jesus christ on a cracker

You know the new little friend I made recently?

I’ve never squirted before and have always been curious about it; and right in the moment, I was thinking of the advice they always give you: “Don’t hold back! Bear down like you’re trying to push the orgasm right out! Don’t by shy; it’s not pee!”

Well, you know what?

I love my new vibrator.

An. Awful. Lot.
Oh, god. Never before have I had such crushingly awesome G-Spot orgasms that get me excited enough to bite the stuffing out of my pillow and leave me a limp, quivering mess afterward.

That is all.

feeling new

A story, a little over a year old: I’m sitting in front of the computer and IMing back and forth with my boyfriend before leaving for class. It’s been a couple of months since we’ve last seen each other; and while we both miss each other, I can tell the geographical separation is hitting him the hardest. This stomach-twistingly awkward conversation follows, roughly paraphrased:
Me: [insert crap about facebook here]

Boyfriend: I have a quick question that’s been nagging at me awhile. And you know, I don’t want to be That Guy^TM, but you said that you want me to be honest with you no matter what. So.

Me, thankful that irritation and eye-rolling can’t be conveyed over the internet: What’s the question?

Boyfriend: Who is that guy who always posts on your facebook wall? He addressed you as ‘babe’ the other day on your wall, which made me raise my eyebrow a bit.

Me: He’s my friend. My flamingly gay friend.

Boyfriend: Ok! Well, that’s fine. I mean, now that I know.

Yeah. Now that he knew.

overrated item of the week: a crosspost

Pondering celibacy.

Well, not really. Just temporarily, I guess; and without all the somber religious undertones.

My first real relationship was only a few years ago; and since then, I’ve put up with lots of lackluster sex. Initially, I was completely willing to sacrifice my own desires just to stay in a stifling, unsatisfying relationship, telling myself that the shitty sexual chemistry between me and my ex was as unimportant as a squabble over which brand of air freshener to buy.  After I broke up with him, my standards slowly evolved to something somewhat fairer.

a sexy boy

Henry Cavill!

Since he's hotter than a fox in a forest fire, I'm willing to forgive the overabundant chest hair.

Look at that sweet face. Just. Look.

Unfortunately, there weren’t many photos of him half-naked (or even just shirtless, for goodness’ sake), as there often are with female stars, which made me all pouty for a few minutes before I finally decided to just go sip green tea with lemon and watch some gay porn.

On triggers: mine and everyone else’s.

Today, I went to an erotica-writing workshop; and another girl in the group shared her discomfort with writers who don’t disclose potential triggers¹ for readers. And while this isn’t something I’ve thought about in reference to my own writing, she’s completely right – if someone comes to this blog, they deserve to know whether they’ll click on a title and stumble into something that just might ruin their day.

RIDICULE.

Why is it that (almost) every single ‘dom’/'master’ posts the same photos of himself on fetlife all the time?

Point-by-point description of a generic, twue ‘dom’/'master’ photo:

• A bit of facial hair, preferably a goatee or perhaps a full beard.
• Baggy (preferably black) clothes that don’t reveal any skin or even a hint of sex – no muscled torso, no bulge in the pants, nothing.
• Cool, distant, ‘i m srs bsns’ expression that’s supposed to look stoic, but really just looks as though the guy is desperately trying to hold in a fart.
• Arms crossed defensively tight across the chest, discretely flexing to make his biceps look larger.

..and maybe some sunglasses, but this one is variable. Some men have apparently caught on to the fact that if you take a photo of yourself indoors next to your bookshelf full of moldy John Norman novels, wearing sunglasses just might make you look like a tool.

a frolicking good time

You’re such a beautiful boy – perching silent and ready in front of the open window, the setting sun bathing your skin in a honeyed liquid-velvet. You are bare and exposed, stripped down to a pair of navy blue briefs that lie snug against your narrow hips. I want to press my face against your chest and inhale, taking in your bittersweet boysmell until my nostrils sting. I want to taste you, winding my tongue around the soft ridges of your pink seashell ears; through the wisps of babysoft hair trailing down into your underwear.

Protected: No cunt(ry) for old men.

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