Anniversary.

One year, a little more than a month ago.

I booked a room in the Motel 6 a block away from the apartment I shared with three others; the thrill of the bill in my e-mail made me almost as wet as the kiss he gave me when we stumbled across the threshold, awkwardly playing at being "real" adults, adopting the roles of horny strangers.

A sudden shyness overwhelmed the tiny room as we stripped the bed of its cover and flicked on the television. I pulled a bottle of sparkling white wine from my overstuffed suitcase, but no corkscrew--we giggled as he tried to pry the cork out with his car key. The endeavor failed miserably.

The two of us rolled onto the bed, fully clothed, gently re-exploring each other's bodies after three months of sexless separation. I slipped my hands under his shirt, liberating the broad chest and muscled shoulders I had missed; I ran my fingernails down his stomach, cupped his round ass and squeezed. He lay down on his stomach and I rubbed him down with one of those all natural massage bars. Ours was shaped like a heart, smelled like chocolate and cloves (but tasted like soap), and left a warm, slippery residue and gritty bits on his skin. After fifteen minutes, he returned the favor.

"Close your eyes." He did, and I made an ungainly scramble for the itty bitty bathroom. I toweled what was left of the fragrant stuff off of my skin, and squeezed into the black silk Jacquard corset with red lace accents (and matching thong) that I had bought expressly for his anniversary gift.

I sauntered slowly out (well, sauntered may not be quite the word..my stomach was full to the brim with some form of butterfly, and I was teetering about in red patent pumps), and stood before him, weight shifted to one hip, trying to look confident and ending up betraying my nerves completely, more self-conscious than I had been the first time he saw me naked.

He smiled up at me, gently pulling me closer with his hands on my hips, nuzzling the tiny V of silk that barely covered my snatch, his warm breath making me moan with pleasure and surprise.

In a moment I was on the bed, heels shed, scrap of underwear flung across the room (corset still intact). His face was buried between my thighs; I gasped and tightened them as he lapped at the lips of my pussy, dipping his tongue into me, rolling up and around my clit hungrily. My fingers tightened in his hair as I came for the first time that night, calling out (hoping the walls were thick), back arching.

Mon Homme grinned, licking his lips, and slowly moved forward for a kiss. I pulled him down on top of me, responding fiercely, my cunt throbbing. As we broke our kiss, the desire in his eyes paralleled his pulsing erection, and he bent to suck on my exposed nipples.

"I want you inside me," I whispered, and he groaned, finally thrusting into my pussy. Months of waiting escaped in a satisfied sigh, as the familiar feeling of his thick cock filled me in the most amazing way.

Then a look of panic appeared appeared on his face.

"Oh shit..I'm already close." His eyes squeezed tight shut, and he adopted an expression of deep concentration.

"Think of something else," I suggested, and he nodded quickly. "I've really missed this..Your cock feels so good inside me..I love it when you fuck me."

"Hey now," he said, "you're not helping. Let's talk about string theory." He launched into a brief lecture on quantum physics, eyes locked with mine, and slowly resumed his gentle thrusting.

The odd combination of G-spot massage and special relativity, plus my pleasure at being with him again, excited me more than ever. To my surprise, I felt the heat rise in my stomach, my muscles tightening sweetly, the beginning of an orgasm curling up. I wrapped my legs more tightly around his waist, rolled my hips upward, and came hard. He stopped moving, staring down at me in surprise.

"Did you really..?"

"Yesss," I replied breathlessly. A few more strokes and he was done. I stripped completely and we twined together, falling asleep in complete satisfaction.

In the morning, having completely abandoned my unease, I changed into my "Catholic school girl" outfit--white Oxford, very short plaited red plaid skirt, white knee high socks, and black Mary Janes--and he fucked me from behind.

Afterward, we thought about trying something new which we'd discussed for a while: anal sex. He pulled me into his lap, lubricated a gloved finger, and gently probed my asshole. It was an interesting experience for him and for me, since while I had had a finger up my ass before, it had never been done so sweetly.

Eventually we chose to postpone the actual thing..but it's only a matter of time.

This is also important.

I've been thinking about this topic a lot lately.

"I wanted to respond to An Unmarried Woman. As a result of her "nice, funny" husband-material boyfriend's "boring" sexual style, AUW has begun to cheat on him with her ex-boyfriend.

I married my version of her boyfriend. So did many of my friends. Years later, all of us have:

1. Left our nice husbands because the sex was so unexciting,

2. Had affairs, or

3. Complained endlessly about how we feel trapped and frustrated in our sexually unfulfilling marriages.

AUW needs to walk away and she needs to do it now—before she feels crummy about cheating, before she "settles" for bad sex as a trade-off for "settling down," and before she has any kids whose lives will be affected by her future unhappiness and whatever steps she takes to deal with it.

Part of the problem here is that your standard advice to DTMFA doesn't always apply, Dan. AUW's boyfriend is not a motherfucker; he's a good, decent, caring, funny, responsible man, a potential life partner. Women are strongly socialized to downplay their own sexual needs in relation to their desire for security and stability. We're taught that this is the mature decision, and that what's important is that we choose the "good" guy. Only trailer-park sluts—ignorant and sex-driven—would value good sex above all that more "important" stuff.

But as you well know, Dan, good sex is damn important, and our desire for it doesn't necessarily fade over time. AUW should think about this: Even when there's a strong sexual connection, over time the novelty wears off, people have to "work" at keeping the sex hot, and children and bills and the daily grind take their toll. Where does she think she and Mr. Nice Guy will wind up sexually in 10 years if they have an uninspired sex life now?

AUW should wait for someone who "worships [her] pussy" and who is in other ways appropriate for the long haul. You can get a lot of your needs met outside of marriage, AUW, without being unfaithful. You can laugh, talk, go to movies, knit, etc., with friends, and it's okay. But once you go outside the marriage to fuck, you have crossed a heavy line. Marry someone who can meet your sexual needs."

There's a reason for this post.

As you might suppose.

"Dear Science,

I think my girlfriend is faking her orgasms. Is there any way, scientifically, to figure out if an orgasm is real or not?

Empirically Aroused

Sweaty feet are a good place to start. Having an orgasm, at least to your autonomic nervous system, is akin to being chased by a lion or getting into a drunken bar fight. For men and women, the medical school mnemonic (you'd be horrified to find out how most medical students pass their tests) for sex is "point and shoot," because it's the parasympathetic nervous system—the feed-and-breed regulator—that handles arousal, getting all hot and bothered, erect and wet. Only at the moment of orgasm does the sympathetic nervous system—the fight-or-flight, adrenaline-rush regulator—take over and end the show. If you want an objective measure of an orgasm that doesn't require specialized equipment, graduate students to operate it, and a multiple-Tesla magnet, Science suggests you look for sympathetic nervous system signs: a jump in heart rate, a sudden dilation of the pupils, or sweaty palms and feet.

You aren't the only one wondering. Drug designers, fresh from the victorious conquest of flaccid erections in men, are ready for new territory. Upon discovering women 30 or so years ago—hello, ladies—scientists have been busily testing orgasm-detecting machines in inherently, awkwardly hilarious experiments. Let's consider the latest idea: clitoral MRI. (A Seattle invention! Go UW!) First the volunteers were placed in an environment that really set the mood—a superchilled tube that made regular clanking noises. Next, the stimulation (take it away, journal article) "consisted of a 15-minute segment of neutral documentary video, followed by a 15-minute segment of sexually explicit stimulus material (AVSS), which was then followed by a second 15-minute segment of neutral video." In essence: Nova, porn, Nova—a typical Friday evening for most scientists. The MRI looked for the female erection. You know, swelling of the clitoral tissue around the vagina. But most of the objective scientific tests are about as accurate as sweaty feet.

Have you thought about asking? Your partner might otherwise wonder why you keep reaching for her feet or shining lights in her eyes at her moment of (provisional) ecstasy. Questionnaires are the most frequently used scientific test used to determine if women are coming to orgasm, still the gold standard for sexuality research. But filling out bubble sheets might prove awkward in the bedroom. Just hold your girlfriend's palms, look deeply in her eyes, and you'll have all the data you need.

Rousingly Yours,

Science"

In other news, I received a Fleshlight and a floppy, luminescent 8.5" cock in the mail today.