The Canadian National Newspaper: Sex Mores: Unchained Chastity?

What a year, a couple of years in fact, of self-imposed morality. Chastity, a virtue, feels more like a prison with each passing day. I have a chastity belt in my collection of erotic delectables, having imagined myself turning on my object of sexual interest and witnessing him not only surprised, but also begging for the key. It’s made out of gold links, and looks like a sexy belly chain. What one cannot have, one wants more. What is taboo, is desired, burned for. I digress. I’m at my most sexually adventurous, a cougar ready to rumble. I have shown, however, remarkable restraint in my self-imposed deprivation.

I consider my sexual choices this year, opportunities to unleash my secret selves. There was the 20-something bisexual guy I had amazing electricity with in the gay bar who said to me, “Everything is an illusion.” He later told my friend he wanted to “get down to the sound of the underground” with me and gave my friend his number to give to me. I indulged in the fantasy of being the all-powerful female who’d straighten him out. I chickened out and never called him. I know it would have been ultra-hot, dangerous, downright naughty. I would’ve wanted more, secret vixen that I am.

There was the nipple-ringed virgin, 29 years old, by his own admission most comfortable in groups and likening this preference to snuggling amongst friendly puppies. I imagined myself training him to meet my exact specifications, a kinkster in hiding, the big question being is he packing enough heat. I didn’t pluck his cherry, my opportunistic side not especially well-honed. Maybe I need to work on this as a new year’s resolution. We’re friends so it might not be too late for this conquest, but I find myself conflicted between custom-made loving and crushing his obsession by becoming bored and disinterested, much as a child quickly loses interest in its once-cherished plaything.

I have congratulated myself many times in these past two years on my ability to be aboveboard where my male roommate is concerned: he’s tall, attractive, a bit younger, and financially successful. Technically single, but with a woman he’s had a 10-year relationship with and 2 small children. Unmarried. Here to work during the week, flies home every weekend without fail. All is fair in love and war, they say, but what about in sex?

He’s been a gentleman, too. Admirable. We’ve proven men and women can be friends, even share space together and not get into each other’s knickers and make it messy, complicated, exciting, risqué. Aren’t we evolved, mature, upright moral citizens.

My other possible conquest this year turned out to be a Scottish porn actor. He sent me a photo of his very red cock along with his co-star’s eyes blacked-out by that rectangular bar used to protect both the innocent and guilty. I was repelled and intrigued, imagining his professionally-honed expertise in letting me “have it”. He told me his favorite thing is to eat a woman’s pussy slowly, tantalizing its mistress, fingering her simultaneously, making her quiver and gasp for air, writhing and moaning until she’s on the verge of climaxing. To finish her off, he would then stab his dick into her in quick thrusts, sending her over the edge to experience “the little death” as the French so fondly call orgasm.

I imagined myself tying him up, speaking to him in a filthy manner for misbehaving and punishing him endlessly for his dirty-cash cock wanderings, making him suck my stiletto heel while stroking his hard-on ramrod straight without release.

I’ve certainly had some fantastic fodder for my own vivid pleasure, but the pressure to “do the deed” with someone finally drove me to a one-night stand last month. It was so overdue, I had not been penetrated or kissed for almost 2 years. I’d had the most satisfying, erotic sex of my life prior to this dry spell, and have been afraid that no one new would ever measure up, that that person was my first and last sexual hurrah. That sexual hurrah used to get hard just looking at me, even a year into our relationship, and he was the first ever to give me a G-spot orgasm and make me climax with penetration alone, and consistently. Mind-blowing stuff, we’d touch each other and give each other static electricity. He tasted sweet, literally, was very special indeed.

So, like many one-night stands it began with alcohol. I’d been out with friends, a gay couple, and we were at our last port-of-call for the evening, a neighbourhood bar. We were there for about 10 minutes when I spotted him. Tall, blond, lanky, cute, preppy-looking. Not my type, though these days I don’t really have a type anymore. He smiled, bought me a drink, and we danced. I felt him stiffen, and that was all I needed to demand my friends give me the keys to their pad across the street.

I took this guy whose name I can’t remember by his hand and into my friends’ home. We wasted no time in getting undressed. He was very pale, ghostly-white and willing. I was sucking him, one of my favourite things to do, but the rise wasn’t happening. Always happy to tease and please I asked him point-blank what would make him happy. He let me know and I did my best to oblige. You are wondering what it is, aren’t you? When I granted his request, he got hard and happy and fucked me good. We chatted afterwards and I learned he was 33 and recently divorced. We didn’t exchange numbers, didn’t try to turn it into something else. I don’t even remember his name, for fuck’s sake, but I’ll never forget his request and my kinky response to fulfill it.

I once heard my roommate wank-off, with short and quick rapid breathing. It was when I was in the room next to his and we shared a wall. I’ve since moved into a room across the hall. When it happened, he knew I was in the room next door and he banged on the wall, I think deliberately. I related this incident to the virgin and he thinks it was a frenzied accident.

What I have noticed lately is the porn channel automatically loading when I turn the T.V. on. My roommate isn’t politely hiding this viewing habit anymore. In fact, he’s gotten absolutely blatant about telling me in no uncertain terms that he wants to know me sexually. Yes, he actually revealed this a few days ago while sitting on the sofa with his legs wide open and package on display, clothed naturally. I’ve been pondering this development over the last few days.

All my keeping clothed, and never letting him see me in a towel after my morning-shower these past two years has come to this tipping point. He’ll be back tomorrow. I’m horny, starving for regular sex in my life again. One drunken poke in two years is hardly gratifying, which is why I’m writing this now. What would you do? Continue resisting? Tell him to leave? Throw all abandon out the window and get it on like there’s no tomorrow? Is all fair in love, war, and sex?

Reader opinions are welcome on what the writer should do. Suggestive feedback to missvelvet@excite.com

About the writer:

Miss Velvet’s first flesh encounter was at a tender age with a neighbour named George. While both remained fumbling and fully clothed it was the seed of sensation on the road to ribaldry. Getting back on that trail is another story, o tempora! o mores!

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