My Writing

Thursday, May 31, 2012


The sun's warmth stains the sheets.

It filters through the window,
caressing skin,
like the touch of a lover,
confident and prolonged.

He whispers heat across my face,
and tells me the time is coming
for him to rise above me,
the pleasure-burn on my skin,
red prints -
the marks of his bold touch.

Photographs (fiction, part 1)

Tanya was a pretty, yet plain woman.  The only thing that set her apart from the crowd was her hair -- a fiery orange-red and naturally curly.  She kept it long only because she had no other choice.  If she cut it, she'd be sporting an afro, which would look odd atop her 5'7", 140 pound, translucently pale and abundantly freckled frame.  She wore simple, dark clothing and avoided patterns, figuring her hair was resplendent enough.  Even her eyes seem to know better and kept themselves to a light gray most days.

She worked downtown as a legal secretary (not the kind you have an affair with, mind you).  Her organizational skills and attention to detail were unmatched, and while others seem to come and go like the daily news, Tanya had held her position for nearly 15 years.

She was single, by choice, having not yet met a man equal to her expectations.  Besides, she was shy and bookish and didn't get out much.

As she boarded the early bus, she glanced quickly to the back hoping to find her usual seat empty.  A creature of habit, she became nervous and agitated when things took a turn toward the unknown.  Luckily, her place was available, and she skittered down the aisle.  Few people took the bus this early.  She intentionally chose this time and route precisely because of that.

Settling into the red vinyl-covered seat, she pulled out her book -- a real-deal, hard-bound monster of a thing -- and began to read.

She was so engrossed in her novel that the bus's frequent stops and changing passengers remained a distant, ignorable non-event.

Tanya usually kept time by the sun.  A certain slant of light across the page let her know her stop was near.  Closing her book, and setting it in her lap, she noticed, for the first time, that a male passenger had taken the seat beside her.  Tanya found this odd, since the majority of the seats around her were empty.  The only other people on the bus were near the doors, prepared for a convenient and quick exit.

The man, in a grey suit and lavender striped tie, was thin and young.  His face was distinguished and clean-shaven.  Not a hair was out of place.  His manicured hands set lightly on his thighs, and his posture was perfect - erect.

Tanya tried to size the man up with a sideways glance, attempting to avoid eye contact and the possible conversation it could cause.  It wasn't that she was anti-social, but she disliked strangers and hated introductions.

The bus squealed to a stop and let out it's characteristic "shhhhh" as the doors opened to release her.  She stood, dropping her book on the floor.  The man bent so expeditiously that Tanya flinched upright to avoid the inevitable collision of heads or hands or some other part of her she was sure she didn't want touched.  He handed the book up to her with a simple, wordless smile.

"Thank you."  It came out as nearly a whisper, her voice still hoarse as she had not yet used it this morning.  She cleared her throat and repeated the obligatory response to his civil action, "Thank you."  Her eyes squinted and her lips pursed into the semblance of a smile.

Heaving her brown leather bag onto her shoulder, she weaved her way toward the door.  When she got there, she looked back to man.  With two fingers to his forehead, he offered her a friendly salute.  She nodded in acceptance and exited the bus, slightly annoyed that she'd bothered to glance back at all.

As she walked briskly along the heavily peopled city sidewalk, she looked down only long enough to slip her book back into her bag.  She noticed, however, a slip of paper edging out from the top of the book, like a bookmark -- something she never used because she always remembered exactly where she left off.  Slowing her pace and moving to the edge of the sidewalk nearest the buildings to avoid the mad dash of bodies, she opened the book.  It was a black and white, quite obviously professional, photo depicting a nude man reclined on a chaise lounge.  Taken aback by the discovery, Tanya nearly dropped her book...and the picture.  Instead, she slammed the book closed, the photo still inside, buried the book in her bag, flipped her hair out of her face, and continued on her way.  Quite humanly, and involuntarily, however, Tanya felt a nearly-forgotten tingle in her thighs which made her cheeks color.  It was a lovely pink blush that washed across her round, pale cheeks, and a very real sensation she hadn't felt since Jared had gone.

She had a quite solid suspicion that the man in the photo was the man on the bus.  She hadn't looked long enough or closely enough to tell, and the man in the photo had his head turned into the shadows, making it difficult to be sure.

How very odd, she thought to herself, her brow furrowing and her face scrunching up in confusion.

When Tanya finally removed her coat and settled in to her deliciously comfortable and ridiculously expensive leather office chair, she slipped her hand into her bag, retrieving the photograph.  Nervously, with the erratic movement of a bird, Tanya opened her top drawer and placed the photo inside, facing up.  This gave her the ability to look at the photo and remove it from sight at the slightest noise without appearing too guilty about her actions.

The man was thin, but muscular, holding himself up on his left elbow and looking upward.  The light, which appeared to be a ray of sunshine, spotlighted his body, leaving his face shielded by the dark.  His body was turned toward the camera, his left leg flush with the chair and extended...his right leg bent, knee pointing up, his left forearm resting on top of it.  Between his legs, impossible to ignore, was his erect penis, his testicles seated on his left thigh.

The photo was crisp, the blacks and whites and grays clearly delineated.  It wasn't taken by an amateur.  And it didn't look like the first time this man had posed.

Is it him?  She wondered.  And if it is, why?  Why do I have it?  Did he put it in my book?  Why on earth would he do that?  Even more strangely, If he didn't put it there, who did?  How did it get there?

Artist:  Michael Meyersfeld "Deceit"

(So, I'm just getting started it something I should continue?  I'm not married to it, but the characters intrigue me.  I'm not even sure I know where this is going yet, and I know very little about the man.  I could easily flesh this out - but I wonder, would anyone read it?  Am I taking too much time with the set up?  Not enough?  The ideas are there...maybe more photographs?)

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Does size really matter? (plus: poetry challenge continued...)

Poetic Form: Limerick  

A popular form in children’s verse, the limerick is often comical, nonsensical, and sometimes even lewd. The form is well known to generations of English-speaking readers, by way of Mother Goose nursery rhymes, first published in 1791. Composed of five lines, the limerick adheres to a strict rhyme scheme and bouncy rhythm, making it easy to memorize.
Typically, the first two lines rhyme with each other, the third and fourth rhyme together, and the fifth line either repeats the first line or rhymes with it. The limerick's anapestic rhythm is created by an accentual pattern that contains many sets of double weakly-stressed syllables. The pattern can be illustrated with dashes denoting weak syllables, and back-slashes for stresses:
1) - / - - / - - /
2) - / - - / - - /
3) - / - - /
4) - / - - /
5) - / - - / - - /

Here's my go at it:

I can't even think of his size
without getting wet between thighs
my soaked panties drip
as I touch the pink tip
of my lover's indelible prize

Oh, good lord...yes I succumbed.  I was going to skip this poetic form all-together, but it seemed rather odd to pass over an often "lewd" form of poetry on an almost always "lewd" blog.  So, there.  On to something more substantial....coming up next is the ode.  Hard to write, but rewarding, nonetheless.  I actually have written a few of these before - one is even published on this site (Ode to Love).

Now...on to the topic at hand...DOES SIZE REALLY MATTER?  And yes, I'm referring to male anatomy here.  I suppose it's a matter of opinion (which you are encouraged to share in the comments), but since this is my blog, it's all about my opinion.  So here you go....  my official answer is "sorta".

See, it can't be so small that it poses a problem.  Several years ago when I was still dating and having a string of one-night-stands in an effort to make myself feel more powerful and forget my own insecurities, I took this one, sweet, milk-toast boy to bed.  I went down on him to get him hard, but what popped into my mouth was roughly the size of my pointer finger.  I hoped and prayed it was just in a "flaccid" state and would harden once in my pussy.  But, as I guided him in and began to ride him, I realized this poor soul was cursed with the tiniest penis I've ever beheld on a grown man.  It really was the first time (and last) that I rolled off a guy during sex, got up, put my clothes on and walked out.  I'm not really mean, but shit - he could have warned me!  In all seriousness, I feel terrible for that guy.  A few years later, I saw him in another city, walking around holding hands with a girl.  They looked happy, so I suppose that's proof that it's all a matter of opinion (unless the poor girl was saving herself for marriage - what a stunning disappointment that would be).

On the other can't be too big.  My first long-term beau patiently waited for me to feel "ready".  At 16 I finally conceded and we had sex on his mattress on the floor in his parents' single wide trailer.  It was incredibly romantic (not)....but then first-time sex is really an act of utter astonishment for most girls.  Technically, I knew what to expect.  I'd masturbated a million times before this and had inserted a plethora of objects inside of me.  But, I was completely unprepared for the John Holmes replica that my boyfriend slowly (thank god!) squeezed into my virgin cave.  Holy crap!  Tears, holes bitten into my bottom lip to stave off whimpers of sheer distress.  Honestly, he was as gentle as he could have been and didn't even finish (awww....what a gentleman) because he knew it was killing me.  I tried it with him again (6 times to be exact) thinking I'd get used to it.  I never did.  And I worried for a long time that sex was always going to be like that.

The final verdict?  Average size + above-average technique = perfection.

Monday, May 28, 2012

All-time Worst Swinger Ads

Below, I have crafted a compilation of all the worst ads we have seen while perusing swingers personals.  Simply checking SLS and AFF (or better yet, Craigslist) is an evening's worth of entertainment for us.  And yes, we're that mean - we get a kick out of mocking other people's poor spelling and grammar (not that I never make a mistake...but seriously - there is a limit).  The other fabulous part of these ads is the pictures.  Disembodied penises and boobs, close-ups of genitalia, scanned-in/grainy photos, Wal-mart family photos, and pictures that make it obvious the couple has no clue how to keep house or put shit away.  I have inserted my/our comments in red throughout the ad, for your reading pleasure.

And just a side note, before you get started - if you aren't one - it's important to know that swingers are normal people - and it goes without saying that most of us are "down to earth", "like to have fun", appreciate "like-minded folks", and don't expect others to be perfect, in mind or body.  That's why ads like this drive us crazy...they say everything everyone already knows and give the reader absolutely nothing real to go on.  Substance, baby...that's what turns us on.  Tell us about your likes/dislikes, as specific fantasy or two...maybe a little description of him and her from the others p.o.v.  Use a semi-colon to spice things up - maybe use a big word or two - a little humor - let us know you're human!  Stand out in a sea of terrible ads by writing a few succinct paragraphs that actually have some substance and let us know who you are, instead of 4 sentences that say the same thing every other ad does. 

Enjoy!  (And I hope I don't offend anyone...too much...)

funcpl4U (the screen name should always include "cpl", a number in the place of a word, "fun" or some really dumb pet name, like "itchy'n'tweet69")

hi we are happly married couple who is comitted to eachother (Most swinging couples aren't happy and they love to cheat on each other every chance they get because they are totally insecure.) and secure in our relationship (Never capitalize, and don't waste time with that silly punctuation...spell check is also stupid, so just avoid it like the cliched plague that it is!) we are easy going (Of course you're easy - you're a swinger!) and down 2 earth (No....we thought you were in the sky.) and we luv to laugh (We hate it, so we'll never get along.) and r looking for like minded folks (Like-minded? We so much prefer to spend time in the midst of people whom we have nothing in common and can't find anything to talk about.) to hang out with who are FUN (Fun people make us sick.) and enjoy life (We hate life.  And we hate people who love it even more.  They make us want to kick puppies.)we are not ken and barbie (Duh...we never would have guessed that you aren't little plastic dolls who are missing most of their important anatomy.) and dont expect you 2 B (That's swell, because you would be sorely disappointed if you did.), but we are hwp and would preffer other's to be to (Do you even know what that means?  See, we just like hot people in general - which means all types....and what the hell IS hwp?  Is that skinny?  Not skinny?  Basically you're using a really stupid acronym for "we like what we like but we don't want to take the time to explain in any real detail what that is because we don't know how to spell, can't use punctuation and are typing this ad on our i-phone in the back of a bus on the way to a titty bar after drinking too much Pabst, and we got this really crazy idea to make a swingers ad.).  we luv to meet new people who have interests (Care to expound on "interests"?)we r clean and drug and disease free you must be 2 (Do you really need to say this?  I mean, really?  We assumed you were dirty - we like dirty - and those diseases are!)420 friendly (Since that isn't really a drug, I guess you're not contradicting yourself at all, now are you?) she is bi-curious (this is a nice way of saying, she hasn't yet, but she might like to tease you into something she really isn't sure she wants to do and then say "no".) he is strait  please email us if you like our profile but no endless emailing (Good god, no!  Wouldn't want to get to know each other before we start bumping nasties...) nothing weird, no kids animals or potty play (Damn!  We're all about the wierd and we love fucking kids and dogs while rolling around in our own shit - guess we won't be able to hang out.). lets get together and see what happens (How about not?)we have many fantasies (But writing about them in an effort to entertain or seduce would take too much out of you, now wouldn't it?  Besides, it might spoil the first meeting, because if you wrote about them, you probably wouldn't have a thing to talk about on our first date --- except our "vague" interests.) and like to chat we will share them if u ask ;-) (I don't think I will.)  must be discreet (We were actually planning to take pictures of you fucking us so we could post them on facebook and talk about you at work...using your first and last names, of course.  We were hoping you'd do the same.)

WARNING ('re getting kinky - finally!  Tell me what to do, baby....take command!): and institusions using this sight or any of its pictures YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION (Wow, you finally broke out the capital letters!  Impressive!  Maybe if you exhibited this much passion in the rest of your ad, we wouldn't be making fun of you.) to use any of are profile in any way if you do it will b considerd a serius violasion of are privacy and we will sue you (Judge Judy is waiting with baited breath, I'm sure.  And the rest of us are shaking in our g-strings.)

please respect our kittehs descretsion

i luv dolfins!

half a roast beef sammich!  yum!

we got shitloads a anal lube and a oxy-actelene tank behind our bed!

A special thanks to my husband for his help in finding/editing the photos for this post and for pointing out that I had spelled "except" wrong (accept).  Good to know someone has my back.

Saturday, May 26, 2012

Wake Up Call (morning sex is awesome!)

There really is nothing finer that waking up to a face between my thighs.

My husband works nights, so he often makes it home just in time for my alarm to go off.  I sleep light, so I usually hear him come in the front door.  And when he quietly enters the bedroom, strips, and joins me in bed, I roll over to accommodate his entry.  He slips in beside me, curls himself around me, his hand sliding up my shirt or nightgown to fondle my breasts.  And then somehow, and usually quite quickly, he rolls me onto my back and dives in for a little taste of the goods.

But, oh how good he is at it.....kissing the insides of my thighs, around the lips, above, teasing and avoiding the one place he knows I want him to go.

When he does graze his tongue across my clit, it usually makes me shudder.  I'm sensitive in the morning and it doesn't take much to get me going.  And since he's been at work all night, and usually reads my posts before coming in, he's pretty ready to get the deed started as soon as possible.

Morning sex isn't long and sensual for us.  It's a release...  For me, it's a way to slip into my day - followed by a good cup of coffee and a little conversation.  For him, it's a way to unwind - followed by a glass of wine and sleep.  But for both of us, it's a way to connect our lives intimately in the face of barely intersecting schedules.

Thankfully, he doesn't work every day, and eventually, I get to sleep with him at night, like normal people.  That's when we break the bed and when he keeps me up half the night fucking.

But, I'm not complaining.

Friday, May 25, 2012

Female Ejaculation - Yep, I can do that....

Cick here for a great article from about the topic of Female Ejaculation!

A few years ago - I don't even remember when the first time occurred - I had my first noticeable female ejaculation.  I don't know what about that moment was different from any other moment in my sexual life that may have created the dynamic that made it possible for me to absolutely gush all over the sheets....but, it happened.  And since then, it's happened a lot more frequently.  In truth, it's only happened with my husband (what a trophy...he owns almost the sole rights to my waterfalls) other guy (I think)...and my own hand.  Oddly enough, that other guy made it happen with only his hand, which I haven't done with my husband - with him, it's always been the dick, the whole dick, and nothing but the dick.

So, my question is - why?  What the hell makes it happen...and why did it take so long to become a part of my sexual repartee?  Seriously, mid-30s?

Here's my's all about trust, relaxation, and comfort.

I've had lots of good sex in my life, but I really didn't start to relax or really enjoy my own  body and what it could do or feel during sex until I was married.  Before then, sad but true, it was as much an act as it was an event I enjoyed for my own pleasure.  That's not to say I was faking...because I wasn't.  But, orgasms were orgasms.  Nothing much had changed since my early 20s.  And I guess that comes from trying too hard to please my partner and measure up.  It's those silly insecurities that get in the way.  That whole time I was trying to enjoy it and get off, I kept hearing in my ear (from my inner critic), "You need to react more....move this way...that way....yah - he likes that...keep doing that....what did you see in that one porn?  He might like it if you did that now..."  And this just kept going, on and on, in my brain during sex.  It's no freaking wonder coming was hard.

I met my husband in my late 20s.  I was pretty sure I knew what I wanted.  I had a plan.  Turned out he was it.  And as we've gotten to know each other sexually, we've gotten more and more comfortable.  With that has come a change in my own self-image.  I suppose having a child changed some things, too, both mentally and physically (especially internally).   And interestingly, I didn't start ejaculating until after I had a baby.

Like most women who do it, I'm not completely sure what triggers it.  I don't do it every time I have sex.  But it seems the nights when I am especially horny and already sopping wet before we start, it's quite likely to happen.  Natural lubrication encourages it.  And my state of mind has a lot to do with it.  If my head is in the game, and I give myself over completely to the sex act, lose myself and offer every muscle and bone to it...then when I feel the orgasm start, rather than tightening up, constricting my thighs and my inner pubic muscles...I relax and just let the orgasm wash over me like blood-temperature water - it happens.

And when I feel the wetness seep around his dick and between by ass cheeks, making the bedsheets beneath me cool with dampness, I can't help but smile (often it makes me giggle).  I have no real control over it...but it's a fun surprise.

I'll admit, I hate sleeping in the wet spot...especially when I'm the one who made it, since my wet spots are so monumentally larger than the ones he leaves behind (takes a whole towel, folded in half, to stave off the seepage).

He's told me he wants to "see" me do it...wishes I could do it when he goes down on me...but it really does seem to require penetration.

I mentioned earlier that another man did it with his hand.  We were with another the middle of the living room floor, everyone naked and writhing...this other guy (who wasn't in to actually having sex with another woman...just wanted his wife to have access to another man...and was cool with other sexual play) had his hand buried deep inside me.  He was watching my husband fuck his wife, which I'm sure had him pretty hot and bothered...and his hand kept time with the event happening before him.  I can't remember if I was watching them fuck, but I was a little drunk, very turned on, and quite relaxed and comfortable in my own skin.  Whatever he did with his fingers, somehow it went deep enough and curved just the right way to hit "the spot".  I'm not even positive if the spot that causes the gush is the same spot that causes the orgasm.

Whatever it is that causes it, it's awesome.  The orgasms I have when I come like that are always 10 times better than a "normal" one.  That's not to say that I don't love an orgasm, regardless of how it comes about...but the messy ones are the sweetest...and they almost always require a dick - though I've done it with my own hand a time or two.

P.S.  I have to admit...we just got an expensive new mattress...and due to my little "trick", I spent an extra $125 on a really good mattress protector to keep it safe.  It's minutely embarrassing to admit that, but since I know my man loves it, I'm not gonna worry about it too awfully much.  And no, the mattress pad doesn't crinkle or make us feel like we're sleeping in a toddler bed.  Those things have come a long way - must be a few other women out there who have made them necessary.

Tuesday, May 22, 2012


As you may notice...I'm in the process of changing some things around house in some respects -- making it dirtier in others.  Please don't hesitate to provide feedback: what you like, what you don't, what you hope to see, or hope you never see again.  I'm about to have a large chunk of time to really play here, so I'm gearing up for a season of serious writing (and if you're lucky, a bit of personal photography).  The new header image (yep, that's me) is just one example.

Things might not look like this for long.  Until I really find a good fit (it's kinda like a condom, I suppose), things just aren't going to go smoothly.

"Bare" with me.  I go through this about twice a year - sometime in late spring and sometime in late winter.  This absurd need to re-invent myself or at least metamorphose in some small way.  I suppose it's similar to coloring my hair - a safe change.  But then, safe changes are the gateway drug to total alteration.  Who knows where this will lead...

Monday, May 21, 2012

Going Down on Girls

Poetic Form:  The Haibun

Examples of the form.

Going Down on Girls

The first time I went down on a girl, our husbands were watching.  I'm sure they were both smiling as wide as the horizon in a desert -- red, swollen with heat, and seemingly endless.  The problem was, I couldn't find her clitoris.  And it isn't like I wouldn't know where to find it...that tender little nub of sensory perfection -- I find mine on a daily basis.  No, it just didn't seem to be there.  What does a girl do with a flat...or, dare I say, concave pleasure button?  As my tongue licked blind figure eights in the general vicinity of where her clit should have been, a war waged in my head.  I knew I was being watched by two men who were thoroughly enjoying the scene.  Why wouldn't they?  Two naked women -- one with her head buried between the others' thighs.  It's a beautiful sight really.  I can only imagine her - head bent back, mouth open, back arched.  But at the time, all I could think is - where the fuck is it?  Eventually I gave up the search and just licked and sucked with wild abandon, hoping I'd manage to graze it enough times to get her off.  Maybe she faked it...I sure as hell did.  In all reality, I don't even really remember what she looked like.  It didn't really matter.

True sexual pleasure
cannot be felt anywhere
but the subconscious.

Friday, May 18, 2012

Can the moon affect your sex drive?

So, you may have noticed that I haven't been posting much lately. Well, to get personal (we can do that here, right?), I just haven't been "feelin' it lately. My mojo seems to be on vacation. And apparently, it may have been swept away with the moon.

I don't know about you, but I definitely notice the effect the moon phases have on my mood.  And it's pretty common knowledge that women tend to "set their clocks" by the moon.  So, I suppose it makes perfect sense that our energy levels and sex drive would follow the same path.

According to one website I visited:

· Estrogen levels rise with the waxing of the moon. Waxing moon means the moon is getting larger in the sky, moving from the New Moon toward the Full Moon. For women, this period often charges and energizes them; they need less sleep, feel sexy, alluring and receptive to sexual advances.
· As the moon wanes, or gets smaller, moving back toward the beginning phase of the New Moon, higher levels of progesterone prepare the uterus for implantation of a fertilized egg.
· During the dark period of the moon, the few days where it is not visible to the eye from Earth, hormones are at their lowest point and women tend to require rest in order to be refreshed and restored. Notably, during the three day period of the New Moon, when it is dark, birth rates are lower - reflecting lower libido and less energy for sex.
· The Full Moon, which is the peak of the waxing of the moon, is understandably the peak time of physical energy and emotional expression - and the time for peak sexual activity.

Yep, I can pretty much attest to these statements.  So, I'm blaming the moon.  And, if I follow the calendar correctly...I should be coming out of it around the 22nd or so.  Hmmmm...this is definitely food for thought.  When I go back to see when I post and how much I post, it does indeed seem to wax and wane with the lunar calendar.

Crazy.  But, not surprising.  Guess we're all "lunatics" in some form or manner.

e[lust] #36

Photo courtesy of A Couple of Wankers
Welcome to e[lust] - The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you're looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it'll be here at e[lust]. Want to be included in e[lust] #37? Start with the newly updated rules, come back June 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!
~ Top 3 ~
The Cheshire Cat - Alice felt whiskers tickle her skin and was wracked with sobs of fear. �Oh, little girl, don�t cry. You can stand much more than you think you can.�
Vaginal Overexposure? - I see a lot of vaginas. A lot. One of my favorite things to tell Vincent and his friends is, "I see more vagina that you ever will!"
Marionette - "I'm writing out a fantasy of mine, but I'm not sure what to do with some of it. I'm hoping you can help me figure it out." "Yes Ma'am."
~ Featured Post (Picked by Lilly) ~
Journeys - These insecurities are at the root of my fears. I don�t know how to combat them, how to turn those tapes off in my head.
~ e[lust] Editress ~
I�ve found a new secret to my G-spot - This g-spot thing might be hard to find since it can�t be mapped, but believe me it is real and with time, exploration, a good clitoral orgasm and a willing set of fingers and/or dildos you CAN find it.

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the �read more�� tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!
Kink & Fetish
A Pixie Calls Me Daddy
Afterwards, kissing
Another Try at Topping
Bent Over and Exposed
Female Orgasm: Where Do You Get Off?
Letting the Sadist Out to Play
more con-slut...
pain & sadism: how they intertwine
Tied Up and Tossed in a Corner
Waiting My Turn
Warm Up
Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor
Fifty Shades Of Me
Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships
Buying a Toy: What You Need to Know
Bring on the wanks
I want your sex
My Mother, The Whore
Poly Fallacies #4
Q&A # 3: Childhood BDSM Fantasies
Sticks and Stones...
Small World of Swinging
The Gauge
Us Lately
White and Nerdy
Erotic Writing
Around and 'round
DownGolden girl
Hard Love
Hot sunny sex on a rainy day
It Ain't Sex
I Want to be Watched
I made him watch me masturbate
Lazy Day
Lost in Submission
Making out
On Display
Pussy Doctor
Perfect Cover
Pussy Eating- The Fun Way
Rack and Ruin part II
Shower Scene
The Third Date
Tickle Monster
Waiting for It
Watching Skylarks

Thursday, May 10, 2012

Night Shift

Poetic Form: Ghazal  

The ghazal is composed of a minimum of five couplets—and typically no more than fifteen—that are structurally, thematically, and emotionally autonomous. Each line of the poem must be of the same length, though meter is not imposed in English. The first couplet introduces a scheme, made up of a rhyme followed by a refrain. Subsequent couplets pick up the same scheme in the second line only, repeating the refrain and rhyming the second line with both lines of the first stanza. The final couplet usually includes the poet's signature, referring to the author in the first or third person, and frequently including the poet's own name or a derivation of its meaning.

Traditionally invoking melancholy, love, longing, and metaphysical questions, ghazals are often sung by Iranian, Indian, and Pakistani musicians. The form has roots in seventh-century Arabia, and gained prominence in the thirteenth- and fourteenth-century thanks to such Persian poets as Rumi and Hafiz. In the eighteenth-century, the ghazal was used by poets writing in Urdu, a mix of the medieval languages of Northern India, including Persian. Among these poets, Ghalib is the recognized master.

Night Shift

Under a late spring moon, I wonder when you will come
slip in beside me; between skin-heated sheets, you will come

whisper in my ear, vibrating the lobe with the hum
of your lips, a quick, subtle warning that you will come.

I open the door of my being, two mouths that speak
in different tongues, licking at your soul, so you will come

closer than flesh allows -- blood pounds through quivering veins.
Blue lines travel down my fingers, knowing you will come

rescue me from the cold, reddened cheeks, wind-burned and raw,
waiting in blustery morning wind for you to come.

I have lain beneath this bare-branched tree for too long.
Loneliness aches, easily forgetting that you will come.

Until I relax, the strain is like a car rolling over my chest;
breathless, I gasp, seizing up, tightening as you come.

The moment when I stop breathing, close my eyes and float
through the slow darkness of the spinning room, you will come.

Under the early spring sun, white petals spread themselves wide,
their siren song grasping the bees, they say, "You will come."

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Lost and Found

Poetic Form: Found Poem Found poems take existing texts and refashion them, reorder them, and present them as poems. The literary equivalent of a collage, found poetry is often made from newspaper articles, street signs, graffiti, speeches, letters, or even other poems. A pure found poem consists exclusively of outside texts: the words of the poem remain as they were found, with few additions or omissions. Decisions of form, such as where to break a line, are left to the poet.

 *So this is how it's gonna work (feel free to try this one on yourself sometime). I've done found poems quite a few times using magazines. The idea is to look through magazines, find words that strike your fancy, cut them out, and then arrange them on a sheet of paper. It comes out looking something like a ransom note, but it's usually pretty cool. I like the surprise element: not knowing really what I'm going to write about or where it's going until it's done. I often have no idea what the topic is going to be until I'm well into the arrangement phase. I don't have many magazines hanging around right now, so I'm going to use the current posts from my "voyeuristic tendencies" list. Let's see what you all have to offer me today! The added benefit here is I have an assignment - to catch up on my blog reading.  

Lost and Found

One Slut at a Time,
a slightly lower dose -
 fragile, needy intention
decidedly made things much worse.

The girl was certainly up for a gangbang.
The prettiest hoarder -
silver knees arched freely -
raw, coarse edges.

"You don't need permission, do you?"
The woman had his balls in a jar.

"My plan is to become more comfortable with anal."
They stumbled out of the bar, glistening.

"I'd like to fuck you."
Breathless with need, he parted her thighs.

"I don't know quite where this came from..."
He dug his fingers into the hollow of her hip bones,
sucked the fat coral bead of her earring into his mouth.

His third eye wept.

Drunk sex brought back memories,
impure arousal;
a sermon of sex parted our bodies in dissonance.

"Be careful of the lipstick. It could stain your leather."

"Fucking hell, man."
We make this shit up as it pleases us.

"Wait...kneel...down...all the way down...on all fours...bend over."
The language of hunger,
implies violence,
curling around
leashed deprivation --
calls clarity to mind.

Tender thighs offer a tempting space,
like some private ornament of sexual self indulgence.
My fingers drift;
in exhilaration,
I see her ass winking at me,
a glorious white light at the end of the tunnel.

My mind drifts to a place,
smells of euphoria,
time-faded, but relevant --
 pretty is nice,
but performance really matters.

Sexuality is not the drug.
I need to ease the ache.

"I wonder if you know I'm masturbating for you."

Delphine Riffard - Solitary Pleasure

Monday, May 7, 2012

Letter to My Lover

Poetic Form: Epistle (with the added bonus of stanzas written in Haiku)  

Epistolary poems, from the Latin "epistula" for "letter," are, quite literally, poems that read as letters. As poems of direct address, they can be intimate and colloquial or formal and measured. The subject matter can range from philosophical investigation to a declaration of love to a list of errands, and epistles can take any form, from heroic couplets to free verse.

A Letter to My Lover

The smell of your sex,
like perfume, lingers on skin,
so tangibly thick.

Each fingerprint bruised
into the surface of my flesh
reminds me of night.

The heavy pipe smoke
has saturated my hair
and pools in each pore.

Awake at morning,
my thoughts wander down freely
to rest on my thighs:

The ghost of your weight
presses itself between them,
and I open wide --

A voracious mouth,
desperate to be filled with you,
and overflowing.

A mess on the sheets,
evidence of our union,
is still dark and damp.

I lie here naked,
drunk and dazed by thoughts of you,
eagerly waiting. - Bjoern Mainz (photographer)

Saturday, May 5, 2012


Poetic Form: Elegy  

The elegy began as an ancient Greek metrical form and is traditionally written in response to the death of a person or group. Though similar in function, the elegy is distinct from the epitaph, ode, and eulogy: the epitaph is very brief; the ode solely exalts; and the eulogy is most often written in formal prose.
The elements of a traditional elegy mirror three stages of loss. First, there is a lament, where the speaker expresses grief and sorrow, then praise and admiration of the idealized dead, and finally consolation and solace.


It is some twenty-years gone,
that tight-lipped innocence,
held close out of social expectation.
My sweet-sixteen fingers
wrapped around its neck,
choking it back.

Like an experienced hunter letting
the younger bucks pass,
he held onto a hope
more important than bragging rights.

At night, in a trailer park far
from my mother's polished kitchen,
he closed his bedroom door
and told me I was his first.
He cupped my face and leaned me back
onto a mattress on the floor.

Slowly, steadily, he pushed himself into me.
Thankful for the cover of darkness,
I screwed up my face in pain,
bit my lip and faked pleasure.
I hummed and moaned and sighed
and convinced myself I would learn to like it.

When he was finished,
he walked me, naked, into the bathroom,
drew a bath and held me in the water.
I could hear his parents
watching television in the other room,
and I couldn't stop
staring at the cracked vinyl floor.

He laughed and called me "lucky 7".
Confused, I asked him why.
So much for the first.
So much for honesty.
So much for all that was lost.
And yet, the boyish sweetness was not wasted on me.

Somehow, I looked past the lie,
the sound of his father's wheezy laughter
and his mother's complaining whine.
I romanticized the dingy tile and rusty drain.
In the flickering light, I found myself,
not a woman, per se, but changed.

The small yet immense act of opening my legs
to a boy who, unbeknownst to me, lied,
but indeed loved me, stepped me gently
but realistically, into the world of lust.
I knew then, lying in that water,
propped against his chest and
squeezed between his knees,
why women offer themselves up
and why men swallow their pride.
There is nothing on this planet
quite so tantalizing as sex.
Nothing quite so addictive or destructive
or uplifting and freeing.

I wondered, that night, alone
in my own crisp white sheets,
why we put so much importance on
protecting our virginity.
I was already a better person,
more aware, and softer,
and real.

Lessons like this linger
and become part of a mythology
we carry with us throughout life.
Like a religion, our sexual past marks us,
filters through our dreams and
comes out the other side
in a fog of fantasy.
We look back on it,
through the ether of time,
remembering it, or not,
the way we want to.

That girl, biting back her cries
and wiping away tears she would not show,
is the queen of my physical memory.
Like a first wife, she sits atop her throne
ruling with the quiet wisdom
of experience.  She can raise the red lantern
or not.  But, she will always hold her place:
stoic, undefeated, and resilient.

Thursday, May 3, 2012


The cinquain, also known as a quintain or quintet, is a poem or stanza composed of five lines. Examples of cinquains can be found in many European languages, and the origin of the form dates back to medieval French poetry.  The most common cinquains in English follow a rhyme scheme of ababb, abaab or abccb.


It is cradled within the curve of your cheek,
nestled between your lips,
a rising vibration unable to keep
quiet, as tiny tendrils of electricity spread upward toward your hips;
so unendurable, the little death rips

open the rose, already too full --
on the verge of bursting,
a mess of pink petals strewn, ungraceful,
hungry and thirsting,
heaving and cursing.

That one syllable, whispered low
collecting volume with each thrust,
simple, primal, like a domino
it knocks over all the other words with a gust
of heat and sweat and lust.

It's the check mate in a game of sexual chess,
the easiest thing to say
when language and thought are suppressed
in reverence to the body.
At that very moment, all you can utter is, yes.