My Writing

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Judging others' sexual proclivity is objectionable

This week's prompt is:

followed by this statement:

Some time ago Molly from Molly’s Daily Kiss and Sinful Sunday collaborated with Wubbs for the Breast Cancer Awareness month. Wubbs has approached me about spreading the cancer awareness during Movember. And of course, I definitely wanted to help. I let Wubbs speak:
We are coming to the end of Movember. Thousands of men around the world have spent the last month growing a moustache and now they will be considering: do I keep it or shave it? Movember is a month long awareness campaign to highlight men’s health issues, among them prostate cancer.
Any positive awareness is a good thing. My collaboration with Molly and the Sinful Sunday meme for Breast Cancer Awareness was such a big success that I asked Marie, if she would be interested in collaborating with the If Just One Person Reads This cancer awareness project that I run. Once again someone will question why? I will always answer why not?
Use this prompt as you would normally, this isn’t a prompt to write about cancer. Have fun with it!
All participants of this week will be linked on the pimps page on Wubbs’s site. If you have a blog button, please make this known in your blog post, so Wubbs can copy it and place it on her site. If you do not have a blog button but would like to make one, then go to the Grab My Button generator. It works like a charm!
Let us know how you were inspired, tell us your stories. Help us spread the word about cancer awareness.
Add the Wicked Wednesday button, post on your blog and come back here between late Tuesday evening and early Thursday morning (Western European time) to link your post on the Wicked Wednesday Entries page.
Thank you for participating and don’t forget to visit the other entries too!

To tell you the honest truth, I'm not completely sure what to say about this I am going to write myself into a corner and stay there until I can behave.  It could be a long night...really.


I must ask you a question,
but I'll save it for later,
after the last whispered mention
of the unrepentant satyr

has lifted into the air -
a dizzying array of rumors,
half-truths, but who cares?
Certainly not the whores

who hang suspended from his arms
like cheap costume jewelry -
a lipsticked collection of plastic charms,
fishnets and hairsprayed foolery.

They laugh as loud as his money talks,
smiling and licking their lips,
fingering his cuff-links and teasing his cock,
shifting their breasts and exaggerated hips.

He smiles too wide, exposing teeth
the size of dimes, an overdone black moustache
puffed up above his lips - underneath
an intrusive nose that seemed to bleed cash.

Their dresses, several sizes too small
and his suit, several sizes too big
look ridiculous, like caricatures or dolls
being sold like suckling pigs.

In their heels, the tower above him,
looking down at his greasy parted hair,
their hyena cackles and glassy eyes dimmed
by too much wine and not enough care.

The longer we look at him and his hired entourage,
the less we linger on ourselves.
So easy to let our own egos be massaged
by the widening cracks in his image.

He dances, sandwiched between three women,
to a rhythm that doesn't match the music.
His face contorts into a pained smile, like a sucked lemon,
and he moves with tremors and ticks.

Others watch, sneers plastered
on their high-boned faces,
eyebrows raised above eyes that have mastered
incredulous judgement.

Do any of them realize that he doesn't give a shit?
Or that it isn't anyone's business who he pays
or who he fucks?  None of us need a permit to submit
to our desires or indulge a wayward gaze.

So easy to look down on those who feed lust,
open their legs and welcome it,
fasten it to their thighs and bust
at the seams to keep it.

So much more difficult to admit our own needs,
in the beginning, before we risk everything
to become truly human, and bleed
the virginal truth of our very being.

He presses his ass into each juicy thigh
and purrs audibly as they stroke his pinstriped
cliche of a suit.  The onlookers try
to hide their sneers behind crystal and wine.

Inside, every one of them wishes they could be
that unencumbered by reputation, that unaware,
that naively, blissfully free,
totally and utterly without care.

In their perfect suits and sequined gowns,
glued to their chairs for fear of appearance,
they swallow their own sharp misfortune -
the burden of coherence.

Let me ask, before the music stops
and the coats are retrieved,
as you place your hand on top
of mine:  Do you believe me

when I say, I would rather be him,
in cheap polyester, wild-eyed
and sallow-cheeked, than them,
bound by simulated perfection.

So, I have to say...that was hard.  And I'm not sure how I feel about it.  I sat down with a prompt that really left me hanging.  I took a swing.  Maybe I missed? was painful.

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Our sex was famous, but I forgot your name... (TMI Tuesday)


1. Have you ever had sex with someone famous or who later became famous, if only locally?

I almost had sex with a very well-known professor when I was in college.  He was an actor in local productions and I had been in several of his classes (he was one of those amazingly passionate coked-out pedagogues who'd stand on desks reciting Kubla Khan - dissecting all of its sexual imagery in gory detail - moistening my thighs with every word and gesture).  I was at a cast party at his house (with my boyfriend).  I headed off to the bathroom; the door stop was a woman with her legs spread around the door.  I smiled, moved her out of the way, and forgot to lock the door.  He walked in right as I was zipping my pants.  He moved in to kiss me...and suddenly the spark that seemed so amazingly bright vanished.  The unattainable had suddenly become a pathetic old man in my head.  Total bummer...really.  And I HAVE, indeed, forgotten Professor What-his-name's name.

Sylvia Plath

2. In the spirit of Six Degrees of Separation, have you had sex with someone who had sex with someone who had sex with someone who . . . someone famous?

Well, probably.  But, I don't KNOW about it.  Besides, if I did, I might be jealous.

3. In the opposite direction, have you had sex with someone whose name you didn’t know?

I've always known their name at the time.  But, I'm terrible with names and am likely to forget them as soon as I'm introduced.  It isn't their fault I forget.  I don't think I've forgotten a fuck yet.  So, at least their penises (and vaginas) are memorable.  I mean, really, the only one I HAVE to remember is Mr. LL's.  And the few special people I fuck on a recurrent basis.  Once I have an emotional connection, I'm much less likely to forget.  But once the tie is broken, I make no promises.  No matter how good of a lay someone is.

4. Someone whose name you knew then but have forgotten?

Oy vey!  Yes, indeed.  In, fact...there are a few.  Once I hit 25, scorned and licking my wounds after a 5-year-long, dead-end, waste of a relationship, I decided to become everything I hated about men.  One-night stands, cruel send-offs, no respresponsibility, and less connection.  So there are a few guys that got stuck in that vortex - faces I vaguely remember, but names that have gone the way of the tide.  A guy I noticed in a pub - took home and never called again...maybe it was Vincent or Vinnie or Vaughn?  And another who had a penis the size of my little finger.  I'll give him a little credit and say it swelled to the size of my middle finger when it was hard, but it was the one and only time that I heartlessly kicked a guy out of my house without any explanation other than, "I'm not about to resign myself to a whole night of pretending to enjoy this."  There was another guy who banged on my door in the middle of the night, drunker than hell, professing his undying love for me after I'd told him I was finished.  When I told him I was calling the cops, he threw the empty bottle at my front door and disappeared...forever.  And there have been a few swinger "name casualties".  Hell, it's dark, there are naked people...I can't remember them all for god's sake.

5. Someone who you suspect may have forgotten you?

Oh, sure.  I mean, I'm good at what I do, but it's my mouth or my body or my cunt they'll remember.  Not my name.  If I even gave/give them a real one.  It doesn't hurt my feelings a bit....Now the time Mr. LL called me by his ex-g.f.'s name after sex?  That landed his ass on the couch.  In fact...he relegated himself there before I could even kick him out.  Of course, that was VERY early on in our relationship, so no hard feelings.  It's funnier than it is anything else, because it could happen to anyone, and it meant nothing.

Bonus question: Someone you wish you could forget?

Yes...that guy I told you about above...the one with the pinkie-sized dick.  And there was this guy in high school.  I went down on him under a blanket between the bed and the wall in a crowded hotel room when I was 16.  I'd be cool with letting that one out of my memory.  Shit, the stupid things we do when we're young and desperate to be accepted.  And...he was my ex-boyfriend's best friend.  I know - right?  And there was the guy who I dated who got hooked on meth (even though he was also on anti-psychotics) who took what wasn't offered on the bed of his VW microbus.  I could forget that moment - though I honestly don't hold it against the guy.  Drugs do terrible things to people.

But, honestly...pretty much all of my sexual experiences are a necessary part of who I am as a sexual being.  If it weren't for them, I wouldn't be who I am or do what I do today.  So, I guess I don't really want to forget any of them.  Besides, they provide me with a laugh (to myself) from time to time.

Monday, November 26, 2012

On Matthew McConaughey, Woody Harrelson, Male Strippers, Butt Plugs, Red Wine, and Being Held Down

So, last night I learned a few things about my desires during and after watching Magic Mike with my husband.  Of course, I also reminded myself of a few things I already knew, as well.  Let's start with what I knew:

1.  Matthew McConaughey is hot, even when he's playing a freak in a yellow crop top and hot pants.

2.  Male stripper shows are a blast...full of showmanship, dirty humor, and drunk women who objectify men just as much as men objectify women.  I prefer the shows to the plain-old strip club atmosphere, mainly because of the increased entertainment quality of the shows.  I feel the same about the women...burlesque theatre is way more fun than a simple strip club.

3.  I like men who take control.  I mean...really...take...control.

4.  Butt plugs are a fun sexual accessory.

5.  Red wine makes me do things I might otherwise not. on to the stuff I learned.

1.  Mathew McConaughey's recent roles are growing more and more bizarre.  He seems to be following a similar path to that of Woody Harrelson - cute young hunks who played in lots of sweet comedies, then began to age, and (in order to avoid type-casting?) took on weirder and weirder roles until they were, in fact, weird.  Or maybe eccentric is a better word? epiphany was this - I find them both hot...and now that they're both weird, I bet being caught between them, naked, would be a crazy blast.   I basically have given myself fodder for years' worth of fantasies by putting these guys in one bed in my head.  What other crazy hotties can I add to my mental orgy?

2.  Watching male strippers on television is fun (better than porn, for me, actually) - maybe not as fun as watching them in real life or having a real-life lap dance.  Bonus:  Mr. LL didn't hate the fact, quite the opposite.  I also had to admit that I found out I have a subconscious thing for the "b-boy" look that I consciously detest.  Those sweats and sideways hats always make me groan, but somehow...this worked.

3.  I'm having moments in which I really want Mr. LL to take the reigns and make me do what he wants.  I love it when he holds me down or physically restrains me.  After watching this film, I was properly turned on and ready to go, having said yes to 1 or more extra glasses of red wine that I should not have had (always nice to hit work on Monday morning with a hangover and no sleep because you were up too late fucking).  Could this be the beginning of S & M in the LL household?  Oddly enough, I really can't stand reading about BDSM.  I skip those stories in anthologies and just never really get much out of them.  The spankings, the ropes, the pain.  It just doesn't do it for me.  So, why is it that being held down does?  Hmmm....I'll keep chewing on that and see what I come up with.

4.  The little butt plug is no longer acceptable.  It pops out at the most inopportune time.  Guess, I'll have to upgrade.  Also, Mr. LL mentioned a fantasy last night of making me wear one all day at work.  Hmmm...I'm not saying no, yet.  Of course, I'm not saying yes, either.  That's a thought for now and a decision for another day.

5.  I can have a delayed orgasm.  Sounds weird, huh?  Let me explain.  So, Mr. LL is busy fucking me doggy style, and comes a great, hot load.  As soon as he pulls out, the cum spills out.  I stay in position as he rubs my clit a little, which instantly leads me to orgasm.  In fact, I squirted all over him and the bed, and the more I laughed, the more I gushed.  It was a totally odd sensation, to orgasm without anything touching my pussy besides my husband's finger tip and his dripping cum.  Who knew that stuff was so powerful?

Saturday, November 24, 2012

The Price I Pay for Fucking

I have a problem to confess (maybe someone out there in sex-blogger land will have some sort of helpful advice if I do).

I love sex.

No, that's not the problem.

Sex doesn't always love me back.

That, my friends, is a fucking BIG problem.

Here's the deal.  I go through these raging horny cycles, when I can't get enough dick.  I masturbate a few times a day, Mr. LL bangs the crap out of me several days in a row...and then, after a few hits.  A bladder infection.  Nothing puts a sex-life on hold faster than an infection.  3-7 days of antibiotics; and even if I take probiotics, I'm bound to get a yeast infection from the damned meds.

It's a total pain in the ass (I mean pussy).

I just went through a bout of this, which is why this strikes me as a good time to bitch about it.  In fact, last night, we finally had sex, after a week...Happy Thanksgiving, right?

I've had a lifetime of UTI trouble...tests, tests, and more tests to find out that I'm "just prone to them."  Doesn't matter if I bathe in cranberry juice, guzzle water like a freak, pee after sex, shower after sex, pray after sex....

I really have NO idea what the magic bean is...why it is that sometimes I get them (could be 2 or 3 in a row over the course of as many months), and sometimes I don't.  But it seems that rough sex, several times in a row is the kicker.  Maybe as soon I'm raw, the bacteria set up shop and find places to hide they might otherwise not?  I already know that condoms, lube, and plastic toys can certainly aid in not only my pleasure, but my misery.  I'm relegated to non-latex condoms, plain lubes without any sort of flavors or sugars (nothing that heats up or tingles), and the soap I use to wash my toys must be anti-bacterial and washed off completely before they are dried.  And he's supposed to shower before sex.  That doesn't always happen, because, hey...let's be real - in the heat of the moment, stopping for a wash isn't the first thing on my mind.  Maybe it should be. 

Fucking fabulous.

So, right now, this means that even though I'm back on the horse (so to speak), I have to be careful, because Mr. LL and I have plans to go to a house-party in the coming weeks.  Can't go ruining the pleasure palace between my legs if I'm hoping to use the hell out of it soon.  Which, of course, means, I'll probably have one after that anyway.

And while we're on the subject of paying a heavy price for fucking...there's the shaving, too.  I've written about this before...I rash up pretty bad, no matter what method or products I use, so when we're gearing up to play with others, I don't shave until right things are as a bare and smooth as possible.  It means letting things grow for a few weeks, which isn't really optimal for anyone involved.

I wish I could just be effortlessly bare, smooth and infection-free.

Maybe Santa can help me out with that? 

Or maybe you can help?

If you or your partner have trouble of this sort...what do you do to keep the infections at bay?  I've been dealing with them for more than 15 years, so this isn't new, and I've tried all the standard stuff.  But, if you have some little secret, please DO tell.

Friday, November 23, 2012

Wearing Nothing but His Socks

She had her hands in the dirty dishwater when he came flying around the corner wearing nothing but his socks, his hair disheveled, and his face unshaven.

"He's outside! the bedroom!"

"What?!"  she feigned shock, but her naughty smile betrayed her.  Since they'd had kids, "quickies" were definitely where it was at.  They'd tried all kinds of possible places (yes, even the closet), and had been interrupted more than a few times, which was part of the intrigue - they could be caught with their pants down, at any moment.

The difference between a quickie and regular sex was that there was never time for foreplay, no time to undress, no time to think about all the reasons that they shouldn't.

"He's out there with friends...what if he brings them in?" she offered the concern, but knew he was already beyond worrying.  No time.

He grabbed her around the waist, pulled her to the bedroom, and locked the door.  Her cotton lounge pants were hardly an impediment to his searching, as he pulled them down around her ankles and pushed her over the bed, which, handily, was the perfect height for it.  Down on one knee, without romance or a ring, he slid his finger from the crack of her ass, across her puckered asshole, between her lips, and stopped at her clit.  With two hands, he spread her open and licked her to wetness - nothing that could really be called foreplay...really just a fast way to lubricate her.

She listened carefully for the front door, but it was hard to concentrate with his tongue where it was.  And when he stood, and eased his dick into her from behind, she lost her sense of hearing.  Completely deaf, she pushed her ass into him, urging him to go faster.

His hands held tight to the handles created by her position, pulling her to him with each thrust.  She grabbed hold of the quilt and bit it hard, suppressing her verbal reactions.  She was already dripping her own wetness down the inside of one thigh.

He pulled out briefly to turn her over her, still right at the edge so he could remain standing.  He liked the view of her tits bouncing under the tight white t-shirt.  Even in a bra, he could envision the pink nipples pointing at the ceiling.  And he knew he could bring her to instant orgasm this way.  Her feet resting on his shoulders, his palm on her clit, rubbing vigorously in a circular motion, his dick pumping into her pussy.  He could always tell when she was close:  the arched back, the beautifully pained look on her face, her fists clenching whatever they could reach, and all of her lower muscles contracted.  And when she came, he couldn't help but follow.  Just the rhythmic tightening of her pussy was enough to send him over the edge.  And when he gushed his hot cum into her, she came again.  She loved the feeling of him warming her from the inside out...little tendrils of heat moving up her belly, across her chest, around her neck, and settling in her cheeks.  That "freshly fucked" blush of utter contentment.


In unison, they both said, "Oh, shit!" and instantly separated, scurrying to find proper cover.  She grabbed a pair of underwear, hoping to contain the liquid trying so hard to come back out the way it went in; he ran for his robe.

Unlocking the door and peeking her head out, she yelled back down, "What do you need?!"

"James wants to know if I can go to his house for lunch!"

She didn't even think it through...."Yes!  Yes you can!"

Traipsing into the bathroom, she slipped her hands inside his robe, "Looks like we're going to get a little more time on this one..."

She dropped to one knee, without romance or a ring, and took his mostly hard penis into her mouth.

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Wicked Wednesday: Afternoon in the Park (fiction)

Afternoon in the Park
a story inspired by the Wicked Wednesday prompt above....

The cold, wet air felt good in her lungs as she ran down her driveway and turned left, following the perfect suburban sidewalk all the way to the park.  Her smooth, bare legs bristled with goosebumps, but she knew her body would heat from the inside out with the constant strumming of her feet on the pavement.

There had been a wild storm earlier, and the ground was wet.  She ran around puddles and splashed through patches of grass, until she reached the trail she was aiming for.  Her headphones pumped music into her ears and magnified the sound of her breathing and her heartbeat, as if her ears were clogged.  It made the music sound far away at times, when she focused in on her internal rhythms.

She didn't see him, crouched behind the bushes ahead, but he certainly saw her.  In fact, he saw her on most of her runs.  He watched her from a distance, followed...waited.  Maybe today would be the day.  Maybe he'd have the balls to jump out, grab her from behind, silence her with his gloved hand, and drag her into the bushes.  She'd fight.  Hell yes, she'd fight.  Probably bite a hole right through the leather.  He could see the muscles dancing in her thighs, the slight hollows in her cheeks as she sucked in cold air.  When she released her breath, it left a smoke trail behind her.

His dick started to twitch to life.  Fuck.  He felt wild with indecision as she moved closer and closer.  If he was going to do it, he had no choice but to strike now.  Now.  Now!

The second she passed him, he flew from his camouflaged position, grabbed her from behind, wrapping his arms around hers to keep her from swinging her fists.  His next move was to clamp his hand over her lips, grabbing hold of her face and squeezing in order to keep her mouth closed.

He picked her up off her feet, bending backwards to stabilize himself as she flailed her legs wildly.  Behind the cover of dripping foliage, he threw his weight on top of her.

"If you scream, bitch, I will slit your throat, here and now."  He breathed it into her ears through clenched teeth, a stinging whispered order.  In his euphoria, pupils dilated, eyes wide with a crazed, singular motivation, he jammed his knees between hers, ripped the thin fabric of her running shorts, pushed aside the crotch of her panties and plunged his dick into her clenched pussy.

He almost came on contact.  But he willed himself to hold it in for at least a few ecstatic thrusts.  He had waited too long to let it go so quickly.  He wanted to savor her rigid body, and his complete and utter control of it.  Pushing so hard into her, he grunted with effort and release.  And when the climax actually came, a rush of fluid bubbling up from his balls, he could feel the pressure building all the way down his the head...and into her hot, wet cunt.

"You like that, don't you?"  He heaved the words into the side of her face. "That's what you wanted..."  "You've been asking for it for years, and now, you've gotten what you deserved.  Prancing around the neighborhood in those tight little shorts, wagging your behind and those pert little breasts bouncing with each footfall."

Her body went slack and he released her face.


He rolled her over and looked at her face.

"Yes.  And I can't believe you did it!  You scared the absolute shit out of me, you fucker!"

She laughed out loud, breathless and wild-eyed, smiling like she'd lost her mind.

"Fuck, Aidan.  I really didn't think you had it in you...holy shit!"

"Did it live up to your expectations?" he asked, smiling, a bit sheepishly.

"Holy shit.." was all she could reply.

"I brought you some extra clothes."  He gestured at a black canvas bag on the ground nearby.

"Didn't figure you'd care to prance back through the neighborhood in ripped shorts."  He grinned.  And she put her arms around him and kissed him hard.

"You are so getting fucked tonight.  Holy hell, what got into you?  I've never seen you with so much...fuck...I don't know what to call it...shit that was hot..."

"So, do I get an A for a first attempt?"

"You get an F...for holy fuck, baby..."

(Disclaimer - while I may have had a few strands of "rape fantasy" run through my head from time to time - hey, I like the power dynamic, what can I say - I would never condone rape, nor would I really wish to have this particular scenario played out in my own life.  But, when I read the quote for today, I thought "wild" finds "wild"...untamed...something a little different in my writing repertoire.  And so, here you have it.)

Sunday, November 18, 2012

Tattoos (fiction)

All I have to do is look at a different part of his body when he's on top of me, and it's like I'm fucking someone, or something, new every time.

A multi-colored serpent winds itself around his left arm and hangs over his shoulder, resting it's scaly head on his color bone. It's eyes, like a jealous woman, taunt me. It silently claims a part of him, but right now, so do I. My teeth leave an imprint on the serpent's face, a jagged, semi-permanent reminder of our confrontation, and my victory.

I roll him onto his back, taking charge in the way that he likes. The sort of power he lets me have. He thinks it's cute when I run the show. It turns him on. Straddling his hips, I feel like I've been impaled on his massive dick - the kind of phallus that requires forethought, a relaxed cunt, and lots of lube. Rocking very slowly back and forth, easing myself into a more pleasurable state of existence, I run my fingers across his naked chest. There's a tribal mask on his right pectoral muscle. 5 inches of angry African voodoo staring me in the face, it's red eyes dancing with each of my lover's breaths. I put my hand directly over it, letting it peek through my fingers. I want it to watch me as I fuck him. I want it to know who I am, as I suffocate it with my entire weight.

I pull myself upward and off of his erect and swollen shaft, lean on one knee and dismount. Turning my body around and re-straddling, I kiss his lips with my pussy. If it could purr, it would...when he places each hand on an ass cheek, gripping them like basketballs in his palms, spreads them, and licks me from front to back like a sticky lollipop. An octopus wraps itself around his left thigh, sneaking in between his legs, and up on to hollow of his pelvis. Two, small yellow eyes gleam from the sides of its head, bobbing up and down and swaying with the current of his muscles, as they tighten and relax. I kiss the tip of all 8 tentacles, from his pelvic bone to the inside of his thigh.
It's a constant battle between psyche and art. May this war last an eternity.

"Man with an Octopus Tattoo II" (2011) by Richard Learoyd. This life-sized nude photograph has a pose similar to that of works by Ingres. Photographer: Richard Learoyd/McKee Gallery New York/National Gallery via Bloomberg

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

One drink away from your first kiss with another girl

So once, at a swingers meet and greet, a guy told me that every woman is just a few drinks away from her first kiss with another girl.

Hmmm...I'm not sure if that is true, really (maybe it was just his "hope" talking).  It certainly was for me.  But, for others?  I refuse to presume what others want or don't want...but in my opinion, we're all pretty fluid, if we are truly honest with ourselves.

Honestly, I think society (nurture) has had a greater impact on our psyches than (nature), which seems to get beaten out of us at every turn.  We're told exactly what to think, how to feel, what to believe, who to love, who to trust, who to stay away from.  And interestingly, we still have addiction, behavioral and mental disorders, and people act outside the "cultural norm" all the time - even when punishment for it is imminent.

Can't fit yourself into the main stream - one-on-one - man and wife - nuclear family with a two-car garage, 2 1/2 kids, and a dog - stereotype?  Don't worry, very few of us (if any) can.  Taking a virtual walk down the aisles of the personal ads on Craigslist; you'll see a never ending supply of people seeking "something else", something "new", something "dangerous" or "naughty".  Married men offering to suck cock, women looking for gang-bangs or hoping to fulfill rape fantasies with a stranger, couples looking for a single woman or man, men asking for used underwear....all with the promise and request of complete discretion.  You name it - there is a fetish for every day of the year, and hundreds of people to revel in each one.

There is no way to judge another without first judging ourselves.  So, really, it's best to avoid it.  If no one is being harmed (i.e. everyone involved is a consenting adult) really shouldn't matter to anyone...and the more it matters to a person, the more likely it is that transference is the real problem.

I don't like to call myself anything.  I'm not really bi-sexual...because I don't have sex with women on a regular basis, and I prefer men.  I'm not really a swinger...because I haven't really committed to the "lifestyle".  I do what I want, when I want.  Hot chic?  I'll fuck her.  Sexy group of couples, I'm in!  Sexy time alone with my one-and-only?  Absolutely...he's my soul mate; that's why I said, "I do."  And I can truly say that I am thankful to have such an open, honest relationship where we can discuss ALL of our desires - even if they make us feel uncomfortable or embarrassed.

Labels are almost always inaccurate, and they tend to not only categorize us unfairly, but they also sometimes make us feel or act a certain way that we might not without them.  I don't like to be pigeon-holed.  And I don't like feeling guilty for natural desires (and really, all desires are natural - as we are all produced by nature)...whether they are right or wrong or not - well, that is a personal decision).

To is a feeling - pure sensation.  As is love.  Neither can really, fully be explained...nor should it.  There is a certain magic in not being able to define humanity.  There is wonder in not knowing.  Best to just live life, enjoy the opportunities when they present themselves, and stop questioning so much whether it's right or wrong. 


Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Ever shot cum out of your nose? read that title right.  And my answer is a resounding YES.  As of last night.  And, because I'm a glutton for punishment and love sharing my own stupidity so that I'm not the only one laughing at you go...true story:

Mr. LL pulls all the bedcovers down to the foot of the bed to get them out of our way.  He then proceeds to go down on me like a damned professional (fuck, he's awesome at that!), gets me good and soaking wet and then fucks me until I orgasm with a splash.  But, he's in it for the long haul, and since we'd had sex earlier in the day, he was going to last for quite a while (a fabulous quality in a man).

There we are, fucking like beasts...several orgasms down - for me - and one that just plain won't come (pun intended) - for him.  I really hate it when he doesn't come, so I work especially hard, accepting the challenge.  I got on top and rode him slowly (which often works), contracting my muscles around his cock, rising all the way up...almost to the tip of the head, and then slowly back down, grinding into his balls.  And

The only thing left to be done was to suck him off.  But, I wasn't exasperated yet, and I enjoy seeing him climax, so it was all worth it to me.  I've never been a quitter, and I really hate leaving my man unsatisfied (though sometimes, it just doesn't happen...a rare thing, but not unheard of).  I can honestly say that I just don't feel as if the deed is "done" if both of us don't get our rocks off...and I so love to see his face in ecstasy and feel the heat of his seed explode into me.  Really, it's like the 4th of July fireworks finale, but more an emotional imperative.  I pout if it doesn't happen.

Alright, so I'm there between his splayed thighs, my ass in the air (wouldn't it have been nice to have someone back there encouraging me?), licking around the sides of his balls, up the sides of his dick, circling the head, ever so slowly.  I let him go deep into my mouth, to the back of my throat, rubbing my tongue up and down the ridge on the bottom of his penis, from base to tip.  He was trying so hard to accommodate let go of his load.  He started grinding his hips upward, pushing his cock into me, fucking my face with gusto.  And finally...finally...his breath stopped and his body became rigid; I braced myself for the flood, which started out small, and then streamed and spurted until he was spent.

Now, I'm going to admit right here, that I'm not big on swallowing.  Never have been.  I love sucking cock, but I just don't enjoy the flavor of semen.  He's cool with this and knows that once he's come, I'll make a quick bee-line for the bathroom sink, spit, rinse, and jump right back in bed for afterglow snuggling.

This is where the trouble begins.  Remember those bedcovers heaped at the bottom of the bed?  And let me add that we have a platform bed that puts us up three feet above the carpeted floor.  I sat up, my mouth full of of come, put my hand out to stabilize myself, and realized - a bit too late- that I was further down at the bottom of the bed than I had thought.  My hand caught nothing but air and, as my momentum forward had already begun, the blankets under my ass began to carry me down.  I rolled off the bed with the heap of covers, right onto the dog (who looked at me like, "What the fuck?  I was sleeping!  Why would you do that to me?").  I started to laugh, tried to hold the come in...but - as you already know from the title of this post - it sputtered out between my clenched lips and sprayed out of my nose...all over the wall, the treadmill, the carpet, and the dog.  Poor thing has to listen to daddy make mommy scream night after night - and then this.

We laughed so damned hard as I cleaned the dripping liquid off the wall and the floor.  This is the joy of married sex, and I'm thankful for it.  If I had been single - or in new relationship, I might have been mortified...completely and cripplingly embarrassed.  But, instead, we shared a fabulous laugh at my expense.  I've been giggling under my breath about it all day long.  

Monday, November 12, 2012

Masturbating in the Shower

On my back in the bed,
legs splayed lazily,
my breathing was slowing down.

A liquid mix of us
dripped between my cheeks,
tickling my backdoor.

It was such a good afternoon fuck.

You dressed and headed back
out to the kitchen or the couch
so I could shower.

I stood slowly, letting the come
make lines down the insides of both thighs,
squeezing my muscles to encourage its release.

I put my hand between my legs,
cupping my entire pussy
to feel the wet heat,

sliding one finger in to feel
the swollen sides and the slickness
you left behind.

In the shower, I couldn't help it.
The come all over my hands,
I stuck two, then three fingers inside.

On my toes, holding on to the wall,
my thighs and calves clenched, fingers
squeezed tight, but not immobile...

small movements, for a few minutes,
and a quick, biting orgasm,
led to a final gush of fluid.

The water was hot,
and the fan muffled my cries,
as I nearly collapsed.

And no one heard a thing.

Hot, unplanned sex in the middle of the day when it shouldn't be possible is a blessing that should not be taken for granted.  Especially for those of us with children.  It must be fast, and furious, and may be interrupted at any stage of the game.  Maybe that's what makes it good.  Masturbating in the shower is must be quick, and you have to be quiet, and someone might just walk in on you.  I know, I know, lock the door...but what's the fun in that?

Book Review: Morning, Noon, and Night (ed. Alyson Tyler)

Cleis Press showers me with gifts on a regular basis.  15 erotic collections to be exact.  And being the busy procrastinator that I am, I haven't returned the love like I should have.  Naughty me.  So, for this review, I'm going to wax on and on and make up for it.  

So, here it is, boys and girls...Alison Tyler has created a lovely little treasure trove with this collection.  She has a gifted eye for the erotic and the literary...which make for a powerful combination in this satisfying read.

First off, I think the theme and organization are fantastically creative.  Each story combines with a time of day, beginning at 4 a.m. with "Wake Up Call" by Jax Baynard and ending at 3 a.m. with Alison Tyler's "Last Call" for a total of 24 hours and 24 stories.

There really is something for everyone in this anthology.  It's aimed at couples (hence the subtitle "erotica for couples") and definitely lends itself well to being read aloud.  I will say, it is rather tame, which isn't a bad fact, it's refreshing.  It's nice to see that "plain old one-on-one vanilla sex" is still being written about with freshness and verve.  The back of the book rightfully claims that the book is "a sizzling collection of headily sensual stories featuring hot for each other couples whose love fuels their lust".

The sheer variety of the stories makes it hard to put the book down.  Here are some quick mini-reviews of my top ten in the collection, in chronological order.

"5 a.m. Walk of Shame" by Dante Davidson -    

Quite a little twist in this one, which I greatly appreciated.  Writers of erotic fiction who have the ability to truly craft a story rather than simply write about sex in an explicit manner warm my language-obsessed soul.  In this short, Davidson has created characters that I believe, dialogue I can hear, and scenes I can see and feel.  

Gennifer, in her "dark wine-colored satin corset fastened over a white peasant blouse and a short, flirty black-and-red velvet skirt" and Max work in a coffee shop, where they serve some customers "their regular dull coffee to go with their regular dull lives".  But there are others, the "walk of shamers...the patrons she liked best, enjoying spinning stories about what their night-befores might have been like" that inspire the events of the story, like Flo, the "hall of famer walk of shamer" with whom making eye-contact is difficult for Max as he serves her..."she was so obviously recently fucked."  

Ultimately, it's a fun little jaunt into that would be easily replicated in role-play, if a reader were so inclined to be inspired.

"6 a.m. Coffee" by Heidi Champa -

Oh, what a fun exchange between a man and a wife.  I could so see this scene playing out in my own house...the doting husband who gets off hearing about his wife's escapades...her words driving him onward...his reaction encouraging her words.  

Elisha comes home "late" from a bachelorette a strip-club.  Seriously, need I say more?  My favorite line in the whole story sums up everything that makes this story wonderfully delicious (and realistic) - the dialogue:  "Here I was, worried something terrible had happened to you, and you were busy fingering a stripper."

Ha!  Classic. 

" 11 a.m. Elevenses" by Jeremy Edwards -

According to Jeremy's website (bio) - "Though he is aware that most of the planet’s sentient species manage to enjoy copulation without ever putting on their reading glasses, he personally feels that a judicious turn of explicit phrase can be worth its weight in primal bliss. His lascivious prose embodies an enthusiasm for sex in its sunniest form, as he strives to blend the sensuous and the playful, lighthearted laughter and erotic urgency."  

This story proves it.  In fact, it had me smiling the whole way through.  Not only is it written well, it brought me a feeling of contentment.  "Elevenses" is the story of a couple moving halfway across the country, leaving behind the comforts of decade-kept routines, finding, in the back of a truck in a parking lot in Nebraska, that home is within us...literally.  

I love how the characters, Drew and Cilla, cling to the comforts of an everyday love and show that long-term relationships don't necessarily become stale because they are well-charted and known, inside and out.  In fact, it is just this quality that allows those couples who have been together for years to please each other so completely.  Everything is a case of "you had to be there", a series of inside jokes and intimate secrets that make two people a couple.  I not only had the sense of sexual lust from the this story, but also the sense of trust, commitment, humor, and love.

"1 p.m. Test Drive" by Angell Brooks -

I knew immediately that I would relate to this story and it's main character in the second paragraph:  "It had been a hellish day so far, and all she wanted to do was get through the next four hours without killing someone.  After that, it was a long bus ride home to a hot bath, yoga pants and NCIS marathon on her PVR.  And wine.  Lots of wine."

It's hard not to smile at the bits of humor infused into this sexy tale of a woman who underestimates herself and the man who builds her back up:  "As he took a deep breath to calm himself, he managed to slide the key fob easily into the ignition.  He flashed to an image of sliding into Trish that easily and his cock throbbed."

I did have a few problems with the story.  For example, Trish and Alex take a fancy Lexus SUV on a test drive.  Trish is sitting next to a hot guy in a fancy car they are about to hand over to a client, and she falls asleep?  And later, this same self-conscious woman who thinks all the skinny hot chicks in the office cast a shadow across her plump, 32-year-old, polyester-wearing self, takes complete command in the back of the SUV?  I don't buy it.

But, it didn't stop me from loving the story.  So I still give it a rave review.   

"2 p.m. Biker Bar" by Thomas S. Roche -

I have to admit, I was turned off by the title...and the first several paragraphs really didn't grab me...but once I gave into the charmingly devilish male voice of the narrator (who struck me as a laid-back GQ sort of adorable man-child with a five o'clock shadow and a crotch-rocket), I was pretty much sold.  The story really is so conversational that I can almost feel the smile in his words.

The homerun for me with this story is the believability of Summer - the girl who has a dirty streak she really doesn't want anyone to know about...the kind of dirty streak she covets in her own mind but is marginally embarassed by outside it.  Of course, the male voice encourages "the dirty" in her and she uses it to her advantage, in coy whispers of school-girl flirtation.  She makes promises in his ear..."If you take me home right now, you can spank me...and fuck me...and fuck my ass..."

Summer is an easy character to relate to, and she is described by a doting male voice in a way that would easily encourage all female readers to submit to those things they would never admit to wanting.  More than submit actually...beg for them, in secret, of course.

"3 p.m. Closed-door Meeting" by Sasha White -

This is a fun little number that is great because it'd be so easy to replicate (hey, we all need a little inspiration from time to time).  A married couple, separated by an ocean, prepare to reunite by having some fun for each other via webcam, he in a hotel bed, she in her office, with the door closed but unlocked.  

Nothing too terribly original here; I just appreciated the sweetness of the characters and getting to know them through the realistic, natural dialogue...this easily could be a conversation had between my husband and I.  

My absolute favorite paragraph, and the moment I put this story in the top 10:
Hunger for his taste filled my soul and I whimpered.  God, I missed him.  I wanted him, I craved his touch, his taste...his body inside mine as we connected in the most basic way.  The slickness of my need flooded my thighs as our eyes met; it was as if there were nothing between us, and when his lips parted and his command reached my ears, my body obeyed.  "Come for me, wife." 
"10 p.m. Portraits" by Preston Avery -

Another fun interpretation of marital experimentation to spice up the everyday hum-drum of a possibly tepid relationship.  I get a kick out of the husband character in this story - an engineer who is awkward with modern technology (i.e. an 8 megapixel smartphone that he buys his wife).  Of course, from the get-go, you know that, based on the title and the introduction, this story is going to revolve around texting naughty pictures.  There is a tiny twist to it though, to keep it fresh:  the photos are just subtly sexy - a neck, a belly button, painted toenails, the inside of a thigh...the sorts of things that would appeal to someone who knows all the parts in-between and can (and will) mentally fill in the spaces that are left out.

The wife of the story, sends pics throughout the day...but the real fun comes when the husband gets his chance to work his way back through them, in person.

Like most of the stories I preferred in this collection, the close relationship of the couple is what carries the story.  The underlying concept of long-term lust, based on the sort of deep knowing, earned over time, being made fresh by trying something new.  These kinds of stories gain their strength from authors and readers who believe that relationships can evolve over time, and that small changes can have a heavy impact.  Avery's interpretation of this possibility is crafted with honesty...a bit of a bumbling, geeky husband who is at the mercy of his wife, until his cock is hard and he's got her naked.  

And just wait until you make it to 10 p.m.  Thoroughly delectable.

"1 a.m. Girls' Night Out" by Vida Bailey -

 This one is not a story about a married couple (interesting, though how most of the stories I liked were - could just be my bias toward what I know best and am most comfortable with).  This is, however, fun in a "we've all been there" sort of way - trying hard to look like we don't care as we watch the person we want "want" somebody else.  

Cally wants Rob.  Rob wants Cally.  But, Cally doesn't want Rob to know.  Cally doesn't want Cally to know.  But Cally can't help herself and finds herself at the mercy of a man who has the ability to control her body in a way that makes her a bit uncomfortable, nervous, and wet.  

First time sexual experiences need to be handled with care, in reality and in writing, whic Vida does.  When boundaries are being stretched, it is understandable that people would be worried and insecure.  Cally embodies these emotions, but gives herself to the moment, answering Rob's repetitive inquiry, "What do you want?"  with a question, "You?"  She's a sympathetic's easy to understand her emotions and her thought process.  And in a short story like this, that's a hard thing to provide, as a writer.

I like how Rob, who is obviously in control, continually allows Cally a way out, if she wants it.  Of course she never does, even when she breaks and lets it all go.

"2 a.m. Date Night" by Sophia Valenti -

Growl.  That's all I have to say.

Well, no really...I suppose I should expound upon that, as this is a review.  The concept of a one-sided open-relationship isn't all that new.  A husband allowing his wife to fuck around on him isn't original...but the twist of the wife knowing she will come home to punishment for it, and the husband moving " the darkness, like a predator slowly stalking his prey.  'I have such a bad girl for a wife'...'Such a bad, slutty girl..." add a little umph to an old story.  Brandon pushes Celia to tell him everything she has just done on a late night date with an old flame, brandishing his belt and making sure she knows that cuckholding him is not only part of his turn-on, but also a large part of his power over her. 

Brandon's and Celia's agreement works for them both...and even though I usually don't fall for stories of BDSM...I have a hankering for this variety...the sort that take into account the central relationship of the characters, because that's what really gets them off.  I guess I'm just a romantic at heart - and sex for sex's sake isn't all that appealing to least in print - because then it's just porn.  And porn, while it has it's place, isn't what erotica is about.  If I don't have an emotional connection with the characters, it is just not worth my time.  

"So when are you seeing Rick again?"  Brandon asked breathlessly, his voice tinged with hope.
"Next Saturday."
"Good -- I can't wait."

Me, either.

"3 a.m. Last Call" by Alison Tyler -

Well, Alison...a first-time, 5-man gang-bang in the middle of a cleared-out bar at 3 in the morning is a nice way to end an already enticing collection of erotic stories. 

Closing time's coming.  I look at the clock over the bar.  The boys are starting to shuffle around.  I can tell they want the rest of the crowd to leave as much as I do.  Stumble home, people.  Get into your trucks, shut one eye, and hope you make the ride home alive.  However you do it, get the fuck out.
Exactly...let's get on with the show.  After a quick explanation of her choices, the deed begins to play out, under the guidance of her husband Declan.  It's a motley crew, to say the least, though the addition of the pudgy line cook whom Dina feels a little sorry for add some humility to the whole thing.  And Dina's introspective thoughts, like "Most of the day, we walk around stifling our inner selves, damping down the words we'd love to let loose..." easily strike a cord with the reader.
We all have fantasies like this.  Most of us, however, never act on them.  Dina claims, "...when you're part of the old-and-married club, the tools get rusty.  You're not supposed to want to fuck anyone else anymore, ever again.  Take your libido, honey.  Bottle it up in that mason jar and stick the thing on a shelf.  No more surprises for you, dearie.  You're all used up."
But this collection proves that seriously wrong, now doesn't it?  So many wonderful ways to keep a long-term relationship going.  So many fantasies and experiments.  In fact, oftentimes, it the comfort of knowing that you're safe and secure--and that the other person will still be there in the morning if it all goes terribly wrong--that allows the "old-and-married club" to act out their fantasies more readily than those who are new to the game or in a new and untried relationship.  I can speak from experience.  90% of my craziest sex experiences have happened since I got married.  And why?  Because I know he isn't going anywhere.  I can let my inhibitions go because our safe word is "commitment".

Lovely job, Alison.  Such a pleasurable way to spend a weekend.

Pages of the other authors in the collection (whose stories were by no means bad, just not as appealing to me as the others)...I encourage you (because I know will be doing it) to check them out.

Aisling Weaver
Justine Elyot
Donna George Storey
Kat Watson
Cora Zane
Kristina Lloyd
Sommer Marsden
Teresa Noelle Roberts
Victoria Janssen
Ashley Lister

I couldn't find sites for Jax Baynard or Georgia E. Jones.  Please let me know if you find one, so I can link to it here.

Saturday, November 10, 2012

The Sensualist - a tale of massage...with a twist

A long time ago I read Diane Ackerman's A Natural History of the Senses.  While reading it, I learned that each of us is ruled more by one sense than all the others.  For some of us, smells elicit the strongest emotional and primal reactions.  For others, it is purely visual...or auditory.  For me, it is touch.  Blindfold me and let your fingers lead the conversation - that would be my choice, above all other things.  Sweet nothings in my ear are nice, a beautiful smile is a turn on, the taste of salt on skin is enticing, and the smell of cologne can be intoxicating...but I will take touch any day of the week.

This is why, today, I am thankful for massage.  I try to go at least once a month, for my mental and physical well-being.  But, it's hard, when you're a deeply sexual being, not to derive at least some sensual pleasure from being naked in the room with another human, indulging in skin-to-skin contact.

The lavender chamomile massage oil, the soft music, the dark room, the pretty girl with glasses whose hands warm and soothe my muscles.  It's amazing to me that not every single person on the planet takes advantage of this.

I go mainly for my back, but since it is always offered, I take the full-body massage.  And I've had enough different massage therapists that I've learned to appreciate the ones who have fewer "boundaries", so to speak.  And I wonder, if just maybe, they sometimes have the same feeling...that tingle of interest as their hands slide, palms open, across the small of a person's back.

The majority of my stress sets up shop between my shoulder blades and at the sacrum, where sciatica is an unwelcome, occasional guest.  Since that has begun to happen, painful knots have been growing in places too intimate for a massage therapist to attempt on their own.

But what if...

I walked into the dim room, removed my clothes, and slipped under the soft flannel sheet and smoky blue down comforter.  Face down, I eased myself into a comfortable position, placed my hands at my side and waited.  When she returned, tapping softly on the door to alert me to her presence, she said nothing.  With my eyes closed, I could hear the tiny clank of bottles and her hands rubbing together, slippery, heating the oil in her palms; the scent permeated the room. 

She began at my shoulders, gliding her hands down my spine, following the curve as it dipped down and then back up to the top of my ass.  Kneading, and circling her palms, she searched for areas of tightness to loosen.  As she worked her way from my neck down to my lower back, my breathing evened and I let go of my entire day, sinking deeper into the table.

Per our earlier conversation, she spent a good amount of time on my neck and my shoulders, which felt so good that it was impossible not to let out a little moan of pleasure and approval.  I felt a bit self-conscious about it, but somehow, it seem to encourage her.  She put a bit more pressure in to her movements, pushing her thumbs deep against my spine until they reached the lowest part of my back.  As was expected, this was the place that ached most for her attention.  It took very little time before her actions were eliciting from me sharp intakes of air and appreciative whimpers that, I'm sure, told her all she needed to know.  She moved lower still, no more than inches away from my anus.  The knots abounded here, and the feeling of pain and pleasure mixed enticingly, making it hard to stay still.

"Do you mind if I move on to the table, to help secure your position?" she said, in a buttery voice.

"That might help," I replied.  "This is the place it all seems to husband tries to rub them out, and it helps, but they keep coming back.  I have no idea what causes it."

"Let me know if the pressure is good, or if you want me to move.  I'll need you to move your arms up toward your head."

She placed her knee on the table and I felt a slight flush of air as her leg brushed over my head.  Her knees rested on either side of my torso, her thighs holding her hovering above my shoulders.  From here, she continued to push and prod her fingers all over my behind with intention.

As the tightness finally began to let go, she gracefully climbed back off of the table, hardly making a sound, and pulled the sheet over my back, covering my shoulders.  She peeled back the sheet from my leg, pulling it outward a bit to expose as much as she could while still allowing for my modesty.  I heard the tiny clank of bottles again as she poured more oil between her hands and rubbed them together.  She began at my calf, moved up to my knee, and then to the back of my leg.  Her fingers moved up underneath the sheet to the inside of my thigh, fingertips just brushing the edge of my labia.

Then the other leg...and just to the edge, once again.

Once she had finished my feet, she asked be to roll over on to my back.  She held the sheet and comforter up toward her, allowing me to twist around under cover without knotting the blankets up.  I situated myself, and she pushed the blanket back from my leg.  Again, the calf, the knee, the quadriceps, the inside of the thigh, and the hint of an intimate touch, held for just a moment longer.

Then the other leg...just to the edge, and then a pause.  Her fingers briefly traveled into the crevice between thigh and lip, small massaging circles, as if testing for a reaction.  I stayed still and moved my leg, just slightly outward in subtle encouragement.

Her slippery finger traced the outside of my shaved outer lips, upward...and then the inside, downward.  She may not have been able to tell, with her oiled fingers, that I was wet, and I tried very hard to remain still.  I didn't want to question why or what, just relish the moment, which was fleeting...leaving me with that sort of delicious disappointment that licks at ones deepest desires - teasing and torturing the lust to the surface.  The want that is not fulfilled.

She replaced the blankets and moved up above my head, sitting on a stool.  She peeled the comforter and sheet down to expose the just the upper swell of my breasts, and began pushing her fingers below my collar bone, to the indentation before my shoulder.  Both hands in sync on either side of my upper body, she worked several paths from my neck between, around, and above my breasts, just barely allowing the edges of her palms and the tips of her fingers to brush them.  On her final sweep upward, she let her hands graze my nipples, which were completely extended, sending gooseflesh down my entire torso, connecting one erotic zone to the other in a conversation of mutually unfulfilled hunger.

My arms, my hands, my head...

And she ended by holding her hands to my temples long enough for her heat to mix with mine, the pulse above my ears and the pulse in her fingers speaking a language only the body knows.  Wordless.

"Take your time getting dressed.  I look forward to our next appointment."  And she swept from the room.

As do do I. 

I have to admit, that while I definitely took liberty with reality here, all of this is based on true experience.  No, she did not actually touch any of my intimate places, though she came closer than most of my prior therapists.  And I do deride some sexual pleasure from this.  She did not straddle me, but she did place one knee on the table to ground herself and allow her to put greater pressure on my sciatic area.  Basically, every sexy part of this story was just one or two steps past the real experience.  I don't expect that it will ever reach the extent that I have drawn out here, but my mind can go there (which I promise you it will), with my eyes closed, senses overcome by herbal relaxants.

Thursday, November 8, 2012

Reading is Sexy

To begin...this is a "kill two birds with one stone" sort of post.  It's HNT...and I haven't really been great about coming up with new material.  It's definitely a goal of mine to do better at this.  I'm just not a wonderful model (by which I mean, I don't follow direction well and I freak out when I'm in front of the camera), so I normally do my own photographs (which takes all day, since I have to take 100 to get 3 that work).  Mr. LL took this one tonight - and I think it worked.  I got a little inspiration from a photo I saw elsewhere...

I thought...books!  That's it...what a great way to go incognito and still be sexy.  So, here you have it...

In fact...this might be the beginning of a series of HNT posts with books at the center.  Why not?  After all, I AM the Lustful Literate, aren't I?

So here's the second a part of my "30 Days of Sexy Gratitude"...I'm thankful for erotica.  And I'm thankful for the words that create it...and the authors who weave those words...and the readers who consume them.  From the earliest sex writers to today's...thank you for inspiring lust for literates.

And while I'm at it...a shout out to Cleis Press!  Got ANOTHER package of materials to review in the mail.  I'm most excited about this one (just because I have a fetish for men in uniform):

But this one also appeals:

More on these later.  It's time to read.  Naked.  Maybe out loud to Mr. LL.  Foreplay?

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

Wicked Wednesday: "Change"

This week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt is:

Age 10

Standing at the edge of the empty playground,
she whispered in my ear,
"He says you give him a boner."
I asked her what "a boner" was.
She said I made him "hard."
I asked her what that meant.
Her explanation caused roses to
bloom up the sides of my neck.

Age 13

We stood facing each other,
though I was at least 3 inches taller.
The only thought in my head was
"Please don't let our braces lock."

Age 16

He came all over the backseat of
my mother's car.
I spent 20 minutes at the carwash
trying to erase it.

Age 19

I laid a towel on the floor
and we made a bloody mess of it.

Age 20

Her black curls and
freckled cheeks
tightened my thighs
and made me question
my intentions.

Age 23

I was already bored,
but I was sure it was love.
I'd never known a man
to want it less than I could.

Age 27

I met my match.

Age 28

He asked me what I thought
about the prospect of
a threesome.
I giggled.

Age 29

He asked me what I thought
about the prospect of
I cried.

Age 30

We went to a club,
left our clothing and
our inhibitions
in the locker room.
we ascended the stairs to
a red velvet wonderland of
curtained beds,
writhing bodies,
and moaning lovers.

Age 31

I checked the box.
I checked the box.

Age 3__

I sit next to him on the couch,
our laptop screens glowing like two eyes,
showing us whatever version of
the world we seek.
I write a poem about sexual identity.
He researches the election.

My poem could suck.
The guy we didn't want could win.

We'll still have sex.
And that's the beauty of it.

Sunday, November 4, 2012

Masturbating in the shower

Well, since I lumped days one through three of "30 Days of Sexy Gratitude" into a single an effort to catch up, I suppose I can take a breath and catch up a bit.

Day 4 - I'm grateful for masturbation.

That about sums it up.  More specifically...masturbation in the shower after shaving the kitty smooth.

There really is something enticing about a newly shaved pussy.  Even when it's my own - maybe even "especially" when it's my own.  I don't shave it every day.  If you've read my posts in the past, you know I have some pretty severe issues with rashing up after shaving, no matter what I try.  So, I try to let a little time pass between shavings.  And, to be honest, I let it go too long sometimes (I'm sure Mr. LL would agree - with a disgruntled nod).  But, this does lead to quite the turn on when I finally get around to it.  Pretty much every time I shave, I get the impetus to take it for a spin...much like a newly washed and waxed car.  Often, I can't even make it out of the shower before I've got my hands all over it - today was no exception.  Although, I'll admit, finding a do-able position in the shower isn't always easy.  Laying down with the shower on "jet" certainly has its perks, but it's hard to maintain the right angle without a major spinal injury.  Ultimately, the easiest thing to do is simply to perch one foot up on the edge of the tub, opening access from the front and the back.  Sounds clinical I know, but the effect is pretty amazing, if I do say so myself.  Naked, wet, slick, and slippery - need I say more?  Well, since this is a blog about sex, I suppose I must.

Now, since I didn't think to take my camera in the shower...and I'm not quite sure how I'd photograph that anyway...but, I'll do my best to walk you through the scenario.

First off...there's the grooming.  I'm not sure why it strikes me when it does, but the mood hit and I just had to get rid of the hair.  So, out came the trusty Shavy Femini.

Not the most flattering picture on the planet...but I have to sort of pretzel myself on the floor, legs spread with a mirror propped up so I can see what I'm doing.

Once the shaving is achieve maximum smoothness, I break out the Seiko personal shaver:

That leads to a nice, clean kitty.  And she's ready to play.  Or at least mine is, after all the manipulation that goes into the shaving process...masturbation is simply the natural next step.

Once, I'm in the shower...I try a few I turned the water heat up high, laid down in the tub, spread my legs - one foot propped on the edge of the tub, the other resting against the wall...I let the hot water beat against my clit for a minute or two before I intensified things by rubbing it with my fingers, then sliding my finger into my pussy, rubbing the base of my palm against my clit to keep it stimulated.

It was evident, however, that my body was interested in more, and I stood, propped one foot up on the edge of the tub, slipped my right hand between my legs from the front, and my left hand around to the back.  Bending forward slightly for easier entry in the back door, I slipped in one finger, then two.  And then from the finger, then two.  To maintain balance, I just let the fingers do their work from inside without a lot of extra "in and out" action.  It really is kind of amazing how little petting is necessary when the cat is ready to purr.

I'd say it took less than a minute...probably less than 30 seconds, in all honesty.

And the nice thing about fucking yourself in the shower is that there is no need for clean up.

P.S.  Don't forget to VOTE!

Saturday, November 3, 2012

30 days of "sexy" gratitude

Everyone else is doing it, so why not me?  November, the month of remembering what we're thankful for, has come upon us - and even though I am 3 days behind, I'm going to jump on this horse and ride (a little inside joke for a reader of mine).

1.  I praise the gods above that I married a man who loves to go down on me (he's pretty much a rockstar when his face is between my thighs).
2.  My capacity for multiple orgasms is a blessing.
3.  And while we're at it - I'll say thanks for the ability to gush all over the sheets.

So there you have it - days one to three (I'll embed the rest in posts hereafter).  I'm starting small here, but I'm at least getting my feet in the water again.  I've been out of sorts lately - just plain not feelin' it.  Not the sex part...just the writing-about-sex part.  I simply haven't had any great ideas.  In fact, I haven't had ANY ideas.  Which is disconcerting and disappointing, to say the least.

I'm trying, though.  Rest assured.