The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

After the brief and disappointing affair with that second man, I waited quite some time before I dated anyone else. But during those weeks, I discovered that the strong feelings in general that had started with that evening at the nightclub had not gone away. In fact, I found them growing stronger; so strong that I could become spontaneously horny, and very quickly.

I had never in my life played with myself sexually, but when my married friend Louise admitted that she did on occasion, I was all at once curious to try it. Being able to satisfy myself would save me a great deal of embarrassment to say the least. So with a great deal of discomposure, I picked up a copy of a book on women’s sexuality, including a chapters entitled ‘Self Pleasure,’ ‘Men’s Sexuality’ and read it. Once committed to the idea though, I followed the suggested routine and sat myself—or rather, laid myself—down naked and with mirror in hand, began to explore. Even though I was alone, I blushed with shame to touch myself “down there.” It was contrary to everything my parents had taught me, which will give you some idea of how I was raised.

I gritted my teeth, mentally at any rate, as I gazed into the mirror between my legs, probing and manipulating myself and learning some interesting, anatomical terms. Then when I finally managed to relax a little, incredibly powerful feelings started within me. I had been touching my clitoris and inner lips—nympha, or labia minora—as the book called them—when I began to get wet. I was shocked, but pleased as well, to find that I could become so aroused by just touching myself.

After a few minutes, I noticed that my sexual parts had not only become more moist but that they had pouted and opened up as if to receive a man in me. A growing warmth was spreading upward from my crotch. Fascinated, I continued until that pleasantly warm glow that had started in my lower belly was gaining heat and urgency.

The book suggested using a vibrator but I hadn’t purchased one. Now I wished I had because I wanted something inside of me, probing my vagina. Naked and horny, I got up and found a skillet, removed the seven inch handle by unsecrewing the ring on the end of it and it became my substitute penis.

The smooth, wooden handle was about seven inches long and perhaps two inches in diameter at its widest point. It made am adequate substitute for a fair sized male organ. or at least good enough for what I had in mind. I took the small tube of KY gel I had been using—per the book—and smeared the skillet handle with it, and then with some trepidation, began to move it around my outer sexual parts from fourchette to clitoris, trying to imagine it was a live man. In a minute, I began to relax again, becoming downright eager to see what would happen. I slowly inserted the domestic dildo into myself, about half way.

Then, to my surprise, I became highly excited and it was easier to imagine it was a man. I pushed the handle in as far as it would go, moving it in and out and around as a man might do with his erect organ. I got wetter to the point where I had trouble holding onto the handle when it was all the way in me. And as I moved it slowly in and out, my breathing deepened, my face, breasts and belly became flushed and those warm waves became hot waves, starting in my middle again and moving outward over me. I moved the handle faster and in a fairly short time, I realized that I was nearing orgasm. With one hand, I moved the handle, thrusting it into me, and with my other hand I began to gently manipulate my erect clitoris with two fingers, moving them rapidly from side to side.

Then it hit me. My clitoris became extremely sensitive and shrank back and at the same time, the warm, gentle waves of pleasure I was feeling became an inferno of sexual heat, writhing up from my wet and swollen sex to engulf me in hot waves of female lust. Hand shaking, I moved the handle faster and faster, shoving it as deep as I could until my hips were lifting to it of their own accord and I was unable to breathe. I felt the sheet under me becoming soaked as my hips jerked to one intense orgasm after another. I know I cried out and I hoped none of the neighbors had heard me. Although I had begun the whole thing with misgivings, once I was into it—or it into me—I felt powerful and centered. I kept it up for a good hour before I stopped pleasuring myself in that way and that was only because I’d become too exhausted to continue. But I had come at least a dozen times, each time stronger than the last before I finally slid the slick handle out and dropped it on the bed beside me. But now finding that I could actually orgasm, I knew that I needed something more lifelike than a skillet handle.

The next day I pulled my hair back into a bun, changed my makeup, found a pair of dark glasses, gathered my nerve and stopped at an adult book store. I was there to buy something like the device my girlfriend, and the book, had mentioned. I looked at what they had to offer in the way of self-pleasuring. One device caught my eye. The woman behind the counter—thank God it was a female—termed it a “dildo.” A number of women, I was told, purchased such things and I noticed that the woman didn’t seem at all surprised that I was curious about them. In fact, before I left, I had purchased two of them. One was a smooth, seven inch, plastic shaft that contained batteries to power a vibrating mechanism. The other was a replica of a large, erect male organ with some odd looking attachments. I was troubled about buying what was obviously a sexual substitute, but the woman told me that I was not the first, nor the last woman to buy one. She wrapped both items carefully, included some flavored lubricant as a gift, and took my money. I felt like a female pervert as I drove away and it was several days before I could bring myself to open the package.

Once I did unwrap the package however, I went straight to the bedroom, closed the door, stripped and threw myself on the bed. This time I didn’t need a mirror. I touched myself in a sensual way, trying to imagine some beautiful man—Kirk Douglas for example—lying with me and whispering outrageous things in my ear. I felt slightly foolish until once again I began to dampen and open. I really didn’t need any lubricant as I inserted the smooth, white vibrator into myself and twisted the end to turn on the vibrating mechanism. The vibrating was pleasant but it was the feeling of the thing itself, pushing deep into me, parting me and filling me that brought me to a low boil in a short time.

Still feeling experimental, I tried the soft rubber phallus. It wasn’t anything other than what it looked like—a replica of a hard cock—and much larger than the plastic vibrator. In the store, I hadn’t realized that it was so large. It was over ten inches in length and easily five inches around. But I gingerly tried it, first poking gently at my outer vaginal folds and then pushing it in bit by bit. I sucked in my breath as I got it about three-quarters into me, and then perversely, I shoved it almost all the way in, just as an excited and impatient man might do.

It was a bulkier invasion and it hurt for a second, but then, picturing some gorgeous and terrific guy on top of me, I took a deep breath and just rammed it all the way in up to the artificial testicles attached to it. I waited a moment and then began to work it in and out, slowly. I looked down, seeing each realistic lump, vein and fold as I moved the instrument gently in and out of myself. Curious, I took the hand mirror and held it so I could watch as the bulky, plastic phallus invaded me. I was fascinated to see how my inner lips tightly grasped the thick shaft as it withdrew, and how my natural lubricant slickered the thing making reentry easier. It was much more pleasurable than the skillet handle, filling and stretching me. When I pulled it all the way out, I was amazed to see that my vagina stayed open for a moment like the beak of a fledgling bird, hungry to be fed again. I had no idea just how naturally willing my body was to be probed even though my mind had been ignorant. I was having fun, learning and experiencing something new when my orgasm blindsided me.

I came, my PC muscle tightening and then spasmodically grasping the slippery tool again and again as I arched my back pushing into it. I could feel a glowing and expanding in my belly for a few moments before I started the long, swirling spiral upward to my climax. This time I was at peak in just a minute or two, feeling the familiar coiling heat taking me over very quickly until I gasped and went into that long, beautiful spin into sexual oblivion, crying out involuntarily with each hot wave of completion

I lay for a while after my climax, just relaxing and letting the heat slowly fade. I pulled the pseudo-phallus out and looked at it. As I ran my finger along the still slippery shaft, wishing it were warm, male flesh instead of plastic. Then I recalled the chapter on oral sex in my little sexual guide. Carefully, I took my plastic penis into my mouth, trying to imagine it was a beautiful man. As I practiced the techniques described in the book, using my tongue and lips in a sensual way, I tried to imagine the effect it would have on my phantom lover, To my shock, I discovered that merely imagining doing that to a man brought me to a quick simmer. I examined my new toy closer and discovered that the attachments consisted of a rubber bulb and a thin plastic tube. I didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out what that was about. I took the time to fill the bulb with something liquid, in this case some cottage cheese which I thinned with cream. Then I gave it a try. I fellated the thing, tasting the faint flavor of my own sexual juices, until I decided that my imaginary swain was about ready, then I squeezed the bulb with all my strength. The thick, milky substance gushed out the end—the urethra according to my guidebook—and into my mouth and I merrily gulped it down. I didn’t go into rapture over it, but it wasn’t bad. Then I became curious as to what a man’s seminal fluid might actually taste like. Ah, little did I know about male ejaculate, especially the taste. I refilled my counterfeit cock with a slightly thicker mixture and tried vaginal intercourse. That was a bit better, and I found that the awareness—if not actual feeling—of fluid spurting into me excited me.

After three quarters of an hour however, I finally had enough and stopped pleasuring myself. I douched thoroughly, washed both instruments and carefully tucked them away in the bottom of my underclothes drawer.

As I noted earlier, I no longer blamed Dr Lepesque for my condition. His suggestion, all in fun, may simply have triggered some deep need or some latent lustiness that I had been suppressing for many years. I was still very naive though, but that lack of experience left me free to experiment in an unprejudiced and freewheeling way

Nevertheless, I had a problem. Whereas I had been cool and controlled before, I was now downright hedonistic and likely to be thought of as a nymphomaniac if my lustiness became common knowledge. I shuddered at that prospect. Whatever the reason for their existence however, I now had deep needs to contend with, and furthermore, I knew that rubber devices and plastic vibrators simply were not going to be anywhere near enough.

I may have been making up for lost time, sexually speaking, but I still had a woman’s natural feelings about loving making. Because I now enjoyed sex more—far more than many women it seemed—didn’t mean that I would accept sexual attentions from just any man who offered them. The awful fact was that I didn’t dare to let a man even touch me or kiss me because I knew that my profound needs would push me to full heat very quickly.

However, I needed a man in my arms, and since I was going to be so damnable hot blooded, then I also needed to be very prudent and discerning as well. I needed a man for sexual release but I also wanted a man as a lover, not as a one-night stand. I decided to go on the pill, and by that same token, acquire a supply of condoms for myself because I certainly didn’t want to come up diseased or pregnant. Armed with the Pill, my condoms and determination, I began to look for a man for myself.

Along with the sudden potential for marathon sex, I began to dress differently, beginning with my underwear. Before, I had worn plain, functional undergarments but now I wanted to feel sexy, at least inwardly, so I went to a national chain store that specialized in seductive clothing and bought a whole new wardrobe of under garments. My outer clothing may have been just a little more stylish, but now I had acquired a collection of panties and brassieres that looked as if they belonged to a call girl. Most of them were cut high on the hip and narrow in the crotch; red ones, bright pink ones, black ones and many with suggestive embroidery and dainty lace trim. I bought sexy, shorty nightgowns and peignoir outfits that showed off my better points nicely. They were strictly seduction suits. I read everything about sexual psychology I could get my lusty little hands on. Withall, I intended to practice safe sex as if it were a religion. I also began learning how to flirt. So now I was ready to launch my new career as a huntress. And I began my serious erotic reconnaissance almost six months to the day from that evening with the good doctor Lepesque.

However, all I could do, given my lack of experience, was to plunge into the world of serious dating, tiptoeing through the erotic tulips, fearful of social diseases and heartbreak and perhaps angry wives if it came to that. I made my share of mistakes and suffered for them of course.

I had already discovered to my dismay that, contrary to the prevailing male macho myth, a sexually aggressive or sexually dynamic woman is threatening to most men. I had assumed that more is better was the prevailing male attitude, but I found that, as it had been with that first man, once a man is satiated, that is that, and if the woman asks for more, she risks be called some choice names and perhaps even being physically abused. So I learned to hide my boiling, sizzling physical desire when I was with a potential lover, and if need be, to scurry home after the date for a long session with “Waldo.” Waldo was the name I had given my plastic phallus that never went soft on me or said ugly things. After a couple of months, I began to gain some insight into the real world of male/female relationships and my education really got underway.

Resigned to the fact that my erotomania, whatever its cause, was a part of my life, I came to a resolute conclusion. I would explore whatever was available. That included lesbianism. It wasn’t as difficult to make contact with a homosexual female as I had assumed. In only a few weeks, I met a woman who somehow perceived my curiosity and took advantage. She was from Brazil and her name was Anjou. Incredibly feminine, she did not look at all like the gay woman that she was. Her appearance and her popularity with men belied her true sexual orientation. After a few friendly meetings and some verbal sparring, she got me into her bed.

She was thoroughly sensual and experienced and brought me to a surprising sexual responsiveness with her educated hands, tongue and various toys. I enjoyed it avidly, and we became good friends. But for all of that I remained essentially heterosexual.

Short of advertising in some swingers publication, I was at a loss to meet men on an even, sexually comparable level. I still wanted my own man, perhaps even on a permanent basis, but until I found him, I needed a man who could match my ardor.

I watched other women flirt with men and I found that there was a whole, wide world of male/female interchange that had been going on around me that I had not even been aware of. I chuckled to realize that my romantic failures in high school—losing my boyfriends to other girls—was because I had failed to use some very old and very basic feminine techniques to hold them. Pity the woman who believes that sex alone can hold a man!

For all my amorous investigations. I still behaved like a lady. However I had unconsciously acquired a subtle attitude, an air about me, that was as effective on a randy male as any natural pheromone. I was told that my walk, my voice and even the way I sat showed a discreet, sexual ripeness. Men picked up on that disposition and I was suddenly swamped with offers. My girlfriends began to watch me closely whenever their men were around. I never, ever birddogged a friend, but that was not for the lack of opportunity. Finally, some of my friends quit inviting me places and I began to understand how a new widow or divorcee feels once she becomes a potential threat to other woman. But the girlfriends who remained with me were of a whole different breed. They were the ones who were more sure of their own attractiveness and willing to defend their territory if necessary. I had no problem with that certainly.

I had a lot of dates, most of the time spending much time and energy keeping the particular man at bay unless I wanted him in bed. I couldn’t explain to any of my dates that just one serious kiss, one hand on the breast and I would turn into Wolf Woman, so I had to act like a damned tease.

However, when I didn’t tease, it was Katy bar the door! Frankly, I fucked like a bunny! And I found out that only one unfettered man out of any dozen didn’t go hinky on me and feel threatened in the face of such fervor. But, to my sorrow, such men are all too rare.

One married man was able to fool me because his wife was a wimp. She didn’t question his hours or his whereabouts or the nicks on his buttocks and back, so I began an affair with him not knowing that he had a wife and four rug rats at home.

With him, I tried out my skill as a fellatrix. It was on our second or third date that I rallied all my nerve and took him into my mouth. I was sure he was not only available but that he also cared for me, so I felt free to experiment. Sorry! I not only got fucked, in the literal sense but figuratively as well. I got badly snookered.

We had made love once, in his apartment, and still feeling randy as usual, I moved down on the bed and rested my head on his flat, hard belly. I took a shaky breath and kissed the tip of his flaccid organ. Before I had even made the faintest move toward any more intimate act however, Josh knew what I was about and was ready for me. He touched the back of my neck gently, urging my face toward his genitals, and the next thing I knew, I had him all the way in my mouth, tasting both of us on him and feeling scared and outrageous at the same time. I was amazed at how fast he rose to the occasion. In just a minute, he was up and ready, but before I could move up to straddle him as I intended, he pressed my head back down to his crotch again, saying,

“Go ahead, Anne Darling. It’s something very special that I’d love from you.”

I had started it and I felt obliged to finish it so I went ahead, trying to do as I had done with my ever ready friend Waldo. I got hot doing that to him—very hot. And adding to that, I went into hot loops as I felt his fingers gently probing my recently visited vagina. In short order, I was all heated and consumed with eagerness to see how far I could go and just how much he would appreciate it. But I was not really prepared for the abrupt rush of thick, tart seminal fluids into my mouth. I knew that men ejaculated about a tablespoon full of stuff, but all due respect to medical science, what I received then felt like a whole bucketful. I was absorbed with his physical reactions and with my own feelings as I suckled him that way, not really knowing what all to expect. And then I felt him stiffen, lifting me up with his hips as he came. My whole mouth, throat and nose were suddenly filled with that acetous concentration of male essence and I couldn’t breathe. His hips jammed into my face and his hand clamped down on my neck so hard that I couldn’t have pulled back even if I’d seriously tried to. I gagged, swallowing a lot of it by reflex and feeling for an instant that I was going to vomit all over him.

But as I gulped and gagged and gasped, I was aware that Josh was going crazy under me. Whereas he had grunted or sighed as he climaxed before, he now whooped and bellowed, arching and emitting animal growls of sheer pleasure.

I suddenly felt in total command of him. I was still choking and wanting to spit out all that slimy stuff he had blasted into my unsuspecting mouth, but as he gasped and jerked on the big bed, I clutched his hips and kept on sucking at him, drinking him in, driving him to a frenzy. He was acting in the same way that I felt whenever those terrible hot waves possessed me. And as he writhed and groaned, damned if I didn’t have a little climax of my own.

It was all very intimate, very beautiful and personal, and I was considering doing it for him again when his wife finally decided she had enough and clued me in. She got my number, very likely from his little black book—Oh, yes, he had one!—and called me. In her own timid little way, that lady ripped my head off, verbally. I got the whole, sad story of Josh’s amorous meandering, plus a list of his earlier conquests. I got slightly sick, thinking of how I had given him my vagina, my mouth, and almost my heart, probably less than a week after he had bedded his own sister in law. Josh didn’t show up again however because he was too busy dodging .38 slugs from his brother that week. I just wished that his brother had been a much better shot!

Men, I decided, were utter bastards. The word prick now included the whole male animal and not just my heretofore favorite part. I quit dating until the pressure became so great that even trusty Waldo couldn’t put out the fire.

In anger, I decided that I would become a real Cleopatra, gaining what value I could from any man I bedded down with. Oh, I wouldn’t take money for it, but I wouldn’t even consider a date unless the man was not only registered with Dunn and Bradstreet, but generous to a fault as well. Apropos that, this chronicle wouldn’t be complete or accurate though if I didn’t admit that during my mercenary phase, I tried a manage-a-tois.

Just because a man is either educated, or well to do, or from a good family does not automatically mean he is a good person. Such a man is still a schmuck, albeit a rich one.

I had been seeing a forty-five-year-old industrial councillor, Morton, for a few weeks when he suggested we invite another couple on a week-end jaunt to Lake Tahoe. I went along with it, but once there it turned out that the “couple” was a pair of his buddies. I was reluctant but Morton was used to getting what he wanted so I got hussled into hitting the sack with him while his pals played poker in the next room. They were playing to see which one got to join us first.

We were in bed, doing some preliminary fooling around, when in comes another guy. To cut to the chase, as they say, the three of us ended up in the big bed and I found myself getting poked by both of them at the same time. Morton was under me, shoved in, while is buddy, Nick, was kneeling over Morton’s head, doing his damnedist to poke his rigid little manhood into my mouth. I should have put an end to it then and there, but I was intimidated by all the wealth and power I had been privy to so I gave permission by not protesting. I accepted it; Morton having his jollies under me as I sweated on top of him and Nick slamming his hips into my face without much regard to my feelings. Morton got off, then Nick, and while I choked on his stuff, the third man grabbed me from behind, jerked me straight and tried to cuff my wrists behind me. He didn’t quite succeed but they all managed to press me face down on the bed and lay a belt across my butt a few times. I was frightened and angry, but that only made them giddy with power. They took turns with me, forcing oral sex and ejaculating on me and trying to sodomize me. They didn’t quite manage to urinate on me either but they tried.

Finally they grew tired of fighting me and quit. When I had dressed, Morton politely handed me some bills by way of traveling money and suggested that I leave. I was only too glad to do so. I was in such a hurry to leave I caught the next bus out of town instead of waiting for a flight. It was a long and woeful trip home.

What I hadn’t accepted—or known about—was the concealed camera that was busily recording the whole nasty business. A week afterward I received a video tape by special messenger and I got to see myself being trounced, poked and thoroughly shamed in full color. The implication of course was that I would be too wise to make any public protest and risk having copies widely distributed. I didn’t protest, but I have the horrible suspicion that my face, and the rest of me as well, has entertained at least a couple of stag parties.

lt wasn’t long after that when a genuine friend pointed out to me that the difference between myself and a call girl was simply that I was not directly taking legal tender for it. Sexual excess is not without price. Along with that disturbing news about my reputation, I discovered that I also had come down with a nasty case of vaginitis. My opinion of the male gender hit a new low until I met a clean cut, normal, attractive man who managed to win me over.

Throughout all of this miserable sexual expedition, I still had not truly managed to cross over that impenetrable barrier that lay between myself and the awesome euphoria that I knew was out there somewhere. I don’t know if Cleopatra got off emotionally, really big time every time, but I certainly wasn’t. I enjoyed the physical aspects of making love—very much—but the emotional bells and whistles and skyrockets as promised in the sex books simply eluded me so I was once again bound to do whatever it took to find that libidinous and emotive nirvana.

For several months I’d been dating the man who had finally won my trust and affection again when, more than slightly drunk one evening—my twenty-seventh birthday to be exact—I decided to try anal intercourse. Ladies, I do not—repeat, do not—recommend it! Unless your man is at least slightly smaller than average, and oh so awfully slow and gentle, because it can hurt like hades!

I had met Allan, a dashing fighter pilot stationed at the local Air Force installation a few months earlier, and bit by bit, began dating him. He was a hunk, and sweet too, so I was two strikes down on our first date. After some ernest discussion on the matter, I let him finger me on our fifth or sixth date. Let him? Hell, I ripped my second best pair of Fredricks of Hollywood panties up getting them off when I felt his strong, sensitive hand on my thigh. We bedded down on our next date. I held back for all of five minutes, then threw caution to the proverbial winds, got on top and screwed his pretty brains out. I have no doubt he appreciated it.

When the topic of anal intercourse somehow came up a couple of weeks later, he admitted that he had hadn’t seriously tried it either. So we decided to see what it was like. We’d been out dancing and drinking, and returned to my apartment, neither of us completely sober. We snuggled and kissed and fooled around for some time before I finally got up enough nerve to present my flushed and quivering backside to him. He was gentle enough about it, but Allan was certainly man sized in the genitals department which made things more than just difficult.

One reason those three wheeler-dealer creeps had not be able to take me up the rear that night was that I am—was—very tight back there. Maybe I’m an “anal retentive,” or whatever. Anyway, as thoroughly reamed as I was in the usual channel, my back door was virginally resistant so they couldn’t get in, especially with me fighting it. But Allan and I both wanted to try it, so I was fully cooperative.

We used copious amounts of our favorite love oil until we were both slick as eels. Then, with him standing beside the bed and me kneeling on it, he began to probe my other passage with his finger. That wasn’t so bad, I determined, so we went for it. He got set, cock in hand, oiled and poised.

I should have called a halt the first time he made a serious push but I was determined to experience it all. Oh, sweet heaven, it hurt! It wasn’t awfully bad at first, but it got excruciating shortly thereafter. I was nervous but eager—and a little drunk too—as the business end of his fair sized cock pressed me where, as they say in a popular TV series, “no man has gone before.” I was on the verge of hollering whoa but when I took a deep breath to do so, Allan pushed and all at once I was being spitted like a shish-kabob. Shock made me silent for the first critical seconds and—no fault to him—he took that to be a sign I was okay with it. Then, feeling this exotic new sensation, he pushed a bit more and, Dear God, I had his considerable bulk half way up in my bowels!

It was pleasure mixed with pain—mostly pain. I don’t think my first time with a boy the regular way hurt that much. I was unable to cry out or even do more than gasp as he shoved himself all the way home. It was a ripping, tearing agony and all I could do was clutch the sheets, fighting for breath with tears washing my face.

As I said, I don’t fault Allan for being eager once he was into me. He captured my hips and then began to give me long strokes, sucking in deep breaths and sighing with pleasure. It must be delightful for a man to be in a woman’s forbidden access, and a snug one at that. And too, he knew he was taking a virgin in that particular way at least, so he began to fuck me from the rear as I lay, my face jammed into a pillow and my poor anus on fire. It was not long before he neared climax and he stopped before plunging on.

“Honey,” he asked, thickly, “do you want to finish this way?”

I finally managed to gasp ‘Huh-uh! Stop!’ and he withdrew slowly to spill his seed on my back and buttocks. And that was the end of that experiment. I ran to the bathroom in a painful waddle while he lay back contented. For days afterward I was afraid to sit down too quickly. A few months later, Allan was transferred to a duty station out of state. Although I cared for him, and we wrote to each other frequently, somehow I didn’t want to leave the state to marry him, or even move in with him when he asked so the affair died of natural causes.

Maybe that was my problem. For all that I loved sex, and thought I loved men in general, perhaps the reason I couldn’t quite reach my goal of sheer rapture between the sheets was because I could not surrender all the way while standing up either.

Beginning with that first boy, and then the sad business with Neil, I’d had some bad times at the hands, and other parts, of men. My own father had certainly been no ideal role model for a young girl either. So after several years of intense sexual experimentation and frustration, the only thing left for me to try was really falling in love. That was probably what I wanted to do in the beginning actually because I wasn’t meant to be a Cleopatra in the first place. Seducing men is like shooting fish in a small barrel, but finding the McCoy is a whole ‘nother ball game.

But isn’t it one of the ironies of life that, once you quit trying so hard, things happen? I tried to find Mr Right—disgusting term!—for a long, long time, until I was nudging thirty-five fairly hard and became totally discouraged. I had fucked every way I could imagine—yes, I tried in anally again and finally learned to relax and enjoy it—and every man I wanted to for nine years and I was resigned to being the horny bridesmaid when I finally got nailed by the little fellow with the famous bow and arrow.