by Betty Dodson
He apologized for not calling. After some small talk he began describing how during his years of frequent and extended sessions of masturbation he’d been practicing what he called “come control.” He confessed that when he had sex with a partner, he usually ejaculated during the woman’s final ascent to orgasm, but he always finished her off with oral sex. After his first orgasm, he could get another hardon and then last longer.
A surge of raw desire flared within me as I listened to this beautiful man speaking so openly about his sexuality. I definitely wanted to fuck him. Making a wise decision, I asked how he felt about forgetting the roles of teacher and student and just enjoying each other. He grinned, saying it was fine with him. Putting us on a level playing field allowed me to move out of the familiar role of teacher with my vulnerability safely guarded in an ironclad Ph.D.
As I had done in hundreds of workshops, we undressed in the foyer and hung up our clothes. Then we entered my living room, which for three decades has been devoted to the pursuit of pleasure. We sat opposite each other on the soft zebra blanket spread out on the carpet in the warm room and talked about many things. He showed me his system of martial arts breathing and I shared mine from yoga. We talked about playing safe and I showed him the bowl of condoms I kept on the shelf with a bottle of water-based lubrication and massage oil. Lying just under the table, next to a chair that I used for my private sessions, was an electric vibrator that was always plugged in. My favorite dildos were displayed on another shelf.
When he asked if he could “taste me,” I smiled and nodded, knowing he intended to begin with direct clitoral contact—smart man. As I lay back on the soft blanket, I relaxed into some amazing vulva worshiping. It was delicate and sweet, no automatic routine, only tenderness and creativity. His unspoken message was: “I’m thrilled to do this and I’ll be here as long as you want.” His attitude was so positive that I sank into all the delicious sensations. Unless a person was HIV positive, I didn’t see kissing or oral sex as a high-risk activity.
As his soft, full lips embraced my cunt, his mouth filled with thick saliva, keeping everything wet. Flexing his tongue, he teased and circled my clitoris, varying the rhythm and keeping the pressure easy and light. Then, flattening his tongue, he covered a larger area, followed by an erect tongue probing my vaginal opening. The whole time his fingertips and palms drew circles on my belly and breasts. His hands were beautiful—large with long slender fingers—and he used counterpoint rhythms—fast tongue, slow hand; firm massage and feather lips. With each breath I took, trust was building steadily as my body climbed the sexual arousal ladder.
Lying on his stomach between my legs, his graceful fingers moved in between my vaginal lips. A finger glided into my vagina, another gently massaged my anus. His tongue stayed with my clitoris as both fingers began moving in and out of both openings. It was a sensation so erotic I groaned aloud with shivers of pleasure. Later, when I complimented him on his rhythm and manual skills, he said he’d studied the piano for eight years.
Next he asked me to turn over. He was so bold, yet so sweet, that I found myself sinking deeper and deeper into the unfamiliar state of sexual surrender. When it came to partner sex, I was always the one who ran the show—in control. He asked me to put both of my legs together to “preserve the line of my body.” Beginning at my knees, he oiled my back, legs, and behind. Then he slowly moved his hard velvet cock upward in between my thighs and ass cheeks, and then back down again. Over and over, he moved up and down with one long smooth motion, never pausing a moment. The exquisite sensation made every nerve ending come alive.
After what seemed like an eternity of pleasure, I was overwhelmed with the desire to have him inside me, and I heard my voice pleading softly, “Eric, please fuck me. Please.” I heard him tear open a condom. A moment later, when the head of his cock pressed into my vagina, I tilted my pelvis up slightly and he slipped in effortlessly. As he moved slowly in and out, I squeezed and released my vaginal muscles, savoring the exquisite sensations of our suction fuck that undulated on and on. What a luxury.
My level of excitement peaked. As I rose up on my hands and knees, he moved with me, and without missing a beat, he continued his slow, smooth movements as we fucked doggie style. Taking hold of my vibrator lying nearby, I threw the switch and held it near my clit. Consumed by lust, I twisted and turned—impaling myself on his hard on. He held firm so I could move with abandon. Strange sounds like those of an animal in heat came from my mouth as I began moving more urgently. While in the throes of this ecstatic state, I heard his sweet voice say, “That’s it, angel. Enjoy yourself.”
My orgasm took me with such force that my body shook and quaked until I finally fell into a trembling heap, crying hot tears of relief while laughing with joy. He finally let go and had his orgasm while I was still shuddering with aftershocks of pleasure. I rolled over and both in a state of awe, we wrapped our bodies around each other, savoring the afterglow of sensual wonder.
This was all so unexpected. How many years had it been since I’d had such a powerful orgasm with a man? For a moment, I silently wondered if an alien had been sent to prepare me for the erotic evolution of the new millennium.
The next morning and again that night, we continued our sexual dance. At one point I insisted he state his pleasure—a first for him. The young women he’d had sex with expected to get done without doing much of anything in return. Now that it was his turn, he wanted to experience both oral sex and anal penetration combined for the first time. After all his generosity, I was delighted to please him. Using both my hands and mouth, I gave him a first-rate blowjob, including several moments of deep throat. His lovely firm cock strained against the pleasure but held on inches from release.
Then he got on his hands and knees, and as he leaned forward in the knee-chest position, I oiled his sweet buttyhole with tender loving care. While I was moving first my finger and then a dildo slowly in and out of his bottom, his hand was making short delicate strokes on the head of his dick. He bellowed like a dragon as he came full force. Afterward, he said for years he’d dreamed of doing these things and they turned out to be better than he’d ever imagined. I laughed and said, “Me, too.”
During our separation we talked on the phone. Part of me was convinced that I was losing it. Another part was just soaking up the pleasure. My guarded independence was gradually dissolving as I tumbled head over heels back into heterosexuality. All of this was taking place when most women my age are showing off photos of their newly born grandchildren.
Eric returned for another week and the sex we shared was even better. Then he asked if he could return in the spring and stay for a month. He kept talking about how he wanted to be my apprentice and carry on my work. Against my better judgment I kept saying yes to him.
At first I saw Eric’s time with me as limited to a short period of sexual fun, but within six months he had replaced my assistant and was running my business full-time. We were having partner sex nearly every day. What a delight to be fucking whenever we felt like it without any concern for birth control or condoms. Our decision not to use a condom was based on our sexual histories and the fact that we’d both tested negative. He’d had sex with a handful of young women who were virgins, except for one or two who were sexually experienced, and he had always worn a condom with them. I’d had penetration sex with very few men in the past five years and they also had used condoms. Since menopause at fifty, I’d had most of my partner sex with women using dildos, vibrators, and fingers—just about as safe as one could get.
I always enjoyed watching Eric move around the apartment naked—a living work of art with his broad shoulders narrowing down to a firm, tight ass with strong, muscular legs and a perfectly sized penis. His playfulness continued and with his perpetual hard on, he was available for any kind of sex. I’d found the perfect boy toy.
Meanwhile, I kept expecting him to get a roommate and move into his own place so I could reclaim my apartment. I knew it was a
disaster for two people to live, work, and have sex together under the same roof—a dynamic I counseled couples to avoid. On top of that, I’d promised myself to never have another roommate or to ever live with a lover again—been there, done that. It was painfully clear that I was breaking all my own rules.
At the end of our first year together, I finally stopped trying to get rid of him and worrying that he was young enough to be my son. Instead, I embraced the joy he brought into my life. I decided he was a divine gift from the universe, my reward for three decades of promoting masturbation and teaching thousands of women how to have orgasms. I began to graciously accept his bright shining presence in my life.
While I was struggling with the idea of having a sexual relationship with a man in his twenties, the world watched President Clinton’s popularity ratings climb as the media had a feeding frenzy detailing his affair with a twenty-one-year-old woman. My own maternal grandfather married a girl younger than his oldest daughter. Many famous men have had young wives, from Picasso to Charlie Chaplin to Justice Hugo Black. The combination of older men with younger women has been an acceptable part of history since the beginning of time. Society accepts and even admires men who do this, but if an older woman claims the same rights, it threatens our authoritarian society, which wants to maintain the sexual double standard. I simply decided to enjoy the same privilege that men have always taken for granted.
In many ways our mentor/student relationship makes sense historically. Tribal cultures had older aunts and uncles teaching sex to the young people. In the Tantra, or Buddhist, tradition, older women were the teachers. My Native American ancestors had a tribal Fire Woman, a wise elder who taught sex to the young braves. When people worshiped a female deity and human sexuality was revered, the goddess’s consorts were virile young men whose sole purpose was to provide sexual pleasure to the Divine Orgasmic Mother of us all. We know there have been periods in history when sexuality was seen as a spiritual practice, or at least a natural and healthy part of being human. Besides, there isn’t a single discipline on the planet that doesn’t value mentoring.
Since I’ve been living with Eric, I’ve gotten a lot of kidding from friends who take an excessive amount of pleasure in reminding me of all the years I bad-mouthed couples who were joined at the hip. I often referred to them as living in “pair-bondage” and would detail the pitfalls of these codependent relationships to anyone who would listen. Needless to say, I was brutal when it came to criticizing romantic love, which I equated with stepping into dog shit—it’s purely accidental and it takes forever to get rid of the smell. I know because I’ve had a lot of experience falling in romantic love with men who could never meet my expectations.
After living as a committed single for nearly two decades, retracing my steps through heterosexuality was unexpected, troublesome, demanding, and a delightful expedition. Make no mistake: This time around I’m under no romantic illusions about our intergenerational erotic friendship. Given the best of circumstances, the idea of two people living together while expecting great sex to be part of the picture indefinitely is highly improbable or akin to a miracle. It amazes me why more people don’t question the sanity of trying to make the world come in twos, like the animals boarding Noah’s ark. Okay, okay! All of this pairing off business is probably sexually driven. When partner sex is good, I’ll be the first to admit, it can be quite extraordinary. Maybe that’s the reason we’re willing to pair off—we get hooked after a few ripsnorting orgasms with a person and say “I do” or ask them to move in with us.
Now, several years later, every word I said about the impossibility of two people living, working, and having sex together under the same roof is absolutely true. However, it led to writing this book, so maybe Eric was meant to be my muse. There have, of course, been trade-offs and sacrifices as well as joys and comforts in having a significant other in my life. When I weigh the pluses and minuses, we remain well on the plus side of pleasure. Nothing is etched in stone and we both remind each other to stay in the present and not to project into the future.
He has heard all the accusations about having a sugar mama, being a star fuck, a gold digger, and a mama’s boy. I’ve been told I’m robbing the cradle, spoiling him, and because of me he’ll never grow up. His friends think I’m taking advantage of him and my friends think he’s taking advantage of me. While all of this may be true, it’s precisely our age difference that allows us to be so compatible, enjoy great sex, and have so much fun together. We are both equally dedicated to exploring and refining the art of partner sex. I adore having him as my apprentice, my assistant, and my consort. Before jumping to any of those seductive romantic conclusions, let me assure everyone: We are not monogamous and I don’t expect our erotic love to last “forever.” It will last for as long as it’s good.
3
LOVING LOVE
Romantic Love Junkies
Those seemingly harmless fairy tales my mother used to read at bedtime were just the tip of the iceberg of my female conditioning. Similar to each successive generation of little girls, I grew up dreaming of being kissed awake and saved from a life of drudgery by my very own prince. Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella were my first role models long before Sheena, Queen of the Jungle or Wonder Woman ever appeared in comic books. As a child I was surrounded by sentimental symbols of heterosexual romance: lacy valentines with plump red vulva hearts pierced by Cupid’s phallic arrows. My mind was filled with love stories that promoted imaginings about love and marriage that had very little to do with reality. Living my life based on a romantic myth is what I call loving love.
Young girls who have been taught that one special man will bring them love, happiness, and security often have a serious handicap. Many women end up desperately struggling to become fully grown adults who are capable of intelligently dealing with life on its own terms. We believe we need a man to protect and support us. Loving love blinds us to the cold hard fact that getting married doesn’t mean our futures are secure. More than half of all wives will get divorced and end up supporting their children and themselves. A wise woman once said that to the degree a woman allows herself to be ruled by the emotions of love, she has surrendered her status as an adult.
Research has shown that falling in love produces chemical changes in the brain, causing feelings of euphoria that enhance sex and even life itself. But what is this thing called love? If we describe love as a strong sexual attraction, then it could be seen as a delightful drug that keeps couples high until reality enters the picture. Knowing this, we might want to avoid making major decisions, like getting married or moving in with someone, when we’re high on love. Then again, a strong sexual attraction is one of the best barometers to forecast a successful partnership. This business of love and sex poses quite a dilemma.
Given my own history, along with years of listening to other people’s problems, I would never underestimate the importance of sexual compatibility or the power of having consistent orgasms with one’s partner, especially in the beginning of a relationship. When I got married, I actually made a decision to be “in love” even though our sex was problematic. I would never have admitted this at the time, but I was bored with dating and desperately wanted some kind of financial security. We played the roles of the adoring romantic couple, using every age-old symbol of romance: sweet love notes, the single red rose, displays of affection, and constant verbal statements of “I love you.”
The desperate search to find my other half was the most compulsive/obsessive aspect of being an all-American girl. This desire to be paired off with all the gooey romantic trappings of a bad romance novel was similar to belonging to a religious cult. After I got married and found myself living with a man who didn’t care that much about sex, I was devastated and blamed myself. I’ll never forget feeling I was a failure as a woman. Then I sank into resignation as I sublimated my sex drive into art by painting day and night. Even after seven years of surrendering to the daily routine of reality, I remained a rom
antic love junkie who had married the wrong man.
Romance novels and fashion magazines are to women what pornography is to men. Since fewer women seek money, power, fame, or fortune as compared to men, we want a love story full of excitement and romantic adventures. As a married woman, my porn was Vogue magazine. I imagined myself in various fabulous outfits about to go on an exciting trip or a cruise. Of course, looking at photos of beautiful fashion models also depressed me, because I could never measure up. Then I would succumb to my dirty habit of masturbation and vow each time to stop. This was during the early sixties, when pubescent girls with hormones surging though their bodies screamed and fainted at Beatles concerts while I scoffed at the absurdity of such foolishness.
Long forgotten were the childhood nights I’d laid in bed dreaming of my own noble prince as I secretly pressed my hand between my legs. As a preteen, instead of swooning to Frank Sinatra, I was masturbating to the fantasy of my wedding night: While my husband waited for me in bed, I went into the bathroom to prepare for our first night of passionate sex. I imagined myself as a beautiful woman, with thick, lush hair. My breasts were full and round. My teeth were movie-star white and even. As I mentally applied makeup to my perfectly clear skin, my breath came in hot little gasps. My pulse raced faster as I went over the details of the lace dressing gown that showed off my gorgeous body and boobs. Entering the bridal suite, I dropped the gown to the floor and that’s when I came—each and every time.
I was my own sex subject and object, dreaming about being a beautiful woman desired by a faceless man. Why is it that so few women look at pictures of handsome men and imagine which one they will choose? Maybe beautiful women can afford to do that, but average-looking women can only dream of being chosen by Mr. Right. More often than not we end up with Mr. Wrong. It’s a spin-off from the sexual and economic double standard where men get to choose and do the asking because they usually make more money and therefore have more power.
