I was reading Malia Mallory’s post on One-Handed Writers this morning, and it turns out her number one sex tip is to be honest:
1. Honesty – Be honest with your partner. Don’t fake an orgasm. Help your partner by letting him (or her!) know what you like.
I figure I’m not doing myself any favors if I fake orgasms, so the idea doesn’t even cross my mind. If it takes me an hour to cum, that’s just too damn bad. At least the male ego will be honestly appeased when said ego’s cock (or mouth or fingers or skillful use of toys) finally gets me there.
So again, for the record: There is nothing fake about my orgasms. Moving on…
Let’s think outside the (heh) box, shall we? There are other ways honesty plays a role in sexual interactions, and Ms. Mallory got me thinking about how honesty affects my sex life on a day-to-day basis.
Good grief, you are thinking, this discussion could go on for days!
No worries, my friends. I certainly don’t have the time (or the inclination) to write a novella here, so I’ll keep it short. Only 999 words. Promise!
Honesty, Mrs. Fever style:
You’d think after almost ten years, my husband would realize that when he asks me a question I’m going to answer with the truth and nothing but the plain, simple, unvarnished truth. Sometimes this is not the easiest way to communicate…Woops! Did that hurt your feelings? Sorry! Wasn’t my intention…but it’s effective. (There’s a reason I get along better with men than I do with women. It’s the way I think. And I like conversation, but when I’m being questioned? Let’s just say I’m not given to long, drawn-out explanations.) Yet he still ~ STILL! ~ asks me questions like, “What are you thinking about right now?” while we are having sex.
Yes. That’s right, people. While. We are having. Sex.
While there is nothing remotely ‘typical’ about my spouse, I realize that if I was to ask him that same question, his primal brain would do the ‘typically male’ thing and conjure up some fantastical answer about sexually stimulating scenarios and/or he would answer with a series of grunts because he’s too busy focusing on what he’s feeling down below to come up with a rational response. I’m sure he asks me this question because he’s in the middle of a fantasy (talk about a mind-fuck!) or because he wants to know what I’m feeling down below (probably trying to distract himself…he’s not one for reciting baseball statistics)… But that’s not really how I roll.
Occasionally I fantasize or let myself get caught up in an erotic memory, but even if that’s the case, my answers to this question (I’m supposed to answer questions? Coherently? Busy here! Trying to cum!) don’t tend to make a lot of sense to him. You’d think he’d stop asking (sometimes I think he’s disheartened to learn I’m NOT thinking about tying him up with a bow and giving him to Jenna Jameson for Christmas) after all these years, especially because my answers tend toward single syllables or seemingly *mundane* phrases. (Colors are especially popular when I’m close to orgasm. “What are you thinking about?” can easily be answered by “The color red” or some other warm hue.) Except my answers aren’t *mundane* at all if you read my thoughts.
*
For example: Yesterday I sent one of my blogger friends and email narrative detailing one of the wettest nights of my life (he’s one of the few people who really ‘get’ me sexually and we have an awesome exchange going; don’t judge me), and the result of said story-telling is that I’ve been wet ever since I hit ‘send’. I’ve included a little excerpt below to help you understand why that might be the case…
It was a hot, early autumn day. The kind of day where the heat of the sun is strongest just as its setting. The kind of day that is reminds you time is getting shorter. The kind of day when the glaring sunset casts shadows over the heat of the evening. It was sultry. It was perfect. And when he arrived home from work at 6:30pm, I met him at the door wearing black leather stiletto boots and a smile. And nothing else.
When his startled expression eased into a grin, I used my best Domme voice to let him know what he was in for. “I want to fuck,” I said. “I need to cum.”
He nodded slowly. Once. An acquiescence.
“You are going to fuck me,” I told him in a voice that brooked no argument. “And then I and going to fuck you.” I smiled. A slow, gleaming-eyed, Cheshire cat, full-lipped, toothy smile. And then I repeated myself. Slowly. “I. Am going to fuck. You.”
He stilled.
“Do you understand?”
I knew he did. His erection was straining painfully against his zipper. But he hadn’t answered me yet.
“Do. You. Understand?”
His adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. He swallowed once. Then, after looking me up and down and slooooowly back up again, he hoarsely whispered, “Yes.”
*
Ahem.
So getting back to the honesty thing…
As I said, I’ve been rehashing that memory in all its wet glory ever since I put it in writing, which means it was still on my mind (or, more accurately, on my cunt) when I woke up today. And then the inevitable happened. This morning the Mister was giving me half-asleep, wake-up lovin’ and decided ~ once again ~ to ask me mid-stroke, “What are you thinking about right now?”
I tilted my head and smiled (a gleaming-eyed, Cheshire cat smile) as I answered, “Black. Stiletto. Boots.”
“Only you,” he said, “would think about shoe shopping in the middle of a round of morning sex.”
Baaaa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! 
That’s what I get for being honest. Don’t even get me started on the topic of communication. Kuh-MYU-nuh-KAY-shun. Rolling my eyes…
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