Only a Mirage

Impulse Control

2007-09-29T16:58:00.000-07:00

I adore my new boyfriend, Mr. Esquire.
I really do.
He is a simple man, a guy's guy.
He likes college football and golf.
He listens to what I say, and doesn't ask too many questions to which I would have to provide uncomfortable answers.
He buys me pretty things. He makes sure I eat.
He is handsome, yet insecure enough about it to not be an asshole.
He is, as far as I can tell, very honest.
He is easy to get along with, and liked by the people I introduce him to.

Really, we have next to nothing in common.

I'm none of those things, do none of those things.
I can generally be found whizzing through this life without much thought for consequence (until it's too late).

Which is probably why I recently found myself drunk on wine and high on temptation at the mercy of the restauranteur's hands.
Afterwards, I would tell myself that it was the drink, maybe.
I didn't know what I was doing.
I would mostly have been lying.

Because the truth is, I loved the feel of his hands as they traveled my body - caressing my hair, pushing up my top, taking off my bra, holding my tits firmly in place as he licked and sucked my nipples until they could have cut glass.

(You know how I feel about hands.)

I loved the way he pushed me back onto the ice machine and maneuvered me out of my jeans.
I loved the way he insistently pushed my thighs open, so that he had free access to my dripping slit, from which he drank voraciously, as I squirmed in pleasure over the cold metal of the machine and marble bar.
I loved the way he looked kneeling on the floor, the glow of the monitor casting an eerie green glow over his blond hair as he lost himself in me.
I loved the abandon I felt as I realized that we were probably easily visible in silhouette to anybody passing by.
I loved the palpability of the desire and passion washing over me in waves as I undulated with the flow of his touch, his grasping.
I loved the way he clasped his hand over my pussy and firmly fingered my hole and sucked at my earlobes and neck as I breathlessly told him how I had fantasized about him fucking me.
I loved the feel of his hardness straining against his pants, trying to seek out my waiting wetness.

I felt completely owned, at his mercy, his willing conquest.

"If I'm going to do you, it's going to be light, because I want to see everything," he said, and I let loose with an involuntary frustrated gasp.

I composed myself enough to replace and rearrange my clothing. He never stopped touching me, lips, tongue, and hands everywhere.

He tried to bet me $1000 I would not be able to avoid coming back in for the rest of the year.
I told him it was a stupid bet - I'd rather have the money.
"I'll give you the thousand even if you do come in. I have to see you again before the year's out."

And even though that indicated a shift in power, I still felt completely at his mercy, his willing whore.

I try to avoid thinking about it now, because I feel guilty.
I do adore Mr. Esquire.
But if nothing else, I know myself, too.

I'll be back.
And if the money is offered, I'll probably take that too.

p.s. I finally updated the links list - removed blogs that appear to be (more) abandoned, added some new ones of interested, dusted, lit incense, yougetthepicture.

Small Town

2007-09-21T01:26:00.000-07:00

Okay.

You know how sometimes, when you go to a place and you keep running into someone who looks really familiar, but you think there's no way you know this person?

Yeah.
That.

I went out tonight to a place here in town that I hadn't been to in a while (I'm y'know, all straight up and shit since Mr. Esquire came into the fray). I saw a guy I see every time I go in this place, but I knew I knew him from someplace else. Or he looked like someone I knew from someplace else. He looks different now. There are a lot more tattoos, thinner, more mature, hotter, rockabilly mother fucker.

Tonight, he finally asked me, "where do I know you from?" After some serious mulling over of the question at hand, we figured it out.

I named the person I thought connected us, and that was it.

Damn. Now I remember. The last time I saw you, you were on my floor, sucking my toes with your crazy ass foot fetish, and I'm thinking "what the fuck?!"

Now I'm feeling a little odd remembering what is now a virtual stranger in that way. And a little embarrassed I didn't make the connection sooner.
I mean, hello? Toe sucking is an activity generally reserved for the familiar, I should think.

I know I didn't fuck him, so that's good, because that would be really horrible. The not immediately remembering and all.

But if I let him suck my toes, there must have been something, so that's not so good.

I don't know what he remembers, but apparently he either likes his memories, or is using the old familiarity as a new jumping point, because now, he's all smiles, flirtatiousness and friendly.

It's weird.

This town is too small. I have got to move.

I Suck. And Not in a Good Way.

2007-08-27T22:35:00.001-07:00

I mean, here I (maybe) titillate you with the prospect of recounted debauchery only to let you down.

I'm sorry, dear reader.

At least I can cop to my transgression, so that's a step in the right direction, no?
In the meantime, the blogosphere has changed. I see maudlin enterprise and/or (more) complete abandon of some of my favored (and linked to) fellow bloggers.

Is there some fascism afoot of which I am not aware?

I hope not.

'cause if there were, then I might feel slightly more standoffish about telling you stuff...

Like since it appears I'm not going to be independently wealthy anytime soon, I've decided to try for dependently wealthy.
Which in my case, generally means making myself available to Mr. Esquire whenever he feels like trying to give it a go. Which is, most days, at least once.
And by "available," I do mean the belly-up kind.
(Except for those times I'm on fours. Although lately, he's gotten crazy and I've actually been on top for a second.)
Also, I have to listen to him, and for feck's sake, feign interest in whatever legal bullshit he's up to his ears in that day. Because the poor punter has nothing more to talk about. It is, at times, downright excruciating.

(ok, for those of you who are thinking right now, "what a bitch!" I assure you that I am already fully aware of that, and really am trying to make the best of it. Lemons to Lemonade, you know.)

It makes me crazy.

Where is the Justice in this world?

I have a very well-off high-profile not bad-looking professional man who bends over backwards to do what he thinks I want, and all I can think about is:
1) how can I use that to my advantage, and
2) when will Junior be back in town, because I'm dying to be fucked like the (not very professional or forward-thinking) whore that I am.

Not Dead Yet

2007-07-15T23:19:00.000-07:00

Holy shit!
You're still here...

And surprisingly enough, so am I, it would seem.
Not sure how that happened, but okay.

Thanks for the comments and sentiments - it means loads. When reading the comments left on a sex blog make you tear up, it really does give cause for pause, know what I mean?

I guess I should update.

It's a bit late to do that now, but I can report that sometimes more is just... more.

I had sex six times this weekend (the arrival of an unplanned but well-received crimson tide preventing lucky 7) and still don't feel fucked. Possibly because for the first time in quite some time, all of those six times were actually with the SAME PERSON.

I know.
That's crazy talk.

Oh well.

The scenery was nice, and I got a really fantastic book about plants that I hope will help me to improve the state of my landscaping.

Stay tuned for more details of my salacious weekend and further tales of my ongoing debauchery, because although I've taken a longish type break from sex here in the ether, on the ground, it has continued to be ridiculously down and dirty.

XOXO.

Hole

2007-04-23T21:47:00.000-07:00

Do you understand grief?

No, me neither.

But I do now realize that no number of cigarettes smoked, no amount of wine or liquor consumed over convivial times at the bar, no multitudes of men, no amount of cock will fill that hole, cross that divide, deliver me.

Miss you, dad.

What a Fucking Week

2007-04-22T23:33:00.000-07:00

It's been awhile since my last post, and even longer since my last juicy one, so to speak. I've been busy, blahblahblah.
I know you want to hear about the goods, so in a nutshell (and for myself as a memory cue, as I have lots of posts brewing about in my twisted little head, but no time to write them yet), here's the sum-up of my week:

Wednesday I went out with an incredibly hot motorcycle "club" member. Dinner, casino, my house. First time on the back of a bike in too long. This man gets a gold star for his pussy-eating skills. Demerits, however, for poor planning. No condoms, so no sex. Safe sex is important! Also, delayed demerits for leaving marks. Tacky! To thank him for the multiple orgasms as a result of his skillful use of tongue, lips, and fingers, I blew him like I was a porn star.

Thursday I fucked my ex-husband, who texted me with a to-the-point "sex please!"
He comes armed with a new script for Viagra and wants to practice using condoms. Gold star for longevity; I'm kind of pissed that he can keep it going for much longer now than he ever could while we were married. Ah well. Better living through chemistry. Demerits for poor condom choice. He broke out of the Magnum about halfway through the deed. Thank goodness I've been using those lately and could tell that we were no longer having safe sex. Safe sex is important! Next time he'll have to buy the double-extra-large size, and then fend off the shopgirls as they proposition him on his way out the door.

Friday I went to dinner with Jose who I haven't seen since his mother came to stay with him a few weeks ago, and who is planning on staying until June (!?). We played some vigorous tonsil hockey, then I had him drop me off at the motel I was staying in for the weekend with my friend (the one who had invited me and my friends to go to Vegas to hang out with him and his friends last month) and his friends. I felt kind of funny about staying out late with him, and sex wasn't happening, so there wasn't much reason to stay out too late.

Drinking games were well underway by the time I returned, and I happily joined in, playing Quarters for the first time since college. Drunken hijinks were next on the agenda, and in a surreal twist that should have been foreseen, I ended up having sex with the friend I love too much to fuck. Which is why I'm calling it "having sex" now. We did that twice. Gold star for pussy-eating and another for being prepared with condoms (apparently _somebody_ thought he might be seeing some action). Safe sex is important! Demerits for being either too drunk or too stoned to come. Poor bastard. Another gold star, though, for gamely attempting to play with me some more, saying "there's no reason why you shouldn't still have fun." I think he was really excited (and surprised) when I told him that I had already had fun. Several times, in fact.

The moral to this story, kids, is: Don't smoke pot! It will make you forget that you already showed him/her a good time and you'll feel compelled to start over even though everybody is already really tired!

This morning (Sunday), we got all hot and bothered and I was excited to try some sober sex to see if we couldn't get that boy off. Demerits for running out of condoms. Gold star for telling me that little fact before I was so turned on I'd fuck the Sonicare.

Junior has been calling a lot recently, so I finally picked him up tonight. I haven't seen him (except once out at a bar by chance) in over a month. He fucked me like a rock star. Two times, just the way I like it - hard and fast. I think I'm going to have some physical support for my decision I made earlier to impose a man moratorium for awhile. He pounded my pussy so hard, I think there's a good chance there will be bruising. Gold star for quick rebound. Demerits for being unprepared for safe sex. Safe sex is important!

Now, he's sleeping in the bedroom, and I'm out here, drinking a glass of wine, listening to the sound of the rain, and telling all of this to you.

Tagged!

2007-03-29T17:47:00.000-07:00

I've been tagged by Preheated! It's my first tag and I feel like a real Blogger (tm) now... And maybe like I should send candy, or at the very least, some unagi... ;-)

Without further ado, then, 5 facts about me you wouldn't have known by reading the blog:

1) I used to supplement my income by hustling pool.
Indeed, I found fairly early on that the "but I'm just a girl!" line worked wonders in appropriating easy marks with a willingness to wager.
That, and shots of liquor.
Given my general ability to out-drink most as an old pro (working as a bartender has more than a few perks), it was less like gambling and more like taking candy from a baby.

2) I once was the token non-lesbian among both cast and crew in a short film about a young woman's journey out of the closet.
I played the lead role. The wrap party was.... interesting. To say the least.

3) I hold a Master's degree in one of the social sciences.
I can't begin to tell you how helpful any degree in any social science is in terms of one's ability to maneuver through society and this life. I graduated at the top of my class. I also can't tell you how many times I've heard some variation of "wow, I would never have expected that from you" when talking to a colleague about my personal life. Apparently, I come off looking pretty prissy on the job. (ha!)

4) I am a gourmet cook.
My specialties are East Indian and Mexican. I also love to eat; one only need say the words "there will be wine and cheese" to ensure my attendance at an event.

5) I am heavily tattooed.
Which makes #3 even funnier to me! All of my work (save one piece) has been done by a professional artist who also happens to do tattooing. It is all located in places where I can choose whether or not it shows. I love the pain of the process - it's a release for me.

Whew! That was less painful than I thought it might be.
I wonder if I could convince Lou and/or Peony to respond.... haven't heard from either in a while...

Sugasm #72

2007-03-29T17:37:00.000-07:00

The best of this weeks blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #73? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form.

This Week’s Picks
Big-Titted Muses (http://middleurge.blogspot.com)
“In the span of fifteen seconds, these two lovers instantly own the room, the camera, the cock.”

Make it Happen (http://junohenry.wordpress.com)
“Dip two strawberries in the chocolate, eat one and feed me the other.”

Water, Water Everywhere… (http://thismuse.blogspot.com)
“He pauses there, feeling the weight in his hands, then soaps my breasts, rubbing the nipples between his fingers and thumb.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Nathalie Portman is Naked (http://sugarbank.com)

Editor’s Choice
Control (http://lafillemariee.blogspot.com)

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

NSFW Pics (& videos)
Bathtub #2 HNT (http://stealthbombshell.blogspot.com)
Cockslut Column #8 (http://themilfblog.blogspot.com)
Jamie Lynn Nude (http://eroticandy.blogspot.com)
Nikki benz episode 6 (http://boobfixxx.com)
Oh these college girls (http://myhotbox.blogspot.com)
Pretty In Pink (http://fourstate.blogspot.com)

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Always a Junkie (http://onlyamirage.blogspot.com)
The Blind Leading the Deaf (http://talktovanessa.com)
The Early Days of Porn (http://wanklog.blogspot.com)
Fears and Tears (http://lastbreath.wordpress.com)
Female Genital Mutilation vs. Hoodectomy (http://trishwilson.typepad.com/blog)
More Sex Sometimes Leads to More Sex (http://perverselypoly.blogspot.com)
Skin on Skin (http://totalsensuality.blogspot.com)

Sex Advice
Ask Evil Baby! (http://secretbrain.blogspot.com)
Reader Says: Ack! Ex Wants To Be Friends! What Now? (http://smutandsteff.com)

Sex Work
Sex Work and Society (http://www.principalquattrano.com)
Smooth is good, Smoother is better (http://www.longhairedgoddess.com/blog)

BDSM & Fetish
Amber (Part Six) April Fool’s (http://buttocksblog.blogspot.com)
Big O’s (http://sweatshopsissy.wordpress.com)
Do as you please with me Sir, i am yours (http://pixiepie.wordpress.com)
Exposed (http://www.timidboy.com)
Happy HNT - Hearts and fetish (http://darkside-journey.blogspot.com)
Just Rope (http://pandorablake.blogspot.com)
Meeboguest G confesses: “I suck his cock” (http://anawtymouz.blogspot.com)
Whispers (http://pick-up-pieces.blogspot.com)

Sex Reviews
A Few of My Favorite Naughty Things Part II (http://www.taratainton.com)
Love Honey Toys Review (http://radicalvixen.com/blog)
Vibrating Feeldoe Review (http://stilettodiaries.blogspot.com)
Web Cam Girls for Live Chat (http://www.connectbycam.com/blog)

Erotic Writing and Experiences
After his date. (http://dirtylittlecockslut.blogspot.com)
Another moment of promise. (http://celebrateyournaughtiness.blogspot.com)
Ball Games (http://confessions112.blogspot.com)
Catch Me Off Guard (http://designingintimacy.blogspot.com)
Country Bar Bull Pickup (http://watchingmywife.blogspot.com)
First Time pt. 4 (http://kislee.naughtyblog.net)
Fuckmaker’s Paradise (http://ilichenyou.blogspot.com)
A Love Triangle (http://sharedcindy.blogspot.com)
The Soap Job (http://erotischism.blogspot.com)
Three Way (http://eroticjournals.blogspot.com)
A Tiny Bed (http://femmefataleteen.blogspot.com)
Until It Was Time For More (http://bikersballsandteacherstits.blogspot.com)

Sex & Politics
Living in Sin (http://deliciously-naughty.typepad.com)
Real Amateur College Porn (But Not How You Think) (http://mikeymongol.blogspot.com)

Paging Dr. Bob

2007-03-18T20:39:00.000-07:00

I'm out of control.
I've been out every night since last Monday.
So much for slowing my roll.

Tuesday I went to one of my favorite restaurants to make myself eat something. I try not to go in there too often, because the owner is jovial and perverted, which means that he gets me fucked up on tequila pretty much every time I visit, and then tries to fondle me or be otherwise inappropriate. It has turned out very badly more than once. God help me, I just adore that dirty old man anyway. It's hard to explain.

I went though because I needed to eat something, I haven't been doing much of that lately, and also because I was on the lookout for Dr. Bob, a surgeon I met in there the last time I got all fucked up on tequila.

Dr. Bob is an older (mid-50s), reasonably attractive (but much less so than Massimo) guy who seemed to fancy me when I met him. Actually, he told the owner that he was interviewing me. Seems Dr. Bob is looking for the 4th next-ex-missus Dr. Bob. His apparent confidence made him sexier, an aspect further increased by his surgeon salary. Those sorts of things make it easier to overlook the wrinkly skin and liver spots. And the mothball smell, but just barely.

I made myself all easily-spottable at the end of the bar, and sure enough, the good doctor happened by directly. The double-take and skid back to where I was made me giggle on the inside.

It seems that Dr. Bob had been back every day since we met, hoping I'd come in so he could finish his extensive vetting process. He had actually called everyone with my last name in the phone book trying to find me. Luckily for him, that is a short list. He doesn't know this, but he did call my sister; she told me I had had an anonymous caller there not too long ago. This was reiterated by the owner, who asked if my ears had been burning. Apparently the effort to locate my telephone number had been a team effort.

Dr. Bob and I became a bit more acquainted over dinner. I gave him my unlisted phone number, which he apparently shared with the owner, because both of them called me the next day.

It was still pretty early when I left, so I got to go hang out with my friends Dan and Jimmy at another bar, and watched Jimmy sing karaoke.

This is a side benefit of going out with someone who thinks 10pm is late:
One night, two chances for a date! No waiting!

Dr. Bob took me out to dinner on Wednesday, after we met at the bar of my friend's restaurant. I had the best tacos I've had this side of the border, which made me happy, and more amenable to Dr. Bob's relentless questioning about me, my values, and my beliefs.

I guess when you are Dr. Bob's age and on a mission, you really want to dispense with the formalities of the getting-to-know-you stage of a relationship and go fast-track. Time's a-wastin.

I let Dr. Bob kiss me goodnight. He wasn't bad, just out of practice, I think. He told me that it "has been years since [he'd] been with a woman."

I shook my head and tried to look appropriately appalled at his long drought.
"Poor bastard," I thought, "Years it's been, and along I come, working it like this year's Ferrari and your last ride was an '87 Datsun. In '87."

I threw the whammy down on Dr. Bob like the ruthless tramp I occasionally aspire to be.

And Dr. Bob was as good as fucked right there. He had that glaaaaaaazed look in his eyes after that first kiss. You know, the one zombies have when they're trying to eat your brains.

Poor Dr. Bob.
He never knew what hit him.

With a flick of my tongue, he was done.

Sugasm #70

2007-03-17T12:38:00.000-07:00

The best of this weeks blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #71? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form.

This Week’s Picks
You’re So Dirty When You’re Clean. ( http://middleurge.blogspot.com)
“The side of your hand slipping along her pussy lips. Her laugh, a mix of I-knew-it and do-that-more.”

Before ( http://thismuse.blogspot.com)
“Condoms and lube go into the bedside drawer next to the Bible. Purse into the drawer with clothes, whore-bag into the closet with my street shoes.”

Rude Bits: Tracy Quan on the Raunch Debate (http://susiebright.blogs.com)

“If someone is making money off your body, you should too.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sex Mad(ness) (http://sugarbank.com)

Editor’s Choice
The art of pegs (some artistic CBT) ( http://mistress160.blogspot.com)

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

NSFW Pics (& videos)
Heart Panties HNT ( http://stilettodiaries.blogspot.com)
Hillary scott episode 4 ( http://boobfixxx.com)
Just Teen Site’s Latest Nude Photo and Video (http://www.taratainton.com )
Light’s Out! ( http://buttocksblog.blogspot.com)
Veronika Zemanova Nude ( http://eroticandy.blogspot.com)

Sexual Poetry
Free verse smut ( http://kislee.naughtyblog.net)
Keys ( http://curious-grl.blogspot.com)
Poem: “International Women’s Day” ( http://porno-poet.livejournal.com)

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Confessors and Confessions ( http://aslipofagirl.blogspot.com)
Fuck Me, Daddy and Other Lessons (Part Two) ( http://www.sex-kitten.net)
A Fuck Superlative: Coming Together (http://brooklynrake.blogspot.com)
Hello, it’s Me, Again! ( http://totalsensuality.blogspot.com)
Once a Junkie… ( http://onlyamirage.blogspot.com)
Release ( http://sarawinters.blogspot.com)
Well, at least I have some good sexy thoughts anyways… (http://ladycalliah.wordpress.com )
Why I don’t do Myspace ( http://www.longhairedgoddess.com/blog )

Sex and Politics
GOPorn: Smut and the American Conservative ( http://mikeymongol.blogspot.com)
The Plot Thickens ( http://radicalvixen.com/blog)
Teacher Fired over Porn Pop Ups ( http://deliciously-naughty.typepad.com)

BDSM & Fetish
A Confession ( http://lestatsdragons.blogspot.com)
Fake Spanking Filmmakers ( http://adelehaze.com)
Fetish ( http://lonelyhouse.wordpress.com)
Happy HNT - Nipple clamp torture ( http://darkside-journey.blogspot.com)
The Ideal Fantasy School ( http://www.spankingwriters.com/blog)
Instant Replay ( http://pandorablake.blogspot.com)
Isabella’s Eyes - Part XV ( http://nyc-urban-gypsy.blogspot.com)
Sharing ( http://drtycplinva.blogspot.com)
Y is for yes please ( http://redvelvetropeburn.com)

Erotic Writing and Experiences
5 Questions - A house in the country - Part One ( http://gentlygently.blogspot.com )
Afternoon Delight (part 2) ( http://perverselypoly.blogspot.com)
A Fish Story ( http://blog.myspace.com/tit_elation)
Just one hour to fuck ( http://lastbreath.wordpress.com)
A Little Anal ( http://ilichenyou.blogspot.com)
The long tease (http://marriageishot.blogspot.com)
Love Runs Hot ( http://dopaminedreamsoverflow.blogspot.com)
Message Received ( http://bikersballsandteacherstits.blogspot.com)
My girlfriend the stripper, part 6 ( http://erotischism.blogspot.com)
Snowbound ( http://joeheather.blogspot.com)
A Soft Romance ( http://eroticjournals.blogspot.com)
Vanilla spicy ( http://junohenry.wordpress.com)

... Always a Junkie

2007-03-12T18:14:00.000-07:00

I have the shakes.
And uneven breathing.

I feel hot.

I have tunnel vision and that addict's staggery walk.
I'm twitchy.

I can feel my every nerve ending.
My veins are throbbing and my spidey sense is tingling.

I can hear everything.
(If I didn't have this cold, I would probably smell everything too.)

I shirk personal responsibilities.
I hide in my house, blinds shut.

I don't answer the phone, but I want it to ring.
I let him leave a voice mail.
I make myself wait to check it.
I check the e-mail to see if he's in there.
I have no control.

The big junkie trap is thinking I can outwit the addiction.
It never works.

I don't want to talk to the soldier - the idea of him makes my gut roil with revulsion. I can't even think his name.
I did my duty; I fucked him three times and should have won an Oscar for my portrayal of the satisfied lover.
I just wanted to fuck his brains out, which I did, but I still have mine because he was a terrible lay, not at all skillful.
And to add insult to injury, quite small.

It was like that line in "O Brother, Where Art Thou": It aroused my appetite, but abated it none.

Now he wants to be my slave. And he wants to connect and bond.
This after I sent him home a day early, unceremoniously.
I want to not remember his name.
He calls and texts me incessantly. It's like an unseen barking dog I can't make stop.

I feel like a vampire - the lust for sex has replaced my soul.
When I look in the mirror, there is not even a mirage anymore. There is no reflection.

I'm angry with myself, and I want to run.
Or hide in the things that have served such a purpose in the past.

I'm thirsty.
I'm dying for a cigarette.
I'd love a line from here to the Yukon.
A spike in the vein.
Deep sleep.

The vibrator is my methadone right now.
It takes longer and isn't as effective as the real deal, but it does the trick eventually.
Afterwards, I'm just left with my shakes and the cold sweat and the tousled bedding.

I put a sheet over the mirror, and turn out the lights.
I'm just going to have to sweat it out.

I can sweat it out.

D'oh!

2007-03-09T21:40:00.000-08:00

You remember that scene in Dances with Wolves, where the hygienically-challenged carriage guy with the unnatural predilection for pickled eggs was talking about a skeleton encountered on the prairie?
"Some back home is thinking, 'why don't he write?'"

I get that with this blog sometimes, and the perpetually-empty inbox. "Why don't s/he write?!" I wail (quietly, and to myself).
Well, I got an inkling of an idea as to why this might be this evening, whilst morosely poking around my own site, vigorously _not_ getting laid or doing other fun and blog-worthy stuff....
The option to contact me by e-mail was nowhere to be found, which, I think, explains a lot.
*sigh.*
I'm such a tool sometimes, seriously.

Anyway, that's all fixed now, but if you're too lazy to go look at my profile (heehee!), you can e-mail me at: miamahana at hushmail dot com.

I'd love to get your feedback, comments, and suggestions about me, my freakshow of a life, and of course, the blog.
Something you want to hear more about? Less about? Let me know.
Love me? Hate me? It's all good. Let me know.
Why?
Because I don't know what I don't know until someone lets me know I don't know it.

Besos,
dd

Slow That Roll

2007-03-09T19:49:00.000-08:00

Well, dammit.
I had my weekend all planned out, and it did not include this vicious cold that has beaten me by TKO.

I felt it coming the other day, and tried to avoid it by popping Airborne like it was candy, and drinking lots of water and tea, and trying to rest (efforts that were thwarted by job-related hijinks), but no.
Phlegm is here, and it's trying to get the "stay 3 nights, get the 4th free!" deal.

And like that, my well-thought out and super-efficient plans for this weekend are pfft.

To wit: Jose should have been here now, and we would have been out at dinner, or I would have been humming the Battle Hymn of the Republic while he raised his pole and plunged it into my valley, or whatever else it is crazy folk do before hitting the town.

I had prepared for this visit with some help from Junior, who was kind enough to rearrange a couple of my rooms for me. Obviously, he was not fully aware of the motivation behind my haste to get this job done.

This is awful, I know.

If it makes you feel any better about it, I did ensure that he was able to make an informed choice before he made his decision to move my shit. I reminded him that I was "no contact" because it's _that_ time of the month, y'know, and also I felt a cold coming on, and I was on call at work. I advised him of all of these things, and repeated the question: "all that and you _still_ want to move my bedroom?"
And he stated that he did; he had offered to help, and said that he had plans this weekened and wouldn't be able to do it then, so... yes.
I thought to myself that it all sounded suspiciously boyfriend-like, but let him do it anyway.

I'm little, and my furniture is big. Who am I to pass up on offers of "free" labor?
(I put "free" in quotes, because all that effort on his part did result in my feeling compelled to perform some sort of sex act in gratitude, so I sucked that cock like it was my last meal, and let him fuck my face until he came all over it, so I guess that's something, eh?)
Anyway, I love the new arrangement, and it will be much more comfy and happy for me and Jose or Junior or whoever else happens to be spending the night now that the Animal Planet that lives here can be locked out of the new bedroom. Yay!

Well. That was certainly a bit of a digression.

To wit: Because Jose is not here now, he will have to come tomorrow instead, which means that I will not be able to go back to the hot-shit club I met him outside of last week like I had planned to with my friend. And now I run the heightened risk that we will run into Junior or Evan while out on the town, which could be disastrous.
I'm going to have to take him out because I barely know him, and it would be creepy to just keep him locked up in my house and just fuck him the whole time. After all, that's what Junior is for! (oh, good grief) Besides, I believe you should get out and see a place if you've never been there before, and this is his first time to my fair city. And he did ask to be shown around. Hm. I guess it's a good thing I'm getting some rest today.

To wit: Had I not had all these well-laid plans ready for execution, I am also missing the last minute spontaneous invite to Las Vegas for the weekend by an old friend whom I love too much to just fuck. Which sucks, because Vegas with the right people is a blast, and this guy is the right people.

Dammit!

So, I'm taking the illness as a non-negotiable message from the bod to slow my roll. I've spent the day in and out of bed, on and off of the couch, in and out of the sun (at least there is no effort in working on my tan). Evan brought me food, Jose offered to come take care of me, and my ma has called several times to check on me. I feel well cared for. I'm pissed that I haven't been able to go to the gym, but I've lost a few pounds already just because I'm not doing much in the way of eating, just pushing liquids. I haven't heard from Junior, which annoys me, then I get more annoyed with myself that I feel that annoyance toward him. *sigh* It's like his relational schizophrenia is contagious.

Ah well, here we are, then.
Whether this be a true opportunity for restoration, or merely the calm before the next storm, I intend to enjoy it as much as I am able.

Thank god for vibrators.

A Good Day

2007-03-06T22:41:00.000-08:00

I finally started my period. I don't remember the last time I was so happy to bleed. No gonna-be-a-momma-drama. What a relief.
I sensed an odd vibe off of Junior when I told him how lucky I felt, and how lucky he should feel too. He has a serious resistance to using protection. I'm generally not a fan of them either, but I admit their usefulness and necessity. I also admit some stupid choices in that area which led to the aforementioned stress and anxiety about the arrival of my crimson tide. He seemed more subdued when I told him. I wonder if he isn't, on some level, hoping to make someone a momma. It's a sure way to lifelong attachment and I get the sense that attachment is more important to him than he lets on.
Well. That's not good. And it's not going to be me. I don't care how much I love to ride a dick bareback. Who doesn't?! But, it's not worth the trauma of constant concern.

Over the weekend, I met a tall hot soldier. Tall is important. FrankenMan is tall. Because you have to be at least six feet to ride this ride (although I did meet a short-but-hot Cuban/Jamaican the other night I imagine might meet other equally-important requirements).
I will, for the moment, reserve judgment and not pass on Jose because he is from Texas (central Texas, even. Yikes!). Because do you have any idea how rare a tall hot Latino is?!
Oh, yeah, so the good news is that I have arranged for this fine young serviceman to come visit me this weekend whereupon I intend to attend to my civic duties, having contributed little in that area for quite some time.
I may not believe in this war, but I certainly believe in the men and women bound to fight in it. I can't do much to show my support, but at least I can contribute to some serious R&R (at least one of the "R"s anyway) for one good soldier. Or delinquency and debauchery. You choose.
At any rate, it's been a good long time since I had a member of this particular branch of the armed forces, and being reasonably close to the water these days, it seems like the right thing to do.

And finally....
Things had gotten weird there with Junior over the last week or so. I had made the mistake of advising him that I like my relationships good and defined, and that his choices were as follows: temporary ongoing sex partner or guy I attempt to date.
Apparently the pressure of being put on the spot with this choice was too much for him to bear, because he kept stalling me out, despite my argument that this is not requiring of a lengthy conversation, Act of God, or letter to a congressperson. Just a descriptional term.

Well, perhaps you can see the source of the difficulty here?
I finally got it.

He is 22.
And he has issues.

So, the moral of the story is: 22 is no time for such existential questioning.

I finally remembered who I was dealing with here (Hot date = Jack in the Box, remember?) and sent an e-mail (several days after one that pretty much said straight out that I was not interested in further engagement with him to which he replied something to the effect of, "what do you mean by that?") that said something like, "look. I was perfectly happy just fucking you because you're tall, hot, pleasantly-shaped, and not actively psychotic. I don't want a serious or committed relationship. If you can deal with this, feel free to call me."
Of course, I used all the right words and appropriate manipulative terms that I estimated would keep me from looking like an old lady desperate for his cock whilst simultaneously stroking his ego, 'cause he likes that.

I received an e-mail within the hour, and two calls later that evening.
And like that, I was able to restore my perfectly amenable casual fucking relationship with this hot little oddity. This is good, because I really do enjoy fucking and getting fucked by Junior.

I am a lucky girl right now. Yes, I am. And quite proud of myself for having managed to line up a steady supply of cock for at least three months without the worries associated with emotional engagement.

Now all I have to do is wait out the period...

Bitch

2007-03-05T19:33:00.000-08:00

I admit it.

I saw your pasty and wide pale face, your plastic put-on grin that inadequately covered the leer lurking beneath it, your off-the-rack suit you then had tailored to fit you better, your pudgy fingers sporting only your class ring, and your girth that I'm sure has spread substantially since your glory days in school team sports.

I observed that look of entitlement in your squinty becircled eyes, and the near-appearance of fangs and drool as you stalked me in a public forum.

Duly noted are your limp handshake that you allowed to linger for a second too long, and your lame attempts at engaging me in conversations whilst simultaneously dropping names that may mean something to some, but hold no sway over me.

I admit it.

All that and my conclusive thought (after the shock at your blatant salaciousness in a completely inappropriate venue for that sort of thing) was:

All right. I'll fuck you.
I'll fuck you until you can't see or breathe or think straight and take your shit too.

Housekeeping

2007-03-04T13:14:00.000-08:00

Added:
For the Love of Cake and Cock (sounds like a girl after my own heart!) - Randy chick spouts off on two of my favorite topics...
And Sugasm - a weekly smorgasbord of sex photos, essays, and other writings. Good times!

Also, thanks to Kim for the mention on her site at stumbleupon.com, which was a new site to me!

Sugasm #68

2007-03-04T12:56:00.000-08:00

The best of this weeks blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #69? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form.

This Week's Picks
First Client (http://thismuse.blogspot.com)
“He buries his nose in my pussy, licks me while I suck him, rubs his mouth up and down me.”

His Point of View (http://junohenry.wordpress.com)
“Once he shut the door — urgently, impatiently, with a deft kick of his heel and a satisfying thud as the lock caught, all vestiges of decorum disappeared.”

Why is My Sex Ed Class so Sticky? (http://deliciously-naughty.typepad.com)
“This game was played for NINE years, and it’s only this year that parents are writing the school board?”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Thumbnail Gallery Problems (http://www.sugarbank.com)

Editor's Choice
More on submissives with lists (http://principalquattrano.com/blog)

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Great Moments in Sex Education (http://sexualevolution.blogspot.com)
Half-Nekkid Nightie (http://sweatshopsissy.wordpress.com)
Hot Studs Have Feelings Too. (http://onlyamirage.blogspot.com)
I Am Greatful! (http://totalsensuality.blogspot.com)
If I Die… (http://perverselypoly.blogspot.com)
Let Me Out of Here! (http://inkserotica.blogspot.com)
Pull my hair (http://lustylady.blogspot.com)
The thing about size…. (http://dirtylittlecockslut.blogspot.com)

NSFW Pics (& videos)
“26 Reasons for The Birth of This Blog” (http://buttocksblog.blogspot.com)
Belated VDay Gift from Tila Tequila (http://myhotbox.blogspot.com)
Crystal Klein nude photos (http://eroticandy.blogspot.com)
Happy HNT - Masturbation erotica (http://darkside-journey.blogspot.com)
I wish it was summer (http://myhotbox.blogspot.com)
Jamaica in the Kitchen (http://kitchen-girls.blogspot.com)

Sex Work
Session To Do List (http://radicalvixen.com/blog)

Sex News, Reviews and Interviews
Baby Bug Vibrator Review (http://stilettodiaries.blogspot.com)
It keeps going and going and…dying (http://nocloudnine.blogspot.com)
Kiri or Jules? (http://www.connectbycam.com/blog)
Taco Tuesday: Toy Review 3 “Adonis” (http://themilfblog.blogspot.com)

Sex and Politics
Anti-Anti Pornography, Part V: How Hypocrite Can You Get? (http://www.teen-porn-site.com/blog)

BDSM & Fetish
Atlanta Flight (http://eroticjournals.blogspot.com)
Contrast revisited (http://pick-up-pieces.blogspot.com)
Dirty laundry (http://kinkerbelle.atlantabondage.com)
From memory (http://sexcakes.blogspot.com)
Knowing looks (http://pandorablake.blogspot.com)
Meeboguest G confesses: “I’ve been watching my wife get fucked” (http://anawtymouz.blogspot.com)
Quest for fire… (http://blog.atlantabondage.com)
What to do in a tight situation (http://sadiedark69.blogspot.com)

Erotic Writing and Experiences
Belated NYE Party @ T’s part 2 (http://slutissimo2.wordpress.com)
Do you want to share a cab (http://gentlygently.blogspot.com)
Giving and Receiving (http://sarawinters.blogspot.com)
Grinding it (http://plum001.blogspot.com)
Indulging in a Virtual Tryst Part VII (http://www.taratainton.com)
Lips…. (http://ellesnovellas.blogspot.com)
My girlfriend the stripper, part 5 (http://erotischism.blogspot.com)
My idea of a love letter to SMW (http://marriageishot.blogspot.com)
Swingers Night!! (http://mandyseroticlife.blogspot.com)

Once a Junkie...

2007-02-25T10:33:00.000-08:00

Hi, my name is MM, and I’m an addict.

First it was cigarettes.
Then alcohol.
Then drugs.
And danger.

I’ve been able to quit pretty much everything (I still drink some), but with an addictive personality, there’s always something I’m jonesing for.

Right now, it’s cock.

I’ve become a fuck-junkie, and as any junkie will tell you, we’ll go to pretty extreme measures to scratch that itch or chase that dragon.
The problem with being a fuck-junkie is that it’s like gambling: sometimes there is a definite payoff, so it makes it harder to quit, or indeed, to address the habit in any rational way whatsoever.
With drugs/alcohol/cigarettes, I never was able to re-experience that initial high, so the level of payoff diminished every time I used. I was able, eventually, to work out the cost-benefit analysis such that using was no longer viable.

Not so, sex.

I don’t know if it’s sex with this guy, or just the allure of mass quantities of decent quality sex in general, but I can see myself spiraling, and it is pissing me off.
I don’t think it’s Junior, as he has little to offer (for me) outside of the fact that he has many elements of the physical appearance I favor: he is tall, muscular, athletic, good-looking with a rough edge, great smile.
And... he is great in bed. He doesn’t have a nine-inch cock or anything, but he certainly knows how to use what he does have.

But, as I’ve mentioned before, beyond primal attraction there is not much to the relationship, and generally I feel uncomfortable trying to spend any time with him with clothes on. It’s like babysitting, or humoring him just to get what I want later. Very calculating, very soul-sucking. Very junkie-like. I become cold, mean. I don't like what I see when I look in the mirror.

I’m already ashamed of the way I am willing to compromise myself to get my fix. I make ridiculous accommodations, I make excuses to get out of things that may make me unable to get laid; I get irritable and short when I go too long without. I go through the motions of living the mundane parts of life (read: any time I’m not having sex), and daydream about my next hit.

It’s classic junkie behavior, and it’s even worse, I think, when I can see that it is happening. I’m getting that hard addict temperament again – you can see it too, can’t you? The Uber-Bitch is all over my last post. It’s amazing how the writing - words on a screen – what is unsaid between the lines, show me who I am, what I’m becoming.

Hot Studs Have Feelings Too.

2007-02-21T21:23:00.000-08:00

Life is surreal enough without the additional oddity of having your not new sexual socks blown off by someone who thinks a hot dinner date includes Jack in the Box...

I think I may have offended him when I remarked that it appears as though he has watched a *lot* of porn. There are the stereotypical porn positions, the bordering-on-cheesy noise artifices, and the nearly-violent thrustings at a jackhammer pace.
He denied that this particular genre is a staple in his video collection, so I followed with, "well, you must just be a natural then."
Because all I can say is... damn. This boy fucks like a champ.

A friend of mine said the other day, "I want a man to fuck me like I'm a whore."
I agree, and am happy to report that I can get that all day long (pretty much literally) from, well, let's call him "Junior," eh?

I get spanked, held by the neck, my hair pulled and used for leverage and/or balancing purposes. I get my ass played with which is fucking hot, and about time too - My poor ass hasn't seen any play in years. I can't wait until I get good and fucked in it.
I get multiple orgasms, and whispered coaxings for me to come on that dick.

I thought I might get frustrated by the paucity of oral attention paid to my cunt - I love being licked and sucked - but that hasn't happened. There is the occasional perfunctory flick-by, but generally there is just a lot of fucking. Which is just fine - I can't think of another time in my life when I was this constantly wet and ready. One hot look, or flick of the tongue, and I'm flowing and ready to go. It's as though the easily aroused aspect of youth is contagious.

Sexually, I'm having the time of my life. Contrary to what is likely the norm, Junior appears to actually be interested in catering to my sexual desires and needs.
Imagine my surprise after the first time when I asked him if he was okay and he responded with (I am shitting you not): "I'm just happy that I can please you."
What the fuck?!
I might have thought that an anomaly except for the fact that he regularly asks me how I want him when we're fucking.

I still think he's watched a shitload of porn.

So, the fucking is great, but I must say, I'm a bit nostalgic for the kind of men I'm used to (read: older). The fact is, I have next to nothing in common with this kid. I hate feeling all old and curmudgeonly, but he talks about and is interested in shit that if I've ever even heard of it, I still don't care.

We don't do anything together, there are few conversations. For the most part, I'm fine with this arrangement; I'm not looking for a serious relationship (and certainly not with a college student). I've enjoyed being able to express myself in a much more genuine way, that being possible for the most part because I haven't really cared much about what he thinks. But it would be nice to have someone with whom I could talk about something other than superficial bullshit. And also to be fucking someone who feels more like my equal. A fucking relationship with this guy with no other facets or elements providing depth feels sorta dirty in a way that I am not not cool with (because normally, "dirty" equals "right up my alley.")

I was horrified when he told me I gave him a hickey (what? I bite!), that it was discovered by his dad.
Just. Horrified.

Also, he appears to be becoming attached. He asked to go with me to the gym today, so I gave him a pass. I was amazed that he seemed to not be expecting to come back to my house which is our typical m.o.: I pick him up later in the evening, and bring him over to fuck him in the comfort of my own home. In the morning, I drop him off at work on my way to my own job.

Yesterday he wanted to know why I "never" invite him over, "I always have to hint that I want to come."
"Dude. I've known you a week."

Today, we talked a little bit and got on the subject of politics. I told him that I had briefly toyed with the idea of going into politics once but opted against it as I am truly a publicity nightmare: too many scandals.

"You mean like dating a 22 year-old? Or seeing a 22 year-old?"
"Dating?! No. More like picking up a 22 year-old for sex, because that is generally what happens."
silence.
"Seriously. Would you call what we're doing 'dating'?"
He was quiet for a second, then said, "Yeah. I don't know. Probably."

Goddammit.

Yikes.

2007-02-18T15:40:00.000-08:00

I am experiencing nausea and general discombobulation from all the sex with my new young friend. Also, I am feeling slightly robbed of quality fucking time over the past several years, as I have come to realize that although sex with my husband may have taken the better portion of three minutes, sex with the young can take the better part of three hours.

That is all.

Ripple Effect

2007-02-14T06:19:00.000-08:00

At first, not many people knew that I had split from my husband. Just a questioning look here and there, and me, offering no information. Other than here (obviously) I like to keep my personal life, well, personal.
Now, as word is getting out, the effect is more like the ripple effect and the sharks are coming up from the deeps, circling, and looking to try to stake a claim.
My Euro-stalker appeared from the blue. He must have e.s.p. because certainly no one I know would have told him I am newly-single.
An old friend I had follow me home from the club the other night to run interference for me so I could have a graceful escape from Mr. College Football Star was hurt when I fed him breakfast (which I cooked myself!), thanked him, then sent him home. "I thought I was going to get to hang out!"
My husband wants to know if I have a date tonight; he wants to be assured that I will be home alone, drinking away my lonely sorrow as he plans to.
And, no, I don't have a date planned or scheduled. But I don't plan to cry into my beer like the poster child of every old country song either.
What I am, however, is completely open to the idea of giving the bush a good tight trim, picking up Mr. CFS, and bringing him over to score a touchdown or three of my own. This would be a good way to balance the mutual frustration left over from last night, where we parted with a raging hard-on for the gent, and the lady was stuck to the car from the wetness that flowed so prodigiously as to seep through panties _and_ jeans.

Happy V-Day!

Math

2007-02-11T20:54:00.000-08:00

I'm in my early 30's, quickly careening toward the mid-mark at a breakneck (it seems) pace.
Massimo is, I think, 55.
Evan will be 46 soon.
Other than Seth, most of my boyfriends pre-marriage in the last 10 or so years were considerably older than me - at least by a decade.
It would seem that I prefer the older man.
I find it hard to explain, then, why or how I found myself making out like a teenager in heat with a 22 year-old football player last night.
Curiouser still, said sports stud has called me three times today, trying to get me to be his own personal Mrs. Robinson (a reference he is not likely to comprehend).
The mirth! The glee!
The experience?
Priceless.
As my friend put it, we are both in our sexual primes. This could be a fun month before junior goes back to finish his last semester of college.
I think it might be fun. To for once try cradle-robbing, as opposed to my usual m.o. of stealing from the grave.

Sugasm #65

2007-02-05T23:07:00.000-08:00

The best of this weeks blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #66? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form.

This Week’s Picks
Motel Meeting (http://lafillemariee.blogspot.com)
“As always though, coming together for us meant first holding, then kissing, groping, stroking, and suddenly, there we were, as always, naked, lying together, limbs intertwined on DG’s bed under the cozy, thick white duvet.”

My breasts are not safe for work - welcome to the pink ghetto “I love to find out things about people’s sex lives and thinking about sex that make me see them, and the topic at hand, in a new light, and often I learn about myself that way.”

Richard Evans Lee (http://www.sex-kitten.net)
“An increase in sexual empathy. Being able to put yourself in the other person’s heart would curb everything from infidelity to homophobia.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sexual Chocolate (http://sugarbank.com)

Editor’s Choice
Midnight Conversations at the Tick Tock Diner (http://perverselypoly.blogspot.com)

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

Erotic Writing and Experiences
Decay (http://blog.myspace.com/tit_elation)
Fuck Me First (http://loladavid.wordpress.com)
Hands (http://onlyamirage.blogspot.com)
Heels, Stockings, Girdle, Bra, Face (http://aslipofagirl.blogspot.com)
Horny… Period! (http://dirtydetails.blogspot.com)
How Hip Swingster Got His Groove Back (http://fourstate.blogspot.com)
Reluctant Mary - Part Two (http://eroticjournals.blogspot.com)
Sex Party Redux (http://plum001.blogspot.com)
Trade (http://turnthelampsdownlow.wordpress.com)

Sex Advice, News, Reviews and Interviews
33 Days, 33 Posts: Prologue, or, This Is Gonna Hurt (http://dausa.blogspot.com)
Apple, sex toys and the genesis of the iPhone Vibrator (http://sextoysinsider.com)
Reader: But Will She Love My Penis? (http://smutandsteff.com)
Taco Tuesday: Toy Review 1 (http://themilfblog.blogspot.com)

BDSM and Fetish
Anxious Fuck (http://dirtylittlecockslut.blogspot.com)
Caution! The Story You Are About To Enjoy Is Extremely Hot - Part Two (http://stilettodiaries.blogspot.com)
Introducing Prisoner #4228 (http://pandorablake.blogspot.com)
The Itch, Part The Last (http://udoj.wordpress.com)
Little Miss Sunshine (http://sweatshopsissy.wordpress.com)
Meeboguest confesses: “I have been a bad boy again…” (http://anawtymouz.blogspot.com)
Quiet The Hum Part Five (http://kissingcorporalkate.wordpress.com)
Spanking on Honeymoon (http://www.spankingwriters.com/blog)

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Being Bisexual (http://eroticawriter.blogspot.com)
Cop a Feel, Show Me the Love (http://middleurge.blogspot.com)
Eyes Wide Open for Sexual Possibility (http://www.taratainton.com)
The Feminist Who Wanted to Be Fucked Like a Whore (http://brooklynrake.blogspot.com)
How About Now? (http://thismuse.blogspot.com)
Polyamory: The Great Sexual Alternative Lifestyle (http://www.model-chat.com)

Sex Work
A Lackluster Coming Out (http://www.radicalvixen.com/blog)

Sexy Humor
Meow (http://hard-and-fast.blogspot.com)
Seduction Outtake #17 (http://sabrinainstockings.com)
Who would YOU want to make submit? (http://principalquattrano.com)

NSFW Pics (& videos)
Angela Taylor Naked (http://eroticandy.blogspot.com)
Beautiful french maid upskirt (http://upskirtr.blogspot.com)
For Odysseus Love, Penelope (http://marriedexploits.blogspot.com)
Happy HNT - Dungeon Bondage Chair (http://darkside-journey.blogspot.com)
January’s Cartoon Babe of the Month! (http://secretbrain.blogspot.com)
Slaving Away (http://kitchen-girls.blogspot.com)
Stella & Sandra (movie) (http://myhotbox.blogspot.com)

More Facets

2007-02-04T09:28:00.000-08:00

I've added the "pretty stylin' for being a few hundred years old" Tom Paine's "Polyamorously Perverse" and dazzling wordsmith Peony's "Turn the Lamps Down Low" to the links list.
Check them out!

Hands

2007-01-29T19:05:00.001-08:00

One of the first things I look at are the hands.
There is a reason that hands are so often used as an art subject - you can tell so much from them. If you pay attention, they'll tell you most everything.

Evan has strong hands. They are big with gnarly knuckles from hitting people and things too much. The veins push out the top. They are heavily calloused and have myriad scars of all sizes.

Just thinking about those hands running the length of my body gives me gooseflesh: he wraps them around my arms as he runs up them, which makes me feel like I'm just tiny, then spreads them open to feel out the width of my chest, pausing to gauge the heft of my tits and roll my stiffened nipples between his thumbs and forefingers as he moves back down.

One hand can almost completely encircle my throat.
I shudder as my breath catches in it.

I can feel his breath hot on my neck as he passes those hands down my back, causing me to arch involuntarily as he rests them for a second at the top of my ass.
He enjoys watching me squirm, and he knows that the more he uses those hands, the hotter and wetter I am getting beneath them.

He gives my ass a perfunctory rub and pinch, but although he likes making me squirm, he is not a very patient person and so likes to get on to business.

If I am wearing pants, they're coming off now. If it's a skirt or dress, he likes to reach up underneath and I can't help but feel like I'm doing something naughty - caught with the man's hand up my skirt. I wear skirts a lot.
He runs his finger along the edge of the crotch of my now-damp and fragrant panties, then slips it underneath, making me twitch as he barely, imperceptibly, brushes across my slick opening.

Soon, he is playing about with his left hand kneading my tit and tweaking my nipple while the right hand is having a grand time: 3 or 4 fingers are plunging into my dripping gash knuckle-deep while I'm panting and bucking like a wild filly, riding that hand for all I'm worth.

Sometimes instead he keeps me bent over with one hand pressed firmly against the back of my neck and delivers sharp spanks to my round upturned ass that sound like little firecrackers (they feel like little firecrackers). His hand covers an entire cheek, according to the red evidence I see afterwards. In between spankings, he pinches and rubs my clit. Sometimes he finger-fucks me mercilessly and makes me beg him to spank me some more, repent my sins.

When he is done playing with me like that, he'll use those hands to pull my head down over his crotch so he can feed me his bulging cock.

I'll suck him as hard and deep as I can while he runs his hands all over my head, neck and shoulders. He pushes my head down as he thrusts violently up into me. He pulls my hair to keep inside my mouth as he explodes deep into my throat, making guttural noises that sound not human.

Spent, we'll lean back together and he'll pull me to him, caressing me with those hands. Petting me like a little cat.

My date last week had no such hands. They were fine and delicate and looked as if they had not seen a hard day's work in ever. It was... unacceptable.

FrankenMan will not have fine delicate hands, hands I could break with a sharp look or a gnash of my teeth; he will have _those_ hands.

FrankenMan

2007-01-22T23:21:00.000-08:00

Frank-ly, I'm a bit daunted by the prospects of finding new prospects. Sometimes I feel like I have too many requirements, but other times I have a hard time coming up with any that make sense. It's kind of like when someone asks me what I want for my birthday. I think of shit all year long that I'd love to have. They all fall right out of my head when someone asks me to list them.

So, in the spirit of Mr. Stroker's series on his Perfect Girl, I figured I'd use this space to do a little meditating on Mr. NextBigThing (I just can't bring myself to type "Mr. Right").

I think of Mr. NBT as a conglomeration of traits and features I have known and loved (or really really wanted to love) in other men. Thus: FrankenMan.

I know that FrankenMan will have a wicked sense of humor, and will have mastered the art of self-deprecation (without having actually fallen for that line) a la Anthony Bourdain.

Yes, NBT will be much like my favorite co-ex-addict, or whatever the proper term for fellow former junkie is.... He'll be tall, I hope, although maybe not so skinny. Seriously. I would be concerned about breaking Mr. Bourdain, which would be bad since he's all famous now, and probably insured.

He'll have that wry wit and dry humor. He'll drink, maybe even smoke, and be upfront about it: No Reservations, and certainly no apologies.

He will live life on the edge and to the fullest. He'll be able to cook - in the kitchen, and (I presume) of course in the bedroom (or wherever else might take his fancy).

He'll be a little bit dirty. As much as I like the kid glove treatment sometimes, what really gets me off is a good down and dirty fucking. I'll take a good, sweaty, grunting pounding and hair pulling over gentle smooth gliding any day. And twice today.

OK. How are we doing so far?
Bits o' Bourdain - check.

I have a date later this week with someone who seems to have the humor part down. We shall see about the rest. In the meantime, I'm considering giving the spouse some breakup sex, just to keep the fires quenched a bit, lest I have to get that "I fuck on the first date" shirt printed up after all.

sigh

2007-01-16T01:11:00.000-08:00

Lately I'm tired, uninspired.
I'm stuck in this unhealthy limbo.
We had the "Talk."
There has been no walk.

I'd like to get on with it; he is not motivated to leave.
So, we are both just sitting here, looking at each other on borrowed time, damaged goods.
I'm meeting other people, looking forward to some time with someone I haven't damaged (yet).
I think, today, I think I don't want to whore.
I just really wanted an honest clean go at life with tabula rasa (as much as a tabula can be rasa-ed at this point).
That being said, however, I still am considering allowing the restauranteur to retain me. It would be nice to have that small piece of security. I guess that would still be whoring, but only with the one.
As long as there were no efforts to keep me off the market, I think that might do.
I wish I had paid better attention in Economics class.
What I know is that I have a bit more than half the income I used to, and almost all the same bills.
I'm younger and in better shape to capitalize off of my looks now, while they still exist.
I'm conflicted. Hence, the *sigh.*

Dear readers, I know we don't talk much, but I wonder what you think?
Help a half-baked idealist out, eh?

Phoenix

2007-01-09T21:36:00.000-08:00

Motivated by recent loss, propelled by recent events that have been upsetting, and emboldened and heartened by this post and those that followed by Always Aroused Girl, I finally sat my dear husband down and explained to him that I did not think our friendship was going to survive this marriage at the rate we are going.

Then, I held my breath and awaited the wrath/tears/insert generally expected reaction here.

What happened instead aroused and re-awakened my awe and love for this man, for surely, I have never known another love as pure and selfless as this one.

After the initial shock, there was understanding. There were tears, to be sure, and questioning, and explaining, and finally, there was some agreement.

We are both held back by this relationship. It is only fair to ourselves and one another to take the opportunity to experience life on our own individual terms, accountable to, including only able to blame, ourselves for not becoming who/what we could be.

What is more refreshing is that this is not one of those stereotypical tawdry breakups with one-sided pain, laden with adultery, abuse, or rancor. We will actually be a true incidence of "irreconcilable differences" that parted on amicable terms (and not as defined by the spin of a publicist). In a twisted way, it's kind of cool.

I feel truly blessed today, friends, and I am not a religious person.

Thanks to AAG, (I am sidebarring you here) and my sincere wishes that the next chapter in both of our lives becomes proof positive of that tired adage: "no pain, no gain."

Me?

I'm looking forward to the continuing the ride. I know it'll be a wild one.

A Bit of Kali-Ma

2007-01-07T00:26:00.000-08:00

I'm feeling dangerous tonight. Not myself.
I feel like breaking things, like destruction herself.
I feel like hearing him beg.
It happens sometimes. It must just be one of those days. One of those nights.
Usually clears up with a good night's sleep...

Who's in Charge?

2007-01-03T15:51:00.000-08:00

So, during my multi-state fucking spree with John the Con, I got to learn a little bit about his world. It is true – on occasion, we talked.

Quit laughing.

I admit that it was difficult, at times, to have a conversation with John, who careens through life with ADHD on speed. My neighbor called him the “Antichrist-savant.”

No, really. Stop laughing. It’s unseemly.

I learned that the best way to converse with him was to similarly pack my nose full of shit and enjoy the ride. If I couldn’t keep track of his thought processes, at least I could hold his pace. I learned that it ain’t easy being a 1% these days. There are images to upkeep, bills to pay, sentences to serve…

One day, John asked if I might like to work for his particular organization... as a Dominatrix. Initially, I was somewhat flattered, as I imagined that Dominatrices (?) are somewhat up the scale from strippers, whores, and sex slaves in a club where there are no female members, just “known associates.”

Whilst giving me the pitch, he showed me a nicely-appointed dungeon I could use (rent-free!) to ply my trade. There was even a barred cell installed in this room complete with ceiling and floor hooks, which I thought odd. After many years behind real bars, what nutter would build fake ones in his own home?

There was an impressive array of sexual props and toys – a serious and envy-worthy collection. Ticklers and clamps and crops, oh my! I could have had fun all by myself in there for ages – who needs clients? He assured me that I would not have to have sex with clients, because apparently he wanted me to only have sex with him.

So, he pitched, took a breath, leaned back, and offered me the opportunity to think it over. I mulled over my decision for about 3 long seconds before politely declining.

In what parallel universe am I going to make my living off of the voluntary submission of others only to be forced to turn right around and submit myself? There was no mention of what my cut of the proceeds would be, and if my business was to be anything like what I saw with the girls who were stripping for the club, that percentage was sure to be negligible. I said “no” as nicely as I could (what happened to the _last_ Dominatrix?!) and offered to just continue fucking him. No charge.

One of the traditional (and often self-flagellating) exercises Americans tend to do at the end of a calendar year is to engage in some self-reflection, a bit of introspection. We take stock of how the year went, generally kick ourselves in the asses for what we did that was wrong/stupid/fucked up, and give ourselves nominal pats on the back for the good things we have done, somberly and resolutely pledge to do better this year, wallow in loads of diabetic-coma-producing sweeties or chemicals to assuage our inevitable depression about our past follies, pass out, wake up, join a gym.

Since I already belong to a gym (having proactively joined one at the onset of the holiday and pie season) I got to skip the last step in the sequence this year – lucky me!

This time, I thought mostly about who is in charge of my life? More often than I’m comfortable with, it’s not me. Although I avoid resolutions as I think they are an invitation to future disappointment, it is my intent to take great steps toward regaining personal control over my personal life. Wish me luck; it promises to be quite a ride. I’m reminded of the Chinese proverb (or maybe it’s a curse?): May you live interesting times.

2007

2007-01-03T15:29:00.000-08:00

So, it is out with the old, and in with the new. Best wishes for a Happy 2007!

As for me, things are looking up a bit in the blog department. Wow! Apparently, nothing spikes a StatCounter like the author taking an extended vacation... I’ll have to remember that.

Where did you all come from anyway? Inquiring minds wanted to know, and are not very patient, so did some research all on their own...
I learned that Lou of Unfettered Cravings added me to his blogroll – thanks Lou! I think his blog is great, so that works out nicely. I’ve added him to my sidebar as well.

Also, thanks to Viviane for linking to Such a Nice Girl in her Sex Carnival. Two great posts also found there are: Dear Abby Lee: We’ve Outed You! on blog privacy and The Best of Craigslist, which is feckin’ hilarious. I’m considering relocation to the Bay Area as we speak.

As a result of that link, I think, I found feeds of that same post on these two other sites:
Sexoteric Blog
My Adult RSS
Thanks, Persons Responsible for That! (I’m afraid I don’t know the technical term for most things computer.)

Finally, many of you got here through The Sugasm where I submitted a post for #59.
I guess the way to get the links to show up in a copied post is to do it manually, so I’ll spend some time on that.

At any rate, no matter how you happened upon me, warm welcomes to you all. Feel free to drop me a line at the e-mail address in the profile, and enjoy your time in the Mirage.

Sugasm #59

2006-12-19T19:03:00.000-08:00

The best of this weeks blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasmer participants. Want in Sugasm #60? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the linklist within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks
By Invitation Only (http://dirtylittlecockslut.blogspot.com)
“I was being watched by a room full of people, but all I could think about was his thick cock, pounding me, his balls slapping against my ass.”

Love that Aural Sex (http://junohenry.wordpress.com)
“…The lazy way your honeyed tones flow out, saying my name, or merely whispering “Is that good, baby? You like that?” as you slide a finger in and out of me, deliberately and slowly.”

What BDSM Can Tell Us All About Sex (part 1) (http://perverselypoly.blogspot.com)
“That’s another form of power exchange: if I ‘let’ you have sex with someone else, it’s very different than if you sneak off and fuck that person without having permission.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Everyone Diggs Porn (http://sugarbank.com)

Editors’ Choice
Sandra Claus (http://secretbrain.blogspot.com)

Sponsored Link
G-Spot Orgasm Survey Take the G-spot survey and win one of two £100 LoveHoney sex toy shopping sprees

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
6 Weird Things About Me Sexually…I’ve Been Tagged! (http://totalsensuality.blogspot.com)
“F” is for fabulous… (http://blackbookgirls.com)
My Wacky Erotic Mind (http://www.seska4lovers.com)
Sex Toys - Your Next Erotic Frontier (http://sexdriver.blogspot.com)

NSFW Pics (& videos)
Cleanliness is Next to Horniness (http://kitchen-girls.blogspot.com)
Keeley Hazell Calendar 2007 (http://myhotbox.blogspot.com)
Mini-Documentary of me… (video)(http://duckydoo.livejournal.com)
Super hot nude girl from Ron Harris (http://eroticandy.blogspot.com)
Threesome Advice (part 3) (http://www.seskuality.com)

Sex Work
Amateur Porn “Penetration” - Part VI (http://blog.homegrownvideo.com)
Another One About Sex Work (http://sabrinainstockings.com)
Loud Sex (http://www.model-chat.com)
A Quickie (http://radicalvixen.com/blog)

Sexy Humor
10 Unintentionally Naughty and Terrible Domain Names (http://www.teen-porn-site.com)

Erotic Writing and Experiences
Anonymous (http://lafillemariee.blogspot.com)
He Took off My Clothes (http://www.suzanneportnoy.com)
I wanted to lick her out so bad (http://thediaryofanenglishrose.blogspot.com)
My Addiction (http://randisexadpoetry.blogspot.com)
Office Heat - Part 1 (http://dirtytalk.wordpress.com)
Red Light Special (http://ellabeecoquette.blogspot.com)
Snowday Sex (http://mandyseroticlife.blogspot.com)
The Sportscar, Part 2 (http://erotischism.blogspot.com)
Such a Nice Girl (http://onlyamirage.blogspot.com)

Sex and Politics
Masturbation: How to Conquer the Corrupting Habit (http://www.taratainton.com)
Teacher fired for porn past (http://deliciously-naughty.typepad.com)

BDSM and Fetish
A Nawty Story: Jenny’s New Slave (http://anawtymouz.blogspot.com)
Dishonourable Discharge (http://assistantmistress.blogspot.com)
Leaving on a Jet Plane (http://naughtythoughtsinmymind.blogspot.com)
Morning masturbation (http://darkside-journey.blogspot.com)
Naval floggings: the girls take their turn (http://www.spankingwriters.com/blog)
Playing at the W, Part III (http://www.betweensheets.net)
Split Penis, Anyone? (Editor’s note: Don’t say we didn’t warn you.) (http://pornster.blogspot.com)

Sex News & Reviews
Blue King Pleasure Scepter Glass Dildo Review (http://stilettodiaries.blogspot.com)
Shay’s Sexmas Gift Guide 2 (http://shayssexcolumn.blogspot.com)

Festive fishnets and boots photo courtesy of Verbal Penetration.

**OK - I think I've got it, links and all! Enjoy the Sugasm!**

Such a Nice Girl

2006-12-14T12:15:00.000-08:00

The last time I saw you, you had me splayed out across a dinner table. I had my swollen pussy spread wide for you. You were treating me to the most delicious furious tongue-lashing. I ground my cunt against your face, gnashed my teeth. Every time you felt I was getting too close to climax, you'd pull away, make me whimper.

Do something, don't stop.

You trickled small streams of cool Petite Syrah over my smoldering valley and then drank it from the cup you made with your hand, ingesting your wine infused with my juices. Sometimes you held the offering up to me to take. You didn't let me come yet.

You moved around the table until you were standing next to me. You brought your stiff cock to my lips and guided it into my mouth with one hand while using the other to finger-fuck me and pinch my clit. I sucked, savored, and swallowed your shaft as if it were one of the hors d'oeuvres served in your restaurant. You held my head and synchronized your face- and finger-fucking. I lost my senses and reveled in your penetration. You still didn't let me come.

You pulled from my mouth with a little "pop!" and went to the end of the table. You pulled me to you until my hips were almost off the edge of the table. You cupped my ass with both hands, using your thumbs to spread my cunt lips for you. I was completely exposed: to you, for you, for the taking. Your cockhead hovered ominously at the entrance of my slippery slope for a second that lasted millenia. I thought I might spontaneously combust.

Please. Oh, for chrissakes! Please!

Maintaining a firm hold on my ass, you slammed into my tight box, knocking the wind out of me. I felt your balls pushed up against my ass and upper thighs. You took a breath there, and I felt myself expand slowly in retroactive accomodation. I began spasming, squeezing you with uncontrollable Kegels.

Then, it was on. You bucked into me as hard and as fast as you could while I gasped for air, tried to meet you, match your thrusts. I made to scream out with the intensity, the pleasure rush, the animal baseness of my delirium. You covered my mouth without missing a beat; it was the lunch rush and the main dining room was full. My face reddened with my arrested howl.

You withdrew again, pulled me off the table, bent me back over it. You slapped my ass and pushed my knee up onto the table so that I was more accessible for your assault on my pussy. I whimpered, and gasping, begged you again, pleaded for your cock.

Please. Please fuck me. Please take me. Now.

You plunged your angry rod back into my depths, and pushed my head down as I yelped into the tablecloth I had wadded up to hold on to. You had a hand on my shoulder that you used to direct my steaming streaming cunt back and forth over your hot shaft. You teased my asshole with another finger, making me fuck you harder. I couldn't get you deep into me deeply enough. You finally allowed me to come for you, so arching my back, I threw back my head as I gasped and grunted. I'm a screamer, and you knew making me climax quietly is its own torture.

Finally, when you were ready, you pushed me off of your cock and maneuvered me to my knees in front of you. You held my chin up to look at you while you pumped your load across my chest. I smiled up at you as I massaged your hot cream into my tits, panting. I purred. You tossed me a napkin to clean up with as you zipped up then went to check on business. I let myself out through the back door.

Then, I saw you last night. You came to our table to express your wishes that the recent difficulties we have been experiencing will be over soon. My mother tells you that I have been a great help throughout the drama. You looked at me and smiled. "I'm not surprised. She's such a nice girl."

More Facets

2006-12-14T11:22:00.000-08:00

Two more blogs added to the sidebar:

Viviane's Sex Carnival, which is as delightful as it sounds.

Max Stroker's Live Journal, whose meditations on his own sexual path exhibit insight to the extreme. Very hot. Also, very illustrative...

Enjoy!

I Try Poetry

2006-12-12T18:42:00.000-08:00

Did you know that I wanted you?
I wanted to take your innocence, unsurety, and trepidation
and use them as vehicles to get cozy
in my own depravity.
I wanted to come to you,
crawl to you,
clad in nothing but lace, string, and wicked intent.
I wanted to shimmy up between your legs
scrape my nails down your chest
lick every part of you
suck you into my hot mouth
feel your ragged gasping breaths
like exhalations from a blast furnace
scurry across my neck as you held onto my head
or my shoulders
for dear life.
I wanted to breathe in your musk,
become intoxicated on your scent.
I wanted to slowly mount your hardness,
savor the route, savor the rut.
I wanted to writhe uncontrollably on top of you,
watch you watch me,
watch you weep.
I wanted to take in your life,
receive your seed,
release it to the floor.
I wanted to crawl under your skin and curl up cat-like,
and take a nap.

Interruptus

2006-12-11T15:01:00.000-08:00

Since I transferred to another work site recently, I hadn't had an opportunity to see the chef again. This has been the longest bout of coitus interruptus in my memory, and I feel it must be remedied. I want to finish what was started and move on to whatever that might entail, but my guess is: not much.

I'm no dummy - I fully recognize that the eagerness and excitement that twist his tongue and have him sitting up like an alert dog upon my arrival will either go away of their own accord, or will become a source of irritation for me. Although I am a sucker for an accent, I couldn't make out two words of a voicemail he left on my work phone. I'm glad I had the sense to not give him my personal number - he has already made it clear that it would be used at inappropriate and difficult-to-explain times. Wow, in re-reading that, I see that I come off like an incredible bitch.

That's okay, I guess. I feel sure that sometimes I am a bitch. I think everyone has their moments. I wish there were fewer of those moments, but at least I am honest about them, and in recognizing them, can try to do something about it.

Anyway, back to business. I'm experiencing this untenable craving for Italian, and nothing will satisfy that itch like a good scratching. As Scarlet wrote once (or the gist of it because I don't know the exact quote): I find myself unable to resist someone who has a genuine need to fuck me.

This doesn't happen often because of the two key words: "genuine" and "need." If I went around fucking everyone who wanted to fuck me (and vice versa), I'd never make it out of the bedroom. None of us would. I am convinced that we are all the objects of desire frequently, if fleetingly. And I know that the list of those I want to fuck alone would keep me busy for the foreseeable future. I like to fuck. That is not the same thing as "need" though.

Adding "genuine" further separates the wheat from the chaff. I think of it in the same context as "true." As in: I genuinely need oxygen, sustenance, rest, and to bury myself deeply in you in order to survive. Being considered right up there with food, clothing, and shelter is fucking hot, my friends, and it will have me on my back likethat.

So, that defined, I get this very rarely, but I am getting it from Massimo. It's like an aphrodisiac of the headiest variety, and I'm having a hard time lately bringing myself to more pressing matters like remembering to pay my bills, and oh yes, my husband. I love how genuinely happy the chef is to see me. I love that he actually says, "I'm so excited I talk too much." I am pleased with myself that he still looks as I have envisioned him, although maybe I now see him as a little better looking, but for the most part my mental image has remained true, and not blown into some outright fantastical image of Roman myth. I infatuate easily under these circumstances, so turning a shortish middle-aged Italian into Iove is not out of the question. I have an amazing imagination.

So, I dropped in on him to visit, with dreams of planting myself on that thick stalk I have been dreaming about and singing "That's Amore." Didn't happen, though. What happened instead was he introduced me to his daughter who was with him for the evening. I smiled and was pleasant, and thought to myself, "Oh. This is not good." I do not want to meet his family. I prefer to not have a face there. Moments later, his mother comes 'round from the back and I am amazed at her ability to look severe and intimidating despite the fact that she is wearing a nice, non-threatening, pastel plaid.

Needless to say, I am out of there as soon as my order is ready, and chef insists on carrying it to my car for me. By this time, I am freaked right out by the impromptu family reunion (which is likely a daily scene here, just new to me) and have forgotten all about my desire to get bent over the prep table and taken liberally by the chef - as if he were dying of thirst and within me lies the well. He is oblivious to this, so it is clear that this is just how his family does.

Imminent danger passed, I relax a bit and find myself amused. I decline to give the chef my phone number, despite his complaint that I don't answer the work phone, and he finally relents and tells me he will be there when I am able - with options extending up to 1-2 years. I think that is a hilarious lie that he does not yet know he's told. We'll meet again much sooner than that. In a year or two, this will all have been a memory. Wistful, joyful, maybe outrageous, but just a mirage nonetheless.

Drowning

2006-12-05T18:12:00.000-08:00

This week has been horrible, heart-rending, mind-bending.
It's been awhile since I used, but I would be lying if I said anything but: there's nothing I long for more in this world right now than a fat sack, a pack, and a fifth. No go, though. I'm not quite that stupid and self-loathing.
Happier days lie ahead. They just must.
I fucking hate the holidays.

Ecco La Soprana

2006-12-02T10:32:00.000-08:00

It's been several years since I sang. At one time, I was a professional. Last night proved that I can still hit the high notes. It may be a good time to throw my hat back into that particular ring. I certainly have more emotional range now than at any other time in my life.

Che Uomo Italiano

2006-11-21T15:36:00.000-08:00

Remember this guy?
So, I’d decided to not worry about him, and indeed, use his potential stalkerness to my advantage. Now that daylight savings time is over, and it is dark by 5pm, I can tell him I am working late and he keeps an eye out. The office is spooky after dark – tinted glass walls and fluorescent lights put me in the klieg lights for anonymous passers-by. I can’t see out, but anyone can see in. (Sometimes I fantasize about masturbating on the conference table in front of the window, but that is a story for another day.)

Earlier, the chef helped me unload my car of numerous office-bound boxes. It was difficult to not notice his calves, dark and muscular, poking out from the bottom of his shorts. From there, it is only a short anatomical stroll to his forearms and hands, strong and defined, baker’s hands. I feel my heart jump and my kitty twitch. I notice dimples, and dark eyes sparkling from beneath hooded lids. Quite mischievous. Another sharp twinge rips through my bits and I take in a quick breath. I notice that he is staring at my tits, set off today by my form-fitting deep red tee. He notices me notice and jumps a little, looks startled. He waves vaguely toward them, looking away and blushing. “The boxes got you a little dirty.”

I glance down and sure enough, there is a straight line of dust making a perfect line connecting my nipples, which are protruding, apparently to bask in his gaze. My turn to blush now, I begin brushing at the offending equator, trying to remove the mark. I thank him for the help and say I’m working late. “I’ll be in later for a Coke or something.” He smiles, nods, returns to his kitchen to work his cavernous ovens that billow forth hot, mouth-watering aromas all day long.

Later I call to order some takeaway. “Are you ok? Is everything all right?” He wants to save me, I think. I tell him I’m fine, order, disconnect. When I go to pick up, the restaurant is empty. My dinner isn’t quite finished, so I accept a glass of wine. While talking, he tells me he is separated from his wife of 30 years. I had not yet mastered walking at the time of his wedding.

He offers to show me around the restaurant and makes a joke that he is hiring. He shows me the prep area and the walk-ins. He shows me the ovens and the storage area. Then we are in the office, sparsely furnished, with little more than a desk, a couch, and a television. He has nervously chattered the whole tour. Now, in this room, there is an awkward silence.

By now, I’ve found myself charmed by this man, endearing in his nervous jumpiness, oddly hot. I thank him for the tour with a hug and a quick kiss. I feel him tense, but he doesn’t pull away. Emboldened by stale wine, I kiss him again, longer this time. His arms gingerly move around me as I pull him to me. I wonder for a split second if I am making a mistake. Maybe he doesn't want this. If that is true, though, his body betrays him because I can feel his stiffness against my belly as I press against him. My nipples perk up immediately in response and I decide that if he thinks this is a bad idea, he is certainly old enough to speak up about it. I lead him over to the couch and kneel on it before him, stroking his chest. He does not complain.

I kiss his neck, nuzzle into it while breathing deeply. He smells of oregano and man. I taste him and delight in the mix of garlic, herbs, and sweat. My hands run down the front of him; his shorts are bulging. I want in.

I look up at him and notice his emotions as they play out in his eyes. There is anxiety. There is fear. There is lust. I undo him and tenderly bring forth his cock. When he is out, it is my turn to be surprised. He is not very long, but his shaft is enormously thick. I think about it stretching the walls of my steaming cunt and my eyes dilate as my pussy involuntarily spasms and my rosebud slams shut.

I lick my lips and take him into my mouth. I wish there was a mirror. I’d love to see how that big prick distends my cheeks, stretches my lips as I do my best to stuff my face as full of him as I can. I look up at him again, and almost laugh.
He is wide-eyed and startled. He looks confused. Confused as in, “there is a hot little ragazza attached by her face to my dick and I’m not sure what to do about that.” The look makes me mirthful. Then it occurs to me that it is possible I am the first woman outside of his wife to suck his cock in 30 years. That idea sets my Naughty-O-Meter ™ spinning uncontrollably. I decide to put him out of his misery.

I stand up quickly and undress. I throw my tee and jeans on the desk followed by my bra and panties. When all that is left is me standing before the chef in nothing but my t-strap heels, I try to explain things as clearly as I can. “I want you. I’ll do anything you want.”

It takes a few seconds for this to register. As it does, I watch his face melt from its fear-induced paralysis into an expression of what appears to be resolve. First, he wants me to finish sucking him off, because he wants another go and knows he won’t last much longer at this point.

I motion for him to sit on the couch and get on my knees before him. I run my hands up his legs and over his shorts until I reach his still-hard cock. Despite myself I moan slightly, in admiration of its brutish girth, and slowly take it back into my mouth. The chef, more relaxed now, moans slightly, trembles as I flick my tongue back and forth across his head and then make long laps up his length, breathing deeply in the scent of his musk as I go.

I run my tongue in circles around his tip, and then take him deeply into my mouth, stifling my gag reflex. I feel both his hands grabbing my hair as he reflexively thrusts his hips up into my face. He is sitting ramrod straight and I grunt as he crams my face full of his cock, and begins pumping spasmodically up into me while simultaneously pushing me down by the shoulders.

From the sides, I work at his shorts until I can reach his balls, and I can feel the rumblings of oncoming climax gaining ground as I massage him. I taste his salty harbinger and I release him from my mouth. I sit up, shoulders back and tits up to work him with my hands until he begins pumping his hot thick cream onto my chest and belly, alternately gasping for air and moaning as he comes for me. I continue stroking him until he shudders no more and sinks back into the couch, dazed and spent.

More time has passed than I thought. It is late, and I have to head for home, although in this moment all I want to do is impale myself on that enormous shaft of his and get fucked until I am silly. It is too late for that this evening, though, so tingly hot with frustrated sex yet resigned, I clean myself up a bit in the restroom instead. I'll finger myself until I climax in the car on the way home this time. I collect myself, my clothing, and my dinner, and take my leave with the promise that there will be a Round Two very soon.

As I leave, I catch sight of him in my rearview mirror, standing in the shadows where I was parked, immobile, watching. Always watching.

Mary, Full of Grace

2006-11-16T14:52:00.000-08:00

I found some pictures from a photo shoot I did a couple of years ago. I don’t remember what it was for and I don’t know whatever came of the pictures. I must have been drinking that day. My memory of the shoot itself is blurry. Interestingly, I remember a guy had set up his massage table on the deck of the house where we were shooting; he was a student and was hoping for some hours toward his license.

I’m studying myself in the pictures. I’m done up in black velvet and turquoise jewelry with lots of silver and a flowy long skirt – the quintessential (and stereotypical) Southwestern “look.” I’m thankful my hair is not up in the Hopi-style cabbage buns. I don't wear the Princess Leia look very well, a notable exception being the look she had as Jabba the Hutt’s slave…

I wonder what I was thinking. I am smiling, but I can see that the smile is forced, put on for show; it is stretched into more of a grimace. In those pictures where I imagine I was directed to look pensive, I look fearful, wary. Not of the photographer, but of life.

I’m glad that these days are not those. I don’t know what ever happened to those photos, or if they were ever published. I don't even recall whether or not I got paid. If whoever was calling the shots had any sense, though, they went into File 13, unless the accompanying story was about a broken girl.

Picky

2006-11-13T01:20:00.000-08:00

I get bored sometimes. So I look at personals, because you know those people are also bored - ridiculously so.

When I am really bored, and feel like torturing myself in such a way that mere bamboo spikes shoved beneath my fingernails just won't get the job done, I look at Craig's List because often there are pictures and I am morbidly looking for someone I know.

Is it wrong to pick and choose using solely the following two criteria:
1) The ability to spell, utilize grammar, and sense of irony all appear to be intact (okay, yes, technically that is three criteria already - I said 'riting, not 'rithmetic).
2) Would he look good when I look down at him looking up at me while he eats my pussy?

More Facets

2006-11-09T23:52:00.000-08:00

I've added links to Future Perfect, Nerve, and The Sartorialist to the sidebar.
Just a few more of my layers.

Miguel

2006-11-09T18:21:00.000-08:00

Miguel was a regular customer at the pool hall. He and his friend would come in a few times per week. If there was no table in my section, they would sit in my bar section and wait until an open table came up. Sometimes they would bring women - it was interesting to see the progression of their romantic lives as an outside observer.

I learned that he was a hairstylist, so I started seeing him professionally. I loved the head massages he gave as part of the cut. I'm picky about my hair and he always made it look good, cowlicks and all. Needless to say, his hair was always immaculate. Miguel was gorgeous - great smile, happy eyes, kind face, soft hands. The kind of guy a girl dreams about when she dreams of getting good and lucky.

After a while, he stopped bringing women to the pool hall, and his friend David began bringing the same woman every time. He would stay behind to talk to me after David left. We would flirt in the parking lot, hold hands, blush, sneak the occasional kiss. We acted like 12 year-olds, someone else, not ourselves. When he came to my work, I spent as much time near him as I could.

Almost immediately after I got out of the most recent bad relationship, he asked me out on a real date. Despite my heavy attraction and deepening feelings for him, I was still feeling lost, a little bit bereft, confused. I was getting high more and I was ashamed of that - I didn't want him to know I was using. I turned him down, begging off for some me time to think about my next steps.

He was hurt; I noticed a barely perceptible slump in his shoulders as I answered. He said he understood and said he'd be happy to wait some, to give me some time. I felt relief and gratitude. I knew I'd feel like myself again soon and looked forward to getting closer to him.

A week passed - I was sad to not see him, but I figured he was earnestly trying to give me some space. Then, David came to see me at work, looking so grieved as to be in physical pain. Miguel was dead. There was an accident. He had been drinking more lately. He had died alone on the highway to his home in the middle of nowhere. He was cold when he was found.

My breath was sucked from me then, like I was sucker-punched in the solar plexus. When I think of it now, I still have a hard time breathing and great heavings of grief still well deep within my core. Sometimes I wail, sob, bemoan the unfairness of it. The unfairness that ripped that beautiful life from this world such that his death, alone and cold, in no may mirrored his life - secure in the warmth of the love that surrounded him. Hundreds attended his service.

I mourn the loss of the opportunity I gave up, wonder about how things might have been different, torture myself with the idea that maybe he wouldn't be dead now if I had been there then. I berate myself, kick myself in the ass for a while.

I try not to think about it too much, but every November he comes to me with the crisp smells of fall and fires burning. I can still smell his hair. It is the anniversary of his death. In life, I didn't know enough about us to know if I loved him. In death, and as my time here has passed, I know that I did and still do.

Rest in Peace, dear Miguel - words can't express how much you are missed.

Crabcakes

2006-11-06T16:59:00.000-08:00

I flew out to Boston to drive back to California with Candace after she graduated from law school. We decided to take the scenic route: down through New York to D.C. then make our way West through the Smokies, down through N'Awlins and back up through Texas. We weren't in a hurry.

We ended up in Baltimore the first night, tired from a day of driving. Neither of us had been there before, except passing through, and now we were looking for a lead on a place to stay. We ended up at a restaurant on the waterfront, eating crabcakes, drinking beer, lying to the barman. When Candace and I went out together, we always invented an alter-ego to play for the evening. Most often, we are from out of the country, as in, “Oh, I’d love to go out with you sometime, but I’m flying back home to [insert name of country here] tomorrow morning. I’m so sorry!”

Fresh from finding out that my man produced porn as a side gig (and worn out from wondering when I'd be able to see myself on the Net, panting and moaning during one of our marathon sessions courtesy of a hidden camera), I thought that sounded like an interesting persona to experiment with. Candace usually sticks to the British designer character; it's the only accent she can muster with a reasonable level of consistency. The novelty of a cute porn producer and her high-fashion gal-pal caused a surge in free alcohol procurement at the bar, with corresponding increases in our levels of intoxication (not to mention rapidly-diminishing judgment).

Before we knew it, we found ourselves at the Hooters next door, with large burly doormen sniffing around, trying to do to us those things they are paid to prevent customers from doing to the girls in those awful shorts. There were no more crabcakes, but there surely was more alcohol. We still had no place to stay.

Some time later, hours in drunk time, we found ourselves in the apartment of the original barman. There were a dozen of us (unless I was seeing double) - a motley crew of Hooter girls, doormen, foodservice folk, the porn empress, and the fashionista.

Excited at his ability to be frank away from the confines and dictates of his work environment, the barman was asking me rapid-fire questions about porn and the production of it. I bullshitted my way through as much as I could, looking at Candace, rolling my eyes.

Now curious about his own potential future in the adult film biz, he popped a video of himself fucking his girlfriend into the VCR, then kept up a running narrative throughout the show, describing his artistic intentions as the film showed close-up shots of his girl sucking his cock, and then doing her damnedest to look appropriately ecstatic when he shot his prodigious load across her face, a goodly amount of it hitting her in the eye. If I had been less drunk at the time, I feel sure that I would have been laughing more at the surreality of it all, like I do now in retrospect.

I know I was fucked up, but I do remember that there was a lengthy startled silence after the video, which continued with the ubiquitous 2nd scene: haughty over the shoulder look from the girl, ohbabybabygiveittome, the sound of sticky balls slapping against ass and upper thighs, money shot finale as our hero furiously strokes his cock, look of anguish-slash-concentration smeared across his face, you know the drill. The silence was finally broken when he asked if I thought I could use him in any upcoming productions.

Not one to break the hearts of any John Holmes-wannabes, I tried to let him down gently. "Well, you know, we film in California." He looked disappointed but understanding, which was the response I was hoping for - the one that would end the conversation. I was relieved to not have to tell him that although he had a cock any girl would love to catch a ride on, myself included, he over-emoted, and his lighting choices were suspect (although, in fairness, that probably would technically have been my job)...

The next thing I knew, I awoke in the dark to the touch of unfamiliar hands. I had passed out on the couch, and I momentarily forgot where I was and with whom. I smelled the hot breath of liquored audacity pulsate across my neck and shoulders. I stiffened with fear as a doorman (and the biggest one of them naturally) worked his hands over my tits, down my stomach and toward the Promised Land.

I threw up a little in my mouth and tried to sit up. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I scanned the room for Candace. She was not there. She was my ride. I began to panic.

“Shh, shh baby. Don’t worry – it’s just me.” His hands began rhythmically working my shoulders.

“Yeah, no. What the fuck do you mean, 'it's just me?' I don't know who you are. You need to stop. Where’s Candace?”

“She’s in the other room. Don’t worry about that. Let’s just you and me have a little fun right here.”

I struggled to get out from underneath him and said “no” several more times as he lay on top of me, trying to work his tongue into my mouth.

I held back another gag as adrenaline began to course through my veins. I needed to get the fuck out of there, I didn’t know where Candace was, and this guy was a shooter, not someone you fight. Presumably, in his mind, it was okay to violate me either because I made porn, or because I was insanely drunk, or (probably) both.

I was lucky, and managed to get away. I couldn't do anything physically, so it would have to be more lies. First I told him I was pregnant (I had told them earlier that I was married). That fazed him not one bit, and he was no lighter on my stomach. Then I told him I was HIV-positive. That did the trick. He jumped back off of me, saying "Damn bitch! That ain't cool!"

Then I was afraid he would really hurt me, because now he was afraid too. I rushed through the dark to find Candace, woke her up, and we took off still half-drunk in the middle of the night. When we made it to D.C. dawn was breaking, and the sky began to turn light again. I threw up several times at the side of the road, the acidic taste of fear and disgust mixed with self-loathing forcing its way from me as I gasped ragged breaths, sucking in fresh air, and, I hoped some common sense.

Now, when I have to have genuine Baltimore crabcakes, I fly them to me. Luckily for me, it's a rare craving.

Pele

2006-10-25T17:59:00.000-07:00

Stereotypical surfer boy, Sean was bleached-blond, freckled, and tasted of salt. He had beautiful blue eyes with an ever-present mischievous twinkle. Our families had been friends for years, and as I got older, he came around more often. A blossoming master in the art of engagement, I’d flirt with him shamelessly: shy coquette one visit, oblivious exhibitionist the next.

He’d pick me up on his motorcycle, and adrenaline would course through my veins as we’d thread and weave our way through traffic on PCH. We’d camp on windswept bluffs, picnicking on bagged chips and champagne, shyly and hesitatingly brushing each other’s hands, legs, faces with our own.

A gentleman to the last, Sean let me pick my pace, and I chose to move excruciatingly slowly, like Pele’s flow. The great goddess is on one hand benevolent, the other, diabolical. Although there is plenty of warning, and the direction of the flow is clear, the wait is an exquisite torture. I can almost hear the frantic begging for release, and I revel in it. This young, I know where my power is. And I recognize the shrewdness in working to develop it as quickly as possible.

After several months, I’m surprised to find that Sean hasn’t given up. Although I’m sure he’s fucked other girls since we began our dance, he keeps coming back. I don’t mind the others; I’m not a hypocrite. Finally, I decide to let him take me. I’m drunk on the salt water of ocean spray and Mexican beer. He invites me to stay with him. He knows it’s time too.

We lay down together on his living room floor, a ghostly view of the Pacific Ocean visible from the floor-length windows lit by a fat Harvest Moon. We kiss deeply. He touches me gently, carefully, as if I may break. I am impressed with his reserve, as I can sense his urgency playing out beneath his smooth exterior appearance. The usual twinkle in his eyes has been replaced by a hint of unedited lust, the pain of pent-up desire.

He slides me out of my clothes and lays me out before him. My nipples stiffen as I look at him staring thoughtfully at my moonlit nakedness. He runs his fingers from my throat to my belly. I feel exposed. He rolls me over onto my stomach and asks after my comfort. He takes off his shirt and slides it under my cheek. It smells of his strong masculinity and the ocean. I feel my pussy fast becoming slick and starting to twitch. I feel his hot breath on my neck and in my ear.

For the next half hour, he torments me with his tongue. It is everywhere, flicking, tasting, probing, testing. When I try to move, he holds my arms down, still gently, to keep me where he wants me. This is payback for the months I have made him wait. Any sense I had of being in control is now long gone. I realize this, and I smile. I smile, and I moan, shudder, arch, gnash my teeth, and squirm. He has licked and sucked at every part of my neck, shoulders, back, ass cheeks, and legs. The room is growing thick with the scent of my flowing juices, and he hasn’t even gotten to that part yet.

Coming up for air, he asks if I have had enough. “Please…” I gasp, my heart is in my throat. He smiles, and rolls me back onto my back, and my legs, as if on automatic pilot, spread for him, as wide as I can possibly manage. He smiles again, this time at my submission, shakes his head. “No.”

He pushes my legs closed, and then has to hold them there, because like the top end of a clothespin, they attempt to spring back open again. I moan in frustration, form impassioned pleas, find myself speechless. He removes the rest of his clothes, and lies on top of me, kissing me deeply, more urgently, enjoys torturing me.

He props up on one elbow and makes light strokes down my body, causing all of my hair to stand on end, and my nipples further harden under his gaze. I let out a loud sigh of relief when his hand finally moves to gently push open my legs exposing my pussy, and moan appreciatively when his fingers slide over my swollen clit and across my opening.

He dips into me and covers his fingers in my scented juices and breathes them in, tastes them. He offers his fingers to me, and I have to catch my breath before I can greedily lap my own offering off of his hand. He smiles approvingly, then moves down to place himself between my legs. He pops up for a split second to make sure I am watching before he disappears again, and all I can see is blond mophair and the tip of his nose as he expertly slides his thumbs up each side of my slit, spreading it wide, and begins darting his tongue in and out of my streaming cunt and over my engorged and pulsing clit. I grind into his face, thrashing, moaning, begging him to take me, pleading with him to fuck me so we can cum together.

I express undying gratitude when he gets up onto his knees and grabs me by my hips to position his thick hard cock at the opening of my steaming hole. His hands slide down to the tops of my inner thighs, push them down toward the floor so he can see every fold and crevice of my spasming cunt splayed out and stretched as he slowly pushes himself into me. I gasp as I take him in and my back involuntarily arches up off of the floor.

He takes that opportunity to reach around and grab me by the nape of my neck, supporting my weight with that hand while pushing my thigh open and rubbing my clit with the other. My head buzzes with impending climax and I feel every nerve ending activated as I strain to fuck him faster, harder.

He maintains his maddeningly slow and steady rhythm no matter what I try. I beg him to fuck me harder, don’t you want to fuck me harder? Don’t you want me to scream for you? “You already are.” And he’s right, I shudder through orgasm after orgasm, I scream, sob, beg, and moan until I am hoarse. All the while, he maintains his steady slow rhythm while I feel as if I am wobbling around the brink of insanity.

Finally, when the room is spinning, and I feel faint, I feel a change. He knows I am done; in the game of patience, I may have won the long game, but he is certainly savoring his victory in the short battle. He pulls from me and lets go of my hair so I fall back to the floor.

He presents me with his cock, hard and covered in me, with a ring of aerated frothy cunt juice around the base. I bring my eyes to his and take him into my mouth. I hold his gaze as I lick him completely clean. I gently lick and suck each of his balls into my mouth and graze them with my fingernails as I make long wet laps round his thick shaft and then swallow him completely, gagging as he taps the back of my throat.

I feel his orgasm building deep within him, and when he is ready, he pulls his pulsating cock from my mouth and holding me by the nape again, shoots his hot creamy load across my face and over my tits. He lets out a long sigh and shudders briefly as I flick my tongue across the tip and into the opening of his gorgeous prick, coaxing out just a little more cum, and then let it move across my lips and over my face, through the deposit he has already given me.

At that, we decide that there is a time and a place for patience, and that this is not it. It is the beginning of a long weekend designed to make up for lost time, with an eternally memorable kickoff. In the end, I learned that I prefer the fiery and eruptive aspect of Pele over the peaceful and orderly one, and it was the former I have endeavored to cultivate, especially in matters of sex.

Party Girl

2006-10-22T23:56:00.000-07:00

It was strange to drift through the party, from room to room, pretending.

I haven’t been to a black tie affair in quite some time, so I decided to go all out. I knew that this was going to be the biggest party of the year, so I took extra time and care with my dress and appearance. By the time I was done, I looked much like a Tango dancer: slender, black, red, haughty, yet all barely-contained sex.

It was one of those parties where everyone who is anyone shows, and an opportunity for the social jostling and posturing that inevitably occurs at these events. I have my own place in this hierarchy, stable grounding thanks to family, and additional prestige, albeit shaky, because of how I’ve built upon my tower. As I wander the rooms with my mother and friend, we three make the requisite air kisses with various presidents of things, politicians, and CEOs that we encounter. It is a mass gathering of the power elite, and I find it intoxicatingly hot.

Over the course of the evening, I see men with whom I am intimately familiar. It is interesting to observe the different ways they respond to my presence at this venue. I see sidelong glances, appraising me on the sly. There are those who steer themselves and their wives out of my course, only to be caught later staring at me from what they think is an unobtrusive vantage point. There are those who feign a cheerful unfamiliarity with me, smiling at me and giving me a fatherly hug as if it had been years since we last met and I was only thistall. I love the ones who while greeting me, thinking no one is looking, take that opportunity to subversively pinch my ass, brush my tit, graze my cunt.

However they choose to play our meeting, I’m game, and bear them no grudges. I’m as invested in the pretense as they. I feign demureness, shyness, meekness. The brief up-look from beneath long lashes. It would not do for your wife to be aware that while she was spending long hours planning this bash or attending those functions, I was in hard labor myself, sweating underneath you or bucking like an unbroken mustang on top of you. Coaxing musk and steely masculinity out from under years of dusty disuse.

I am supposed to be doing other things. Working (but not this kind of working). It would be a horrendous scandal if anyone knew that I was making this frequently decades-younger body available to these men who are hoping that somewhere within the Fountain of Youth springs eternal. Or to feel desirable again. Or to scratch that itch that they find the wife is no longer willing to scratch. That thing that no matter how much money you spend cannot, at the end of the day, be bought.

Here, I am the best kind of fuck. Discretion is virtually guaranteed by both parties. We see each other socially; you are long-time friends of my parents. At the same time, we have struck an arrangement in which I have been made available to be at your beck and call, ready to strip down and get on my back, spread my legs and labia wide, and beg for you to please fuck my hungry pussy, or to grasp you by the nape of your neck and pull your head roughly between my knees and order you to service me well – whichever you like. I am just as willing to let you bind my wrists to my ankles and force-feed me your swollen member as I am to put on my platform slutboots and leathers and flog your naked fleshy ass while you whine about being worthy. Neither of us will say a word, and I will always be safe, because any talk or damage would put into jeopardy our respective places on the social totem.

It is the best kind of deal. We all get what we want – you get the agility, freshness, and eagerness of a young, ready, and willing fucktoy when you want it, and I get my cunt filled as much as I like with a bit of extra reward for the risk. And the security of knowing that due to artifice and arbitrary social rules that govern the more outward parts of our lives, no one but us will ever be any the wiser.

And if my husband’s reaction to my dress at the party was any indication, my dance card will be quite full for quite awhile. I can’t wait to hear from you.

Paranoid

2006-10-18T21:41:00.000-07:00

I work. A lot.

I would work more if my office wasn't in a recessed corner of a building where there is no one really to know that I'm okay in there. There is the Italian chef at the restaurant a few doors down that is frequently at the window of his restaurant, watching my comings and goings.

When I leave, he comes out and asks me, "Are you going home?"
"Are you done working today?"
"See you tomorrow?"

I don't know whether to feel happy that there is one person who probably knows exactly when I'm in the building, especially since I come and go a lot, seemingly randomly, or just a bit creeped out.

I know I am jaded, and tend to think the worst about people's motivations. This is an occupational hazard in my career, although I was well-suited toward it before the work. That is one of the hazards of doing a lot of drugs:

Trust No Man. (or Woman.)

Hey, if nothing else, I am equal opportunity.

The Descent - Part II

2006-10-11T19:01:00.000-07:00

Even though Kane hates me, he loves me more. I try to use this to my advantage. I try to hurt him with this knowledge and with John. John is fresh from 12 years in the joint and is enjoying cruising around with his shiny new freedom.

John is fucking hot, and on the make. He hasn’t had any sex (with women) in 12 years, and is looking to make up for lost time. I am more than happy to help with this. I fall ridiculously hard, ridiculously fast for this outlaw because unlike Kane, who is also an outlaw, and Drew, and Rico, John is still in his prime, and is gorgeous, and has an incredibly sexy ass. Kane does not really have any ass at all. He does not have back.

I let John pick me up at the bar. I let him take me out to drunken breakfast. I let him fuck me on the floor of his empty house. He is so good, I let him fly me to another state so we can fuck there, loudly, at his friend’s house. All of this against my better judgment because John is a dangerous person. And when I am with him, I am in danger too. More than usual. In my intoxicating desire to burrow underneath the soft smooth unwrinkled skin of this bad man, I throw some of my common sense out of the window. I let it fly forth from me as I work a permanently molten pussy with wild abandon up and down John’s thick shaft under a full moon.

When Kane finds out, he hates me a little more, and loves me a little more. My plan does not work. We are both damaged and more wary of one another. After awhile, Kane becomes less a part of my life, his grip on me has dissipated as I have gotten older and more jaded and more hateful of his abuse.

There is another man who becomes dangerous. Seth stalks and tries to hurt me. I have been stupid and moved in with him thinking that we would be like the younger and hipper Waltons. I did not know at the time that he is crazy. When I kick him out, he appears sometimes at my bed in the middle of the night. I am sleeping with a knife and a mallet. I am not sleeping. I do not want Kane’s help; I can’t afford the price. Instead, I go to Domenico.

Domenico is dark, scattered, a sociopath. I am able to make him my sociopath, though, so I can sleep with only one eye open when I call him to sleep with me, to protect me from the stalker.

The dark man is a passionate man. His kisses make me weak. I feel like a well-fucked languid sleek cat whenever he looks at me. And my pussy automatically begins an impromptu Kegel session. Although I own him, he owns me too. The clothes have not even come off. I continue to hemorrhage common sense.

Now, finally, I have hit bottom for me. At the bottom of the descent, I look back up at these seven through whom I have passed, each of whom has taken a bit from me. (I have given it up myself.) There are no words, they are silent. They even refuse to look at me down here. I am left to look at my own dark self and wonder. I see Ereshkigal in the mirror and she is me and I say, “You had everything you wanted within your reach and yet you still coveted this. Well, now it is yours. Have it.”

I did not know until I arrived there that I did not want it.

I foundered in the hole I made for myself for months, dying a little bit faster than the average Jane. I allowed myself for dead, so inanely cliche. Just one more junkie biker whore bites the dust. No one gets out of Ereshkigal's Underworld. That is the Law.

Then, years after we first met, I ran into Evan. He could just as easily have been any one of the seven. He was a bit of each of them. Something had happened in the intervening years, though. He had gotten out. In an Underworld ridden with outlaws, it is only a matter of time before someone breaks the rule that no one can get out. Evan broke the law, and he got out, I wanted out too, and could see now that there may be a chance.

I begged, pleaded, and fluttered around him until he finally agreed to help me. I promised the world, the world where there is no pain if I could just get out, just give me your hand. He slowly and carefully brought me back through each of the seven gates through which I had passed on my way down.

Now, the gates were unmanned. They had been abandoned, there were only ghosts. As I passed back through, I recovered that which was useful that I had given up, recovered with interest. Evan took care of me, and we nursed each other, damaged goods.

A hopeless cause given up for dead, now I am back. I am alive and stronger than I ever was before. I am a stronger wiser woman, and I hope that the next time that door cracks open, beckoning tantalizingly with its wicked glow, I hope that I remember that I know better. I've been down there and I do not want it.

The Descent – Part I

2006-10-09T14:32:00.000-07:00

I have everything I need and most everything I want. I have a respectable man with a respectable job. I have a nice place to live and a decent car. I have a benign degree on deck and respectable job prospects.

Yet I feel sure there is something that I am missing. I am missing out on something better, I think. I decide that I need to look into what that may be. It is not up here, where I am. I will need to travel to find it; I will have to go down. So I leave everything I have to search out what I do not have. I do not worry or mourn as I go. I assume I will be able to go back to what I have when I am ready. I don't know enough to know better that day.

First I find Christopher. I enjoy his good looks and youthful arrogance. I love his big hands, crooked grin, and battery-bunny accessibility. I smoke a little weed, but that has never really been my bag. The goal here is to have fun and to not think too hard about tomorrow. It is a very temporary and in-the-moment existence. I lose some inhibitions and I have a good time. But I am not through looking. I feel that there is more.

Somehow I find Rico. I am appalled at myself when I wake up next to him. I am even more appalled by the fact that he is not properly proportioned in terms of anatomy. I lose some face and quickly continue on my way.

I move on to Drew. I enjoy his velvety-smooth cock and am taught to worship it properly. I love the way he presses me into his service: pushing my limits but never breaking through them completely. I lose more of my inhibitions and learn to enjoy anal sex. I try some coke, but am left rather flat. I learn about trying to hide fear and how that never really works, so I become turned-off by the fear that I smell on him when we are around men who are stronger and he knows it. I am not interested in a fear-based existence – I can get that anywhere with anyone. So I move on.

Then comes Kane. He is one of the men who causes a fear smell in Drew. He enjoys using me as a cum receptacle whenever he wants. He even enjoys calling me that: his cum receptacle. He loves knowing that I feel degraded when he slaps me across the face with his cock and then grabs me by the nape of my neck to force his way into my mouth for a few strokes before he tit-fucks me. And then when he moves down and starts making half-thrusts at my pussy, which is red-poker-hot and dripping for him despite my humiliation, I can't keep from begging him to please, please, fuck me! please... He basks in my inability to exercise self-control because it means that I have given it to him.

He likes it when I'm moaning and writhing beneath him as he fucks me relentlessly, working orgasm after orgasm out of me. I pant and gasp for air. I scream and shudder, bucking and arching as I come again, and yet he does not stop until we are both exhausted. Then he likes to pull out and while kneeling on my arms so I can't move, he smirks as he releases his hot stream of cum all over my face, into my hair, onto my tits. He uses his still semi-hard cock to rub his seed into my skin, under my skin, where it will grow into me. I feel dirty. He knows that. He also knows that I like it.

He knows that every time I beg for his cock, plead to be fucked, desire to be used, get down on my knees, it is easier for him to bend me to his will. I know that the more I come to enjoy being his personal fuck-toy the more unsure I beome about Who Am I? And it becomes easier to let him figure that out for me than to take the time and effort to work it out for myself.

I learn how to manipulate as I am manipulated, and how easy it is to submit without conscious awareness. I am easy to keep in line because not only am I happy to service him whenever he wants me, he is also supplying me with a new love, a new need. I begin to confuse my love for the sex and dope with love for Kane. He knows this and unsurprisingly takes full advantage of it in working to keep me.

He tells me that there are safehouses all over town with women in them who have to fuck whoever shows up at the door or they will be severely beaten. There is a not-so-veiled threat in this, and I am lucky. He beats me in an alley and leaves me there. I lose more self-respect, most of it. Despite my attempts to move on and away, he is in and out of my journey for a long time, like a dark and dangerous spectre, just waiting for my soul.

Inanna/Enki

2006-10-05T16:11:00.000-07:00

After having visited several times as a guest of D., Jesse became a friend to me. A friend in the sense that he always asked me how I was and then actually listened to the answer, responding appropriately. There are no friends in this world, only so-called friends.

More and more he was looking me in the eye, I have a face. He began a playful flirtation, like an old man playing with a young girl. It was just that, actually. Often I am the young lady surrounded by older men. My function is to amuse them. I am good at what I do. I can be quite charming. I insinuated myself more and more into Jesse's life and home - this is my way out of D. I would show up and cook for everyone. I would bring beer.

I am the only girl and soon I am there every day. I greet visitors, I play the hostess. I never asked for anything; I took everything that was offered. I became part of the inner sanctum. I provided and took sanctuary. There is Jesse, his son Jay, an older cousin, and another hangabout Brett.

Jesse makes me laugh. He threatens to do bad things to people who have hurt me, waving his cane and jabbing it into the air to punctuate his points. He never lets me go without. He threatens me with marriage, to "save" me from the others or more likely, from myself. He is serious about this but says it with forced humor and a sidelong glance to hide the truth and protect himself from "no". No one likes pain; that is why we are all here.

Jay hits on me constantly, writing me cute notes. I wake up more than once to find Brett touching me. Often I would pretend to be asleep while he caressed me, sometimes with his hands, other times with his lips and tongue. I let him (I let them all) smooth my hair away from my face and make big lazy strokes down my back and over my ass. I feel the gentleness of his touch on my throat and breasts. I moan and sigh to encourage him. Everyone needs someone to hold on to, even if it is a big lie.

Months pass. I am trusted. I give of myself to everyone and to no one because it is not me; it is the mirage of me. I give myself to none, just within reach, yet untouchable. It is a delicate balancing act. It is hard work. I have intoxicated the four, and Jesse has become especially inebriated on this facet of me.

Now, I know where the stash is, where it comes from, and where the money is. I know who to let in and who to blow off. I know what I can get away with and with whom. I've asked for nothing and been given the power. Because, as any junkie knows:

Who Controls the Dope has the Power.

Shocker

2006-09-28T00:44:00.000-07:00

So. My first love called me out of the blue the other day.

We'd been e-mailing each other for some time after he Googled me and was actually able to track me down. (Through Google! Ridiculous!) I hadn't heard from him in years. I went to visit him once in San Diego after he divorced his first wife. I don't remember why or what happened. I frankly didn't remember having visited until he reminded me (which is a bit embarrassing - I was quite a distance away at the time, so you'd think I'd remember this what with there having been a flight and all). All I remembered (after his prompting) was his dog and his favorite hangout Sparky's. No, wait. I also remember that he appeared to have been adopted as a mascot by a group of convivial Latinas.

I have a picture of me at the airport. I look confused. At that time, I frequently was.

Anyway, I digress. He had Googled me after a conversation with a colleague about their first true loves. Shortly thereafter I was in receipt of an e-mail from him that had been forwarded from my office.

After the initial shock, I e-mailed back (of course, I live for the pain!) and we've been sporadically and generally happily e-corresponding ever since.

As long as we stick to the superficial, we tend to be okay. Any deeper, and all the old unresolved and unrequited feelings and emotions threaten to sweep us up, engulf and mire us, swallow and regurgitate us.

I don't want to be naked and cold. (Or regurgitated, really. Ew.)

Superficial it is, then.

So, tra-la-la, e-mail style. I'm more flaky than he is so any pauses were my own making (or flaking).

Then he called, out of left field.

Why was this a surprise? Well, I thought he was floating about the Persian Gulf as that's where he was last time he mentioned a location (which was not that long ago). But, his deployment is over, and he is back safely stateside, which makes me happy.
That he called me fairly shortly after his return also makes me happy.... Those dress choker whites do something for me; it's shameful. We are both married to others, and he has children. He sent me a picture of a picture, and they are little cuties. I would expect nothing less.

It's odd, really. The inexpected fondness that arises when thinking of the family that your love (because I still do and always will on some level love him) has with another. Odder still for me that it arises in conjunction with that lost urge to be a part of him again.

Hm. I wonder what _his_ take is on it all.

At any rate, Welcome Home Navy Davey.* I'm glad you're safe.

(* any names in this blog have been changed for any of several possible reasons, i.e. in this case: poetic license.)

Lemons to Lemonade

2006-09-25T13:09:00.000-07:00

There really aren't a whole lot of good things to say about condoms.

They tend to interrupt the continuity of hot moments. They can be finicky. They smell funny (not ha-ha funny, either). They taste funnier (by which I just mean "bad"). In a practical application of Murphy's Law, they are usually the wrong size, leaving the poor gent's member looking either like an over-stuffed sausage ready to blast forth from the casing, or like a boy dressed up in daddy's clothes. For the less lucky (or "more selective" perhaps, if we are to give them the benefit of the doubt) of the opposite sex, the old trusted friend that has left an indelible gaping "O" watermark on the wallet is produced with a flourish! Only to learn that it expired... 6 months ago.

A noble quest is to find the beauty in all things - the prince in every toad, if you will.

So, what is there to appreciate about the condom? (Aside from the obvious)

When the condom is produced, I know I'm going to get fucked.

The sound of the foil wrapper being torn is auditory foreplay. I know that in short order, my legs spread, pussy throbbing and drooling in anticipation of you, my desire to be filled will be fulfilled.

And what's not to love about that?

PSA

2006-09-23T09:47:00.000-07:00

While I do not endorse war at any time, I do support humans. This site lets you pick a card that will be printed out with the message of your choosing to be sent to a soldier. I only wish the recipient was not nation-specific. At any rate, there are some nice choices for those of us who are not political or adherents to organized religion, which is nice.

Pressure

2006-09-19T23:15:00.000-07:00

I learned this evening that I've been mentioned over at the Fabulous Mercurial Girl Blog by the equally (of course) fabulous Ms. Mercurial herself. I'm honored!

I suppose this means that I'll have to at least *consider* writing posts that make sense to people besides myself.
Hm, isn't my blog supposed to be all about me though?
...Quandary. ;-D

Tricky

2006-09-17T12:08:00.000-07:00

I redid my blog's template, because I think there may have been a bug in my old template. A bug with a virus or some other nasty thing. I suspect hang-around-on-my-blog-for-1hr.+-person.
Every time I ran Ad-Aware (http://www.lavasoftusa.com/software/adaware) I was getting something with the word "Trojan" in it, and I do not mean good times! Trojan.

The week has been... uncomfy. Too much work, and not enough connection with the man. I'm becoming disillusioned with this marriage, and I'm not very motivated to fix that. For which I feel pretty guilty.
The scientist is, as it turns out, fairly persistent in a gnatty kind of way.
I, in a random act of the universe, happened upon the blog of an actor I used to fuck before I moved away.
My best friend is asking me if I am putting off the inevitable. I'm not sure if he means abandoning this marriage or resigning myself to it.
*sigh*

Science and Art Collide

2006-09-12T13:42:00.000-07:00

I decided to cut the scientist loose. I haven’t talked to him since I broke our meeting last week. At first I felt guilty for not calling, then I thought, you know, what an asshole. I’m busier by far, and you’re talking about how our plans will be convenient for you. And you’re trying to send me on a guilt trip about not spending large blocks of time with you, when you have known from the outset that that's not possible. Fucking you might have been fun, but I’m not interested in giving you a freebie gfe before your cross-country move. Thanks for the ticket to Guiltsville, but I’ve already been! Several times! So, um, I’ll pass!
Sometimes, though, I think about that picture. Dark hands spreading white flesh, dimpling into the skin, and it makes me shiver. I delight in the chiaroscuro of it all. And I am tempted to call.

Quite Tired

2006-09-10T23:25:00.000-07:00

All this lust can wear a girl out.
With the energy I spent fantasizing about doing bad things to the dusky-hued boy at the carwash I could surely have gotten some honest work done.
OK, it's possible that there was more to the fantasy than just carwash Romeo...
Let's just say that in between carwash guy, oil change guy, bakery boy, and the guy in the restaurant, fantasy me is quite the slut.
Apparently I'm in the mood for a good servicing of my own, and monetary tipping is not on the bill.
I'm finding it hard to get things done.
Now, where's my fan?
"Cabana boy!"

What Dies Is Reborn

2006-09-09T14:36:00.000-07:00

We meet in a beachfront boutique hotel in Santa Monica. It is still light out. The room is decorated in shades of white and the gauze curtains allow overcast light to filter through from the balcony. The setting is surreal, moody. Very Truffaut.
He has set out a picnic for us. There are cheeses, breads, olives, and cured meats from a nearby gourmet deli. There is no wine, which is not so surprising. He spends his days and most nights with wine, tasting it, writing it, explaining it.
This evening he has brought lambic, a fruity malt beer traditionally brewed by Belgian monastics. The bottles look more like splits of wine than typical beer bottles. Underneath the bottlecap is a cork.
He spends the meal explaining the history and brewing process to me. I learn about the different flavors and we try several of those: raspberry, strawberry, banana.
I savor the food and drink offering. I become intoxicated by the potency of the drink and the unassuming man who becomes larger than life when engrossed in his passion with wine and spirits.

Dinner over, I extend my gratitude for the meal and the lesson. I drink in his clean smell, run my tongue down his throat and chest. He strokes my face, my hair. He leads me to the bed and stands before me there. I teasingly feign demureness, but allow him to unfasten my top, push up my skirt, sit me down. His pants are undone, and my hand finds his hard but velvet-smooth cock. I gently squeeze and feel him throb within my grasp. My eyes dilate as I pull him toward me and take him into my mouth. I look up at him, savoring his taste, intoxicated by his scent. I run my hands the length of his body. He is smaller-framed, muscular, wiry. I shudder with my desire to devour him completely. His head lolls back, guttural noises forming deep in his throat. He holds me by the hair at the nape of my neck. He shudders slightly.

He gently pushes me to prone, and slowly pushes himself into me. My cunt throbs and spasms as he fills me, leaving me gasping. He moves methodically, intentionally. His eyes are closed; he is humming a tune I don’t know. Then, my ears fill with the familiar buzz and roar of climax and I let out a long low wail and beg him to not stop, pleaseplease, don’t stop. He looks ethereal, fucking me from on high, glowing almost beatifically. Wave after wave of orgasm overtakes me. He continues with his rhythm through my quaking and shuddering, not missing a beat for several minutes. I feel dizzy and transcendent when he finally pulls out and with a moan releases his hot stream across my breasts and face. I feel reborn; I’ve been baptized.

Rumi

2006-09-05T22:46:00.000-07:00

"Do not build much, for I intend to have you in ruins. If you build two hundred houses in a manner that the bees do; I shall make you as homeless as a fly. If you are the mount Qaf in stability. I shall make you whirl like a millstone."

Did I mention that I really like Rumi?

Secret Decoder Ring

2006-09-05T21:57:00.000-07:00

"Am I ever going to be able to see you for more than a couple of hours? I mean, is that feasible?"

trans.: "Am I going to get to fuck you, or what?"

Fear

2006-09-04T12:08:00.000-07:00

I see you first. Immediately my stomach drops, and I feel short of breath. I’m here with new friends. I’m trying to make some friends… The fear that you’ll sell me out creates a torrent of panic buzzing around my head.

Then, I realize that you are surrounded by your family. Your youngest runs up to you, into my line of sight, and startles me out of my internal horror film. Your wife is adjusting your daughter’s clothing, bending in close to her, whispering things into her little angel face. My tunnel vision relaxes, and I am able to breathe.

You will not sell me out today.

The scene lasts only seconds and it is abundantly clear to me now why bull riders think that 8 seconds is quite a run.

I continue walking with my new friends, head up, feeling confident again. As we approach you, you look up and I recognize in your eyes that same panic, that deer-in-the-headlights freeze.

I half-smile in your direction as I pass, detached, as I would any other stranger in any other public space.

In my periphery, I notice you exhale strongly and turn your attention back to the boy.

Rumi is My New Passion.

2006-09-04T09:52:00.000-07:00

Expect many quotes.

This one seems apt for this journal, for this me:

The soul which cannot endure fire and smoke won't find the Secret.
- Diwan, Ode 887

Still Waters?

2006-09-03T13:26:00.000-07:00

I flip through the catalog for Uniworld, dreaming of a river cruise. I’d be happy on any of the offered trips. (As destinations go, I’m not picky, although if the trip is going to last for more than, say, three or four days, indoor plumbing is a must.) This service seems unique, somewhat off the beaten path. Usually when I think of cruises I picture a floating circus and immigrant workers being exploited with the goal of my satisfaction and pleasure.
While I can’t attest for the working conditions at Uniworld, the boats themselves (yes, boats – they do not look like ships) convey none of that sense of overwhelmed-ness. On the contrary, they appear intimate, private. The shared glance between lovers in a crowded room.
Yes, the environment looks lovely, and the food looks divine.
But what of the passengers? A growing sense of dismay creeps over me as I notice that almost to a person, the women look like clones of each other, extending across the lifespan.
Short sensible hair. Loafers. Wardrobe from Chicos (or, for the more adventurous, perhaps Anthropologie). Blank, and most assuredly fake smiles. Did I mention loafers?
I wonder what kinds of things these women think about. Is there passion? Lust? (for the man, or even life itself?) Is the Perfect Storm raging about behind the façade of Lake Placid, as is the case for me?
I wonder how out of place I would feel in this lovely intimate environment surrounded by women with whom on the surface anyway, it would appear as if we would have nothing to talk about, no common ground.
I think I would order room service a lot, and explore, and flirt with the staff. Always have a Plan B. Try to ensure that it includes some measure of spontaneity.