This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot lifts the veil on married couples for whom the honeymoon never ended. Read up on the monogamists, the swingers, the dungeonistas—and my crush of the week, Homme and Femme, and their girlfriend, Siobhan.
If I ever head back up the aisle, I’m taking notes from these folks.
Speaking of “been there, done that,” this week I had sex in the Bronx. It was perfectly steamy sex—involving a bed, a floor and the unexpected arrival of a roommate—but even more, it was landmark sex, as I had never before had sex in the northernmost of the city’s five boroughs.
Now, only Staten Island remains unfucked on my sex map of the city that never sleeps for all the sleeping around.
You might think that with all the sex I have, I would have long since burned through the city’s neighborhoods. But in fact, since the demise of my late marriage, my pants are most often dropped within my own home. I take good advantage of one of New York’s finest attractions: you can get anything delivered.
As I mentally scratched the Bronx from my list of virgin territories, my mind wandered to larger maps. I pondered the Manifest Destiny of my libido’s open borders.
Of these fifty United States, I have had sex in only sixteen, plus the District of Columbia. It’s as if my nation of sex has yet to find its Louisiana Purchase.
Of the one-hundred-and-ninety-two constituent states of the United Nations, only fifteen have stamped my sexual passport. Five of these came from a tour of Central America that proved to be un viage muy ambicioso. If not for that insatiable isthmus and the United States, I’d have an unacceptably short itinerary.
Still, I’m closing in on the continents, with only two of seven left with pristine shores. One of these seems a readily addressed oversight, but how will I ever manage Antarctica?
Bronx, my Bronx, you have awakened my wanderlust. Oh, to feel the salt spray of the Staten Island ferry.