Hitting the wall.

The difficulty with keeping a personal sex blog, I'm finding out, is that sex isn't really all that interesting. How many variations can I find on:

"I went to a dude's house and we smooched then took our clothing off. Then he touched my breasts and I touched his penis, then he touched my vagina. Then he hit me some because I'm psycho. Then he put his penis in my vagina, then took it partway out, then put it all the way back in, a whole bunch of times until we were done. Then I had angst."

As far as acts, there's really only so far I go. (Well, I did get forced to eat my own menstrual blood last night [seriously, no joke], but do you really want to hear about that? Possibly you do. There was nothing physically unpleasant or horrifying about it at all except for the little voice screaming "WHAT HAVE I BECOME?!?" in my head. I think there's a tiny nun in there.) It's not possible for me to do anything that hasn't been done before, and unless you're eight years old and homeschooled it's not possible for me to do anything you haven't heard about before.

But sex was never about acts. Sex is about people and emotions and politics and creativity, and those are very deep wells, even within the boundaries of my own little life. "Hey he got it up my ass" may not be interesting, but "why do we feel the way we do about asses?" has endless potential.

Or maybe I should just post moar tits.