At 6 AM you’re turned toward me and I’m on my back and our legs are scissored lying in warm caramel contact and your cock pulses down onto my thigh and my cunt does that seizing pumping grasping thing and I’m hot and wet and you’re hard against my skin and then you roll onto me and slide inside and we match and I don’t care if I come because this is the thing, lazy and sweet, and you kick off the covers and I know you want to come but you don’t–not yet–and my blood swirls in my head as you pin me down put your face next to mine and do that thing and my back arches toes curl and I say “oh, oh, oh,” and those are the first words anyone speaks.
Monthly Archives: November 2006
CRAZY + ANOREXIC = GIRLFRIEND – m4w – 28
Reply to: firstname.lastname@example.org
Date: 2006-11-15, 12:41PM ESTDo you have the crazy eyes?
Do you consider a salad enough nutrition for 2 days
Do you survive on red bull and cigarettes
Are you a teacher
If so, you are SOOOO my type. Drop me a line with a pic and lets see what happens
At 3:43 AM I rolled across my bed and reached into the top drawer of my nightstand. I couldn’t not. It was dark, my bed was warm and I was, shall we say, randy.
It was not an extended or particularly acrobatic session; at 3:43 who wants acrobatics? Just me, my bullet and my Orchid G. My orgasm was long, shuddering and total–the Emily Rose kind that causes my back to bend and my body to contort. I fell back asleep afterwards, spooning a pillow.
At 6:45 I was out of bed and rousing children to dress for school. It was chilly and I’d tossed on my robe. Miles’ socks were in the dryer and I walked across the floor to the laundry closet.
Halfway there I stopped. Something had dripped onto my foot, just missing the floor. I turned and walked to the bathroom. By the time I got there the insides of my thighs were wet with the thin, glistening, milky liquid that had coated my fingers and vibrator earlier.
The liquid that smells so intoxicatingly good I think everyone around me can smell it as well as I can. The scent that, even when it is dried onto my underwear smells creamy and sweet and heady and girly.
Not strong, it’s a gentle scent, but totally recognizable. Sometimes my mouth waters when I recognize it.
How do I manage to turn a relatively quiet writing workday into a three client, 90-minutes~60-minutes~90-minutes back to back massage fest?
Four hours may not seem like a lot, but trust me.
At least they’re all regulars, at least I’ll be getting kickass paid from two of them, and the third will do fucking awesome things to my hair on Monday.
When do I get to
wank cook dinner organize my pantry?
So I’ve been thinking a lot lately about why people (especially sex bloggers–especially pseudonymous and anonymous* sex bloggers) blog. I know the reasons are different for different people, but I’m pretty sure there are some common ones.
I’m pretty sure we all like the attention, whether it’s to be lauded for our writing (To be fair, this should be taken with a huge chunk of extra coarse kosher salt, cos you know, consider the source of praise: Folks who spend lots of time reading smut on the internets are most likely not literary agents or publishers, and if you are, call me!), to be seen as experts on some aspect of sexuality, or purely to shock the hell out of our readers.
It’s nice to hear that people like us. Or respect what we write. Or are horrified by or envious of the things we do. It means we’re having an impact on people, however small. It means people are paying attention, and we’re pretty much attention whores.
Before I was a blogger, I was a writer. I recorded everything in my journals from grade school forward and I’ve saved every one. They’re boring, but they are my archives, half a diary dedicated to 12 year old angst over why Steve Baker liked Charlotte Spencer more than me. And why his friend Mike wouldn’t leave me alone, when I’d made it very clear I was not interested in him. That one still makes me laugh.
I wrote during my very tumultuous relationship with Craig, the undiagnosed bipolar meanie who insulted me to tears almost daily. Writing (yeah, okay, and therapy) cleared a path out. And now I can read those entries, see the one surviving photo of myself then–5’4″ and 100 pounds, all sunken cheeks and hollow eyes–and track my existence from that to this.
I don’t want to forget what insignificance feels like. I want to remind myself and others that meaningful lives take up space. That’s why I write.
But before I could write, I spoke.
I am a talker. I’m not the most talkative person in the room, but given a person or group with little knowledge of or experience with something I know a lot about, I revel in the role of expert.
This is as true about potty training and removing chewing gum from hair as it is about kinky sex. But kinky sex is much more titillating than chewing gum and toilets.
Before I had a blog I would call my friends to tell them about the unbelievably hot sex I’d had the day before or was fixing to have later that evening. I enjoyed being open about my sex life, I enjoyed the admiration and envy of my less prolific girlfriends and I took just a little bit of satisfaction in knowing that it drove my guy friends crazy.
But I would end up telling the same story several times while also writing it in my journal. This was a big waste of time for me, especially once I became a parent, and a single one at that. That’s where the sex blogging comes in. When I discovered that I could record things once and let people read if they chose to, it freed me up tremendously.
A problem with having intimate details of one’s life published on the internet is that it’s in the public domain. And like it or not, there are people who don’t want to read about me sucking cock or sliding my finger into a girl’s wet pussy.
No, really. There are.
Enter pseudonyms and fictionalized locations. The intentional blurring of the edges which we bloggers do to varying degrees lets us be more frank in our discussions. We can feel fairly secure that our blog is not going to come up at the next PTA meeting. And if it does we have deniability.
I’m pseudonymous for now. If I didn’t have children I don’t think I would be. I’m not embarrassed or ashamed of my life. In fact, I think it’s pretty great. I do think of my parents and my children and wonder what would happen to them in their own circles if I was out.
This pisses me off because two weeks ago I was subjected to a half-hour discussion about my aunt Janice’s bleeding hemorrhoids (internal and external, thanks) and no one cared, but it would have shocked the table into silence had I detailed my orgasm from earlier that day.
Which is just stupid because they’re both about things in asses.
Ultimately, if it came to it, I don’t think the world would end if I went public. I’d like to think that people have better ways to spend their time than to worry who Madeline Glass really is.
But I would like to spend a little more time with my kids to cement healthy attitudes about sex and love and relationships into their churning little brains before explaining the difference between figging and teabagging.
*pseudonymous: Writing or written under a false name.
anonymous: Not identified by name; of unknown name; having no outstanding, individual or unusual features; unremarkable or impersonal.
I love going to get my car serviced. The guy behind the counter tells me to get the basic oil change, he’ll throw in the extras at no cost.
So I got my oil changed, new air filter and fluids filled, interior vacuumed and dash cleaned for 21 bucks.
And the woman with the long hair and bad attitude at the counter when I picked up my keys just sort of glared as he checked me out.
I mean, as he took my money.