” The shivers wouldn’t stop. Her teeth were chattering. She couldn’t speak.

 “You have to hold still.”

She looked at him, her eyes wide, breath hitching. And then he bent forward and licked the ring on her right breast, then the one on her left. He kissed his way down, pausing to tug on the barbell adorning her belly button. Fucking god, he was—he was kissing her. Licking her. His soft hair tickled her naked skin. She shifted her hips, lifted her hips. He was there, between her legs, spreading open her lips, kissing between.

“You’re not ready for your clit,” he said again, looking up at her. “I’ll tell you when you’re ready. We’ll do it together.”

“Yes,” she said, “fine,” she said. Whatever he wanted, was what she wanted to say. As long as he would keep touching her. But he didn’t. He stood back up, got the instruments.

“Hold still,” he told her, as he had every time. There was no stiller than what she was like right now. Her breath was frozen. Her heart raced. He pierced her just as he’d said. Not her clit. Not yet. She sucked in her breath when she looked down her body. Shaved sex. Beautiful ring right there at the top.

“We’ll get to your clit,” he assured her once more. Now, he pinched her between his thumb and fingers, stroked his gloved thumb over her swollen clit so she closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair.

“And it’s going to hurt,” he said, and she squeezed her eyes shut even tighter—because he was talking to her the way he spoke to her in her fantasies. He was saying the things nobody ever had said out loud.

“Because that’s what you need, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” she managed, a rush of breath, hardly an answer.

“But you need so much more. You need a collar here,” and one gloved hand went to her throat, pressing once against her. “And you need a bowl of water on the floor by the bed, where you can lap it at night if you’re thirsty.”

“Oh, fuck,” she whispered, and there were tears in her eyes now, tears spilling.

“It’s been so scary, hasn’t it? All those thoughts in your head, and nobody to tell them to. Nobody to listen. You’ve been so lonely.”

Like he had been there, with her, in her nearly empty apartment. Sat at her side on the fire escape. Looked out into a city of millions of people and been all by herself. And then he bent down and licked her in a circle, a circle within a circle, and she came. Vibrant. Colors behind her shut lids. Like every orgasm she’d had thinking of him, thrusting his gloved fingers up inside her, fucking her ass with two fingers overlapped while he sucked hard on her clit. She came in shudders, in waves, and then fell back, limp in the chair. But even as she came, understanding flooded through her.

Somewhere inside, she’d pierced him.—For BastardLife by Alison Tyler

Photograph by the amazing Igor Amelkovich. On sale now and worth it.

D'ing the G. We feel that designer jeans look best either in a rumpled heap beside the bed, or hell, just down around the ankles.—N.B.

You want to go down on him, but all he wants to do is pull it out of your mouth and start jackhammering you. You need something he's not willing to share. Now what?

Q: My partner's penis is, literally, perfect and I sort of can't stop thinking about it, and taking every chance to put it into my mouth to savor it. I love his pre-cum after I worship it for a bit and I ache for more. But too often he just wants to rush to the finish line and begin intercourse. How do I slow him down and get a bit more of what I want?

A: Satisfying your sexual needs is a critical part of a healthy intimate relationship. If you can't, then you should ask yourself whether you are both sexually compatible. 72% of men and women who commence extra marital affairs cite a chronic and progressive period of sexual dissatisfaction at home as a reason they begin to stray, so it is imperative that you address your desire for longer periods of oral sex with him sooner than later. First, explain what you get out of the experience. If he knows that he is pleasing you, he is more likely to go with it for longer periods. Second, work with him. One, you can find out what things orally you can do that may make the experience better for him; and two, you can compromise, and offer him more of something he wants in exchange for the things you crave. 

Key Tip: Make sure you are sexually compatible now, rather than ten years down the road. Ask for what you want, and figure out a way to get it, both through soliciting feedback about how you are interacting, in this case orally, and through compromise. If in a year you are still unsatisfied, take it seriously and consider your options.—N.B.

What happens when, day in and day out, you are surrounded, and covered, in the smell and sweat of twenty hard men; pressed upon you by the weight of their muscular thighs, chests and arms?

"In high school I always looked down in the locker room shower. But I loved the smell of the men's bodies. From my shameful peripheral view, I saw the arc of perfect skin that wraps around the buttocks, and the v-shaped muscles that descend to the pubic hair just below the abdomen. Moist thighs glistened from the shower water and you could hear the constant smack of bare feet walking to and from the lockers. My only comfort was knowing he was in the other locker room, feeling the same way. The same way about me. There comes a time—when your're pushed, and you just succumb to the urgent hunger of your mouth—and you just do it. And when our mouths touched, and I felt his breath enter me, the thin skin of our lips melted and we descended for a moment, a long moment."—A.L.

You like your lean small bottom, but he seems to only talk about women with larger buttocks. You're over it. Now what?

Q: My partner is more and more showing an interest in huge asses. He teases me that he needs to fatten me up, that he wants a bigger 'booty.' I work hard for my fit body and tight thighs. How do I turn him back on to what I got?!?

A: One of the biggest misconceptions advanced by consumer fitness magazines is that men want slim, fit women in their beds. In fact, out of 43,000 men polled, 56% of them said they like a full-figured woman or one with considerable "shape." However, it takes time and sweat to achieve a slender body in America given our diets, so maintaining yours for you—and not your man—is key. First, be clear about the body you like and want to keep. It's yours and engineering it for a man is never worth it. Second, make it clear how you feel when he praises bodies that are the opposite of yours. Encourage him, as long as he is intimate with you, to incorporate more boundaries in his sharing. In other words, "Save it for your beer buddies, because this is what I got, and as long as you are taking it—appreciate it."

Key Tip: Set communication boundaries. And make it clear to him that if he desires something else more to go ahead and get it—without you.—N.B.