When it comes to sex, I like to use all of my body….and all of my senses. When I am remembering encounters with those I care about, the truly erotic moments cannot help but stand out in my mind.

I was reminded recently how incredibly erotic and evocative scent can be. I recently spent some time with my favorite guy and after an incredibly passionate bulk of time together, we moved into the comfort time….still naked…relaxing…discussing getting dressed and grabbing some dinner….but just sitting together on the hotel bed…him (typical man) with the remote in his hand…and me behind him…I laid my head on his shoulder and suddenly the whole combination of scents hit me…and I was even more turned on than I expected…

He had been working all day – nothing overly strenuous, but still, he had the whole scent of HIM…not unpleasant at all, that comforting scent…and that scent was combined with the scent of me…and me on him…and the smell of passion shared….it was an incredibly erotic moment that is etched in my mind…erotic, yet comforting….

That was weeks ago, and still, the memory comes back strong with a small trigger of scent here and there. And I have that trigger all because the awareness of my senses and that teeny moment in time. I am so glad that I have opened up my mind to using not just touch, but the other senses that are less thought of when it comes to sex. I wish that for you. That you can open up yourself to using all your senses, and create one of those moments in time you are going to remember.

Life is too short to not have good memories of time spent with those you care about. You just have to remember to open up and let your senses take over.

It had been a truly terrible week, with news of death and disease and a sleep deprivation on such an order that I’m still catching up. And yet, I am not ashamed to tell you, the first thing my wife and I did when we finally had a few minutes alone was to fuck like a pair of horny octopuses. Then we did it again.

This was despite us being in a house full of sleeping babies and their groggy parents, and said parents’ in-laws. We had powerful orgasms — the hand-over-the-mouth-to-keep-from-screaming, sheets-balled-up-in-fists kind. And while my first instinct *was* to feel a bit of shame that I was focused on sex when so many more important things were going on, the more I thought about it, the more comfortable the idea became. (Also, the more I thought about it and how great it had felt, the harder it was to resist wanting the second romp a couple days later.)

This is not a new situation. I suffered from a serious fear of flying in my twenties. When I did work up the nerve to fly somewhere with my future wife, I would be unbuckling my belt practically before the hotel room door swung shut. Lately, as the flight anxiety has drifted away, I have noticed that the immediate post-touchdown lust has gone with it. But there’s little doubt in my mind that the Urge was borne out of a need for physical punctuation to the relief of a safe landing.

I suspect this is more of a male reaction than a female one, even though my wife seemed as eager as I was that first time last week on the guest bed, and as sated by the experience afterward. But I have certainly observed when, in the face of stress and tension, I have tried to run a finger inside the waistband of her pants, only to have it quickly ejected, whether forcibly by hand or with an icy Not-Now look. And I think it also deserves a more nuanced description than simply falling under the umbrella of “Guys Always, *Always* Want to Have Sex”. The rest of last week was otherwise bereft of arousal; a series of (now that I look back) very cute nurses left me cold. Maybe it falls under a special sub-category of women wanting their surroundings to be relaxed and romantic before feeling sexy enough to make love, while men like sex as a route to relaxation. Whatever the psychological rationale, my body (or one particular part of it, to be specific) always manages to react to great stress with an undeniable horniness.

So when times are tough, even if you are a woman with no such natural inclination, and though it may be the furthest thing from your mind, I urge you to consider the benefit to your well-being of some hot and nasty sex.

So what *was* I originally going to write about this week? I will return to it in the next edition — you can expect a look back at an amusing, if scientifically suspect, study on the role of various aromas in sexual excitement. And I will continue to explore what turns us men on and why; what role our senses have in making up male sensuality.

Robert Lewis is pleased to offer a masculine perspective to Pink Nighties’ readers. He likes red Italian wine with dinner, coffee and the newspaper on Sunday mornings and hot, sweaty lovemaking just about anytime. Luckily for him, his wife likes those things, too.

Why? Because we are constantly subjected to the Penis Dialogues. Our men’s constant need to discuss their manhood. They admire it. Discuss its attributes. Give it names like Mandingo, Conqueror, or just Jimmy. More importantly they need for us to be as enamored with it as they are.

The following is the first in a series of actual dialogues about the mighty member we know and love so well.

I awake early on a Saturday morning. Not because I wish to, but because the sun is spilling through the curtains, insisting that I arise. I roll over to find my husband is already up. I don’t have to look far to find him. He is standing stark naked in the mirror, fresh out of the shower. He is admiring his form. His strong shoulders, bulging biceps, flattening abdomen, and of course his manhood, which even when flaccid, is still quite impressive.

This, of course, takes us into another episode of the Penis Dialogues.

“Geez, are you staring at your dick again?” I yank the cover over my head, hoping to shield out some of the sunlight and catch a few more winks. Also hoping this will delay any ideas of an early morning romp until I’ve gotten a little more sleep and a chance to brush my teeth. “Has it grown or something?”

“No, I am not staring at my dick.” He manages to sound indignant. “And yes, I think it has gotten even bigger. But, you would know that better than me.” I can hear the smirk in his voice. Few things give him as much pride as discussing his manhood.

“It’s fabulous, really,” I say from under the cover. “But, I’m pretty sure it’s the same size.”

“Did I tell you what happened to me the other day?”

“No, what, Hon?” For a moment I delude myself into thinking we’re going to have a non-penis discussion from here.

He slips under the cover, still not a stitch of clothing on. Hint. Hint.

“The other day I’m at work talking to one of the workers about a problem we were having with one of the lines. Suddenly I realize she isn’t making eye contact. The entire time she is staring at my pants.”

I groan. “The entire time she’s just staring at it? Really? Are you sure she wasn’t just looking down at the floor or something?” My eyes barely peek out of the cover.

“C’mon, I think I know when someone is staring at my dick. It’s happened enough.”

“Oh my god, here we go again. Everyone is not looking at your dick, I assure you.” I sit upright.

“I don’t know,” he shakes his head smiling. “He gets a lot of looks.”

There we go. We are now in dick personification mode.

“Maybe you should go up a size in your coveralls,” I smile sweetly. “Then there won’t be so much emphasis on… y’know.”

“The coveralls fit fine,” he says. “Besides, it’s not just women. I get it all the time at urinals and in the locker room. A guy will be talking to me then all of a sudden he’s staring at it. I feel violated.”

He pulls the cover up under his arms, as if he is perhaps trying to shield his poor member from the pain of violation right now.

“Ahh… poor baby,” I say, snuggling up to him, trying to be as sympathetic as possible at this time of the morning. “So what did you do?”

“I put the clipboard over him,” he says. “She knew she was busted and her face got all red. She shouldn’t be a problem anymore.”

“Good job, Honey,” I say, much as I did when my son took his first dump in the potty nearly two decades ago. “Sounds like you’ve got it under control.”

He nods. He is still sulking because I didn’t take him seriously, but he wraps my arm around. I kiss him on the neck and cheek. He seems content and soon we are back to sleep.

Later, it is I that sing the praises of his member in very different Penis Dialogue. And I am forced to admit that today, in fact, it does seem bigger. Or maybe it’s just better.

Chauna Myles writes multicultural women’s fiction that embraces diversity and features plenty of sizzling-hot rendezvous. Her non-fiction writings embrace inclusion and a celebration of the unique beauty that every woman possesses. She is the Non-Fiction Editor here at Pink Nighties

How long have you been a professional dominatrix?

I have been a professional dominatrix for about eight years.

Eight years is a long time. How do you keep it fresh, interesting?

Well, BDSM is a major part of my sexuality, so it’ll never be uninteresting to me. At this stage of my career, the vast majority of the men I see are repeat clients, and most of those repeat clients are guys who’ve been seeing me regularly for four, five, six years or more. If she’s any good, the clients of a professional dominatrix will be extremely loyal.

So I have built ongoing relationships with most of my guys. We trust each other, and while the relationships definitely have limits, within those limits, there is intimacy and connection. Meeting a new person is fun in a certain way, but if I only saw my guys once and never again, that would get boring very quickly.

What kind of work did you do before the birth of Mistress Matisse?

I’ve been in the sex industry since I was eighteen. Mainly I’ve been a stripper or a call girl, but I’ve tried pretty much every type of job within the sex industry during that time.

Why the sex industry? Why not law or psychiatry, etc.?

I waited tables and such when I was a teenager, but I have never worked in an office, and I haven’t had a job that didn’t involve someone getting naked since I was about twenty.

One of the reasons I have done well with the sex industry is because it’s an industry of the self-employed. There are few places in sex work where one is actually an employee who gets a paycheck. Most of the time your income comes directly from the customer, so you’d better be a good salesperson and provide a quality service. I come from a family of entrepreneurs, so creating my own business seemed natural to me. I have an instinct for marketing, I’m self-disciplined and self-directed, and when hard work equals more benefit, I’ll work very hard indeed.

And from the earliest moments of my sexual awareness, I was comfortable with my body and felt good about creating erotic experiences to share with my partners. It’s just a talent of mine. A friend of mine once remarked, “Matisse is fluent in sex.” So I harnessed two sets of talents together, and voila!

What do you like to wear for sessions? In your off time?

In sessions, it varies. Usually little black dresses and heels. After being in the scene for some time, I’m a bit bored by traditional fetishwear, so I don’t do tons of rubber, leather, etc. For social events, I have a white Herve Leger dress that I’m loving these days, and I wear it with a pair of yummy D&G eelskin pumps. Two of my guys, in particular, are very good to me in the matter of designer clothes, so I’m getting more into high-end clothes. In Seattle, where everyone wears jeans and Birkenstocks all the time, wearing really sharp clothes is sort edgy all by itself.

What is your primary goal before beginning a session?

For both of us to feel good about it afterwards.

Is there anything you won’t do? A line you feel it is unethical to cross?

I won’t see someone if I just really don’t like them. Naturally there are people I click with more than others, but if I can’t find traits I like in someone and some way to connect with them, I won’t take their money.

This may seem like a silly question, but do you derive any pleasure out of your professional sessions? Aside from the satisfaction of a job well done?

Yes, a great deal. I am a real-life kinky person, and I am at a place where I can be selective about who I see, and thus I choose clients based on whether I think I’d enjoy playing with them.

Speaking of real life, you are a polyamorist. What is polyamory exactly?

Polyamory is maintaining multiple and concurrent committed love relationships.

Are you currently involved with more than one partner?

Yes, I have two amazing partners, Max and Monk. I live with Max, he and I have been partners for seven years. My other partner is Monk – we don’t live together, but we’ve been in a committed relationship for about four years now.

Why did you choose a polyamory lifestyle? What about it appeals most to you? Is it all about the sex?

I did not “choose” poly, I have always been this way. I can remember feeling as a child that having two husbands and two wives would be perfect for me. I have never wanted monogamy. I’m just wired this way. No, it is not all about the sex – I love Max, and I love Monk. I am not a swinger, I’m utterly bored by casual sex. It’s fine for people who find it sexy, but I don’t.

You have two satisfying relationships when most people can’t manage one. What is the secret to your success?

I’ve already made every mistake in the book! Fortunately, I do learn quickly, so I usually don’t make them over and over. But with polyamory, there is a learning curve, because we don’t have many examples of how conducting multiple love relationships should look. If polyamory not something that’s really hard-wired into you, the struggle may not be worth the payoff. But this is what I always wanted, so all the work to get to where I am with Max, and with Monk, has really been worth it for me.

And last but not least, do you have a philosophy you live by?

I don’t take myself completely seriously, but I take what I do very seriously.

(Header Photo Credit: Mistress Matisse)

I am asked this by an attractive, 32-year-old woman who apparently feels that she lost her sexy 20 pounds ago.

“What are you talking about? You’re still hot.” I tell her. And I am not just being nice.

“Aww thanks,” she says, as if she’s speaking to one of her puppies. I half expect her to pat me on the head. “But I was really hot back then.”

I look at the picture. Granted, she is much thinner. But her face looks drawn. Severe. She is actually prettier now. However, I don’t want to kill her dream.

“I still say you’re hot now. But, if you want to get healthier, I’m all for that.”

“Healthier and hot,” she smiles. Then she grabs her pack of Camel and goes for her third smoke break of the day.

She might not be her “ideal” weight. What woman ever is? However, her feelings of being less attractive, less desirable, stem much deeper. She suffers from a lack of confidence and a failure to appreciate her inner and outer beauty. Her outer disarray opens a window on her inner discontent.

Poor posture. Disheveled hair that has been finger combed and harnessed by a headband. A wool pea coat that looks like it was stuffed in a drawer until seven this morning. It is obvious that this woman doesn’t feel sexy.

We often torture ourselves over our failure to live up to the standards set by glossy, retouched photos of incredibly sexy, impossibly perfect women. Meantime we schlep around in faded sweats, a t-shirt that slightly resembles a circus tent, and tennis shoes that we should have ditched 7 scuff marks and 4 mystery stains ago. The unofficial uniform of the unglamorous.

What we fail to realize is that sexy isn’t a certain dress size or height. Sexy isn’t synonymous with pencil-thin or lavishly expensive. It isn’t strictly the property of blondes or even redheads. It is a complete state of mind.

Sexy is what makes you feel beautiful. Confident. Attractive. When we wear that special dress, hot new nightie, or a pair of naughty pumps we walk differently. Our heads held higher. A bit more swing in our hips. And we feel utterly and completely desirable.

So, if you think you’ve lost your sex appeal you are wrong. It isn’t gone. It’s right where you left it. Whether it was 10 years, 20 pounds, or 2 kids ago, I assure you that it is still there. Waiting to be retaken.

Best of all, you won’t have to go all the way back there to get it. It can be summoned in an instant. The instant that you realize your sexuality, femininity, and allure have always been there.

Your efforts will not go unnoticed. After schlepping around in sweats for months while working at home, I decided to put on a knee-skimming khaki skirt and a keyhole blouse. I put up my hair and spritzed on some perfume. My teen-age son asked me four times if I was going somewhere. My husband decided it would be fun to have a middle of the day romp. And when I did go out, my neighbor nearly mistook me for someone else.

So, do the latent sex kitten inside of you a favor. Bypass the headband and sweats more often in favor of a nice pair of slacks and a kitten heel; a pair of jeans that fit you like a glove; or a dress that accentuates your curves rather than trying to drown them. Treat yourself to a nice haircut or coloring. Pick up a vintage scarf that picks up the flecks of gold in your eyes. Above all, stand up straight and tall and hold your head high.

That’s when you’ll know that you’ve found your sexy and it was right where you left it.

Chauna Myles writes multicultural women’s fiction that embraces diversity and features plenty of sizzling-hot rendezvous. Her non-fiction writings embrace inclusion and a celebration of the unique beauty that every woman possesses. She is the Non-Fiction Editor here at Pink Nighties

These are the questions we will explore through reader’s submissions of their own stories, and some of my and my friend’s stories as well. Now is not the time to be shy. I want you to bring your stories of passion and sex, heat and sweat, lust and desire, into Salome’s Lair where they can be shared with a deserving audience. You know you want to get it out in the open—and what better venue than Pink Nighties and Salome’s Lair?

And men, don’t you be shy either; I want to know what you’d do for one, or ten, mind-blowing rounds of sex. Or perhaps it’s love you are after…

So, to whet your appetite, I offer this little tale (in two parts):

He was my history professor’s friend and he had just flown in from Berlin. Gorgeous is an understatement¬—his sea blue eyes, long black lashes, strong cheekbones punctuating his face; delicious features that threatened to render me helpless. His mouth was a mouth that a girl could get used to having all over her body. And his long, smooth fingers were like sculpture. That he knew how to use his mouth and fingers was evident in the way he spoke, ate, and wandered the curves of my body with his gaze. Never mind that his English was rusty and my German non-existent¬—hell, I don’t even like German, but for Jens I could make an exception.

Jens was tall and lanky and those piercing blue eyes looked through me as if he knew what I wanted. He knew what I wanted. And later that night, despite a dozen reasons why it shouldn’t happen, it did.

Perhaps the most compelling reason to turn down, run, flee from this offer of delight was the fact that my husband was home, asleep, in our bedroom. But, always up for a bit of a risk, this little detail didn’t keep me from staying out late drinking with my classmates, our professor, and the German interloper as I flirted with him late into the night. To be continued…

Now, while you are waiting for part two, gather your stories and send them me at: callida(at)mac.com. I can’t wait to read about your adventures and showcase your stories in Salome’s Lair!

Callida Lake is a writer, dreamer, thinker, and lover of all things decadent and delicious. This will be her downfall, but what a lovely way to go. Ms. Lake dreams of trying all 1001 of her fantasies at least once. Or twice. She delights in the taste of sun-warmed figs and honey, preferably served by an attentive lover. Just the thought of hot wax down her spine makes her smile. Adoring fans may send organic dark chocolate, red wine, and notes of love to callida@mac.com.

There I was, with my first real boyfriend, in his dark bedroom. He was dreamy. He was tall and had this amazing head of brown hair. He was the epitome of a teenage rocker. He was Byron.

We’d been dating for a couple months, and we’d gone through almost all of the motions in an adolescent teen boy’s wet dream. Kissing? Check. Heavy making out? Double check. Oral? A very red-faced check. Sex? Not so much of a check.

We’d been making out, I’m sure. The precise prelude to pain and faux ecstasy is all a faded blur. But even at that immature age, foreplay was still present.

“Hey,” he said in a breathless air of question.

“Hhm?” (I mean, who wants to really talk during a time like that?)

“Do you, uhm, want to?”

Do I want to… what? Knit a sweater? Mow the lawn? Make an omelette?

“Want to what?” I asked in between kissing his beautiful lips.

“You know,” kiss, kiss, kiss, “… it?”

Hault! You have my attention!

I gulped. I froze. I hadn’t really thought about it, I guess. Did I?

“We don’t have to,” he said, “if you’re not into it.”

“I’m into it,” I said. Me and my loins.

“So, you want to?” he said shifting oddly above me.

My heart was pounding in my ears and my face felt like hot coals. “Okay…” After all, if I didn’t like it.. I could stop. Right?

The kissing started back up… but more hands seemed to be involved. Within moments, I had no underpants on… and was more naked than I’d ever been outside the confines of my mother’s womb and the bathroom.

Whoosh! Condom. Whoosh again! Covers over our bodies. And whoosh!

My brain screamed at me, “What the HELL?”

A blinding pain like no other came rushing up from my privates. I couldn’t help but yell out.

“My gawd!” I could feel tears forming in my eyes. It felt like my vagina had swallowed forth the Mauna Loa volcano… during an eruption.

“You like that?” he tried to ask in a sexy voice. Having been a virgin himself, it only sounded comical. I might have laughed had my inwards not been ripped to shreds moments prior.

“No,” I said, “I’m not. I’m pretty sure I’m dying.”

He immediately stopped but stayed “in place.” His face was stricken in horror… like the face of a child when they’ve just broken your antique china. “Should I stop?”

“… I don’t know…”

I explained to him the pain… the burning… the volcano. He apologized and finally removed himself from within me. Upon his exit, he looked “down there.” In my mind, I imagined it looking something like the Grand Canyon. His eyes doubled in size, and he went white.

“What?” I asked concerned.

“Blood,” he pointed, “lots of blood. Oh gawd…” He stood and walked to the other side of the room while I was left to clean up the mess. A true romantic.

I would like to say the next time was better, but in reality, it wasn’t. I can’t remember for certain when the depths of Hell removed itself from my nether region. But I know it wasn’t instant. I went through the 12-step program for losing my virginity. Had I known then what I know now, would I have done anything differently? Yes. Brought Lidocaine.

Bella Kole, a domestic diva, spends her days in the realm of art. At night, when the lights go off, Bella delves into the world of feathers, vibrators and sexual mishaps. Conquering the world one AA battery at a time, she brings her years of experience (and inexperience) to you! Bella is a Contributing Editor here at Pink Nighties.