I was talking the other day with a good friend. He and his wife have been thinking about opening up their relationship a bit. He and his wife each crave some things, sexually, physically, that aren’t available to them in their marriage. Not least of which is novelty. But most of which boil down to specific acts, specific sensations.
As we discussed his cravings – and how, where, he might look to satisfy them – I found myself thinking (as I often do, the last couple of weeks) of Julie‘s ass.
I like objectifying women. I’ve written dozens of objectifying “paeans” – sort of prose photos of strangers I encounter. I like telling women with whom I’m involved my feelings about their bodies – as a whole, and in parts. I appreciate a round ass, perky breasts, thick thighs. Pretty eyes, lustrous hair, long legs, high cheekbones.
In general, my appreciation for women’s physicality, for their parts, resides firmly in the context of my appreciation for their more three-dimensional selves, their personalities, their intellects, the conversation we have, the connection we feel. Partly, this results from my mom’s prohibition and demonization, during my puberty and adolescence, of objectification, from my feminist objection to the violence and coercion and power inherent in so much objectification. But more than that, my wiring demands it: an ass, breasts, a pretty face, simply don’t do it for me – at least not all that powerfully, and certainly not all that long – in the absence of more connection. I tire quickly of a pretty face or ass if don’t, actually, like the mind lying behind, or above, it.
In my CPOS days, this complicated my situation: my partners, generally (but not exclusively) provided little to no connection. Which left me feeling hollow, alone, in my sexual encounters.
Today, my life looks different. Whether with women I date or women with whom I stretch, or otherwise work out, at least some connection features. Universally. You get a sense of this when I write: I write not just (or even especially well) about women’s parts. Instead, what motivates me, what drives me, is the dynamics of relationships, the ups and downs, the obstacles and rewards. Not the visuals. Not even the touch.
Dominance and submission provide a playground on which I can experiment with, and learn about, my relationship to power, to fear, to excitement, to longing, to loss. And it’s here – on this playground – that I spend the bulk of the time about which I write on this blog.
So imagine my surprise when, of late, I am in a new… relationship? Nah. Routine? Maybe… with Julie. Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against Julie. She seems perfectly nice. I’m sure she’s interesting, smart, funny, clever. But I have zero insight into any of that.
The way our relationship/routine has evolved thus far centers it on two things, and two things only: first, her ability to lead me through a sort of hybrid Pilates/yoga routine that’s good for my body. And second – and far more important – her ass.
That’s right. Pretty much all I care about with Julie is her ass.
That’s an unfamiliar spot for me.
When I started this stretching jag, a bit more than a year ago, I certainly had occasion to become enamored of an ass or three, and I did. For sure. I won’t extol the virtues of the various asses I’ve put in my face in the last fourteen months or so to motivate me to move my body. But I will say this: never have I felt so much hunger for an ass so… detached… from a hunger for the person sporting it.
Again: this isn’t, in any way, a knock on Julie. Or a complaint. I like her fine. I just feel about her – well, kinda like I might feel about a Pilates instructor. She does a good job and I appreciate it. And. That ass!!!
So far, I’ve seen it in a panoply of gym outfits. Every one, better than the last. It’s astonishing to me to imagine her leading a class in what she wears for me, and yet, I know she does. In the pink outfit that was so snug I could discern her labia (I imagined). In the black one-piece that gave me a spectacular view of the contrast between her waist and her hips, that hugged her ass so tight it felt like it might burst. The patterned shorts. The tan/beige outfit.
I could, happily, content myself with just what she’s shown me so far, but I know I need not, that the parade will continue. I long for more, of course: to see her magnificent ass in just about everything she owns. Jeans. Slacks. Skirts. Dresses. Boyshorts. Bathing suits. You name it – if she owns it, I want to see her ass in it. And I hope I will. I trust I will. (Well. Most everything. I have the sense – though I hope I’m wrong – that her modesty presents at least some limits.)
I don’t have much experience with being haunted by a disembodied body part, by a part of a human, and not by the entire human. It’s happened a few times with sensations – the feeling of Willow’s mouth on my cock. The feeling of the Amazon’s mouth on my cock. The smell, the taste, of V’s or Maya’s cunt. All those live on in me powerfully.
But I’m a guy who’s been lucky to date a ton of spectacularly hot women, and it just. doesn’t. happen. that I become fixated on a part.
Twice, in recent months, it has happened: the “v” of Shelby’s thighs and cunt, and, more powerfully, Julie’s ass.
Shelby sent me a handful of videos. I can go back and look at them, stroke my cock as she opens those creamy thighs for me, as she teases her pussy for me. And I do. And sure. I long for more (though it seems she’s moved on, that I won’t get more, which is sad, because it sure would be fun to tie her up, spank her ass – which is pretty phenomenal in its own right – and feast on that pretty cunt, munch on those tender thighs).
Julie’s ass (thus far?) exists for me only evanescently – on screen, briefly, as she squats, as she bends over. And then, like that, it’s gone. I can’t, I don’t, record it. I want to, but I know she doesn’t want me to. (Yet?) She sent me precisely one photo of it, so I can see it in my texts, as her avatar (and you can’t see it because, ass completely not identifiable as the shot is, she doesn’t want you to). But that’s nowhere near enough. It’s not enough for me to lie back and stroke my hard cock, gripping it tight, imagining my hands on her ass, my mouth on it, my cock sliding under it, into her pussy. My imagination is good, but it just doesn’t work that way. I wish it did. I long to get myself off to Julie’s ass.
But I can’t.
At least not yet.
So, for now, I content myself with a few glimpses a week, on my little screen, as I contort myself to keep my eyes on it as she pushes me to hold a pose.
Time will tell if my interest sustains. I’ll be curious.