Well, this marks the 100th post I've entered into this blog. One hundred posts of desire and submission, masturbation and exposure, exploration and aspiration. All touched with both, or either, optimism and disappointment. We've had a little music, a little message, and, I'm sad to say, a little whining.
So, I make a wish, or a proposal, or an incantation - may the next 100 posts (and the next year) include all of the above, perhaps with a bit more emphasis on the sexy aspects. And, a heap of love besides.
In fact, it's what I wish for us all.
Happy New Year!
Monday, December 31, 2007
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Beating the Clock with Thanks
If I can muster the energy and creativity within the next 2 days, I can achieve the lauded goal of having posted 100 times in this blog since my very first entry back in February. (After this, I'll only need 1 more!) One hundred posts, some of little or no consequence, in less than a year. Impressive? I'd say not. Fun? Absolutely.
I've given myself the gift of expression these past 100 submissions. The gift of expression and release and exploration. I can only hope that in my effort to free myself I have, at the least, entertained you and, at the most, helped to inform you of something in yourself.
I've appreciated so much the acquaintances I've made through this blog and in this world of sexual deviance. I've appreciated our communication and your insights.
I look forward with excitement and trepidation, as always, to the year ahead and can only hope you continue to visit me and lend me your ears, for even a moment. Without your voices, this is just a journal. From the beginning, I've hoped it would be so much more. And it has.
** Some Statistics - I've only tracked statistics since March 28th, so the first month of posting is lost, but since 3/28 I've had over 14,000 hits to this blog (more than 23,000 page loads). Wow!
I've given myself the gift of expression these past 100 submissions. The gift of expression and release and exploration. I can only hope that in my effort to free myself I have, at the least, entertained you and, at the most, helped to inform you of something in yourself.
I've appreciated so much the acquaintances I've made through this blog and in this world of sexual deviance. I've appreciated our communication and your insights.
I look forward with excitement and trepidation, as always, to the year ahead and can only hope you continue to visit me and lend me your ears, for even a moment. Without your voices, this is just a journal. From the beginning, I've hoped it would be so much more. And it has.
"...everyone is a blogger and a reader! When you write a comment, you are blogging. It is as simple as that. When you read something and have any opinion of it, you are also blogging and reading. Blogging does not mean you have to open a blog and write for it. Blogging means to participate in any manner that promotes the very concept of blogging." - Reader Appreciation Project
** Some Statistics - I've only tracked statistics since March 28th, so the first month of posting is lost, but since 3/28 I've had over 14,000 hits to this blog (more than 23,000 page loads). Wow!
Friday, December 28, 2007
When the Clock Strikes Twelve
In just a few short days the year of our lord 2007 will fade away and be replaced by 2008. Whooplah will be had by many (including yours truly) and we will celebrate the passing of time. Which, if you think about it, is really a bit inane. We generally don't think about it and, instead, buy champagne, act on the excuse to kiss strangers, watch fireworks and shout "woo-hoo".
Perhaps you can sense my cynicism. It is, for the most part, how I approach most things. Especially those that are revered by popular culture. I'm immediately suspect that someones having something over on me and I resent it. Regardless, I often find myself, like the sheep that I am, following the herd. In this case, I wear the party dress (Panties or no panties? You decide.), I contribute to the pot-luck with dessert because I think it's vitally important to celebrate anything with chocolate, and, yes, I buy champagne.
The majority of the 40 odd years I've celebrated New Years Eve have been in quiet reflection. In other words, I had nothing to do. I stayed home, sometimes alone, sometimes with a partner, watched that stupid ball drop in Disneyland... oops, sorry, in Times Square*, and tucked myself in by 12:05. I wake up the next morning and try to detect a change, however subtle, in the world. Usually, the only change is in the weather.
This year I will be at a friends annual New Years party with people I know, not well, but for some time. We'll drink, dance, eat, watch fireworks, and generally follow the prescribed events for this holiday. It will be fun.
And just maybe I'll be surprised by something unexpected.
*This is sort of an inside joke for New Yorkers. Or, at least, those of us that despise the demise of the real Times Square, peep shows and all.
Perhaps you can sense my cynicism. It is, for the most part, how I approach most things. Especially those that are revered by popular culture. I'm immediately suspect that someones having something over on me and I resent it. Regardless, I often find myself, like the sheep that I am, following the herd. In this case, I wear the party dress (Panties or no panties? You decide.), I contribute to the pot-luck with dessert because I think it's vitally important to celebrate anything with chocolate, and, yes, I buy champagne.
The majority of the 40 odd years I've celebrated New Years Eve have been in quiet reflection. In other words, I had nothing to do. I stayed home, sometimes alone, sometimes with a partner, watched that stupid ball drop in Disneyland... oops, sorry, in Times Square*, and tucked myself in by 12:05. I wake up the next morning and try to detect a change, however subtle, in the world. Usually, the only change is in the weather.
This year I will be at a friends annual New Years party with people I know, not well, but for some time. We'll drink, dance, eat, watch fireworks, and generally follow the prescribed events for this holiday. It will be fun.
And just maybe I'll be surprised by something unexpected.
*This is sort of an inside joke for New Yorkers. Or, at least, those of us that despise the demise of the real Times Square, peep shows and all.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Friday, December 21, 2007
The Age Old Question...
Does size matter? In my opinion it does, but in fact, I'm not talking about what you think I'm talking about.
As mentioned in a comment I made here, last night I was out with this man, who has become somewhat of a friend, by the way, having some drinks and a meal. After we ate we wandered around SoHo a bit looking for a suitably quiet and divey bar to have a nightcap. We happened to pass Babeland (which I thought was called Babes in Toyland, but apparently I'm wrong) and thought we'd stop in for a browse.
If you're ever bored and near one of these stores, you really must go in. It's so much fun! There's so much to look at and touch and turn-on. Whirring noises abound! I actually felt the action (on my hand) of The Cone and, were I to have a spare $130 I'd buy one. Fabulous.
So, we stopped and looked at the butt plugs as this is something I've thought to add to my meager collection of sex toys. I immediately thought the small one would be a good start for my relatively virgin bottom. He laughed and said, oh no, this is the one for you.
I left the store empty handed.
I'm just not ready, I guess. Quite honestly, and this will sound rather odd perhaps, but the idea of putting one of those things, large or small, into my own butt, squigs me out. The idea of someone else putting it in is perfectly acceptable (given the perfect conditions, of course). I have no explanation for this. My modesty extends only to myself.
I'm sure, with practice and patience, I could get past this issue of mine. Maybe I need to experience having a plug placed in my ass by a lover, a few times, when I really want it and am ready for it, maybe craving it, maybe begging for it. Maybe I need to need it before I can get past my squiginess.
For now, my collection is plugless. But the idea lingers.
As mentioned in a comment I made here, last night I was out with this man, who has become somewhat of a friend, by the way, having some drinks and a meal. After we ate we wandered around SoHo a bit looking for a suitably quiet and divey bar to have a nightcap. We happened to pass Babeland (which I thought was called Babes in Toyland, but apparently I'm wrong) and thought we'd stop in for a browse.
If you're ever bored and near one of these stores, you really must go in. It's so much fun! There's so much to look at and touch and turn-on. Whirring noises abound! I actually felt the action (on my hand) of The Cone and, were I to have a spare $130 I'd buy one. Fabulous.
So, we stopped and looked at the butt plugs as this is something I've thought to add to my meager collection of sex toys. I immediately thought the small one would be a good start for my relatively virgin bottom. He laughed and said, oh no, this is the one for you.
I left the store empty handed.
I'm just not ready, I guess. Quite honestly, and this will sound rather odd perhaps, but the idea of putting one of those things, large or small, into my own butt, squigs me out. The idea of someone else putting it in is perfectly acceptable (given the perfect conditions, of course). I have no explanation for this. My modesty extends only to myself.
I'm sure, with practice and patience, I could get past this issue of mine. Maybe I need to experience having a plug placed in my ass by a lover, a few times, when I really want it and am ready for it, maybe craving it, maybe begging for it. Maybe I need to need it before I can get past my squiginess.
For now, my collection is plugless. But the idea lingers.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Music and Politics
I don't think I've ever posted music, so you all have no idea what I like (and, in fact, you're probably happy about that - I like pretty loud music). And I've rarely made political or social commentary, but I just think this song is brilliant musically and the message is important. Enjoy.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Forum Fun?
I recently stumbled across Pucker Up Forums at Tristan Taormino's site, Pucker Up. I love the idea of ongoing conversations about sex. The possibilities for discussion and learning and sharing of information are endless. Yet, it looks to me that it's not getting a lot of action and I'm puzzled by this.
Now, I have to admit that I am a fan of forums. For many years I was a member of a forum that related to a contemporary rock band. That forum is now defunct, but the core group of members, about 8 of us, have stayed in touch. During the time that we were still up and running, it was so much fun to chat and post each day. We discussed everything about our lives (mostly NOT about the band - they got left in the dust early in the game), personal issues, social issues, relationship issues. We were a little community held outside of our "real" lives and the amount of support we gave each other (and still do) was tremendous.
I think a forum focused on sexuality, sexual issues, kink, and general debauchery is brilliant! While we do a similar thing in our sex blog community, each of us posting and then commenting, it's different than having a discussion. One thread that unites the community about a particular topic.
I'm a little stumped that the forum doesn't get more traffic. Days can go by without a post or with only 1 or 2. And yet, if you look at the stats at the bottom, you'll see many people lurking. For instance, right now, I'm the only member logged in, with 41 lurkers. There are over 1900 people that have enrolled as members. Yet, they say only about 300 of them are active members.
So, I bring this to my readers in the hope of generating more conversation. The topics that can be discussed are endless in scope. Everyone bringing their own fetishes to the table.
At least check it out and, hopefully, you'll feel inclined to add your 2 cents.
Now, I have to admit that I am a fan of forums. For many years I was a member of a forum that related to a contemporary rock band. That forum is now defunct, but the core group of members, about 8 of us, have stayed in touch. During the time that we were still up and running, it was so much fun to chat and post each day. We discussed everything about our lives (mostly NOT about the band - they got left in the dust early in the game), personal issues, social issues, relationship issues. We were a little community held outside of our "real" lives and the amount of support we gave each other (and still do) was tremendous.
I think a forum focused on sexuality, sexual issues, kink, and general debauchery is brilliant! While we do a similar thing in our sex blog community, each of us posting and then commenting, it's different than having a discussion. One thread that unites the community about a particular topic.
I'm a little stumped that the forum doesn't get more traffic. Days can go by without a post or with only 1 or 2. And yet, if you look at the stats at the bottom, you'll see many people lurking. For instance, right now, I'm the only member logged in, with 41 lurkers. There are over 1900 people that have enrolled as members. Yet, they say only about 300 of them are active members.
So, I bring this to my readers in the hope of generating more conversation. The topics that can be discussed are endless in scope. Everyone bringing their own fetishes to the table.
At least check it out and, hopefully, you'll feel inclined to add your 2 cents.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
The Hormonal Conundrum
It's hell, quite simply. Up and down, back and forth, never knowing what will be from one day (moment?) to the next. Last week this time I was writing and randy and ready for more. Today, I have to work a bit harder to feel any kind of twitch of excitement. I blame it on hormones.
The literature on this varies from high to low. Most say it decreases, but I've seen a couple of discussions of an increase in sex drive. Well, I have both. How about that? It depends on what day it is.
Luckily, it's not gone entirely (been there, done that). I can still get the requisite reaction from watching a man stroke his cock. Or from remembering that night in the club with the man and his two women. It's there, usually, like a low grade fever. A little something just under the surface that, given the right elements, will emerge. Hot and ready. I think that's what makes the ebb and flow of the overall drive so frustrating.
Now, I do realize that everyone experiences highs and lows of sexual desire. It's not a constant, driving force (for most). This experience is a bit different, however. It doesn't feel like a normal, "I'm just not in the mood" fluctuation. It feels dramatic and severe and sudden. Like dropping off the side of a cliff.
I guess I'm writing about this because, after having read over the last few months of posts, I realized that I've recorded these swings here. The highs and the lows. And, instead of taking on the, "oh no, where has it gone?" attitude, I want to try to go with it. Know it's going to come and go and it's not the end of the world (or my sex life). And maybe I'm writing about this so that you, my readers and friends, can remind me when I start to adopt that ridiculous nihilistic attitude that it's temporary. It will pass. I will once again write my smut with passion and perseverance.
So, today, not so much smut.
Tomorrow, well, we just don't know.
Less sex drive. Hormonal fluctuations that occur during perimenopause are often the culprit behind the loss of interest in sex that is experienced by many perimenopausal women.
The literature on this varies from high to low. Most say it decreases, but I've seen a couple of discussions of an increase in sex drive. Well, I have both. How about that? It depends on what day it is.
Luckily, it's not gone entirely (been there, done that). I can still get the requisite reaction from watching a man stroke his cock. Or from remembering that night in the club with the man and his two women. It's there, usually, like a low grade fever. A little something just under the surface that, given the right elements, will emerge. Hot and ready. I think that's what makes the ebb and flow of the overall drive so frustrating.
Now, I do realize that everyone experiences highs and lows of sexual desire. It's not a constant, driving force (for most). This experience is a bit different, however. It doesn't feel like a normal, "I'm just not in the mood" fluctuation. It feels dramatic and severe and sudden. Like dropping off the side of a cliff.
I guess I'm writing about this because, after having read over the last few months of posts, I realized that I've recorded these swings here. The highs and the lows. And, instead of taking on the, "oh no, where has it gone?" attitude, I want to try to go with it. Know it's going to come and go and it's not the end of the world (or my sex life). And maybe I'm writing about this so that you, my readers and friends, can remind me when I start to adopt that ridiculous nihilistic attitude that it's temporary. It will pass. I will once again write my smut with passion and perseverance.
So, today, not so much smut.
Tomorrow, well, we just don't know.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Part(y) 2
Read Part I
I was not abandoned by the photographer. While he didn't participate (much), he certainly stayed to watch (Were photos taken? I'll never know).
I began with her left breast. Pulling it into my mouth I nibbled and swirled around her nipple. I savored her soft, smooth skin. I pulled her right breast into my mouth and did the same. She pulled me in for a kiss. A soft, light kiss. She tasted sweet.
Hands roamed, hers and mine. Mouths and tongues licked and sucked and devoured and I can't remember the sequence of anything.
But I remember this:
I was atop her with my mouth close to her damp, shaved pussy. She was pulling my clit and my lips into her mouth with such vigor I was a little overwhelmed. She pushed her fingers into me in a way, not savage, but aggressive. Decisive. She wanted to hit her mark. She did.
I gave my attention to her small, somewhat dainty cunt. If that word can be used to describe a cunt, it would appropriately describe hers. Her lips were small and close to her body. Her clit was concealed, but not hard to find. The opening was damp, very wet, and a perfect pink. I'm not sure I ever met a cunt quite so sweet in appearance. This was a porn star pussy.
I alternated between this delicacy and her boyfriends cock, which, when I lifted my head, was available for me to suck. And I did. A lot. Often. In fact, our girl was given short shrift in deference to this long, thick and hard phallus. My preferences are clear. Given a choice, I'll choose cock every time.
This, my friends, was a slice of heaven.
I had, at this point, forgotten the photographer, until I felt hands on my ass that did not belong to her. They were his, the voyeurs, and he was spreading me for her. So that she might have better access to her goal.
I shivered at this. He was there, he was watching, he was exposing me. Not just to her but, really, to all.
I was not abandoned by the photographer. While he didn't participate (much), he certainly stayed to watch (Were photos taken? I'll never know).
I began with her left breast. Pulling it into my mouth I nibbled and swirled around her nipple. I savored her soft, smooth skin. I pulled her right breast into my mouth and did the same. She pulled me in for a kiss. A soft, light kiss. She tasted sweet.
Hands roamed, hers and mine. Mouths and tongues licked and sucked and devoured and I can't remember the sequence of anything.
But I remember this:
I was atop her with my mouth close to her damp, shaved pussy. She was pulling my clit and my lips into her mouth with such vigor I was a little overwhelmed. She pushed her fingers into me in a way, not savage, but aggressive. Decisive. She wanted to hit her mark. She did.
I gave my attention to her small, somewhat dainty cunt. If that word can be used to describe a cunt, it would appropriately describe hers. Her lips were small and close to her body. Her clit was concealed, but not hard to find. The opening was damp, very wet, and a perfect pink. I'm not sure I ever met a cunt quite so sweet in appearance. This was a porn star pussy.
I alternated between this delicacy and her boyfriends cock, which, when I lifted my head, was available for me to suck. And I did. A lot. Often. In fact, our girl was given short shrift in deference to this long, thick and hard phallus. My preferences are clear. Given a choice, I'll choose cock every time.
This, my friends, was a slice of heaven.
I had, at this point, forgotten the photographer, until I felt hands on my ass that did not belong to her. They were his, the voyeurs, and he was spreading me for her. So that she might have better access to her goal.
I shivered at this. He was there, he was watching, he was exposing me. Not just to her but, really, to all.
Monday, December 3, 2007
The Party
"Are you having a good time?"
"It's okay. Good music."
"Just okay? What would make it more okay?"
"Well, it's a lot of couples, mostly younger couples, really. I think the younger women cling more to their men and aren't so open to sharing. If you know what I mean."
"I think you're right about that."
"And, I'm not so good at...initiating, you could say."
"Well, do you like to watch? Obviously, I do."
This said from the photographer in the room.
"I do, yes."
"Well, why don't we go watch together then."
So the man with the camera, who was at the least in his late 30's, probably closer to mid-40's, and I strolled arm in arm towards the back of the room. It was there that things were happening. Bodies wrapped up in each other. Mostly couples together, really, but some couples had invited (or allowed) another person into their activities.
For a while we watched a couple fuck. She was on top and we watched as his cock was rhytmically swallowed by her cunt. Then she stopped moving and sat up. You could see by the look on her face how deep was the penetration. The photographer was behind me. Pushing himself into my back, my bottom. His right hand around my waist. His left holding his camera.
"That's nice."
"Yes."
"Come over here."
Turning to the left, he guided me to an area with platforms and mattresses that was curtained off, yet clearly not private. People were fucking, people were watching. We went to the last platform and began to watch an attractive couple as, she on her back, he kneeling upright, pushed his cock into her. She was a lovely blond. Creamy white skin, a little tattoo above her left breast (butterfly? heart?). He was fit, but not overly so. Handsome.
"Do you want to join them?"
"Oh, I don't know. Yes, I guess so."
Leaning in more towards the man he asked, "Can she join you?"
"It's up to her", the man said.
We both looked at her, she into my eyes. We smiled and she said yes.
Read Part II
"It's okay. Good music."
"Just okay? What would make it more okay?"
"Well, it's a lot of couples, mostly younger couples, really. I think the younger women cling more to their men and aren't so open to sharing. If you know what I mean."
"I think you're right about that."
"And, I'm not so good at...initiating, you could say."
"Well, do you like to watch? Obviously, I do."
This said from the photographer in the room.
"I do, yes."
"Well, why don't we go watch together then."
So the man with the camera, who was at the least in his late 30's, probably closer to mid-40's, and I strolled arm in arm towards the back of the room. It was there that things were happening. Bodies wrapped up in each other. Mostly couples together, really, but some couples had invited (or allowed) another person into their activities.
For a while we watched a couple fuck. She was on top and we watched as his cock was rhytmically swallowed by her cunt. Then she stopped moving and sat up. You could see by the look on her face how deep was the penetration. The photographer was behind me. Pushing himself into my back, my bottom. His right hand around my waist. His left holding his camera.
"That's nice."
"Yes."
"Come over here."
Turning to the left, he guided me to an area with platforms and mattresses that was curtained off, yet clearly not private. People were fucking, people were watching. We went to the last platform and began to watch an attractive couple as, she on her back, he kneeling upright, pushed his cock into her. She was a lovely blond. Creamy white skin, a little tattoo above her left breast (butterfly? heart?). He was fit, but not overly so. Handsome.
"Do you want to join them?"
"Oh, I don't know. Yes, I guess so."
Leaning in more towards the man he asked, "Can she join you?"
"It's up to her", the man said.
We both looked at her, she into my eyes. We smiled and she said yes.
Read Part II
Friday, November 30, 2007
A Message?
The fellow I went to the club with last weekend sent me an e-mail (not out of the blue, we'd been having a conversation...about restaurants) and attached was this picture without an explanation:
I wrote back and asked him if there were a message in this? Or, if I had been bad - already?
What do you think?
The only thing I didn't like about this picture was the name - "SmackMyBitchUp". I hope there's no message in THAT!
I wrote back and asked him if there were a message in this? Or, if I had been bad - already?
What do you think?
The only thing I didn't like about this picture was the name - "SmackMyBitchUp". I hope there's no message in THAT!
Thursday, November 29, 2007
The Therapy that is Sex (not to be confused with Sex Therapy)
I couldn't decide if I should tell my therapist that I'd gone to a sex club. I wavered back and forth between telling her and discussing it (although in how much detail would be another question) or not telling her. In which case, what would I talk about? Since that's what's on my mind.
I still hadn't decided by the time I got to her office. We started with the usual chitchat and whatnot. And then I blurted out, "I don't know whether to tell you something or not." Well, clearly, I had made up my mind.
I realized that telling her or not telling her wasn't a decision I had trouble making because she was my therapist, but simply because it's a decision I'll make with everyone. There are people I'll tell easily, knowing they'll get a kick out of it and we'll have a fun conversation, and people whom I will never in a million years tell. And then some, like my therapist, with whom I'll be on the fence about sharing.
So, I told her in detail how it all came about, my going in the first place, and in not so much detail the events that transpired. She knows I engaged in sexual activity with the guy I went with and probably assumes I engaged in sexual activity with other people at the club. I alluded to that, without coming out and saying I sucked some guys cock while his girlfriend and his wife watched, etc.
My therapist is brilliant. And I don't mean that in an intellectual way. She is emotionally brilliant. Once I told her I knew it was right. She has no judgments about it. Or, about me. She knows I lean towards being submissive. We've discussed it and discussed some possible psychological reasons as to why I prefer to give up control. We have these conversations all without bias. And I would know. I don't care how good a therapist, or even actor, a person is, if there's a judgment, you can tell.
In this discussion I realized that I really liked going to a sex club. I look forward to going to more and other similar activities. I'm at a point in my life where I have a need to push my boundaries. To expand myself and my limits. And to share that expansion with like minded people. To surround myself with similar players. We are mirrors for one another and when in the company of people who reflect how you feel, it becomes an environment of growth.
Constant growth. Constant change. It really is what I strive for in my life. A week or so ago I was down. Very down. I go there sometimes. To that pit. Sometimes I can get myself out, sometimes I need help. But, it's not a place I'm unfamiliar with. I also know that if I never went there, if I never saw or experienced that dark side of myself, I would be stagnant. It compels me to change and to grow. You can't fall down without having to figure out how you're going to get yourself up.
Being sexually adventurous is new to me only in just this past year. It's new and exciting and a little scary. I'm excited to have found a new element. A new venue. A new adventure.
I still hadn't decided by the time I got to her office. We started with the usual chitchat and whatnot. And then I blurted out, "I don't know whether to tell you something or not." Well, clearly, I had made up my mind.
I realized that telling her or not telling her wasn't a decision I had trouble making because she was my therapist, but simply because it's a decision I'll make with everyone. There are people I'll tell easily, knowing they'll get a kick out of it and we'll have a fun conversation, and people whom I will never in a million years tell. And then some, like my therapist, with whom I'll be on the fence about sharing.
So, I told her in detail how it all came about, my going in the first place, and in not so much detail the events that transpired. She knows I engaged in sexual activity with the guy I went with and probably assumes I engaged in sexual activity with other people at the club. I alluded to that, without coming out and saying I sucked some guys cock while his girlfriend and his wife watched, etc.
My therapist is brilliant. And I don't mean that in an intellectual way. She is emotionally brilliant. Once I told her I knew it was right. She has no judgments about it. Or, about me. She knows I lean towards being submissive. We've discussed it and discussed some possible psychological reasons as to why I prefer to give up control. We have these conversations all without bias. And I would know. I don't care how good a therapist, or even actor, a person is, if there's a judgment, you can tell.
In this discussion I realized that I really liked going to a sex club. I look forward to going to more and other similar activities. I'm at a point in my life where I have a need to push my boundaries. To expand myself and my limits. And to share that expansion with like minded people. To surround myself with similar players. We are mirrors for one another and when in the company of people who reflect how you feel, it becomes an environment of growth.
Constant growth. Constant change. It really is what I strive for in my life. A week or so ago I was down. Very down. I go there sometimes. To that pit. Sometimes I can get myself out, sometimes I need help. But, it's not a place I'm unfamiliar with. I also know that if I never went there, if I never saw or experienced that dark side of myself, I would be stagnant. It compels me to change and to grow. You can't fall down without having to figure out how you're going to get yourself up.
Being sexually adventurous is new to me only in just this past year. It's new and exciting and a little scary. I'm excited to have found a new element. A new venue. A new adventure.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
A Fond, and Sad, Farewell
We bid au revoir to our good friend Roper from Confessions of an English Gentleman. He's decided to shut down his blog for personal and security reasons. His words and insights will be sorely missed.
Ciao, for now.
Ciao, for now.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
The Club
"I want to go watch them."
"Oh, I don't know. They look pretty private, over there."
"It's a sex club, there's nothing private about it. Come."
He grabbed my arm and pulled me up from the couch we were on and, giving me no choice really, led me over to another couch on the other side of the room. It was at an L shape with the couch occupied by a man and his 2 women. I say this because it had already been explained to us that this man was with his wife and his girlfriend. At the moment, one of his women, the brunette, was kneeling between his legs and sucking his cock. His rather excellent cock, I might add. Thick and long and cut and hard and...
So, we watched as her head bobbed up and down, making his cock appear and disappear, making his head loll to the back of the sofa and his eyes close as he got lost in the pleasure. The other woman, the blond, sat to the right of him. After a bit he turned towards her and kissed her as he continued to be serviced by the brunette.
We sat on the couch and watched this scene in the semi-darkness of the club as the music pounded downstairs on the dance floor. Other couples wandered in and watched a while, too. People came and went, watching, touching, focus shifting and shifting back again.
"I want you to suck his cock. I want to watch you suck his cock."
"Oh, I don't know. I mean..."
He walked over to the group and, leaning in towards the man, whispered something in his ear. The man looked over to me and nodded. Oh no, I thought. Oh no.
"Get up."
As I got up and was led towards the trio, the brunette got up and moved over to the left making room for me. I was nervous and not the least of which to find that these women would not be very happy at this intrusion. I knelt between his knees and looked up into his eyes, which were a warm, deep brown and he gave me a little lascivious smile. Somewhat tentatively, I put my hand around his cock and pulled it into my mouth.
And then I felt her hand on the back of my head. Stroking my hair and then my back, and then down to my bottom. Her face close to mine as I sucked and licked and sucked her mans cock. I pulled my mouth up and off his cock for just a moment, my hand still stroking up and down and in just that second she pulled my face towards her and kissed me. A soft, deep kiss, her tongue pushing insistently into my mouth. Even through the the music, I could hear him moan his approval as he watched.
I gently pulled away and continued my ministrations to his increasingly large erection. Now tasting a bit of precum. And, I was joined by her mouth. Mine on his cock-head, her tongue licking up and down the shaft. Every now and then our tongues would touch, our lips would meet, our focus shifting back and forth from each other to our task.
Through the stupor of my excitement I finally noticed that her shirt was raised up and her breasts were exposed. Her man had a hand on her nipple and was pinching it. In between licking or sucking his cock, in between me guiding it into her mouth, she would stop and her eyes would close and I could hear a little gasp of breath as he pinched just a little harder.
I stopped for a moment to breath and found another pair of lips meeting mine. He had pushed the head of the blond woman on his right down towards us and we kissed, her and I. More soft kisses, more hot tongue swirling in my mouth. More cock.
I don't know how long this lasted. Not long enough, certainly. I wasn't there when he came and don't know who dealt the last blow, so to speak. But, I will remember and relive those moments, in a dark and noisy club with 3 strangers I'll never see again, as some of the most exciting in my life.
"Oh, I don't know. They look pretty private, over there."
"It's a sex club, there's nothing private about it. Come."
He grabbed my arm and pulled me up from the couch we were on and, giving me no choice really, led me over to another couch on the other side of the room. It was at an L shape with the couch occupied by a man and his 2 women. I say this because it had already been explained to us that this man was with his wife and his girlfriend. At the moment, one of his women, the brunette, was kneeling between his legs and sucking his cock. His rather excellent cock, I might add. Thick and long and cut and hard and...
So, we watched as her head bobbed up and down, making his cock appear and disappear, making his head loll to the back of the sofa and his eyes close as he got lost in the pleasure. The other woman, the blond, sat to the right of him. After a bit he turned towards her and kissed her as he continued to be serviced by the brunette.
We sat on the couch and watched this scene in the semi-darkness of the club as the music pounded downstairs on the dance floor. Other couples wandered in and watched a while, too. People came and went, watching, touching, focus shifting and shifting back again.
"I want you to suck his cock. I want to watch you suck his cock."
"Oh, I don't know. I mean..."
He walked over to the group and, leaning in towards the man, whispered something in his ear. The man looked over to me and nodded. Oh no, I thought. Oh no.
"Get up."
As I got up and was led towards the trio, the brunette got up and moved over to the left making room for me. I was nervous and not the least of which to find that these women would not be very happy at this intrusion. I knelt between his knees and looked up into his eyes, which were a warm, deep brown and he gave me a little lascivious smile. Somewhat tentatively, I put my hand around his cock and pulled it into my mouth.
And then I felt her hand on the back of my head. Stroking my hair and then my back, and then down to my bottom. Her face close to mine as I sucked and licked and sucked her mans cock. I pulled my mouth up and off his cock for just a moment, my hand still stroking up and down and in just that second she pulled my face towards her and kissed me. A soft, deep kiss, her tongue pushing insistently into my mouth. Even through the the music, I could hear him moan his approval as he watched.
I gently pulled away and continued my ministrations to his increasingly large erection. Now tasting a bit of precum. And, I was joined by her mouth. Mine on his cock-head, her tongue licking up and down the shaft. Every now and then our tongues would touch, our lips would meet, our focus shifting back and forth from each other to our task.
Through the stupor of my excitement I finally noticed that her shirt was raised up and her breasts were exposed. Her man had a hand on her nipple and was pinching it. In between licking or sucking his cock, in between me guiding it into her mouth, she would stop and her eyes would close and I could hear a little gasp of breath as he pinched just a little harder.
I stopped for a moment to breath and found another pair of lips meeting mine. He had pushed the head of the blond woman on his right down towards us and we kissed, her and I. More soft kisses, more hot tongue swirling in my mouth. More cock.
I don't know how long this lasted. Not long enough, certainly. I wasn't there when he came and don't know who dealt the last blow, so to speak. But, I will remember and relive those moments, in a dark and noisy club with 3 strangers I'll never see again, as some of the most exciting in my life.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Gone, But Not Forgotten
This blog has taken a decided turn towards the non-sexual, of late. Well, mostly. Maybe I should qualify that and say that it's turned away from being graphically sexual. And, turned away sounds like I'm shunning it. I'm not. What am I trying to say?
I miss writing about sex. I miss writing the nasty, smut filled, hot and moist prose that were the impetus for this blog. I miss writing about it, I miss thinking about it, I miss having it, I miss being charged by it. When I began this blog I was obsessed. I was a woman on a mission (or a rampage). I wanted sex, all the time, with almost anyone. Well, I'm pickier than that. But, at the time, not so much. I had a constant hum in my cunt. A continuous buzz and I was always wet. I could hardly focus on day-to-day activities and tried to arrange my day-to-day activities to be about sex. It was all I could do not to masturbate numerous times throughout the day. Sometimes, I would.
And the sex I wanted was not run-of-the-mill. I wanted hard, aggressive, painful sex. I wanted to be taken. Spanked, exposed, inspected, and hurt.
It's what I still want, really. I could never tolerate being "owned", but I want someone who will use me. Regularly. Use me and love me.
So, even though I'm not writing much these days about it, and even though I'm not really thinking about it much, either (depression has a way of nullifying sex drive), it's there. I haven't become vanilla (although, I admit, if I fell in love with someone and he couldn't go to these places, I would let it go).
I guess there's hope (whaddaya know). Even just briefly writing this for you now stirs something in me. A little bit.
I miss writing about sex. I miss writing the nasty, smut filled, hot and moist prose that were the impetus for this blog. I miss writing about it, I miss thinking about it, I miss having it, I miss being charged by it. When I began this blog I was obsessed. I was a woman on a mission (or a rampage). I wanted sex, all the time, with almost anyone. Well, I'm pickier than that. But, at the time, not so much. I had a constant hum in my cunt. A continuous buzz and I was always wet. I could hardly focus on day-to-day activities and tried to arrange my day-to-day activities to be about sex. It was all I could do not to masturbate numerous times throughout the day. Sometimes, I would.
And the sex I wanted was not run-of-the-mill. I wanted hard, aggressive, painful sex. I wanted to be taken. Spanked, exposed, inspected, and hurt.
It's what I still want, really. I could never tolerate being "owned", but I want someone who will use me. Regularly. Use me and love me.
So, even though I'm not writing much these days about it, and even though I'm not really thinking about it much, either (depression has a way of nullifying sex drive), it's there. I haven't become vanilla (although, I admit, if I fell in love with someone and he couldn't go to these places, I would let it go).
I guess there's hope (whaddaya know). Even just briefly writing this for you now stirs something in me. A little bit.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Epilogue, or somewhere in the middle
It's so hard not to wonder what it was I did that drove him away. I knew it that morning. The morning we got up, after fucking again, we sat with coffee and tea for a while talking, he took a shower, and got on the train to go home. I knew it then. I knew before he got on the subway when he gave me a tight lipped, close mouthed peck goodbye. I sensed something had changed. But I didn't know what.
So I started to go over it in my mind. Every detail (that I could remember - I had drank a bit) of what was said and done in the hours he was here. In the weeks before that night as we worked our way into bed. I remembered his enthusiasm. He seemed genuinely interested in me. We talked about our lives and things and it was close and intimate. And we kissed a lot and that was amazing. And he obviously wanted more.
Until he didn't want any. Was it something I said? Was it the coffee - I'm a tea drinker, so maybe my coffee was really awful? Was it my apartment? My bed? My cat? Where I live? My body? My body. It could have been my body. As I said in the other post, I'm okay. I look pretty damn good for 48. But I look better with clothes on, it's just the truth. I'm not fat, but I'm not toned, either. I'm a bit flabby. I have an unattractive ass. My tits sag a bit (although they're really not too bad).
But maybe that's what it was. He expected something else. The outside package promised something that, once opened, didn't deliver.
I go over and over in my head what it could have been. The truth is I'll never know. He won't answer my e-mails or phone calls (not that I'm badgering him with both, but it's been 3 days). He is now among the disappeared.
I know someone out there is going to say 3 days isn't a long time, but in fact it is, isn't it? Think about it. You've spent a couple of weeks talking to someone almost everyday. Talking and flirting and getting together and kissing and walking hand-in-hand and then talking some more. And then you fuck. And then it's so quiet you could hear a water drop. It may not sound like a long time, but in comparison to what preceeded it, it's eternity.
The truth is I just don't know if I can do this anymore. If I can keep doing the meet and greet thing. Getting to know people. Feeling like there's a connection, only to find it was a short lived one. Only to end up feeling like there's something seriously wrong with me. I can't do it anymore. I'm exhausted. I'm too old for this. How about that. I'm not the resilient 20-something who can bounce back with hope for the next one. I don't really have that hope. There aren't too many next ones for me. It's just reality.
If I have to spend the rest of my life alone, I'd rather not spend it at all. It feels so pathetic. Going out with friends all the time. Always being at a movie or dinner with a girlfriend. A middle aged girlfriend. Two middle aged women alone. It's so obvious we're single. It feels so obvious. I can't stand it.
Having had even the couple of weeks with him where, when out, we walked hand in hand, or my arm in his, makes the absence of it so profound. It makes me realize how much I miss it. Belonging to someone and knowing someone belongs to me.
I know this is pathetic. But, you know what? This is my blog and I feel pathetic. This is what I have to say right now. It's eating at me so I have to write it out. You don't have to read it.
You may also think that I was somehow smothering or too clingy, but be assured that wasn't the case at all. In fact, when we were together, he was the one always touching me. My hands over the table. Holding hands while walking. Flirting on the phone or e-mails or chats. I'm not a clingy person. I admit, I can be a bit insecure, but this disappearing act is why.
Remember when you were first in love with someone? That feeling that you couldn't get enough of them? You wanted to spend every minute somehow connected? You felt connected, even when you weren't together. And then, when you were together, you had to touch them in some way. A hand on their leg, or arm, or hand. Or even just leaning against them, and they against you. Kissing all the time, fucking as often as you could.
That's what I want again. That's what I thought I'd found.
I guess I'm too old for that now. I guess I can never really have that again. Maybe it's too adolescent. Too idealistic. I guess at 48 it's unrealistic to think it's even possible. The most I can hope for, if I can hope for anything at all, is someone I like spending time with. Someone I can talk to. Someone I don't mind kissing. Or fucking.
I guess I'd better start to realize that, unless I want to be alone forever, I will have to settle for someone. That just breaks my heart.
So I started to go over it in my mind. Every detail (that I could remember - I had drank a bit) of what was said and done in the hours he was here. In the weeks before that night as we worked our way into bed. I remembered his enthusiasm. He seemed genuinely interested in me. We talked about our lives and things and it was close and intimate. And we kissed a lot and that was amazing. And he obviously wanted more.
Until he didn't want any. Was it something I said? Was it the coffee - I'm a tea drinker, so maybe my coffee was really awful? Was it my apartment? My bed? My cat? Where I live? My body? My body. It could have been my body. As I said in the other post, I'm okay. I look pretty damn good for 48. But I look better with clothes on, it's just the truth. I'm not fat, but I'm not toned, either. I'm a bit flabby. I have an unattractive ass. My tits sag a bit (although they're really not too bad).
But maybe that's what it was. He expected something else. The outside package promised something that, once opened, didn't deliver.
I go over and over in my head what it could have been. The truth is I'll never know. He won't answer my e-mails or phone calls (not that I'm badgering him with both, but it's been 3 days). He is now among the disappeared.
I know someone out there is going to say 3 days isn't a long time, but in fact it is, isn't it? Think about it. You've spent a couple of weeks talking to someone almost everyday. Talking and flirting and getting together and kissing and walking hand-in-hand and then talking some more. And then you fuck. And then it's so quiet you could hear a water drop. It may not sound like a long time, but in comparison to what preceeded it, it's eternity.
The truth is I just don't know if I can do this anymore. If I can keep doing the meet and greet thing. Getting to know people. Feeling like there's a connection, only to find it was a short lived one. Only to end up feeling like there's something seriously wrong with me. I can't do it anymore. I'm exhausted. I'm too old for this. How about that. I'm not the resilient 20-something who can bounce back with hope for the next one. I don't really have that hope. There aren't too many next ones for me. It's just reality.
If I have to spend the rest of my life alone, I'd rather not spend it at all. It feels so pathetic. Going out with friends all the time. Always being at a movie or dinner with a girlfriend. A middle aged girlfriend. Two middle aged women alone. It's so obvious we're single. It feels so obvious. I can't stand it.
Having had even the couple of weeks with him where, when out, we walked hand in hand, or my arm in his, makes the absence of it so profound. It makes me realize how much I miss it. Belonging to someone and knowing someone belongs to me.
I know this is pathetic. But, you know what? This is my blog and I feel pathetic. This is what I have to say right now. It's eating at me so I have to write it out. You don't have to read it.
You may also think that I was somehow smothering or too clingy, but be assured that wasn't the case at all. In fact, when we were together, he was the one always touching me. My hands over the table. Holding hands while walking. Flirting on the phone or e-mails or chats. I'm not a clingy person. I admit, I can be a bit insecure, but this disappearing act is why.
Remember when you were first in love with someone? That feeling that you couldn't get enough of them? You wanted to spend every minute somehow connected? You felt connected, even when you weren't together. And then, when you were together, you had to touch them in some way. A hand on their leg, or arm, or hand. Or even just leaning against them, and they against you. Kissing all the time, fucking as often as you could.
That's what I want again. That's what I thought I'd found.
I guess I'm too old for that now. I guess I can never really have that again. Maybe it's too adolescent. Too idealistic. I guess at 48 it's unrealistic to think it's even possible. The most I can hope for, if I can hope for anything at all, is someone I like spending time with. Someone I can talk to. Someone I don't mind kissing. Or fucking.
I guess I'd better start to realize that, unless I want to be alone forever, I will have to settle for someone. That just breaks my heart.
Prologue
This is a post I put on my other blog somewhere in the middle of last night. I've decided it's okay to put here.
This is about writing instead of doing something stupid. Something regrettable. I've done millions of regrettable things in my life, and contemplated the most regrettable too many times.
So, am I thinking I'd like to die? Yup. I am. I know, it's crazy. But, haven't we all felt it at one time or another? That life simply wasn't worth living? That, given the alternative (living), death seemed preferable? Of course we have. I guess I've just considered it maybe a little more than others.
It runs in the family, what can I say.
I'm 48 years old.
Forty Eight Years Old.
I've been single for 6 years. No, more than 6 years. Six years and 4 months. I've dated. I've probably been on hundreds of dates in the last six years. Maybe not hundreds, tens anyway. Maybe 50. Maybe more than 50. Regardless, I've been on lots of dates. I've introduced myself and told my boring story about where I live and what I do and what my life has been like so many times I'm thinking I should write up a little laminated card to give out at the beginning of a date. It would be so much easier. Quicker. Less boring, maybe even. For me, at least.
Maybe that's it. Maybe I'm boring. Of course, I don't think I am, but maybe I really am. My friends seem to think I'm okay. Although, I don't have that many friends anymore. Mostly because we've just gone our separate ways. Them usually to marriage and parenthood. Me to, well, to this, I guess. I am boring.
I'm 48 years old. I look pretty good for my age. Although, not as good as last year. I'm aging. It's true. It's a fact I can't escape. I have an okay body. It's not great. I'm not fat by any stretch, but I'm not toned especially, either. I try. I go to the gym. But it doesn't happen as quickly as it once did. I'm a little flabby. I've lost and gained and lost lots of weight in my life. This shows in my body.
This too, I'm sure, would drive someone away. Someone who has aspirations of sleeping with a 40-something woman more like Teri Hatcher, let's say, or the woman on CSI, Marg Helgenberger, I think her name is. I don't look like them. So, if someone were expecting that, they'd be disappointed.
And so, before me, lies the great expanse of life. Of however many years I may live. Could be a year, could be less, could be 40. It's a great expanse no matter how long it is and contemplating living it alone is dreadful, frankly. Dreadful. My mother lived most of her adult life alone. I don't want that. I don't want my mothers life, but somehow I've gotten it. Or seem to have.
I'd rather die than live my mothers life.
My heart does literally hurt. I haven't lost love, well not just now. I maybe haven't lost anything at all. Except maybe my pride, which I don't have a tremendous amount of anyway. I've lost hope. That's what it is, really. I've lost hope. Defeated. I feel utterly defeated. Like I've been fighting the last 6 years. Well, I haven't been fighting for a relationship, but it is a struggle, somehow. It shouldn't be.
And of course, one wonders what one is doing wrong. Or what is wrong with oneself. My flaws are, of course, numerous. Maybe too numerous. Maybe I should try to identify them and eradicate as many as possible.
Maybe I shouldn't take it all so personally. But how the fuck do you not take it personally? How can I possibly detach myself from rejection? On some level, some very sick and sad level, I've gotten used to it. To being rejected and being disappointed. What awful things to get used to.
And maybe that's a sign that I'm doing something wrong. That I'm taking the wrong approach. I just think I'm too something. Or not enough of something else. Over and over.
And that's not to say I haven't done a share of rejection, myself. There's definitely been love interests that I did not find interesting. I have a friend who thinks that maybe I'm a tad too picky. I'm not entirely sure what he means by that, except that when he mentions it I always think that if I settled for less than what I wanted, what would I have gained?
If anyone's actually reading this you're probably wondering when I'm going to shut up.
Any minute now...
Monday, November 12, 2007
Hallelujah!
All I have to say is this - last night and this morning, I was fucked four glorious, cunt filled, orgasm producing times.
I used to think older men (meaning men my age) had performance issues. Now I think that's an urban myth. Well, maybe not a myth. Because I have had that experience. But not last night. Oh, no. Definitely not.
I'm going to toddle off to bed now for a morning nap so I can function sometime today. Sweet dreams, indeed.
I used to think older men (meaning men my age) had performance issues. Now I think that's an urban myth. Well, maybe not a myth. Because I have had that experience. But not last night. Oh, no. Definitely not.
I'm going to toddle off to bed now for a morning nap so I can function sometime today. Sweet dreams, indeed.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
To Out or not to Out...Myself
The difference between insomnia and staying up late is, of course, intention. Staying up late is reading till you can't keep your eyes open, watching TV till you've had enough of the inanity, talking on the phone till you're literally too tired to flirt. Insomnia is turning the light off at midnight and, at 2 a.m., finding yourself awake enough to open your eyes and stare into the semi-darkness. Last night I was in a state of the latter.
And I thought, well, maybe I'll get up and write a bit. In my blog. But which one? I have another, you see, that I've not mentioned here before. It's a myspace blog, on my myspace page. Another thing I haven't mentioned here before. There's lots of things I haven't discussed here, and I'm beginning to find it increasingly difficult to keep my "two" lives...no not lives, personas?...separate. I wanted to write about insomnia and the chatter in my head and masturbation and maybe my family and, and, and...
And, therein lies the dilemma. In one blog (this one) I can discuss my thoughts and feelings up to a point. A very specific and identifying point. In my other blog (myspace) I can talk about more details of my life, but I wouldn't at all mention masturbating, or being really horny, or not being horny, or anything sexual except for vague inuendo. For the first time, last night, I found myself to be frustrated by this. I've discussed this here to some degree, merely questioning the two aspects of my life and how they may or may not overlap. At that point, I wasn't particularly frustrated or feeling the need to merge these two forums, just curious about them. That's changed.
I keep a journal (paper - be aghast!) and that's a place where much of these aspects of my life blend. But my journal is not a place where I take care and concern about the writing itself. The blog(s) are kept as a way to communicate, but also as a way to hone my writing skills. My grammer, my wit (I'm assuming something here), my insight, etc. Sharing it with you forces me to do that. And, there is the exhibitionist in me that's wants to expose myself, my sexual self, to you in a way that's satisfyingly literate.
So, what to do. Perhaps nothing. Maybe all I needed to do, at this point, was to talk this out. I'm very clear that there's a line I can't (read: won't) cross as far as identifying details of my life. It's a risk I won't take. As it is I worry that should I die suddenly, my journals (the paper one's) will be discovered. And read. There are simply things I'd rather my family and some of my closest friends didn't know about me. Details of my thoughts and desires that would, in a word, squig them out. But, that's another dilemma for me to contend with.
In the meantime, I stay anonymous (in this blog). It gives me the freedom to write out my desires and needs. And my frustrations in the detail that's necessary to excorcise them.
Now, about insomnia and masturbation...
And I thought, well, maybe I'll get up and write a bit. In my blog. But which one? I have another, you see, that I've not mentioned here before. It's a myspace blog, on my myspace page. Another thing I haven't mentioned here before. There's lots of things I haven't discussed here, and I'm beginning to find it increasingly difficult to keep my "two" lives...no not lives, personas?...separate. I wanted to write about insomnia and the chatter in my head and masturbation and maybe my family and, and, and...
And, therein lies the dilemma. In one blog (this one) I can discuss my thoughts and feelings up to a point. A very specific and identifying point. In my other blog (myspace) I can talk about more details of my life, but I wouldn't at all mention masturbating, or being really horny, or not being horny, or anything sexual except for vague inuendo. For the first time, last night, I found myself to be frustrated by this. I've discussed this here to some degree, merely questioning the two aspects of my life and how they may or may not overlap. At that point, I wasn't particularly frustrated or feeling the need to merge these two forums, just curious about them. That's changed.
I keep a journal (paper - be aghast!) and that's a place where much of these aspects of my life blend. But my journal is not a place where I take care and concern about the writing itself. The blog(s) are kept as a way to communicate, but also as a way to hone my writing skills. My grammer, my wit (I'm assuming something here), my insight, etc. Sharing it with you forces me to do that. And, there is the exhibitionist in me that's wants to expose myself, my sexual self, to you in a way that's satisfyingly literate.
So, what to do. Perhaps nothing. Maybe all I needed to do, at this point, was to talk this out. I'm very clear that there's a line I can't (read: won't) cross as far as identifying details of my life. It's a risk I won't take. As it is I worry that should I die suddenly, my journals (the paper one's) will be discovered. And read. There are simply things I'd rather my family and some of my closest friends didn't know about me. Details of my thoughts and desires that would, in a word, squig them out. But, that's another dilemma for me to contend with.
In the meantime, I stay anonymous (in this blog). It gives me the freedom to write out my desires and needs. And my frustrations in the detail that's necessary to excorcise them.
Now, about insomnia and masturbation...
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Erotic Personality
Here's something that is not in the least bit surprising.
I found this quiz at Remittance Girls blog.
Here's what it says about me:
The Romantic can think of nothing more erotic than being saved from peril. They are not necessarily helpless people, but the notion of being saved makes them feel desirable and sexy. The Romantic needs to feel sought-after and practically worshipped before sex can be on the agenda. They imagine partners who not only make passionate love to them soon after saving them, but they imagine those partners will know how to please them without any instruction whatsoever. Their lover’s sexual finesse inspires their own, heightening their capacity for sexual pleasure. The Romantic is especially fond of people who can read their minds and deliver the sexual excitement that they secretly desire.
And I wonder why I'm single.
And according to this I'm not really submissive. They describe "The Bottom" as the submissive. Whatever.
I found this quiz at Remittance Girls blog.
I took Sage Vivant's Erotic Personality Quiz and discovered I'm a Romantic!
Here's what it says about me:
The Romantic can think of nothing more erotic than being saved from peril. They are not necessarily helpless people, but the notion of being saved makes them feel desirable and sexy. The Romantic needs to feel sought-after and practically worshipped before sex can be on the agenda. They imagine partners who not only make passionate love to them soon after saving them, but they imagine those partners will know how to please them without any instruction whatsoever. Their lover’s sexual finesse inspires their own, heightening their capacity for sexual pleasure. The Romantic is especially fond of people who can read their minds and deliver the sexual excitement that they secretly desire.
And I wonder why I'm single.
And according to this I'm not really submissive. They describe "The Bottom" as the submissive. Whatever.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Happy Halloween
I haven't been very prolific of late. Sorry to anyone who wishes I had more to say (that includes me!). Something will come along/come out eventually. I've been in a bit of a funk. Call it a mid-life crisis, if you will. And, trust me, you don't want to hear about it.
So, in the meantime, I tried to find a sexy Halloween costume picture for you and I have to say they are mostly pretty dumb. But, I did find this and, were I going to a sexy Halloween party, I might have attempted it. Even though I wouldn't look anything like her.
Anyway, Happy Halloween. Dress up and have fun!
I found the costume here.
So, in the meantime, I tried to find a sexy Halloween costume picture for you and I have to say they are mostly pretty dumb. But, I did find this and, were I going to a sexy Halloween party, I might have attempted it. Even though I wouldn't look anything like her.
Anyway, Happy Halloween. Dress up and have fun!
I found the costume here.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Belated Birthday Present
Chat with new found friend who responded to an ad I put on craigslist that had nothing to do with spanking and had no BDSM related reference, but was specific to a certain interest.
Me: "I'm XX [insert age], now. Just a couple weeks ago."
He: "those birthday spanks are really adding up now aren't they, lol"
Me: "haha - yes. Sadly, I didn't get any. :("
He: "no birthday spanks? oh so sorry to hear"
Me: "I know. I just couldn't find anyone appropriate to help me out with that."
He: "did your lack of birthday spanks prompt this ad, just had to ask"
Me: "Well, no birthday spanking was a little bit of a motivating factor, but really, it was the [insert motivating factor for ad]."
E-mail a couple of days later:
He: "Wish I met you before your birthday so I could have ensured you got your required spanks in!!! LOL"
Me: "Well, there's no saying you can't give me a belated b'day present."
He: "ya think?"
Now, I just want to mention that all this spanking talk was not at my instigation. It was at his. And, it's not the only thing we talked about. We seem to have much in common.
Maybe I just attract them, somehow? Dominant men? I'd like to hope so.
Me: "I'm XX [insert age], now. Just a couple weeks ago."
He: "those birthday spanks are really adding up now aren't they, lol"
Me: "haha - yes. Sadly, I didn't get any. :("
He: "no birthday spanks? oh so sorry to hear"
Me: "I know. I just couldn't find anyone appropriate to help me out with that."
He: "did your lack of birthday spanks prompt this ad, just had to ask"
Me: "Well, no birthday spanking was a little bit of a motivating factor, but really, it was the [insert motivating factor for ad]."
E-mail a couple of days later:
He: "Wish I met you before your birthday so I could have ensured you got your required spanks in!!! LOL"
Me: "Well, there's no saying you can't give me a belated b'day present."
He: "ya think?"
Now, I just want to mention that all this spanking talk was not at my instigation. It was at his. And, it's not the only thing we talked about. We seem to have much in common.
Maybe I just attract them, somehow? Dominant men? I'd like to hope so.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
HNT - October 18
I haven't done HNT in a long time and I thought I would. Just to keep you coming back for more.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Freedom
Since my sex life is somewhat limited and quiet these days, I was telling a friend that I didn't have much fodder for writing in my blog. He suggested I make things up to write about and I realized that that's essentially what I do when I report my fantasies here. When I confess what it is that makes me drip and throb and, ultimately, masturbate. And come.
Because, what are fantasies but made up stories we tell ourselves to get ourselves off? Sometimes they come true. Often they don't. Often, we don't really want them to. Because then what would we think of? Where would our minds roam?
I don't often think of real life events when I'm masturbating and fantasizing. Even things that have happened that are extremely exciting to me and that I want to have happen again. Even if it's something I previously fantasized about that has been made manifest. Once it's happened, it's out of my head and in the realm of reality.
I may, though, bring elements of that real experience into my fantasy and either elaborate on it or alter it to make it a new fantasy.
For instance, after He watched me masturbate, I began to fantasize about something similar, but with twists. Sometimes there are other people in the fantasy watching me. Sometimes there are toys involved, a vibrator in my cunt, a plug in my ass. Sometimes the things he says are different. Sometimes he isn't even He, but someone else entirely. (As I've alluded to before, I have a long standing therapist fantasy - someday I'll write it out.) So then, the reality becomes the fantasy, embellished upon.
What I'm getting at is the freedom we have, the fluidity that exists, in making our stories reality and making reality our stories. Plucking from our perverted minds all the deviant ways in which we think we'd like to be used or use. Some people, I'm sure, have vanilla fantasies, but of course that's not what I'm talking about here. I don't know that I've ever had a vanilla fantasy. Something that didn't involve some kind of kink, or perceived kink. Being watched while masturbating is, I'm sure to some, quite kinky. I think it's pretty mainstream, so I guess that's as close to vanilla as I get.
So, when my friend suggested I make something up to write for you I realized that, in effect, is mostly what I do. Yes, you've heard a bit about my real life adventures, but the majority of what is in this blog has come directly out of my head. The pictures I view with my eyes closed and my fingers on my clit.
I lay on my bed, legs spread in some position of accommodation, my right hand rubbing and pulling the wetness up from my seeping cunt, my left hand spreading my large, swollen lips to thoroughly expose my hard, needy clit. This is what you might see were you to happen upon me (and hopefully punish me for being such a naughty, dirty girl). What you don't see is the action that pushes me towards my climax. The story I'm telling myself, the movie I'm playing, in which I'm the protagonist. I'm the star to whom all manner of use, abuse, or exposure is being performed.
This is the freedom we have to bring ourselves pleasure. I can only hope as I relate my inner drama to you, that it brings you some measure of gratification, as well.
Because, what are fantasies but made up stories we tell ourselves to get ourselves off? Sometimes they come true. Often they don't. Often, we don't really want them to. Because then what would we think of? Where would our minds roam?
I don't often think of real life events when I'm masturbating and fantasizing. Even things that have happened that are extremely exciting to me and that I want to have happen again. Even if it's something I previously fantasized about that has been made manifest. Once it's happened, it's out of my head and in the realm of reality.
I may, though, bring elements of that real experience into my fantasy and either elaborate on it or alter it to make it a new fantasy.
For instance, after He watched me masturbate, I began to fantasize about something similar, but with twists. Sometimes there are other people in the fantasy watching me. Sometimes there are toys involved, a vibrator in my cunt, a plug in my ass. Sometimes the things he says are different. Sometimes he isn't even He, but someone else entirely. (As I've alluded to before, I have a long standing therapist fantasy - someday I'll write it out.) So then, the reality becomes the fantasy, embellished upon.
What I'm getting at is the freedom we have, the fluidity that exists, in making our stories reality and making reality our stories. Plucking from our perverted minds all the deviant ways in which we think we'd like to be used or use. Some people, I'm sure, have vanilla fantasies, but of course that's not what I'm talking about here. I don't know that I've ever had a vanilla fantasy. Something that didn't involve some kind of kink, or perceived kink. Being watched while masturbating is, I'm sure to some, quite kinky. I think it's pretty mainstream, so I guess that's as close to vanilla as I get.
So, when my friend suggested I make something up to write for you I realized that, in effect, is mostly what I do. Yes, you've heard a bit about my real life adventures, but the majority of what is in this blog has come directly out of my head. The pictures I view with my eyes closed and my fingers on my clit.
I lay on my bed, legs spread in some position of accommodation, my right hand rubbing and pulling the wetness up from my seeping cunt, my left hand spreading my large, swollen lips to thoroughly expose my hard, needy clit. This is what you might see were you to happen upon me (and hopefully punish me for being such a naughty, dirty girl). What you don't see is the action that pushes me towards my climax. The story I'm telling myself, the movie I'm playing, in which I'm the protagonist. I'm the star to whom all manner of use, abuse, or exposure is being performed.
This is the freedom we have to bring ourselves pleasure. I can only hope as I relate my inner drama to you, that it brings you some measure of gratification, as well.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Love Our Lurkers Day
Apparently, today is dedicated to enticing the lurkers from their lairs and encouraging them to leave a little hello, just to let us know you read.
I don't have thousands of readers, as Bonnie on My Bottom Smarts seems to, but I do have maybe a hundred or so that I believe are regulars and I'd love to hear from you.
Being the quasi-exhibitionist that I am, I'd love to know you're watching me. And even how it affects you, if you feel inclined to share (but don't feel you have to say anything other than "hey").
If you think what I have to say is sexy enough, or interesting enough, to make you come over and over, I'd love to watch...I mean, I'd love to know you're out there.
I don't have thousands of readers, as Bonnie on My Bottom Smarts seems to, but I do have maybe a hundred or so that I believe are regulars and I'd love to hear from you.
Being the quasi-exhibitionist that I am, I'd love to know you're watching me. And even how it affects you, if you feel inclined to share (but don't feel you have to say anything other than "hey").
If you think what I have to say is sexy enough, or interesting enough, to make you come over and over, I'd love to watch...I mean, I'd love to know you're out there.
Monday, October 8, 2007
To Be Or Not To Be...
I texted, "Hi".
"Who is this"
"Who do you think it is silly boy"
"Huh no clue who this is sorry"
"U dont know my #? im insulted"
"sorry"
"look for my im"
"Who is this"
"im ur dream girl"
"who is this"
"listen to ur voicemail and ull know"
voicemail message: "you silly boy, no-one makes you cum like I do..."
text: "My cum whore eve!"
I walked the rest of the way home with a sly and knowing smile on my face. No-one would have guessed that I was gloating to myself that my boy called me a whore and I was tickled.
There are a select few who can call me whore (his whore) or slut (his slut) and I'm aroused and thrilled. To my ears, it can be an endearment. It's a "sweetie" or a "hon". Or it can be an accusation, something said with knowledge for what I need. My need to be used, my need for depravity, my need for cock.
I was reminded of this interchange by Figleafs post about an incoming e-mail he received advertising "Cock-Hungry Whores". He wonders if there are people who are cock-hungry who may not fall under the category of "whore". I comment that I fall into that group. A "regular" woman with a strong craving for cock. But, I also know that for certain people, at certain times, I most certainly fall into the category of whore. And I wear that badge with pride.
"Who is this"
"Who do you think it is silly boy"
"Huh no clue who this is sorry"
"U dont know my #? im insulted"
"sorry"
"look for my im"
"Who is this"
"im ur dream girl"
"who is this"
"listen to ur voicemail and ull know"
voicemail message: "you silly boy, no-one makes you cum like I do..."
text: "My cum whore eve!"
I walked the rest of the way home with a sly and knowing smile on my face. No-one would have guessed that I was gloating to myself that my boy called me a whore and I was tickled.
There are a select few who can call me whore (his whore) or slut (his slut) and I'm aroused and thrilled. To my ears, it can be an endearment. It's a "sweetie" or a "hon". Or it can be an accusation, something said with knowledge for what I need. My need to be used, my need for depravity, my need for cock.
I was reminded of this interchange by Figleafs post about an incoming e-mail he received advertising "Cock-Hungry Whores". He wonders if there are people who are cock-hungry who may not fall under the category of "whore". I comment that I fall into that group. A "regular" woman with a strong craving for cock. But, I also know that for certain people, at certain times, I most certainly fall into the category of whore. And I wear that badge with pride.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
All Quiet on the Eastern Front
Just a quick note to say I haven't disappeared. Work has got me in it's entirely non-sexual clutches and writing has been on the back burner. My time will be somewhat my own soon and my thoughts will have the freedom to wander where they will. (So will my hands...)
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Timing is Everything
Apparently, anal sex is in the air. Or, the water? Or, it's a Fall thing? Or it's just plain hot!
Whatever the case, Madeline Glass of Madeline in the Mirror so very kindly picked this story written by yours truly for the Fleshbot Sexblog RoundUp for this week.
Also, check out the other stories she chose for this most excitingly decadent of topics. I'm honored to be in the erotic company of some of the most prolific, respected and sexy bloggers around.
Thank you, Madeline!
Whatever the case, Madeline Glass of Madeline in the Mirror so very kindly picked this story written by yours truly for the Fleshbot Sexblog RoundUp for this week.
Also, check out the other stories she chose for this most excitingly decadent of topics. I'm honored to be in the erotic company of some of the most prolific, respected and sexy bloggers around.
Thank you, Madeline!
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Check-up
I've never had doctor fantasies, and yet lately I've had one that I have no idea where it came from. Thin air. I have had a long standing therapist fantasy, but this is very different. It strikes me as a little funny, in a way. It seems so cliche. But, what are our fantasies but enhancements of reality?
Actually, I've had very few male doctors. Huh - maybe this is why.
In walks the doctor. He's rather handsome, in his 40's or 50's, very professional in his manner. Almost perfunctory. He stands between my legs and gets right to work. He begins by examining my labia, touching my lips, pulling them apart, making sure everything's okay.
His manner is very routine, he's doing his job, but his hands tell something else. The way he touches me is very sexual. Obviously trying to arouse me. He tells me he's going to do an internal exam. He begins by inserting a finger into my cunt. Though he says, "I'm going to begin with a finger in your vagina." He does this and, again, his actions are far from what could be considered a standard examination. He slowly pushes his finger in and out of me, then he pushes another finger in and is finger fucking me in earnest. Still, he is speaking professionally, as if what he's doing is not sexual at all.
"Yes," he says, "you seem to have a normal physical response to my actions. You're producing quite a bit of lubrication and you're clearly aroused. Very good."
I'm trying hard not to writhe on the table or cry out from the pleasure, but it becomes increasingly more difficult as he continues to push his fingers into my cunt.
He calls the nurse forward from where she's been standing at my side.
"Would you pull her labia apart and stimulate her clitoris, please? We need to see if her reactions there are appropriate."
I gasp as she spreads my lips and begins to rub my clit. I am overwhelmed by them both. At this point I AM writhing on the table. My hips are bucking up towards his fingers, trying to make them go deeper even still. My hands are gripping the sides of the table and my cries are increasingly louder.
"It's becoming difficult to carry on with the exam this way. Nurse, would you restrain her, please. You understand, my dear, we can't accurately measure your responses if you are moving all over the place."
The nurse grabs my arms and pulls them to the side of my head where there are leather restraints built into the table. After buckling my hands, she takes my legs and moves them down so that now my thighs are in the stirrups and she proceeds to strap them down with similar restraints. Last, she pulls across a leather belt and ties me in at the waist. I cannot move.
"Good. I'm going to examine your rectum now," he says.
I am, at this point, so overwhelmed by what has been happening, I almost can't react to this statement. I simply gasp.
The doctor puts his hand out towards the nurse, who pours some lubricant onto his fingers. He gently rubs some of the lube onto my ass and slowly pushes his index finger into me.
"If you breathe, it will be less uncomfortable," he says.
With his left hand resting on my belly, he proceeds to gently and slowly, push his finger in and out of my ass. My moaning is now low and guttural. I feel as if I'm being pushed to the edge of what is allowably pleasurable.
"Yes, good," the doctor says. And now his voice is lower. I can tell he is aroused, as he watches what he is doing to me. Clearly excited by both his own actions and my response. He pushes in another finger and picks up the pace.
"Yes, nurse, I believe you should resume your attention to the clitoris."
And with that, she spreads me apart and begins to rub my clit in time with the doctors rhythm. It is so sensual, and so decadent, it feels as if we're all moving in the same time.
"This is my favorite part of the exam," says the doctor. And I look down and realize he's pulled his very erect cock out of his pants and, with his other hand, is stroking it.
"Nurse?"
She knows, apparently, what is to come next. She moves away from me and pulls a condom from a drawer. She opens the package and slides it over his cock. I want to beg for it, beg for his cock in me, but I don't. I'm ashamed enough as it is that this exam has become so depraved. Ashamed at being restrained and, essentially, molested by my doctor and his nurse. Ashamed at how much I want it and want it to continue.
"The best way, really the only way, to accurately grade your response is if I put my penis in your rectum." As he says this, the nurse is stroking his cock with lube.
He puts the head of his cock at my ass and pushes. Not hard, but not easy either. He pushes it in and I cry out with the pain and the pleasure of it. Both he and the nurse watch as his cock moves in and out of my ass. I am, practically, screaming.
"Good, yes, good. Good reaction. Nurse..."
She again begins her ministrations to my clit and I feel myself so close, so close to orgasm, and he senses this.
"Yes, this is what I want to see. If you can come from my penis in your rectum. Are you sensitive enough? Is it good enough?"
Faster and faster, he fucks me until I'm there, at the edge and I explode into a thousand magnificent contractions over and over and he doesn't stop. And then he comes with a growl and a satisfied moan.
He pulls his softening cock out of me and the nurse begins to undo the restraints. She puts a soft, white towel over the lower half of my body and says she'll be back in a moment with some soap and warm water.
As the doctor removes his gloves and washes his hands at the sink, he says, "I think I can say with all confidence that you are healthy in all aspects. I don't think we need to do any further tests of your responses. We'll see you next year."
Actually, I've had very few male doctors. Huh - maybe this is why.
**************************************************************************************So, I'm at the doctors. The gynecologist, of course. I'm told to undress completely, by the nurse, and to lay on the table with my feet in the stirrups. The nurse, by the way, is a woman. Is she in what I would call a nurses porno outfit? Short skirt, too tight top with cleavage spilling out all over. As a matter of fact, she is.
In walks the doctor. He's rather handsome, in his 40's or 50's, very professional in his manner. Almost perfunctory. He stands between my legs and gets right to work. He begins by examining my labia, touching my lips, pulling them apart, making sure everything's okay.
His manner is very routine, he's doing his job, but his hands tell something else. The way he touches me is very sexual. Obviously trying to arouse me. He tells me he's going to do an internal exam. He begins by inserting a finger into my cunt. Though he says, "I'm going to begin with a finger in your vagina." He does this and, again, his actions are far from what could be considered a standard examination. He slowly pushes his finger in and out of me, then he pushes another finger in and is finger fucking me in earnest. Still, he is speaking professionally, as if what he's doing is not sexual at all.
"Yes," he says, "you seem to have a normal physical response to my actions. You're producing quite a bit of lubrication and you're clearly aroused. Very good."
I'm trying hard not to writhe on the table or cry out from the pleasure, but it becomes increasingly more difficult as he continues to push his fingers into my cunt.
He calls the nurse forward from where she's been standing at my side.
"Would you pull her labia apart and stimulate her clitoris, please? We need to see if her reactions there are appropriate."
I gasp as she spreads my lips and begins to rub my clit. I am overwhelmed by them both. At this point I AM writhing on the table. My hips are bucking up towards his fingers, trying to make them go deeper even still. My hands are gripping the sides of the table and my cries are increasingly louder.
"It's becoming difficult to carry on with the exam this way. Nurse, would you restrain her, please. You understand, my dear, we can't accurately measure your responses if you are moving all over the place."
The nurse grabs my arms and pulls them to the side of my head where there are leather restraints built into the table. After buckling my hands, she takes my legs and moves them down so that now my thighs are in the stirrups and she proceeds to strap them down with similar restraints. Last, she pulls across a leather belt and ties me in at the waist. I cannot move.
"Good. I'm going to examine your rectum now," he says.
I am, at this point, so overwhelmed by what has been happening, I almost can't react to this statement. I simply gasp.
The doctor puts his hand out towards the nurse, who pours some lubricant onto his fingers. He gently rubs some of the lube onto my ass and slowly pushes his index finger into me.
"If you breathe, it will be less uncomfortable," he says.
With his left hand resting on my belly, he proceeds to gently and slowly, push his finger in and out of my ass. My moaning is now low and guttural. I feel as if I'm being pushed to the edge of what is allowably pleasurable.
"Yes, good," the doctor says. And now his voice is lower. I can tell he is aroused, as he watches what he is doing to me. Clearly excited by both his own actions and my response. He pushes in another finger and picks up the pace.
"Yes, nurse, I believe you should resume your attention to the clitoris."
And with that, she spreads me apart and begins to rub my clit in time with the doctors rhythm. It is so sensual, and so decadent, it feels as if we're all moving in the same time.
"This is my favorite part of the exam," says the doctor. And I look down and realize he's pulled his very erect cock out of his pants and, with his other hand, is stroking it.
"Nurse?"
She knows, apparently, what is to come next. She moves away from me and pulls a condom from a drawer. She opens the package and slides it over his cock. I want to beg for it, beg for his cock in me, but I don't. I'm ashamed enough as it is that this exam has become so depraved. Ashamed at being restrained and, essentially, molested by my doctor and his nurse. Ashamed at how much I want it and want it to continue.
"The best way, really the only way, to accurately grade your response is if I put my penis in your rectum." As he says this, the nurse is stroking his cock with lube.
He puts the head of his cock at my ass and pushes. Not hard, but not easy either. He pushes it in and I cry out with the pain and the pleasure of it. Both he and the nurse watch as his cock moves in and out of my ass. I am, practically, screaming.
"Good, yes, good. Good reaction. Nurse..."
She again begins her ministrations to my clit and I feel myself so close, so close to orgasm, and he senses this.
"Yes, this is what I want to see. If you can come from my penis in your rectum. Are you sensitive enough? Is it good enough?"
Faster and faster, he fucks me until I'm there, at the edge and I explode into a thousand magnificent contractions over and over and he doesn't stop. And then he comes with a growl and a satisfied moan.
He pulls his softening cock out of me and the nurse begins to undo the restraints. She puts a soft, white towel over the lower half of my body and says she'll be back in a moment with some soap and warm water.
As the doctor removes his gloves and washes his hands at the sink, he says, "I think I can say with all confidence that you are healthy in all aspects. I don't think we need to do any further tests of your responses. We'll see you next year."
**************************************************************************************Maybe I should reconsider and find myself a male doctor.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Solicitation (this is not what you think it is)
Recently, in conversation with a friend, I was lamenting (as opposed to whining) about not finding a partner. I wondered aloud about soliciting help in finding, perhaps, some clubs or parties here in Gotham that might interest me and my predilections, and aid in the search for someone to, um, fulfill them. I thought he, being the sophisticated (and handsome) Dom that he is, might have some contacts. Instead he said, "Put your blog to work for you!" and suggested I solicit information from my readers. What a great idea!
So, dear readers, I urge those of you who are either in the vicinity (of NYC) or are familiar with it and it's dark underbelly to write me with your intimate knowledge of clubs, parties, orgies (I'm infinitely inspired by AAG and her forays), or other equally decadent venues. We (myself and a kinky friend in crime) would be grateful to know what you know on this subject so that we can merrily continue down the road of sin and perversion.
I imagine a little night life (read: sex life) might quiver the muse.
So, dear readers, I urge those of you who are either in the vicinity (of NYC) or are familiar with it and it's dark underbelly to write me with your intimate knowledge of clubs, parties, orgies (I'm infinitely inspired by AAG and her forays), or other equally decadent venues. We (myself and a kinky friend in crime) would be grateful to know what you know on this subject so that we can merrily continue down the road of sin and perversion.
I imagine a little night life (read: sex life) might quiver the muse.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Prelude to a Post
Life seems to have gotten in the way of sex. Meaning, I'm not having any sex and life has been pretty busy.
The result is a lack of fodder for the muse. Or, maybe the muse is on holiday.
Something will come along shortly, I'm sure. Something is brewing slightly below the surface, soon to be transcribed. I'm still reading the Story of O, and there's some inspiration there.
So, stay tuned, patient readers. I hope to titillate you soon.
The result is a lack of fodder for the muse. Or, maybe the muse is on holiday.
Something will come along shortly, I'm sure. Something is brewing slightly below the surface, soon to be transcribed. I'm still reading the Story of O, and there's some inspiration there.
So, stay tuned, patient readers. I hope to titillate you soon.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Ta-Ta for Labor Day
I wish I could say I was going to the beach to lie in the sun and bake. Or going to the mountains to hike and swim in mountain streams.
Instead, I'm going to do my duty as a friend and lend assistance to someone I love dearly. It is Labor Day, after all.
But, it's just as good, really, as those vacation-y type things. Certainly better for my karma.
Have a good weekend, all.
Eve
Instead, I'm going to do my duty as a friend and lend assistance to someone I love dearly. It is Labor Day, after all.
But, it's just as good, really, as those vacation-y type things. Certainly better for my karma.
Have a good weekend, all.
Eve
Tagged, I'm it...
I've been tagged by our very own lifeguard, ATLLG, so I'm it. Or one of 5 it's.
Here's the rules, apparantly -
Let the tagging begin....here is how it was explained to me.
Go to Wikipedia and type in your birthday (month and day).
Write down three events, 2 births, 1 holiday and tag 5 friends.
There are five slots in the Birthday Meme. As you are tagged, you have to remove the name in the first slot and bump everyone up so that your name can be added to the bottom.
Okay - my birthday - October 9
Events -
1582 - Due to the implementation of the Gregorian calendar this day does not exist in this year in Italy, Poland, Portugal and Spain.
So, if I was born in 1582, my birthday would be....
1967 - A day after being caught, Che Guevara is executed for attempting to incite a revolution in Bolivia.
Long live Che...
1989 - An official news agency in the Soviet Union reports the landing of a UFO in Voronezh.
This explains some things....
Births -
1940 - John Lennon
1835 - Camille Saint-Saëns, French composer (d. 1921)
Holiday -
Uganda - Independence Day (from Britain, 1962)
I'm tagging -
Rupert
Roger
Figleaf
Gracie
Shon Richards
Previous players -
Mizmouthy
JeannieGrrl
Stealth
ATLLG
Eve
Here's the rules, apparantly -
Let the tagging begin....here is how it was explained to me.
Go to Wikipedia and type in your birthday (month and day).
Write down three events, 2 births, 1 holiday and tag 5 friends.
There are five slots in the Birthday Meme. As you are tagged, you have to remove the name in the first slot and bump everyone up so that your name can be added to the bottom.
Okay - my birthday - October 9
Events -
1582 - Due to the implementation of the Gregorian calendar this day does not exist in this year in Italy, Poland, Portugal and Spain.
So, if I was born in 1582, my birthday would be....
1967 - A day after being caught, Che Guevara is executed for attempting to incite a revolution in Bolivia.
Long live Che...
1989 - An official news agency in the Soviet Union reports the landing of a UFO in Voronezh.
This explains some things....
Births -
1940 - John Lennon
1835 - Camille Saint-Saëns, French composer (d. 1921)
Holiday -
Uganda - Independence Day (from Britain, 1962)
I'm tagging -
Rupert
Roger
Figleaf
Gracie
Shon Richards
Previous players -
Mizmouthy
JeannieGrrl
Stealth
ATLLG
Eve
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Impressions of O
I'm somewhat ashamed to admit I have never read The Story of O. I realize this is requisite reading for a budding, or even veteran, player in a D/s dynamic, but I simply have not put it on my reading list.
That has changed and it's going to be the next thing I read.
Last night I watched a film called The Writer of O. A biopic of Dominique Aury, the author of the Story of O.
A French writer who was highly respected and afforded a position of honor in the French literary community, she successfully crafted this tale of love and submission, perhaps the ultimate submission, as a gift for her lover. And as a dare. Her lover and employer, Jean Paulhan suggested that a woman could not write erotica. That they were not capable of envisioning such tales. She set to, and did, prove him wrong.
The film itself did not, I suspect, give the author her due. There were wonderful segments of interviews with her many years after she came out as the author. She had a sharp and visionary mind. She strongly, and rightly, believed that women had the capacity to be as immoral as men. That their imaginations and fantasies could easily wander towards scenes both loving and tempered and brutally erotic.
There were some contradictions in the film that confused me as to the position the filmmaker was taking towards the prose in The Story of O. Specifically, enactments of scenes from the book, where O is being made into a slave, would be cut with scenes of butchery (and I mean that literally - of animal slaughter) and images of slaves, shackled and led along. I couldn't understand if this meant the filmmaker did not approve of the Story, and so this montage was meant as a criticism? That's how it appeared. And yet, in the interviews with Aury, as well as interviews with other players in her life - publishers, biographers, friends - we're led to see the author as a strong, smart, courageous and immensely creative woman.
Contradictions aside, I found the film illuminating. I believe it will set a groundwork, a reference, for me as I read the book. Knowing the authors intentions, to write both a love letter and a polemic on women's ability to be as licentious as men will, I believe, inform my impressions as I read The Story of O.
That has changed and it's going to be the next thing I read.
Last night I watched a film called The Writer of O. A biopic of Dominique Aury, the author of the Story of O.
A French writer who was highly respected and afforded a position of honor in the French literary community, she successfully crafted this tale of love and submission, perhaps the ultimate submission, as a gift for her lover. And as a dare. Her lover and employer, Jean Paulhan suggested that a woman could not write erotica. That they were not capable of envisioning such tales. She set to, and did, prove him wrong.
The film itself did not, I suspect, give the author her due. There were wonderful segments of interviews with her many years after she came out as the author. She had a sharp and visionary mind. She strongly, and rightly, believed that women had the capacity to be as immoral as men. That their imaginations and fantasies could easily wander towards scenes both loving and tempered and brutally erotic.
There were some contradictions in the film that confused me as to the position the filmmaker was taking towards the prose in The Story of O. Specifically, enactments of scenes from the book, where O is being made into a slave, would be cut with scenes of butchery (and I mean that literally - of animal slaughter) and images of slaves, shackled and led along. I couldn't understand if this meant the filmmaker did not approve of the Story, and so this montage was meant as a criticism? That's how it appeared. And yet, in the interviews with Aury, as well as interviews with other players in her life - publishers, biographers, friends - we're led to see the author as a strong, smart, courageous and immensely creative woman.
Contradictions aside, I found the film illuminating. I believe it will set a groundwork, a reference, for me as I read the book. Knowing the authors intentions, to write both a love letter and a polemic on women's ability to be as licentious as men will, I believe, inform my impressions as I read The Story of O.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Two Little Words
As a writer, I think I have a grasp of the power of words. They evoke emotion and reaction. They inspire ideas and actions. And, as in the case of writing about sex, they arouse. But, I never knew until recently the power that 2 words held over me.
When spoken to me, or even written, I'm immediately transported into another place within myself. It's a place where I'm extremely aroused and submissive. I am happy and compliant. I go to a quiet place. I become content, even for a moment. I take in a breath and it's all there.
It's a phrase that conveys praise and asserts control, all at once. And I long to hear it. I want to deserve it, and my actions, my acquiescence, has its utterance as the goal.
So, tell me... am I a good girl?
When spoken to me, or even written, I'm immediately transported into another place within myself. It's a place where I'm extremely aroused and submissive. I am happy and compliant. I go to a quiet place. I become content, even for a moment. I take in a breath and it's all there.
It's a phrase that conveys praise and asserts control, all at once. And I long to hear it. I want to deserve it, and my actions, my acquiescence, has its utterance as the goal.
So, tell me... am I a good girl?
Thursday, August 16, 2007
A Perfect Piece of Fiction
I'll tell you what's been getting me lately. And, by "getting me" I mean "getting me off".
First, though, let me say that I haven't had sex with another person in, oh I don't know, a month? Maybe a little more? So, I'm left to my own devices. And, by devices, I mean my fingers, generally, and sometimes a dildo. I'm not a fan of vibrators. I've used them, but find the sensation too extreme. After using them consistently for a while I become over-sensitive and it takes too much, and sometimes too long, to come. So, I eschew vibrators and rely on my good, old right hand. It's fabulous.
Anyway, in the hopes he doesn't mind my linking to his site, I want to share with you this fantasy that Roper from Confessions of an English Gentleman has so brilliantly developed and shared with us and what I've been coming back to over and over. And coming to over and over.
As in the fantasy, I picture myself in the lap of my lover, whoever he may be. I picture his hands on my thighs, holding them apart so that the stranger sitting between my legs has a perfect view of my mostly waxed, and very wet, cunt. I see the strangers fingers pushing up into me as my lover watches and makes me watch. I drip at the thought of a stranger, someone my lover has chosen, looking at me and touching me. And watching me as I spread myself for him and come completely open and exposed, while he ravishes my holes with his fingers.
A stranger. I am enamored with the idea of exposing myself, of opening myself, my cunt specifically, to a stranger. Of being seen by a man I don't know. Seen and appreciated. Seen and touched. Seen and instructed in what actions to take. Told to spread myself, to show myself, to masturbate, to come. By someone I don't know.
And yet, I also crave intimacy. Because I have no illusion that what I describe here, simply exposing myself to a strange man, is intimate. I have done it, more than once now, and I know this - it is vulnerable, it is sexual, certainly, and sensual, perhaps, and for me incredibly arousing. But, it is not intimate. There isn't closeness, except in physical proximity.
And that is what attracts me so to Ropers Fantasy No. 11. It combines both the trust and intimacy and ability to share something so private with someone I love and the debauchery of a stranger finger fucking me. It is, really, perfect.
Thank you, Roper. For, somehow, climbing into my head and pulling out such a perfect piece of fiction that I can ride on over and over.
Note: Obviously, I'm over my little moment of feeling supremely unsexy. Whew! As I seem to do with everything lately, I've decided to blame it on hormones. So nice to have a scapegoat.
First, though, let me say that I haven't had sex with another person in, oh I don't know, a month? Maybe a little more? So, I'm left to my own devices. And, by devices, I mean my fingers, generally, and sometimes a dildo. I'm not a fan of vibrators. I've used them, but find the sensation too extreme. After using them consistently for a while I become over-sensitive and it takes too much, and sometimes too long, to come. So, I eschew vibrators and rely on my good, old right hand. It's fabulous.
Anyway, in the hopes he doesn't mind my linking to his site, I want to share with you this fantasy that Roper from Confessions of an English Gentleman has so brilliantly developed and shared with us and what I've been coming back to over and over. And coming to over and over.
As in the fantasy, I picture myself in the lap of my lover, whoever he may be. I picture his hands on my thighs, holding them apart so that the stranger sitting between my legs has a perfect view of my mostly waxed, and very wet, cunt. I see the strangers fingers pushing up into me as my lover watches and makes me watch. I drip at the thought of a stranger, someone my lover has chosen, looking at me and touching me. And watching me as I spread myself for him and come completely open and exposed, while he ravishes my holes with his fingers.
A stranger. I am enamored with the idea of exposing myself, of opening myself, my cunt specifically, to a stranger. Of being seen by a man I don't know. Seen and appreciated. Seen and touched. Seen and instructed in what actions to take. Told to spread myself, to show myself, to masturbate, to come. By someone I don't know.
And yet, I also crave intimacy. Because I have no illusion that what I describe here, simply exposing myself to a strange man, is intimate. I have done it, more than once now, and I know this - it is vulnerable, it is sexual, certainly, and sensual, perhaps, and for me incredibly arousing. But, it is not intimate. There isn't closeness, except in physical proximity.
And that is what attracts me so to Ropers Fantasy No. 11. It combines both the trust and intimacy and ability to share something so private with someone I love and the debauchery of a stranger finger fucking me. It is, really, perfect.
Thank you, Roper. For, somehow, climbing into my head and pulling out such a perfect piece of fiction that I can ride on over and over.
Note: Obviously, I'm over my little moment of feeling supremely unsexy. Whew! As I seem to do with everything lately, I've decided to blame it on hormones. So nice to have a scapegoat.
Monday, August 13, 2007
The Difference Between Me and Me
Lately I've been thinking about the difference between my blog persona (Eve) and the "real" me. I've been wondering how much of a difference there is between these two characters, if you will. Everything I write, even the fiction, comes from the "real" me. What you're reading is written in my voice. I haven't made anything up or adopted any characteristics that might be attributed to Eve, but not to me.
But, there is a temptation.
It's appealing, the idea of creating a different character for myself. Acting on-line. Concoting someone with an entirely different life. Other experiences, new parents and family, fictional accounts of all kinds of sexual adventures that are not my own. It's an enticing thought, but it's not me, not here.
I haven't revealed much about myself here but what you do know is fact. The intimate and detailed experiences and fantasies recorded here are more than any person in my true life know about me. Except, perhaps, for a few lovers who I've let in on the secret and led them to this blog. They are the only ones (and, as I give it any thought, it is only one man) who can put a face and a body to the gyrations on the page. So, perhaps, there is only one person that sees the woman and the pseudonym as one.
So, I've been wondering if the blog persona and the non-blog persona, are different. And, I realize, they are not. What you read is the composite me, in so much as we are all composites of our experiences. Traveling through our lives like comets, picking up debris, both good and bad, and adding it to our selves. Amalgams of the worlds we inhabit.
A Me by any other name...
O! be some other name -
be Eve.
But, there is a temptation.
It's appealing, the idea of creating a different character for myself. Acting on-line. Concoting someone with an entirely different life. Other experiences, new parents and family, fictional accounts of all kinds of sexual adventures that are not my own. It's an enticing thought, but it's not me, not here.
I haven't revealed much about myself here but what you do know is fact. The intimate and detailed experiences and fantasies recorded here are more than any person in my true life know about me. Except, perhaps, for a few lovers who I've let in on the secret and led them to this blog. They are the only ones (and, as I give it any thought, it is only one man) who can put a face and a body to the gyrations on the page. So, perhaps, there is only one person that sees the woman and the pseudonym as one.
So, I've been wondering if the blog persona and the non-blog persona, are different. And, I realize, they are not. What you read is the composite me, in so much as we are all composites of our experiences. Traveling through our lives like comets, picking up debris, both good and bad, and adding it to our selves. Amalgams of the worlds we inhabit.
A Me by any other name...
’Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself though, not a Montague.
What’s Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O! be some other name:
What’s in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;
O! be some other name -
be Eve.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Summertime Sabbatical
That's right. I'm off again for a long weekend. I have no spicy prose for you anyway, just now, so maybe it's the perfect time to slip away from the blog.
I will admit though (because I know you all want to hear about it and because I'm really dying to tell you) that I've been making like May and masturbating a bit. So, there you go. All is not lost.
Enjoy till next week when I return with tan lines extraordinaire.
Note to commenters: I monitor all comments, so if you post something be a little patient. I'll make sure to put it on the blog when I return.
I will admit though (because I know you all want to hear about it and because I'm really dying to tell you) that I've been making like May and masturbating a bit. So, there you go. All is not lost.
Enjoy till next week when I return with tan lines extraordinaire.
Note to commenters: I monitor all comments, so if you post something be a little patient. I'll make sure to put it on the blog when I return.
Monday, August 6, 2007
The Opposite of Horny
Sex has not been on my mind, of late. (And, by “of late” I mean the last few days.) I haven’t been pondering a pounding, as it were, by some gorgeous, well-hung, hunk of a 20-something. This image, as pretty as it may be, doesn’t make my blood quicken, my cunt clench and moisten, my breathing shallow.
This could be, I hesitate to say, hormonal. I’ve had a few “symptoms” that foretell an imminent hormonal change, and this could be one. I’ve prided myself on, so far, having retained my libido at a time when, I’m told, it could be on the wane. I haven’t lost my umpf, or my juice. I haven’t dried up. I’m a little nervous and wondering if this could be the beginning of such a thing. I try to perish that thought, but it arises and, frankly, that makes my blood quicken. With anxiety.
Can that sort of change happen so quickly? Almost overnight, or within such a short time? I'm thinking not. Considering just last week I had hot, hot phone sex with this fellow.
Perhaps I'm in a place where I want my sexual attentions to come from a partner, a lover, a boyfriend, a mate, or, dare I say, a husband. Someone who knows me intimately, not just because he wants to fuck me (or anybody), but because he wants to know me. His interest in me lies deeper than the depth of my pussy. When the ropes are untied and the toys are put away, we can lie together in confidence and silence.
In fact, I've felt that for some time now. Tiring of disconnected, unapologetic sex with nearly anonymous men, I long for someone who knows me. But, I've thought, I don't need to be chaste while I'm waiting. I can have a little fun in the mean time. I'm wondering if that isn't what's making the search more difficult. If somehow I'm imbued with an aura of the nonchalant connection.
Whatever the case, or the reason, I'm far from horny right now.
So, please accept this post by way of an apology. I am remiss in causing your blackberry screen to steam up as you feverishly scroll down to the finale of something sordid and dirty dreamt up, or lived, by yours truly.
I have no doubt my libido will come around again. And probably not too long from now. And I assure you, I won't leave you out of the proceedings.
This could be, I hesitate to say, hormonal. I’ve had a few “symptoms” that foretell an imminent hormonal change, and this could be one. I’ve prided myself on, so far, having retained my libido at a time when, I’m told, it could be on the wane. I haven’t lost my umpf, or my juice. I haven’t dried up. I’m a little nervous and wondering if this could be the beginning of such a thing. I try to perish that thought, but it arises and, frankly, that makes my blood quicken. With anxiety.
Can that sort of change happen so quickly? Almost overnight, or within such a short time? I'm thinking not. Considering just last week I had hot, hot phone sex with this fellow.
Perhaps I'm in a place where I want my sexual attentions to come from a partner, a lover, a boyfriend, a mate, or, dare I say, a husband. Someone who knows me intimately, not just because he wants to fuck me (or anybody), but because he wants to know me. His interest in me lies deeper than the depth of my pussy. When the ropes are untied and the toys are put away, we can lie together in confidence and silence.
In fact, I've felt that for some time now. Tiring of disconnected, unapologetic sex with nearly anonymous men, I long for someone who knows me. But, I've thought, I don't need to be chaste while I'm waiting. I can have a little fun in the mean time. I'm wondering if that isn't what's making the search more difficult. If somehow I'm imbued with an aura of the nonchalant connection.
Whatever the case, or the reason, I'm far from horny right now.
So, please accept this post by way of an apology. I am remiss in causing your blackberry screen to steam up as you feverishly scroll down to the finale of something sordid and dirty dreamt up, or lived, by yours truly.
I have no doubt my libido will come around again. And probably not too long from now. And I assure you, I won't leave you out of the proceedings.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
HNT - August 2
And just a little more skin....
Well, actually, it's quite a lot more skin.
This is dangerously exciting.
Happy HNT!
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Sugasm #90
WOW! My story was chosen as editor's choice this week! I'm so honored! Especially with so many good, hot, drippy pieces to choose from!
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #91? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
Fat can be sexy
“I understand what it’s like to be surrounded by images that reinforce that skinny is the ONLY way to achieve sexiness.”
Are Women Visual Critters, Too?
“With the invention of the internet, however, I think that it gets even more complicated.”
Marriage, Monogamy, and All that Jazz
“My chosen lifestyle and relationship type wasn’t making any sense to the other women.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
S Magazine
Editor’s Choice
Supply and Demand
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Am I Missing Anything, Really?
Catalina loves the Museu de l’ Erotica
Cheating Men
“How much confession can one read before becoming uncomfortably numb?”
I’m a Woman Man: Episode 2 - Faces
Lulu Forever
Playground positions
So many rabbits…
BDSM & Fetish
Car Wheels on a Gravel Road
Dirty words
Fetish Film - English Punishment Series (Spanking, Caning)
The Flesh Remembers
Fun with a subby boy
Luring the Guardian Angel
The Percentage Game
Sukebe Otaku: Happy Tears, Revisited
Teeth and claws and cock and cunt
Thunder: Service With A Smile
The Violent Kiss
Wake up bitch…
Worshipping post-erior - leaving my mark
You suck!
Sex News & Reviews
Lelo Nea Mini Vibrator Review
Sex In The Virtual World - Computer Games
Sex Humor
How To Get His Attention
NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Amy of 24.7 in the Kitchen
Drum Solo (video)
Half-Nekkid Exhibitionist
Ivett
Sex Work
Busy Princess Play Day
Erotic Writing and Experiences
Distracted by Her shoes
Endangered
I Want
No reservations, part 1
An old friend
Pink
Sleeping Beauty…
Supply and Demand
That Kiss
Torrential
We were in heat
Monday, July 30, 2007
OverExposure
Lately I've been thinking about exposure. I've been thinking about how excited I get, butterflies-in-my-belly, swollen and wet, little impish smile excited when I either think about or, better yet, am asked to expose myself. This could be any degree of exposure. As open as fully undressed, legs spread, examination. Or as subtle as standing before my viewer, with my legs only slightly apart. And, anything in between. I am, once again, somewhat shocked at myself. I spent many prudish years not wanting to be seen at all. Practically no part of my body, no less my cunt! And now I crave it to be seen.
I know that there are lots of exhibitionists, with varying degrees of and desires for exposure. Some have to get it in public. Like the subway for example. I read somewhere that the R train in NYC has the highest rate of flashers, so depending on your mood, you may or may not want to take the R. Or in a park, or just walking down the street. I don't mind this, necessarily. I've progressed enough in my sexual education (and debauchery, of course) to be able to shrug off a cock being pulled out for the owners gratification. It's not exciting to me, but whatever. I've never been flashed by a woman. I'm waiting for that day!
I have no need to flash in public. Recently I was e-mailing and IM'ing with a man (whom I had a very boring date with so you'll not be hearing of him again) who proceeded to tell me of his fantasy to have me out with him, no panties, short skirt, on a bar stool, flashing other men in the bar...I don't need to finish. You get the gist of it. I don't find this exciting. I don't want to randomly flash men in a bar. I want the intimacy that comes with close, physical proximity. I want to see, not shock and delight from some guy who thinks he's seeing something he shouldn't, but excitement in the eyes of the beholder. Excitement and lust. Lust and want. Then need. A need to touch.
Recently I went out with a man who I met through craigslist. This man was the model for the subject in this story. He really did post an ad on CL similar to the one I describe in the story. And, I really did answer.
The story is fiction, based on fact. What did happen was dinner. A lovely dinner, on a hot summer night, at an outdoor cafe. We drank a bit, and talked a lot and flirted blatantly, both knowing what had brought us there. We talked around it. We talked about it. Moving towards some resolution, but we didn't know what.
I'm a little ashamed of what happened. A little ashamed, but also incredibly excited. The restaurant was emptying out and things were quieting down. After talking for some time about his "fetish" for large labia, and about my answer to his call (the only answer, by the way), he asked me if we should go into one of the small, unisex bathrooms. I knew what he wanted. He wanted to "see" me. I said yes.
After paying the bill, we headed for the restrooms and, luckily, they were both unoccupied. We went into the larger of the two and locked the door. And kissed. That was nice. And then, "Can I see?" I hesitated for a fraction of a second, knowing full well that his simple question had me excited. Damp.
I unzipped my jeans, locked my thumbs on the sides and, grabbing my panties on the way down, pulled my clothes to my knees. As I stood up, he squatted down and, for a minute, just looked at me. I spread my legs a little wider, so that he could see them. The dark, wrinkled flesh that was the object of his desire. Without taking his eyes from my pussy he asked if he could touch.
He moved a hand forward and immediately held onto my lips. Touching them and squeezing them, and making me moan. "Perfect", he said. "Just what I was looking for."
For a few moments he tugged and squeezed my labia, until he could see, I suppose, the reaction he was creating. He pushed one, then two fingers up in to me and, there, in a small, not entirely clean, cafe bathroom on the Upper East Side, I came as quietly as I could as a man I'd never met finger-fucked me with not a small degree of skill.
And I wonder, is this the extent to which I'll go to expose myself? Is this how great my need is that I'll allow myself to participate in something that, for most, would be considered abject, at the worst, undignified, at the least? Do I have to censor my actions so as to keep myself from falling lower into some pit of loathsome behavior?
Perhaps.
Admittedly, though, I think of this often. I dwell on it, the picture of it in my head, the feeling of it between my legs, the gasp as his fingers first touched my full, swollen lips. I think and I masturbate and I want to do it again. I want to show myself to someone who wants to see me. Who wants to appreciate what I'm giving him.
It is, I realize, an incredibly submissive act. To be asked to show my pussy to someone simply because it excites him to see it. And to comply. The reasons for excitement are myriad and I love that. It excites him not only to see my naked cunt, but he's aroused by simply asking. By my saying yes. And, maybe he sees, for that fraction of a second, my struggle with the request. And that adds to his arousal because he knows this is, even if only slightly, hard for me to do. And, he's excited because he knows I'm excited. He knows, perhaps, that this act of exhibitionism stirs something in me. He knows it and can see it made manifest in the moisture on his fingers as he fondles my lips.
I want to do it again. Maybe with the same man, who can get a better look next time. Or, maybe with another. Someone who, with maybe a little more understanding, can make his request in such a way as to imply it is not a request at all.
I know that there are lots of exhibitionists, with varying degrees of and desires for exposure. Some have to get it in public. Like the subway for example. I read somewhere that the R train in NYC has the highest rate of flashers, so depending on your mood, you may or may not want to take the R. Or in a park, or just walking down the street. I don't mind this, necessarily. I've progressed enough in my sexual education (and debauchery, of course) to be able to shrug off a cock being pulled out for the owners gratification. It's not exciting to me, but whatever. I've never been flashed by a woman. I'm waiting for that day!
I have no need to flash in public. Recently I was e-mailing and IM'ing with a man (whom I had a very boring date with so you'll not be hearing of him again) who proceeded to tell me of his fantasy to have me out with him, no panties, short skirt, on a bar stool, flashing other men in the bar...I don't need to finish. You get the gist of it. I don't find this exciting. I don't want to randomly flash men in a bar. I want the intimacy that comes with close, physical proximity. I want to see, not shock and delight from some guy who thinks he's seeing something he shouldn't, but excitement in the eyes of the beholder. Excitement and lust. Lust and want. Then need. A need to touch.
Recently I went out with a man who I met through craigslist. This man was the model for the subject in this story. He really did post an ad on CL similar to the one I describe in the story. And, I really did answer.
The story is fiction, based on fact. What did happen was dinner. A lovely dinner, on a hot summer night, at an outdoor cafe. We drank a bit, and talked a lot and flirted blatantly, both knowing what had brought us there. We talked around it. We talked about it. Moving towards some resolution, but we didn't know what.
I'm a little ashamed of what happened. A little ashamed, but also incredibly excited. The restaurant was emptying out and things were quieting down. After talking for some time about his "fetish" for large labia, and about my answer to his call (the only answer, by the way), he asked me if we should go into one of the small, unisex bathrooms. I knew what he wanted. He wanted to "see" me. I said yes.
After paying the bill, we headed for the restrooms and, luckily, they were both unoccupied. We went into the larger of the two and locked the door. And kissed. That was nice. And then, "Can I see?" I hesitated for a fraction of a second, knowing full well that his simple question had me excited. Damp.
I unzipped my jeans, locked my thumbs on the sides and, grabbing my panties on the way down, pulled my clothes to my knees. As I stood up, he squatted down and, for a minute, just looked at me. I spread my legs a little wider, so that he could see them. The dark, wrinkled flesh that was the object of his desire. Without taking his eyes from my pussy he asked if he could touch.
He moved a hand forward and immediately held onto my lips. Touching them and squeezing them, and making me moan. "Perfect", he said. "Just what I was looking for."
For a few moments he tugged and squeezed my labia, until he could see, I suppose, the reaction he was creating. He pushed one, then two fingers up in to me and, there, in a small, not entirely clean, cafe bathroom on the Upper East Side, I came as quietly as I could as a man I'd never met finger-fucked me with not a small degree of skill.
And I wonder, is this the extent to which I'll go to expose myself? Is this how great my need is that I'll allow myself to participate in something that, for most, would be considered abject, at the worst, undignified, at the least? Do I have to censor my actions so as to keep myself from falling lower into some pit of loathsome behavior?
Perhaps.
Admittedly, though, I think of this often. I dwell on it, the picture of it in my head, the feeling of it between my legs, the gasp as his fingers first touched my full, swollen lips. I think and I masturbate and I want to do it again. I want to show myself to someone who wants to see me. Who wants to appreciate what I'm giving him.
It is, I realize, an incredibly submissive act. To be asked to show my pussy to someone simply because it excites him to see it. And to comply. The reasons for excitement are myriad and I love that. It excites him not only to see my naked cunt, but he's aroused by simply asking. By my saying yes. And, maybe he sees, for that fraction of a second, my struggle with the request. And that adds to his arousal because he knows this is, even if only slightly, hard for me to do. And, he's excited because he knows I'm excited. He knows, perhaps, that this act of exhibitionism stirs something in me. He knows it and can see it made manifest in the moisture on his fingers as he fondles my lips.
I want to do it again. Maybe with the same man, who can get a better look next time. Or, maybe with another. Someone who, with maybe a little more understanding, can make his request in such a way as to imply it is not a request at all.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
HNT - July 26
I guess I'm getting into this. Not such a big surprise, I suppose, given my desire for exposure.
Today, I give you the foot. The left, to be exact. I don't want to alienate the foot fetishists. I have a new found sympathy for them.
Note written somtime later - Clearly, I don't know my left from my right. This is the RIGHT foot. Not the left.
Today, I give you the foot. The left, to be exact. I don't want to alienate the foot fetishists. I have a new found sympathy for them.
Note written somtime later - Clearly, I don't know my left from my right. This is the RIGHT foot. Not the left.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Supply and Demand
It began on craigslist, as so many of these things do. His post was unusual, but she couldn't resist.
His post went on to describe, in dripping detail, an experience he’d had some time before with a woman at a wedding (not the bride, mind you). They hooked up casually and, after working themselves into a heated fervor, all clothes discarded, he saw the new objects of his desire.
From then on he was hooked. With each woman he got together with, either casually or in longer relationships, he would hope that they would provide him with that which he longed to pull into his mouth. But no-one was as well endowed as his first.
Not being able to contain his need, he finally decided to be straightforward about his search. And, anonymous.
When she stumbled upon this ad, on a rainy, horny day, she knew she had to respond.
Over the next few days they wrote each other, learning details of their lives, beyond anatomical proportions. Yet, it was seething below the surface of each word.
They finally met for a drink. Their eyes locked and they knew that they couldn't wait long to satiate their desire for each other. They drank quickly and immediately moved to her apartment.
Not wasting a moment, they were on each other upon walking in the door. He pulled her shirt up over her head, she unbuckled his belt, anxious to see in the flesh what she could feel in his pants to be something satisfying. Moving towards the bed, lips locked in a tongue twirling, feverish kiss, they were down to their underwear by the time they fell together onto the duvet. And he couldn't wait any longer. Pushing her so that her head was at the top of the bed, he pulled her panties down. With no ceremony, he climbed between her legs and, pulling her thighs apart, gazed at a sight he had waited so long to see.
He slowed his movements so as to savor this moment. He wanted to reveal all the detail and take his time examining his prize. His thumbs moved one to each side of her lips. He didn't pull them apart, but just rested there, feeling gently the swelling of her pussy. He moved his thumbs and forefingers down to her large, dark, moist lips and, with something akin to tenderness, took each one between his fingers and just felt them. Held them, pinched them ever so slightly.
She remained still. As still as she could given the enormous anticipation she felt. He was examining her, looking at her in detail, taking in the contours and proportions of her pussy. She could feel her mounting excitement, knowing she was swelling and becoming more and more wet. She knew it was dripping out of her.
He could see it, almost a small bead of juice, drip from her ever increasingly wet cunt. Not quite as gently, he began to pull the lips apart, and look into her. After a moment he pulled them back together and, moving forward ever so slightly, pulled the flesh between his lips and into his mouth and began to suck. They moaned in unison. Completely connected by the eroticism of the moment. He sucked and swirled his tongue around them and through the middle of them and then back around them. He felt a completeness, a satisfaction, he didn't know was possible.
And his cock was like steel. Never, since that first time, was he so excited. As he sucked on his new found loves, he began to dart his tongue in and out of her. Then, more insistently, began to push his tongue deep inside her. Her hips moved up and forward to meet him and force his tongue deeper inside.
With her legs up practically behind her own head, he pushed and sucked and pushed and sucked until, like a volcano, she erupted, quaking and moaning and dripping her juice into his mouth and down his chin.
After, when her legs were down on the bed, he remained between them with his head resting on her thigh, just gazing and touching her soft, now completely drenched, dark labia. He gazed at her lips the way another man might gaze into a woman’s eyes. And stroked his cock.
He had found a new love and she wondered if she would ever see his face again.
Big Labia Are My Biggest Turn-On
His post went on to describe, in dripping detail, an experience he’d had some time before with a woman at a wedding (not the bride, mind you). They hooked up casually and, after working themselves into a heated fervor, all clothes discarded, he saw the new objects of his desire.
...she sits up and straddles me. That’s when I notice. She was trimmed. Nicely. And from the front, the hood of her clit was visible, with the tip of it just poking out. Just below it are two dangling lips. They’re dark. Uneven. And they stick out from the rest of her pussy by about a half inch. She’s positioned so that each lip is on either side of my cock, and the head of it is right against her clit.
From then on he was hooked. With each woman he got together with, either casually or in longer relationships, he would hope that they would provide him with that which he longed to pull into his mouth. But no-one was as well endowed as his first.
Not being able to contain his need, he finally decided to be straightforward about his search. And, anonymous.
When she stumbled upon this ad, on a rainy, horny day, she knew she had to respond.
Over the next few days they wrote each other, learning details of their lives, beyond anatomical proportions. Yet, it was seething below the surface of each word.
They finally met for a drink. Their eyes locked and they knew that they couldn't wait long to satiate their desire for each other. They drank quickly and immediately moved to her apartment.
Not wasting a moment, they were on each other upon walking in the door. He pulled her shirt up over her head, she unbuckled his belt, anxious to see in the flesh what she could feel in his pants to be something satisfying. Moving towards the bed, lips locked in a tongue twirling, feverish kiss, they were down to their underwear by the time they fell together onto the duvet. And he couldn't wait any longer. Pushing her so that her head was at the top of the bed, he pulled her panties down. With no ceremony, he climbed between her legs and, pulling her thighs apart, gazed at a sight he had waited so long to see.
He slowed his movements so as to savor this moment. He wanted to reveal all the detail and take his time examining his prize. His thumbs moved one to each side of her lips. He didn't pull them apart, but just rested there, feeling gently the swelling of her pussy. He moved his thumbs and forefingers down to her large, dark, moist lips and, with something akin to tenderness, took each one between his fingers and just felt them. Held them, pinched them ever so slightly.
She remained still. As still as she could given the enormous anticipation she felt. He was examining her, looking at her in detail, taking in the contours and proportions of her pussy. She could feel her mounting excitement, knowing she was swelling and becoming more and more wet. She knew it was dripping out of her.
He could see it, almost a small bead of juice, drip from her ever increasingly wet cunt. Not quite as gently, he began to pull the lips apart, and look into her. After a moment he pulled them back together and, moving forward ever so slightly, pulled the flesh between his lips and into his mouth and began to suck. They moaned in unison. Completely connected by the eroticism of the moment. He sucked and swirled his tongue around them and through the middle of them and then back around them. He felt a completeness, a satisfaction, he didn't know was possible.
And his cock was like steel. Never, since that first time, was he so excited. As he sucked on his new found loves, he began to dart his tongue in and out of her. Then, more insistently, began to push his tongue deep inside her. Her hips moved up and forward to meet him and force his tongue deeper inside.
With her legs up practically behind her own head, he pushed and sucked and pushed and sucked until, like a volcano, she erupted, quaking and moaning and dripping her juice into his mouth and down his chin.
After, when her legs were down on the bed, he remained between them with his head resting on her thigh, just gazing and touching her soft, now completely drenched, dark labia. He gazed at her lips the way another man might gaze into a woman’s eyes. And stroked his cock.
He had found a new love and she wondered if she would ever see his face again.
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