An Intimate Correspondence
Barbara Balldini was born in Tyrol, Austria, in 1964. Today, she lives with her family in Vorarlberg, Austria. A qualified sex educationist, she runs the first sex counselling and tantra institute in Vorarlberg. With her two stand-up shows, entitled “Von Liebe, Sex und anderen Irrtümern” and “Heart-Core ... SEXtra LUSTig,” she has had great success in Austria and beyond. She also writes commentaries for print publications and hosts radio programmes.
1st edition 2012
Kyrene Verlag Innsbruck-Wien
All rights reserved
Translated by Daniel Ostermann
Setting: Joe Rabl
Cover Layout: Thomas Krismer
Cover Image: Werner Branz
ISBN: 978-3-902873-17-0
www.kyrene-verlag.com
For Patrick,
my tower of strength
Foreplay
Slut Fever
Swallow, or where to put it?
Fucking Strangers
Tongue Acrobatics
Through the Backdoor
Good Sex Takes Courage
Sex Toys Are Fun
Bedroom Whispers and Other Thoughts
Blind Trust
The Thing About Being Faithful
Love Is Free
Naked Truths
Subservient Love
An Erotic Evening, or Good Housewives Reminiscing
Closing Words, Afterplay, or “Let’s cuddle for a bit”
Acknowledgments
I love sex. And yes, by God, I have reasons enough to say so. In order to love sex you have to have sex. A lot of sex. And I mean a lot of sex. Good sex, it goes without saying. And women who know a lot about sex can’t be nice girls. Well, I never wanted to be a nice girl anyway. After all, nice girls go to heaven. And who really wants to go to heaven? Well, if you ask me, I don’t. To sit on fluffy white clouds and sing “Hallelujah,” surrounded by sweet little angels, is not my thing. Not that I have anything against a hallelujah, don’t get me wrong. But I prefer a “Hallelujah-jah-jaaah” here on earth, beneath a strong guy, to one beyond all earthly pleasures anytime. And so you understand what I mean, I will let you take a little peep through the keyhole. You are gagging for it, aren’t you?
Yes, I know quite a bit about sex. And more than a bit about men. A little about women and plenty about myself. Which brings me right to the point. Good sex begins with oneself and requires self-awareness. That is, to be aware of one’s self. Ha, got you. For who really is aware of themselves? And how long does it take someone to become aware of themselves? Their abysses, their longings, their wildness, tenderness, physicality, lewdness, motherliness, shyness, recklessness. Their fear and their beauty, their awkwardness, their abilities, passions, possibilities, their strengths and weaknesses?
No, I wouldn’t dare claim being aware of all that, far from it. One thing I’m absolutely sure of, though, and that is the power of my body, and that, as woman, I’m very attractive to men, and to what is in their pants.
The thing is this: women ultimately have the power over men. We literally reign over them. Honestly. Who, I ask you, decides when he may stick his thing in, where and how? Please don’t pretend you don’t know. The boys may stand on their heads naked and wiggle their toes or whatever. In the end, it’s up to the female alone whether the bed sees action or not.
If you believe that a ready and willing girl is highly coveted, loved and courted, you’re wrong. Men want to conquer. Easy prey doesn’t interest them. And if it does, it does so only until they have reached their goal. Men love the hunt more than they love the prey. The longer a quarry plays hard-to-get, the more turned on the hunter. So, ladies, even in the days of emancipation, let yourselves be conquered.
But never give it all up. For heaven’s sake, keep your autonomy and your freedom. Even if you live under one roof with the guy you love. Because this is the only thing he will idolise and adore you for. He will be grateful for never being quite sure of what comes next, what you will do next, or which project you will undertake next. Now you’re home, now you’re gone for a while. Now you love to iron and run the household, now you get someone in to do the job for you for a while. After all, you earn your own money. And that’s just how it should be.
Please don’t ever forget, never ever: you are his wife, not his mother. And neither are you his therapist or his best buddy. You are his wife. Never his “bunny,” his “sweetie,” his “honey,” his “baby,” or whatever stupid pet names there may be. You can be his whore, why not. His bitch and his slut. That’s okay too. Only, at all times be aware of the following: you decide who you are, what you are, and when you are what you are. This is what he will love you for. No, what he will adore you for. He will be mad about you and he will not be able to imagine anyone better than you, you alone.
How do I know? Well, as I said before, I know quite a bit about men. I live what I feel. I say what I think. And I do so with great pleasure. Did you know that men exaggerate widely when it comes to their conquests, while women prefer to sweep the odd affair under the carpet as an “accident”? Even though women, as far as the number of their sex partners is concerned, have long since arrived where their mothers under no circumstances wanted them to be. A fact which men not even dare think about. But this is also as it should be.
Whatever you are, ladies, be so with conviction. This, and only this, means real freedom. If you are, it doesn’t matter whether you’re a mother or a housewife, a nurse or a chef, a teacher or a social worker. The conviction and the love for what you do automatically makes you a queen.
Because, you see, a whore and a saint, a bitch and a goddess, a slut and a queen, a dominatrix and a diva do not exclude each other. On the contrary, they belong together. Yes, all these personalities in yourself should be as thick as thieves. Which, in general, can’t be said about exclusively female groups. But in this instance competition is not called for. Never. If you are able to live out and bring to bear all the abilities of these different ladies, you will be a mature, blessed woman. The goal is to combine in oneself the powers of the whore and the goddess, the bitch and the saint, the dominatrix and the diva. There will be days when these roles complement each other, and days when not all of them will be necessary for the erotic game. And then again they will meet up for a merry gossip, to report every last dirty detail of their nights of love, and always to generously and wastefully pass on tips and advice. The one complements the other, and the one is nothing without her counterpart.
Of course, it can also happen that several of them buckle down during one and the same night and then a harmonious team play is all important, is the alpha and the omega, the non plus ultra of the perfect seduction. Because all these ladies, ultimately, want to leave a lasting impression. You carry them inside you even now. They are there already. The question is, how much space, how many opportunities do you give each one of them inside you? Is she allowed to live? Is she allowed to develop? Is she allowed to show herself?
Dear female reader, dear male reader, when I had realised all this, when I had lived all this, had lived it to the full, – which I still do, by the way – I began to go public. I underwent training to become a qualified sex educationist, founded an institute to deal with questions of sex and sexual disorders, set up a temple for tantric massage, and went on stage to pass on my knowledge and my experiences in a joyful and relaxed atmosphere.
And I’m sure you can guess what happened: the secret bitches and sluts, queens and goddesses, divas and housewives, women of all ages began to write to me and to come and see me at my practice. They shared their experiences with me, experiences gathered in the course of dark nights, under stale blankets, in infamous places. They described their encounters with men, youths, and idiots, in twos, in threesomes, in foursomes, or experiences they had had on their own. They asked questions in order to improve their techniques, to soothe their guilty consciences, to throw their shame overboard once and for all, and/or merely to gain the certainty that, as a person, they were quite okay the way they were.
Brave confessions and open questions deserve straight answers. I began to wipe away doubts, to listen to intimate stories, to hear confessions. I gave away secrets on really good sex and henceforth no longer minced my words.
You, who are holding this book in your hands, have shown courage. Or someone has given it to you thinking that it could be of use. Which would worry me somewhat. As it may be, you hold the book in your hands now. Possibly it will change your sex life. You’d better think twice if this is what you want, to change your sex life.
You will read things of which you’ve never heard before. Things that will turn you into a divine slut – provided that’s what you want. Things that will shock you, and things that you have to try by all means. Things that will appear familiar, and things that you will want to avoid. Some things you will find incredible and some ridiculous. The book will make you think and hopefully not make you cry. That’s what I hope. Personally. On your behalf.
Should certain men want to learn a little more about what women are up to, what makes them tick and what they need, and happen to get their hands on this and read it – really read it –, they will want to make a present of this little book to every woman, in the hope of sooner or later being the beneficiary of these revelations. You will recommend it to your male friends – provided they are proper men – and hide it from your daughters. And the men will discover things for themselves that will make them truly interesting and passionate lovers.
Possibly, they will learn that certain practices they have used for decades are not so popular with women after all. (Our own fault, why don’t we women open our mouths when the sex is awful!) Or the exact opposite will be the case. You, as a man, will realise that you are on the right track and that you are getting there. In which case I congratulate you.
Just one thing before we get started: you can trust me. I’m going to tell you about nothing but true events and confessions here. Questions actually asked and answers actually given. None of my stories are invented, at most they have been altered in order to preserve the correspondent’s anonymity. And still, at all times determine for yourself what is “right” for you. And don’t do anything, never ever, which doesn’t feel right.
These are no more than little, yet spicy clips from the sex life of women.
Go ahead and read what women wrote to me of their own free will, and decide whether my answers sound right for you. The only thing left for me now is to say that I hope you will enjoy reading this and that you will enjoy even more putting it into practice. Talking about sex is fun, having sex is a lot more fun, though.
If someone were to ask me whether I considered myself a “slut,” I would very much like to say, “Yes.” Even though I’m quite familiar with the conventional definition of the term, and cannot agree with it, nor fit it by a long way. While the term “slut” commonly is given a derogatory slant, it is a clear-cut compliment among gays. Sluts, in the gay scene, are men who appear attractive and also profit from the fact.
The term “slut,” applied to women, refers to a permissive, promiscuous person who, at the same time, is alleged to have a disreputable character. Well, on that score I’m definitely not a slut. Yet, I reserve the right to live permissively. That is a luxury I wouldn’t want to do without. I like that.
To be promiscuous, on the other hand, means not to be interested in long-term relationships and to prefer sexual contacts with different partners. This is something that many people dream of anyway and that practically is everyday reality throughout Europe these days. If not to say around the world. However, I’ve also met more than enough people, men and women, who are keen both on a lasting relationship and on having sex with different partners. This is what we then call having a bit on the side, an affair, a one-night stand, or a slip.
Personally, I have been fortunate to meet a lot of men, and women, who lusted after me sexually, who adored me, took me, and drove me to distraction. Men and women who made me cry for happiness and shout out for pleasure, who taught me and were very patient with me and my blockages, who smiled at me indulgently and jokingly put me over their knee.
Oh yes, long live sluttishness. The unconventional, the honest, the true sluttishness. All these people have kindled, and brought to the boil, the slut fever in me. Thanks to them I got to know – and, consequently, to love – myself and my body better. Parts of my body, that I would rather have ignored, were kissed and admired, adored, massaged and caressed. My tummy and its curves, my ass and my thighs, my hips and my feet. Above all, naturally, my holy of holies, my breasts, my neck, in short: every inch of my body.
Unfortunately, there are still legions of women who can’t let their hair down in bed, as it were. Because they are constantly preoccupied with themselves, their bodies and their surroundings. Because their thoughts are anywhere but on the most beautiful thing in the world, and because they haven’t yet discovered the magic power of their holy of holies, their cunt, their temple of love, their royal portal. They constantly worry about their appearance and about whether they’re doing everything right in bed. “Can he see my tummy folds?” — “Does he find me boring?” — “Shall I give him a blowjob?” — “Can the neighbours hear us?” — Well, I hope so, let them have some fun too. — “Does he like the way I smell?” — “Does he really find me attractive or is he just pretending?” — “Shall I talk dirty? Does he want that?” — “What does he really think about me?” — “Why don’t I have an orgasm, when he’s working so hard?” — “Am I too ... the devil knows what?” etc.
Ladies, when a man has made up his mind to go to bed with you, he wants to have sex. With you. Today, here and now. Uncomplicated, passionate, joyous, sensually wicked sex. Men love women who move their bodies, who also take the initiative now and then, who make a noise and give instructions. Who can relax, let themselves get spoiled and dig their nails deep into the sheets. Men love to take these women, from the front, from behind, upside down, sitting down or standing up. Men don’t care about tummy folds and cellulite. They don’t even notice. They really don’t. Provided you, precious, don’t point your finger at it and say: “Have you seen my roll of flab there?” A truly wise man will answer: “Which roll of flab, my dear? You mean this charming curve I love so much about you?” Even if you, ladies, have this one blemish you keep focusing on, men are only interested in one thing, namely in the rest of you.
Men are able to zoom in on their favourite places, to make a close-up of the one thing and concentrate on it, exclusively and extremely thoroughly. Ladies, you can be perfectly easy on that score. And should you really stumble across a male specimen that finds fault with you and remarks that you would do well to lose the odd ounce here and there, then you simply picked the wrong one. One you can safely give the boot to on the spot.