Tag Archives: sex

http://blog.myownwaterpipe.com/2012/03/26/your-role-in-the-bedroom.aspx

Your role in the bedroom

The following is placed here to remind us to never take our loved ones for granted.

Being mindful of technological competition from the fucking machines. Have you seen what they can do now?

Men, if we don’t learn to give women intimacy with close emotional sensitivity and other such stuff, the machines will render us obsolete. From the standpoint of convenience, availability, reliability, and sheer unstoppable horse-power, the 110/220-volt machines can vibrate, pulsate, rotate, reciprocate, thrust, penetrate, and irrigate longer, more steady, and with adjustable intensity level. From the pure mechanical point of view, the machines are by far superior than ten men put together.

But they are cold-hearted, do not converse, do not cuddle, or snuggle. And if a man is also cold hearted, would not converse, would not cuddle, or snuggle, then what can he do for the woman that machines cannot? Smiles, the eyes, jokes, gifts, attention, praise, close intimate conversations, dreams, children, hugs, and kisses. There is still a lot we can do for our women outside of pure sex mechanics. However, if we rely purely on sex mechanics to win her heart, we will lose to the machines.

Men, do balance training on the water pipe so you can learn to be less rational and logical and more emotional and sensitive when it’s needed. Also, learn what shoes not to wear when you spend time with your significant other. The wrong pair of shoes can play with your attitude, and not in a positive way for the situation.

Women, do balance training on the water pipe so you can learn to be less emotional, less irrational; so you learn to speak your mind clearly and without hints and innuendoes. Learn to be more direct and straight as an arrow. First say what you would normally say. If you don’t see the response you are looking for, tell him straight, spell it out for him, make an analogy he will appreciate. (No rudeness, no bad words, no putting anyone down.) Just be clear and unambiguous in your communication. Personally, I would rather get it straight in my face, than risk missing the point and cause her to become uncomfortable, clam up, and withdrawn.

This is probably the decade of our last warning. If we become extinct, it would be only because of our own arrogance. Technology is a ruthless opponent. Never underestimate your opponent. Never!

(That was my somewhat tongue-in-cheek opinion about the f machines.)

http://blog.myownwaterpipe.com/2012/03/26/your-role-in-the-bedroom.aspx

short post name:  http://wp.me/p2hq6R-N

 

Good Sex = Good Memory

Good Sex = Good Memory

 Bad Sex = Longer Bad Memories

 How We Remember What We Remember

 

I was inspired by blog stories by Stella Marr http://secretlifeofamanhattancallgirl.wordpress.com/about/

 

            Her stories brought up a set of emotions that I thought I forgot forever. Although my stories are about different people and very different situations, they share the core elements: they are also honest to the bone, raw, gut-wrenching, real, and descriptive, to the point that you feel that foul alcohol breath straight through your computer monitor.

            I recently published my first book where I share my perspective about those things that influence people to do what we do. Our memories shape our lives, our actions, and our reactions to the conditions that resemble what we experienced some time in the past. From the moment of inception, we remember, consciously or subconsciously, everything we hear, smell, taste, touch, feel, and think about; we remember ideas and emotions, we remember it all, from birth to death. The reason some memories stay fresh for a month, a year, or for life, is because they were written using stronger and stronger emotions.

 

The following I copied from my book.

 

            In a way, emotions assign the tools with which the memories are recorded.

 

Special Memories Come with Keys, Like Charms on a Necklace

            In my early twenties, I fell in love. I was young and inexperienced in handling emotions. Although many years went by filling my memory banks with other experiences, I can still recall the sensations, the emotions, and the feelings I had back then. That relationship did not work out. And even though I have not seen her for decades, I still remember. The stronger the feelings, the longer the memory will last.

            I used to enjoy playing music, including five years of music school with classes at least three times a week, and tons of practice. After my graduation, I put the instrument in the closet, and when found it a year later, I could not play a single tune, even with the music sheets. So how is it that maybe 50 aggregate hours of sex during several months of relationship linger in my memory for several decades, while what I learned in over 1,500 hours of lessons over five years, vanished from the memory in less than a year?

            Why is it that every time I see a redhead, I remember the redheaded girl, my childhood friend? Actually, playing with her was more trouble than fun. To this day, I have no redheaded friends.

            Fear is another key—more powerful emotion than love, in terms of memorability. Although I’ve had my share of gruesome frightening memories, I would rather talk about the brain and memory by using pleasant experiences.

            Her skin was soft and velvety. Her scent, lightly sweet, with a hint of vanilla, reminded me of the scent of the hair of a toddler. Her eyes were dark, big, and deep as an ocean. We were kissing, cuddling and kissing some more. Our hands caressed each other’s skin, and it felt as though we didn’t have enough hands and enough fingers to touch and caress the entire body, all at the same time. Her lips kissed every spot on my body. Hot, moist and insatiable, they wanted more, and more, and more. At times, when I had my eyes closed, it felt as though I was in her lips, between them, as though I was within them, inside and out. We had to take short breaks from giving each other pleasure. When she kissed my hand, or arm, or leg, or stomach, that part would experience such intensity of sensation, it felt as though my heart moved in there. Sometimes it felt as though my heart was in my stomach or in my throat, or in my calf. She would start kissing and caressing that part, and after some time, that part of my body would get hot. I would start feeling my heartbeat in there. Then it would start throbbing with pleasurable sensations. The pleasure would increase to the point of becoming mixed with discomfort, to dull pain, to intense pain mixed with intense pleasure. When we stopped, it was only to catch some breath. Between the periods of cuddling, caressing and kissing, we would interlock our genitals for the dance of life, with the rhythm of the blinking star. Going inside her was not a treat, it was an ever-evolving journey, sometimes boisterous, rough, relentless, merciless, like the heavy storm waves pounding the rocky cliff; every time exploding, roaring with the raucous unbridled spirit. Sometimes it was a calm voyage with slow, warm, long waves running up the fine sand of a tropical beach, breaking up in tiny white bubbles, absorbed by the thirsty sand without a whisper. Oozing from the inside out, spouting from the outside in was the nectar of love, saturating, insisting, permeating, invading, remarkable, unstoppable. We relished in its tangy presence and let our bodies drink up the elixir of life.

            Sex, love making, it was not. It was beyond sexual gratification, beyond physical pleasures, beyond intimate closeness, beyond emotional fulfillment. They were voyages, not intercourse, not oral sex, not kissing. They were voyages; voyages into a different realm of existence, out of our bodies and into the unity, the boundless unity with everything. Not daily, not with any schedule, not with any kind of arrangements, these expeditions would start with a barely perceptible look in each other’s eyes, an unspoken understanding that it was time for another journey, a trip into the abyss of pleasure and mystery. Each trip had a life of its own. It would start seemingly on its own, and last for four, six, twelve hours, and one time, close to three full nights and three full days. It was only upon our arrival, that we could somehow get a grip on reality and time. During these trips, however, the notion of time seemed to disappear, and neither of us was even vaguely aware of the existence of time or the word “time” itself.

            My body would feel as though it was spreading into hers, as though I was dissolving in her, and she was dissolving into me. Our spirits and our bodies would become one, like water blends with milk. I knew every sensation she had, and she knew every sensation I had. We knew each other’s thoughts and feelings. When we looked into each other’s eyes, we were able to talk to each other without uttering a single word. This way, we talked about clouds, rain, water, jumping in the puddles, how we first rode a tricycle. She would tell me about flowers and dresses, and music and fire, and I would tell her about bridges and energy, and war and the planet. We were not talking per se, but communicating without words, without gestures, without signals. Wide varieties of new knowledge would just appear before us, within our reach, not requiring any effort to understand or share. We even played with each other by trading where we were. With just a momentary look into each other’s eyes, we could swap places; I would go into her world and into her body, and she into mine. Momentarily I would feel as though I was her, feeling the weight of my body pressing on her, the fullness of her breasts, her finger nails, her long and curly hair under my back, I felt my penis in her, the way it was pushing up and up and up, with every stroke rubbing by her heart reaching her throat.

            While being her, I saw bright and colorful fields of flowers; I was hopping on a cloud, and bathing nude in a pond, under the waterfall. I felt how the flow of water agreed with the curves of her body, and how her nipples hardened against the flow. While being me, she said that she was uncomfortable with my wider shoulders; that she felt like flexing the stronger arm muscles. She didn’t feel feminine with the larger feet, and my penis was sticking out and was getting in the way; she said it pulled her pubic skin and felt heavy and demanding.

            We both enjoyed playing this fun game, and we laughed and laughed. We could start it in a moment, and go back to our own selves just as fast.

            Sometimes we would venture out into the world of trees and rivers. We would be holding hands as we approached a big old tree, and then we’d hug it, pressing our chests and chins into the bark. A moment later we would become that tree, see its life, see how it goes to sleep in the winter, and how it wakes up in the spring. We felt the heat from forest fires, the tree’s thirst during droughts. Tapping the wisdom of the tree was unparalleled. To stand in one place, stand there no matter what, experiencing the world day after day, year after year for hundreds of years is an experience wide as the horizon, and as profound as the night sky. Nothing was puzzling; nothing was difficult. Everything had its place, except for time. We only thought about time upon our arrival to our ordinary selves. While we were traveling, the present was in the past, and the past was in the present, and the future was there, too. The present, past and future were one. It was confusing, and amusing, but only afterwards. While in there, it was pure bliss.

            I remember that her breath smelled like the breath of a baby after nursing: warm, sweet and contented. My hands remember the feel of her silky hair curls.

 

 

Why several decades later, do I still remember?

And why don’t I remember what I had for lunch yesterday?

 

 

            The brain has its own rules for remembering. It puts most of life experiences on the back burner, while keeping selective few perpetually hot. The more emotionally charged an experience, the longer we will remember it. Emotions accompany all of our experiences. The deeper our emotions during an event, the deeper it gets carved into the memory.

            The longevity of the message depends on how that message was recorded. A sand castle will stand until the next tide. “Wash me” on the hood of a dusty car will last until the first rain, or car wash. But deeply engraved in stone, “Bob was here” will last an eternity. Emotions assign value to every signal, every bit of information entering our consciousness. In a way, emotions assign the tools with which the memories are recorded.

            Low emotional value, and the message will dissipate like smoke in the air. Sitting in the company kitchen yesterday, eating something homemade, is what happens when the emotionally assigned value to my lunch was low. I remember only that I ate—and ate “something” I brought from home. What I brought from home I can’t remember. Why? Because my lunch was uneventful.

            Four days ago, on the weekend, I went with my son to get a burger and a cup of coffee. I like Starbucks regular coffee. A Starbucks was next to the burger place. Since I was inside the burger place, I thought, coffee is coffee is coffee, what’s the difference? After drinking the coffee I bought from that burger place, I had a headache until I went to bed. That’s the difference. I don’t remember anything about the burgers, but four days later, I remember the coffee because it was accompanied by physical discomfort, a headache.

            My emotions—being upset and disappointed—were involved. Will I remember this story a year from now? I doubt it for my emotions wrote the message by using a finger on the dust.

            However, that young love affair will probably stay with me for the rest of my life. At the time, the emotions were so strong the memories were recorded by chiseling them in stone.

 

This is the end of the excerpt from my book.

 

            As you can see, I’m not comparing my notes with Stella. She has her memories, I have mine, and you have yours. What I wanted to convey is that we all share the process of remembering. Rape victims, abused children, and soldiers suffer from PTSD. The Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is based on our memories. If we could find a way to select certain memories and make them less intrusive, less painful, less persistent, then people who survived the worst of what humans are capable of, then we can go on with our lives. Instead, people with PTSD are stuck, they are nailed to their memories.

            As they retell these stories, they relive, they re-experience the emotions, the sensations, the pain again, and again, and again. Soldiers do not like to talk about their nasty memories. Do you know why? Because it is unspeakably painful to re-live through that again.

            What Stella is doing is what soldiers with PTSD don’t want to do. She shares her memories and by doing so, she re-lives, re-experiences those events again, and again, and again. Do you think she’s become immune to the pain? No. She fights her pain so others may live.

 

Stella, our hats off to you.

 

Stay strong and stubborn,

 

Your friend, Alexander Nestoiter