22 December 2008


Thank the Universe for hard, strong, balls-to-clit, pubis-to-ass fucking! That's all I've got right now: Thankfulness and exhaustion.

17 December 2008

Insomniatic meandering

I can't sleep. This is not new, but tonight add that I am aroused: wet, swollen, throbbingly aroused and he is sleeping deeply. Worn down tired, breathing heavily, wrapped tightly around me, but not in this world. He rolls away, reaching out in his sleep to place his hand on me. I turn onto my back. Now it's worse, my legs fall open and I NEED to be touched. I've never discussed this with him, what he would feel, what he would say if he awoke and I was in the throes of passion without him. No matter, I don't want to disturb his sleep, yet right now, I am disturbed.

I've tried this before, making myself come with no outward signs. I must be VERY still, I must be VERY quiet, keep my breathing steady, make and keep my clit hard and sensitive. I must be in two places at once.
This is actually very fun.

We are in New York City, an apartment I have visited, but never played in. The outside wall overlooking Tin Pan Alley is entirely glss, and he has a plan. Cuffs and a spreader bar on my ankles are no surprise; the open curtains, and the hook he has installed in the ceiling are. He ties my palms together at the wrist, my fingers can just twine around the rope, pulled up and hung from the hook. I am tall, praying to the ceiling, legs wide, fully naked. If I sway forward just an inch, my nipples brush the cold glass hardening immediately. The room is warm, and I wonder at the extreme in sensation from fron
t to back. He is gone for a moment, gathering toys and ideas, I assume. I do not expect the flogger, soft and wiggly on the small of my back, traveling up my spine, through my hair, gone for a split second, then SMACK on my ass. Tricky he is, and I love him.

This is working out well. Breathe carefully, naturally, he hasn't moved, but he is near. I can smell his hair, listen to his breath, bring him more fully into the new world I have built in my head while my middle finger finds its way between my legs to the wetness, the building swell...my GOD, I'm wet. A little goes a long way, my finger slips over, across, flicking. Perfect.

Ooh, another surprise! After a few more cushy smacks with the flogger, it is replaced by his hand, without missing a beat. His expert hand hits the roundest part of my ass, smarting, causing me to push against the glass--too cold. I'm beginning to fully understand the genius of the position he has contrived. Again, cold front, warm back, hot and stinging rump. And I know he's just getting started. I am getting wet, more than wet; it's starting to move out of my lips, into the hollow of my thigh. What on earth will he do when he notices?
He noticed. He noticed when his hand moved down to hit the tenderness, just at the fold above my legs. He noticed, and he let me know it.
I've been silent, overwhelmed at the novelty and quickness of the surprises. Now, HE moans. Just a small, quiet cozy noise he makes when he sees something that makes him happy - and hard.

He shifts in his sleep. Have I been too lax? My finger is busy, my clit is so slick it can't become jaded to this repetitive circling. I'm building a need to be filled. I squeeze inside, try to fool myself, push myself. But don't move.

What's he doing? Moving away? Undressin
g? I don't know. He wants me to wait, but, as usual, he moves faster than he'd like. My hips tilt back as I try to find him with my ass. "Is that what you offer?" He asks. Holy shit, just do it, just do SOMETHING, and take me hard. That's what I'm thinking, in both worlds. In this one, I nod. And then his cock is on me, pushing, soft skin, hard core, cool against the red burning from his spanking. I have done nothing wrong, and that is not the point. Each sensation that comes from HIS hand is heaven. He wets the head of his cock between my legs, teasing the lips open, teasing my clit, teasing my pussy, but no. That is not what I offered, that is not where he'll go.
He pushes in slowly, just the head in my ass, screamingly open and then yielding to him, all of him, slow, strong, hot, smooth. He fucks my ass slowly.

I'm going to come, seriously. Can I be still? I'm afraid I'll buck, and that thought eases the approaching orgasm. I've definitely set a high goal here.

Without withdrawing, he reaches high, over my back, the heat of his chest against me. One hand on my hip, stroking up
to my cold nipple, tweaking it. I squeak. This is the inventive, attentive, and fucking hot man I know.

The one sleeping peacefully next to me, while I put him through mental paces, pushing and rolling across my clit the whole time.

He unhooks my hands, still tied in prayer, an
d pushes my arms down in front of me. My hands have fallen asleep, and begin to tingle now. I can barely keep up with the different sensations: one cold nipple, one rolled between his fingers, cock in my ass, tingling hands, and now...he presses something between my wrists, nestling it securely between my palms and guides my hands up until I feel the warmed smooth curving head of this:

Yes! It isn't easy, navigating by elbow bend, pushing it up and in, popping that big head in a space made small. He's taking up so much room down there!

Holy shit, I'm going to come, I'm making a hell of a wet spot, and I don't want to leave this world. Oh, honey, don't turn this way, I will have to wake you up.

I get it in, no lube needed, the displaced wetness running down my leg. He is stroking slowly, stopping to allow entrance for each rib on the dildo. Now we've done it, I'm full. It hurts a bit, just for a moment, and now I don't care. He has his hands on my hips, fingertips digging in to hold my pelvis tighter, pull me against him. I am bent double, head up for balance, hardly breathing. I push it inside in rhythm with him, in and out together. Then we switch, as I pull, he pushes. He is reaching to my heart, my breath is coming harder, his cock swelling. The thin skin between holes is stretched and pushed. Goodness. I keep up the strokes, but he has stopped. I don't care. I must fuck myself with this thing. Now I wonder if he can feel the ribs as well as they pop along, almost vibrating me inside. He moans again, still, and I KNOW he can feel it. He seems to have lost his mind, we have no rhythm, it's all pushing, pulling, filling, needing, and his is throbbing. I feel his balls pull tight away from me, the warm promise of our orgasms building in me, like an itch and a rub and a tingle all at once. And he is pushing, panting, groans...

I am coming, it's built up so far. I'm still, breathing slow, pulling it all inside, keeping it all for ME. My orgasm pops and swells and spreads down my legs, takes my breath away, fills like white heat behind my closed eyes and smile. He moves. I do not. In the other world, he lays me down and kisses me. Here, I am sleeping.

12 December 2008


Weebles, as you may remember, wobble, but they don't fall down. I have been blessed with incredible friends. As someone whose most intimate cohorts were men until my 30's, including a few awesome gay "boyfriends", I look around me now and realize that I have somehow collected an amazing assortment of deliciousness and delight in my girlfriends. These are women with insight, creativity, strength, passion, and stories to make your hair (or toes) curl. These are women who have been knocked hard, wobbled, yet refuse to fall down.
They have also generously agreed to appear here, shown through my eyes and words. This is a bravery beyond expectation, for it is one thing to anonymously share my life and fantasies with any and everyone who may read this, and a far other world to be shared by me, to read my perception of them and my versions of their exploits. Poetic license may be taken, but I can never fully convey the respect and awe I have for these ladies.

Peneleope and I met through our daughters, who attended the same elementary school. She was the ONLY other mother at that school who reached out to me to be friends, and in my typical walled-in fashion I was shocked and amazed that she would. Penelope, who is tall, intelligent, sexy, well-educated, generous, frank, beautiful, brash,wild, wooly, cultured, driven, lush, and strong, is a fantastic mesh of seeming contradictions. Whether she believes it or not, she is often "the pretty one", and she is a broad in the best sense of the term.
She believes that red-headed men are all well-endowed, she believes in whiskey and the redeeming power of good food, she believes in treating herself and her loved ones well and in demanding respectful and worshipful treatment of her lovers. Penelope believes in herself. She is amazing to know. I no longer believe that I cannot be surprised by some crazy-ass comment or anecdote. It is a tribute to her passion for life and the absurd that she can always make me laugh out loud, always engage my mind, always open new worlds to me.

Penelope introduced me to "Boob Tag", one of my favorite games. I often thank the technological gods for the invention of picture messaging. This is one of the best ways to worship at their altar. It is a simple concept: Take a picture of any woman's breast and send it to all the other players in your contacts. They must then find a willing subject and reply with a picture of another willing anonymous tit. It takes no time at all to fill one's phone with beautiful pictures. Everyone loves boobies, right?
When Penelope told her lover about the game, he pouted like a child, looking up at her with his giant, twinkly eyes, and said, "Why can't I play Boob Tag?" The answer is simple: he has no boobs. At least, not the kind any of us want to see. We've tried Boy Boob Tag, but I don't reccommend it.
The game waxes and wanes, as with all networking ventures, yet it is always a pick-me-up to hear that phone alert in the middle of a boring night at home or board meeting, and find a perky "smile". I know then that somewhere cocktails are flowing and my friends are busy debauching their corner of the world. I also wonder if the collage I am making can somehow be utilized for breast cancer awareness. (Ideas?)

11 December 2008


When I was sixteen, my boyfriend’s father caught us in his house skipping school, a minor infraction complicated by my state: crawling naked across his bedroom floor desperately trying to find my previously discarded dress. Phone calls ensued, about 10:00 that night, and soon after my mother hung up, she was in my room. I denied nothing, and waited for her to lower the boom. Instead she had a series of questions: Was he my first? Did we use protection? What were my motivations? In the end, the closest thing I got to a lecture or punishment for the act of sex (not for the skipping school part) was an understanding that she respected my decisions about my body as long as they were physically and emotionally healthy. After spending puberty under the tutelage of my redneck father and right-wing oppressed grandmother, it was not only a shock, but a liberating and empowering revelation.

Thereafter, I enjoyed an incredible sex life, one full of the usual pitfalls and disappointments as well as exploration, joy, humor, and not a little bit of pride. I’ve not considered myself promiscuous, nor have I denied myself much in the way of experimentation or creativity short of the rights and responsibilities of monogamy.

I am, at heart, a monogamist. I probably always will be, not because of well-worn and usually misogynist lists of rules, laws, and morals, but because when I love, I do it whole-heartedly and gushingly, no time for more than one. And maybe, too, because other areas of my life have left me with lingering stings from abandonment and misfit-ism, and my emotional, physical, spiritual and intellectual worlds are incorporated fully into my sex drive.

When single, my motto became “I do who I please and I please who I do,” which translated just as easily to monogamous relationships considering that one person is who I choose to “do”. I have an impressive (to me and others) list of lovers, all of whom taught me something about life, sexuality, love, or some other technical skill I couldn’t live without now. And I hold no room in my life for regret, even for my ex-husband, with whom I have the only bitter relationship of the lot, but also an incredible child. I love them all for what they have been to me.

Except one.

Not that I consider him a lover, not at all. In fact, for a long time I thought I had been able to deny that what happened between us was sexual at all, or that it affected who and what I am in the world in ANY way. The summer I turned 34 I was raped. It was not violent at all physically, but was an attack which struck from and at the other love of my life: spirituality. A double violation. I told no one for a long time and very few since. The initial feelings of anger, shame, revenge, worthlessness, confusion, resignation washed over me in about five minutes. And I was left numb. I decided I’d work it out later. I had a lot to do in my life.

That life only lasted about a month longer. Disaster struck my city and I found myself adrift and scrambling to renew security in mine and my child’s world. Busy, busy, busy, abandoned again, and insecure as I could possibly be. But I still didn’t believe I needed to deal with what had happened. I was fine, I hadn’t done anything wrong, and I could move on and let that whole episode be drowned along with all the fond memories I had had of that place. I ended up in therapy for PTSD and a pre-existing anxiety disorder, as did everyone else I knew from the city. But even THEN I didn’t deal with the rape. I entered a sexless relationship with a manipulative emotional (and sexual) cripple, hadn’t been laid since weeks before the rape, and still figured it would work itself out. When I found myself back in my hometown, I made quick work of popping my cherry again. And then I just did it some more, felt better, got a job, settled in, and figured the curse was broken. Maybe it is. Maybe, though, exorcism takes a lot longer than a year or so.

It had been almost two years when I met a boy: an intelligent, tall, creative, great-smelling, intense, and somewhat sad boy. We made love, and I kept him. We’ve had a fairly rocky road coming together and maintaining the same storyline, and I’m glad we both had enough faith in each other and ourselves to make it this far. (Far being 2300 miles from the starting point.) I love him dearly, closely, infuriatingly, frustratingly, passionately. Often, though, the passion stops somewhere at the edge of his skin. Is it this curse I’m carrying? Why don’t we have a physical intimacy akin to our intellectual and emotional one? These are things I need to speak to him about, and do. And will some more. What I want here is to indulge the emotional exhibitionist in me as well as the dirty mind and the playful libido, share the stories I create and collect, the conversations I have with my friends, and some incredibly hot ideas I have all while undergoing a renewal long-overdue. I’m embarking on a path of remembering, reclaiming, and reigniting, and I promise myself and anyone stumbling across my words that it will not be boring.