Doesn't Play Well With Others, or...

I don't like to share.

There are some things I love to share with others. I love to share a meal, music that I love, I love to share the company of my friends with the company of my other friends, I love to share good books I've read, a cup of tea, a blanket if it's cold, my toys, my time and, of course, my opinion.

I don't, however, like to share partners without knowing I'm sharing them. Meaning, if you're dating me then, well, you're dating me. You're not also dating someone else. Or other someone elses. I require, in a word, exclusivity. I'm pretty damn clear about this. Always have been.

It's this issue that has brought an end to my relations with our linguist here. It's too bad because that was some fun, but I know my limits fairly well and this is a hard one. (A hard limit, I mean.)

Ah, well. Win some, lose some.

Thank God for masturbation and an active imagination.

Timer is Everything

My good friend Rupert up at the Chateau keeps a countdown timer on his blog so that we, his loyal fans, can track and commiserate with him during the long stretches through which he suffers between sexual activity. Or, maybe I should say between coupling. We KNOW he has uni-sexual activity. :)

I don't keep a timer (although there's a really loud, ticking one in my head - you can't hear it?) but I can report that I hadn't had sex with another person since January. I don't have an exact date on that, but we can say somewhere around the 25th. Close enough. So, seven (7) months since I was fucked.

Well, reset the timer people. We have lift-off. And a nifty lift-off at that, with more on the horizon, I believe.

And...are we ready?...And, it seems he has similar proclivities as well as being a decent, fun, helluva guy.

Let the hair-pulling commence.

All kidding aside -

YAY!

Naked woman? Hand on rod?

Or both? Either way, our smirking, sadistic (and not in a good way), duplicitous VP is photographed smiling at something that millions speculated was a naked woman. Further investigation finds it's just a hand (his?) on a fishing rod.

I don't know why, but I suspect when presented with a naked woman, Cheney doesn't smile quite so broadly. I don't imagine he becomes almost gleeful in his regard of her. I picture him leering and chuckling in a "...oh the things I'm going to do to you..." sort of way.

Not pretty.

Anyway, a few folks have been wondering about my whereabouts and my well being and I appreciate the check-ins. My life just doesn't have a whole lot of time for blogging right now. I have, though, been trying to keep up with my regular reads and occasionally commenting. I want to keep in touch.

I suspect at some point I'll have both something to write about and the time to do it. It's just not now.

I am alive, though. Thanks for asking.

Hugs....

Reporting from the Left Coast...

It's warm here. Spring-like. Or, maybe it's just Spring. I seem to be blessed (I know, I'm jinxing it) with good weather this week. Yay!

Wandered around the Mission area yesterday. Strolling up and down Valencia, I easily could have been in the East Village. It's that same blend of hip and grunge. Went into the very hip stores and didn't buy anything.

But wait! I lie! Unbeknownst to me, Good Vibrations lives on Valencia Street! I've been ordering from them for years and was so excited to walk into the store and shop live! In NY I have, of course, Toys in Babeland (now shortened to Babeland), but I have a place in my heart for GV. It was the first place (albeit on-line) that I ever purchased a toy for myself. So, I was thrilled to be there and wander the displays in person.

I, of course, had to buy something. That just went without saying. The something I bought is something I've wanted for a while, now. It's something I'm admittedly a little squeamish about. But I had to buy it. I was there and it was there in my hands waiting to make it's home with me. It was, as they say, the perfect opportunity.

I'm not going to tell you what this thing is. I figure it would be much more exciting, for you and for me, to report about it once it's been put to good (hopefully) use. In the meantime, you can guess what it is. Or picture in your mind what it might be. Or what you might hope it is.

This is the perfect opportunity for you to use your imagination. What would Eve be squeamish of, but drawn to? And, if I were with her, how would I help her get past her little phobia? Hmmmm....

And So It Goes

Not to directly insult my male friends and readers, but men really do suck. There's a point at which they can't have a conversation, or say an honest word, or even communicate.

The Latin has disappeared. This was, I suppose, predictable to some degree. A mutual friend confirms that he is unreliable and can be completely ass-hatted. There's nothing to be done but move on and reflect.

Initially, when I realized that the silence was fairly lodged in the here and now, I, like so many women before me, wondered what is wrong with me. What have I done? What have I not done? And on and on... You've heard this from me before so I won't subject you to my singularly cruel self-denigration.

But, after I spoke to my friend who knows him and assured me this is not surprising behavior for him, I felt better.

So, well, at least I had a few weeks of some great sex. And interesting conversation.

Now, it's on to a party. Saturday night. I mean, I have to take my clothes off for someone!

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.

"...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!

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.

A Christmas Card

Wishing you all a Very Merry and Sexy Christmas!

Love,

Eve

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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...

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.

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.

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.

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...)

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.