"6": On availability

My sole purpose in my relationship with Andre was to make myself thoroughly, constantly available. To him or anyone he might choose to offer me to. I loved this. I loved walking around with the feeling that anyone, anytime, could grope me, manhandle me, shove me up against a wall and lift my skirt, part my pussy and impale me. I felt open. Open to my sexuality, open to life.

For as long as I can remember, I've imagined myself amongst groups of men, their plaything, at their service, absolutely willing to do anything that will please them. And make them come. There's a part of me that could happily spend the remainder of my days as a fuck-cum-slut whose only purpose is to please men. I love this idea and it turns me on immeasurably.

From the beginning, I felt that this experience with Andre would be a powerful one if I was willing to give myself completely to it. And so I did. There could be no half measures, or I might as well not be doing it at all. This required complete trust. There were a few ground rules in this dynamic: 1) I was to tell him everything and keep nothing back. 2) I deferred all sexual activity to him – including masturbation and other partners. My entire being – my body, my thoughts, my feelings – all were his domain. My autonomy no longer existed.

This access extended to my inner life. He had me keep a journal (my book of revelation) of my experiences and my fantasies and to note any changes in them. These notes I was to present to him at the end of each week for his perusal. It was a very intimate act, to write openly for myself and let him see all of that. Sometimes I would hesitate in the writing, knowing he'd be reading in the future. But I'd write whatever it was anyway.

He’d mine my writing for cues, directions of where to take me, of which part of my psyche was begging to be uncovered next. My deepest fears and most secret desires became the scripts for our adventures. He’d extract them from my writing, these confessions, (mostly a desire for cock) and amplify them in real life situations. He was a master director, and I gave him free reign. He created opportunities for me to face my demons and disintegrate them. I would come out of these evenings - later spent with my head on his chest, his strong arms around me, encircling me - transformed. He took me demon-hunting.

During my first group sex adventure with Andre, I met a beautiful artist boy. He was very pretty, with wavy, dirty blond hair, full, ruby lips and a shy smile. By the end of the evening, I was lying on a bed with about five other people. I was on my back, with my head tilted to the side, softly kissing Andre, utterly melting. Another man stood over me and rubbed my nipples between his fingers. The boy who painted murals buried his face between my legs. He was very passionate, sucking on my lips while thrusting his tongue inside me. Very focused. Very loving. It was the best cunnilingus I'd ever received in my life. I worried that acknowledging this in my writing might hurt Andre but I wrote it. This bred an incredible intimacy because instead of a haggling, “Will you still love me if I tell you this?” there was instead a complete acceptance of desires, demons and weaknesses. Without judgment.

There were other rules. I was to always wear skirts or dresses. With no panties. (It's something I still do when I wear skirts, except when I know I'll be in the company of someone who makes me very wet. For the sake of saving my pretty silk dresses from being stained, I'll wear panties.) I was always to stand and sit with my legs parted, arms and hands behind my back, and my mouth open, constantly embodying these symbols of accessibility. When he took me out, depending on where we went, these rules always applied, and usually in greater degree.

If we went to visit his friends, I was to strip naked upon entering their homes and immediately make myself fully available to them. He would place me in the center of the room, naked in some kind of position that allowed my legs to be spread. I might be kneeling with my legs open, lying down on the ground with my knees up and pussy exposed. Or, I’d be on all fours in the middle of the room with my cunt thrust high in the air. The men would be sitting on couches around me, talking about their days and their businesses. Every once in a while, one of them would come over and play with me as the others would comment in low voices. Appreciative. Encouraging. Andre chose with whom, when and how. There was a beautiful thrill in the uncertainty of never knowing who might touch, enter or use me.


I loved being the center of attention, loved my cunt being the focus of the room. Loved the fact that any of them, anytime, might reach over and explore my pussy. My pussy, that would slowly start to swell and lubricate itself, involuntarily. Welcoming.

In my day to day life, I found that men could sense and smell my availability. I'd be in a grocery store and a man would react to me. He'd be standing with his wife, waiting to pay when he'd notice me and become slack-jawed. I'd smile, warm, inviting and imagine spreading my legs for him. And I'd smile some more. I'd look at him with a look that said he could have me. Right there. Right then. On the floor. With his wife watching us. Or joining us. Either was fine with me.


Photos: Cynthia Cortes and Chip Willis

My inner exhibitionist

Would like to thank debauchette and Jefferson at Fleshbot for the added exposure this week.

Photo: Andru Chrisst

The one thing about Tantra I lament

The No Sperm Left Behind Policy.

Tantric purists will tell you that the ultimate male aim is to orgasm without ejaculating, since they believe that the latter act depletes men. Many of the body's vital nutrients are stored in the ejaculate - a rich and potent blend of energy.

I’ve been able to teach men to retain a lot of their vitality even if they ejaculate, but the consensus seems to be that some energy is still lost. If I a was a devout Tantric exponent I would be encouraging my lovers to learn semen retention. I do this, because I like my lovers to have a lot of stamina. However, I also like being covered in cum. So if I encourage the former, what this means is:

No come for me.

And l love come.

Can’t get enough of the stuff. If you guys don't want it, I'll certainly take it. There is nothing quite like going out after a liaison, knowing there is come lingering on my cheeks and the taste of it in my mouth. To me, it's a gauge of how consumed I am with someone - how much of him I want to linger. I like being anointed. I like the air that I breathe to be his scent and the flavors of him remaining on my tongue and in my brain.

I love it on me although I prefer it in me – a magic elixir. I can go without sleep if I can eat a lot of come. There is a story about the Yellow Girl in the emperor’s court of China who weakened all the resident warriors by savoring the emissions bestowed upon her. She rose to become a very powerful woman.

This idea is also echoed in the western tale of the birth of Venus – the most beautiful love goddess ever arises from a sea of foamy come.

If only I could harvest random come in the same way. However, times being what they are, I am committed to safe sex with all but a chosen few.

Off sabbatical

I've a love of all things sexual. I'm interested in the transformational power of sex. I’ve studied Tantra for 14 years, I’ve played in the BDSM realm and courted almost every taboo imaginable. I believe that sex is an amazing portal. It is the arena where we can play the biggest and wildest and express every innermost desire, every nuance of our beautiful and depraved beings. Through this, something in us is touched and changed irrevocably. We are reborn. That’s the territory I’m most interested in - moments that open us.

I first started this blog when I was active in another life. I’ve been on a long writing hiatus but have kept some of my old blog intact, minus many comments. I’m re-inaugurating it because I enjoy the outlet. Plus, I have another story I want to tell. I’ll be chronicling the time in my life when I was actively and devotedly a love slave and fucktoy extraordinaire. So amongst my general sexual meanderings will be excerpts from my (never quite ended) love slut era. I'll dub this the "6" series and they'll be ongoing.

Photo: Cynthia Cortes

"6": An oral history

I loved the feeling of being owned by him. Of being his property. I thrilled at the idea that he could use me any time he desired and that my primary purpose was for his sexual gratification. His, and anyone else he might choose to have me service.

I loved that he had the balls to take me naked into rooms full of people, his ownership revealed by the collar around my neck, the tattoo of his name on my belly and my utter and complete subservience to him. I adored the insolence of these rooms full of men staring pointedly at my pussy. My ass. My tits. For as long as they desired. They didn’t need to look at my face or ask my permission for anything. I loved every second of it and found it endlessly arousing.

I am a sexually voracious woman. However, no matter how much I am fucked, or how thoroughly, I always, always want more. I used to fantasize about the scene in Last Exit to Brooklyn where Tralala rips off her blouse in a bar and invites 30 men to fuck her. Or the scene in Suspicious River where Leila is held captive and made to fuck a room full of men. I like being a sexual object whose only purpose is to suck, fuck and be a receptacle for cum. I like the idea that men can do whatever they want to me. I will please them over and over and over again until they are utterly satisfied. I love the idea of them taking turns with me, one at a time. Or more at a time. One with his cock in my pussy, the other in my mouth. Those two will cum, just barely pulling their cocks out of me and then others will take their places. By the time they’ve all finished, the initial set of men will be hard again and ready to fuck me once more. Or twice more.

I love this idea of being taken and used. That I exist only for their pleasure. My own is an afterthought. Or rather, my own pleasure is derived by how effectively and thoroughly I can please them.

These are the things I dream about.

So when A proposed owning me and making me his sex slave, it was a dream come true. Thus “6” was born. Or perhaps just unveiled, as my alter ego. But, the more I indulge her, the more lucid and whole I feel in my “other” life. Sometimes I wonder if my incessant love of cock and its incessant use on me is some kind of metaphor for a type of penetration I crave – being fully opened emotionally and spiritually. Perhaps it is. Or maybe it’s just that I love to get fucked.

A lot.


Photo: Cynthia Cortes

Must be love.

Question for sex advice columnist, Dan Savage:

"Q: (1) What is your definition of love? (2) How do you know if you're in "love"? (3) How do you know if they're the "one"?

A: (1) Love is making out with someone after you've blown a load on his/her face. (2) You know you're in love when you're eating breakfast in a restaurant together the morning after he/she blew a load on your face and you suddenly realize that you didn't wash your face when you got out of bed that morning and you don't care. (3) You know he/she is the one when you've just realized that you're eating breakfast in a restaurant the morning after he/she blew a load on your face and you didn't wash your face when you got out of bed that morning and he/she smiles, leans over the table, and gives you a kiss."