Nosy-Ass Question for You About Making Out

Today's reader mail reminded me of the olden days of the blog when it was about married women and how the fuck they were dealing with the realities of married sex. Over the years (four!), it has become way less Studs Terkel-ish and sociological and more Onahole-ish, which, quite frankly, I have no excuse for.

Anyway, here's an earnest letter from "Janet," that reminds me of the blog of yore, née "In Thy Bede Withe Thee Married Wiffe."

Hi! I love your blog. I know this is somewhat tame, but as a person who has been with the same man for about 6 years, and has sex regularly, I wonder about making out. We haven't sat around and made out since about 4 months into our relationship. There is occasional kissing during sex, but really not much. And really, thinking about sitting on the couch and making out seems kind of gross to me now. Is that normal? Do people who have been married for 20 years make out with each other? Maybe you could take a poll. I keep wondering why we don't do that so much (couples in general) as we do when we first meet. Thanks!

Now, this is actually completely interesting to me because not so long ago two different women confided in me (note: don't confide in me) that although they were still somewhat into having sex with their long-time husbands (depending on vagaries of their moods, how pissed off they were, how interesting their book/show/other diversion was, etc...) they were super-not into kissing the husbands.  Like kissing seemed...yes...gross!

So what is that? Has anyone else has a similar experience?

I have a poorly-formed theory that it has to do with hormones--the basic idea being that before one's puberty hormones kick in, kissing seems disgusting and maybe there is sort of a return to that kissing=icky mode as one's hormones recede again with time. Anyone? Yes?

Whatever it is, it's a crying shame because there is nothing better than being kissed by someone who knows how to kiss the hell out of you.

Last week, I watched a video from One Taste on the pleasures of making out as an experience, not a route to something else. Though it's not gonna tell you anything you don't already know (plus you have to put your email address in to watch it), it did remind me of the delightful sensuality of making out. The sexy deliberate kisses finding sweet, soft places on their neck, the focus on sucking on an earlobe the exact right way to make them groan, the deep melty, lust-heavy kisses with swollen lips and sort of desperate pressing against each other through your clothes and feeling the hard ridge of cock*. God. Remember this?

So yeah. Are you doing that anymore? And if not, why not? Spill it.

xoxo
jill

*Or whatever it is/was you feel/felt. Don't want to be too hetero-normative.

(p.s. while looking for a photo, I came across this one which I love, though prob. a bit too penisy for me to post. I'm in enough damn trouble already. Nothing stopping you from looking though...)

A Little Love Note for You Today, from Lady Chatterley's Lover

I am off doing tedious things but I haven't forgotten about you. I give you this in your day, a passage from Lady Chatterley's Lover by D.H. Lawrence. It came out in 1928 but in a heavily censored version because it was considered to be so smutty.

In 1930, the comically-named Senator Reed Smoot, opposing an amendment to lift a ban on imported smoot, er, smut, threatened to publicly read indecent passages of imported books in front of the Senate. Which sound less of a threat and more of an awesome promise. (Sadly, in the end, an unrealized promise.)

Said Smoot, before he later presumably retreated to the Senate bathroom to jerk off, "I've not taken ten minutes on Lady Chatterley's Lover, outside of looking at its opening pages. It is most damnable! It is written by a man with a diseased mind and a soul so black that he would obscure even the darkness of hell!"

Anyway to me, Lady Chatterley's Lover is not obscene at all, but rather beautiful really, and smart about what goes down with women during really really good sex. Says the oddly poetic Wikipedia entry on the matter, "The novel is about Constance's realisation that she cannot live with the mind alone; she must also be alive physically." Which...well, yes.

Here 'tis. Try not to think of Senator Smoot during.

She would have thought a woman would have died of shame. Instead of which, the old shame died. Shame, which is fear: the deep organic shame, the old, old physical fear which crouches in the bodily roots of us, and can only be chased away by the sensual fire, at last it was roused up and routed by the phallic hunt of the man, and she came to the very heart of the jungle of herself. She felt, now, she had come to the real bedrock of her nature, and was essentially shameless. She was her sensual self, naked and unashamed. She felt a triumph, almost a vainglory. So! That was how it was! This was life! That was how oneself really was. There was nothing left to disguise or be ashamed of. She shared her ultimate nakedness with a man, another being.

Back soon...

xoxox
jill

ps if you and the bedrock of your nature are feeling a lack of routing by "the phallic hunt of the man" and need some vicarious love, you can read the whole book free on pdf here.

(photo via the lovely Lady Cheeky)