Sep 092010

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No doubt it was a mistake to have related this story to my parents but I fall again and again into the trap of believing that they are normal people — and the topics of weather and grain prices only take us so far. Once committed to writing1 my tales come out the same time after time2, so I can say with almost 100% certainty that what issued from my mouth that day deviated little from what faithful readers consumed two weeks ago.

“That’s terrible,” said my mother, “that he would say something so vile to the child!” I agreed, but as happens in a room full of children, someone’s lost Care Bear, extra-difficult math problem or gaping head wound derailed the conversation until the original topic was hopelessly lost.

Until the next day, when my mother called to ask the time for an upcoming event at my child’s school. “I gave you the paper,” I reminded her. “Remember? It was yellow.” She claimed no knowledge of said paper. I cast about, as I was far from home and unable to visualize the calendar on the fridge which held the correct time. “I emailed it to you,” I finally remembered. “Check your inbox and you’ll see.”

That also produced no result; she swore I’d neither handed over any letters nor sent any mail. “And I want to talk to you about something else,” she said, and proceeded to tell me how she’d stayed up all night stewing over the fact that my ex-husband had insulted our child by saying he wasn’t her “real” daddy.

While that man has many faults (no doubt he’d say the same of me), disparaging a child with hurtful comments about her parentage is something he’d never do. “Mom,” I said, with as much patience as I could muster. “Our neighbor said that. A little boy said that, not your ex-son-in-law.” And then the accusation that I’d never invited them to Thanksgiving dinner — despite my offers to pull up the pertinent emails — suddenly made so much more sense.

I have no doubt but that one piece of this puzzle is insanity. My own issues are evidence enough of the chaotic and destructive power of poorly-managed mental hygiene. But perhaps it’s time to accept that fast-encroaching senility also plays a role, a role which will grow more and more pronounced as the years tick by.

So we’re no closer to a solution than when we started, and all I can do is forgive and forgive and forgive, and hope that maybe, one day, we’ll all figure out a way to be kind to one another.

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  1. or typing, whatever []
  2. this must make being my friend extremely boring []

Jerks on the internet are really becoming caricatures of jerks on the internet,” said Markemer about a lovely young lady named Meg who recently shat out this comment:

Speaking of new discoveries, just wait till your kids find your blog. Then they will discover what a slut their mom really is. Also your parents say they have never read your blog, but that is complete bullshit, you know they have. They know everytime a fist has been in your cunt and every cock you have sucked. Every word you have ever written here is here forever. Your kids will find and know, how’s that for a new discovery? (read it in context here)

I don’t want my parents to read my site because it would embarrass them — which, coincidentally, is also the reason I don’t particularly want my kids reading. But if they did, should I be ashamed? What does Meg imagine that I would be ashamed of? Am I meant to think that fisting and cocksucking are shameful? Why is her focus only on the fists in my cunt? Where’s the equal sense of incense for the cunts my fist has been in? And it’s not like I’ve even sucked that many cocks this year. What has it been…three? That’s practically one!

(Today’s koan: How does one slut-shame a slut who feels no shame?)

Meg, people have tried to shame me more times and in more ways than you can possibly imagine, so next time? Try harder.

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Kat asks:

My partner and I are planning to go to our first kinky play party next weekend, and we’re very excited to explore as a couple. The problem is that we have a friend who is also planning to attend for the first time – a friend who we do not want to get to know any better. The friend, on the other hand, has expressed more than once that he’s had fantasies involving us. Until now, we’ve just brushed those comments off, but the nature of the event we’re all planning to attend makes that response difficult; clearly, it’s time to set some boundaries. We want him to have fun, and we know that incidental sightings are inevitable, but we don’t want to play with our friend, and we don’t want him watching us if we choose to play. (He’s very much into exh/voy, and my partner and I both get a “creepy” feeling from the idea of him watching.)

Our friend has historically had difficulty recognizing boundaries, is almost hyper-sensitive to rejection, and definitely does not respond to hints. How can we set clear boundaries with him, without ruining anyone’s good time? Have you or any of your readers ever had to deal with this kind of awkwardness at a pervy party? Are we worrying for no good reason? Help!

I’ve got to say that your friend sounds like an extraordinarily bad candidate for attendance at a kinky play party. I’m not sure how best to advise you so I’ll leave it up to my readers.

Readers, what say you about Kat’s situation?

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A very happy Labor Day to all my US readers. Enjoy the last little bit of summer!

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Sep 032010

After forty-one-and-a-half years of owning these genitals (and twenty-three years of knowing what they were for), you’d think that I’d have exhausted every possible way of making them feel good.

You would be wrong.

The images burned into my brain from a super-hot night left me so squirmy and unable to work that once my children left for school I ripped off all my clothes and dived back into bed. Having recently untangled the ridiculous snake-nest that had developed in the cords of my favorite solo-time companions, I tested out one, then another, before finally settling on the third as that day’s Toy of Choice.

In memory of the surprisingly deep pounding I’d taken the night before I brought my Daddy to bed with me, but the combination of last night’s fucking and this morning’s wanking made my muscles do exactly what they’re designed to do — which is to push out. No matter how much I arched my back and tried to hold Daddy under me my body wasn’t cooperating. The dildo turned into a missile; before it could knock anything off the bureau I sat up into a variation of a Pigeon, which held Daddy so tightly into me it could not slip away. With the Wahl wedged against my clit and Daddy neatly captured I ground and screamed myself into exhaustion. 1

I’m such a master at awkward that I’ve never felt comfortable with woman-on-top, but this new discovery inspires me. If I faced away from my partner and managed to tuck my bent leg between his legs, mightn’t it work for intercourse?

Expect updates as this story develops.

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  1. Have you tried this? You really should try this, because it felt screamingly great, to the point that I’m glad the hot weather has followed us into September and prohibited the turning off of air conditioning and the opening of windows. Promise me you’ll try this. You’ll thank me later. []
Sep 022010

Long-standing tradition dictates that once the screaming stops and the swelling subsides (mostly subsides), I will position myself so that he can have free access to my breasts.

This would be easier were I naked but lately I’ve liked the feeling of my nipples popping out over something — and the more times they can pop out the better. Given the right outfit they can be tucked away and then spill forth dozens of times, each time more surprising than the last. 1

While we relax and talk his hands never stop moving. He plays along with my surprise-nipple fetish, pulling my top down to pinch and knead and cup hot handfuls and I want it never to stop. “I’d like to have this done to me all day long,” I say.

It would, he agrees, be nifty to possess a bra with a cunning built-in device that would mimic hands capable of caressing and tweaking and cupping all day long.

“No,” I say, “I’d rather just have you follow me around with your hands in my bra.”

Do you think anyone would notice?

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  1. Yes, I know they’re in there and that they’re going to come back out. It’s still sexy and surprising. Is that so wrong? []
Sep 012010

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Sep 012010

It would be inaccurate to say that in writing here I exaggerate; yet an idea takes but a moment to wing its way through the brain, and given the busy nature of life and the relative importance we usually place on fleeting thoughts I can see how it would seem blown out of proportion to write eight hundred words about an event that took only a moment or paragraphs of angst over a tiny worry. How much more mountains-out-of-molehills would you think it if you knew the number of hours (many, oh god how many) it took to compose such pieces, dripping word by painful word out and around the dozens of interruptions your intrepid narrator endures daily?

When you come right down to it, the question becomes one of scale and time. Does the scale of what’s written match up with the meat-space magnitude? Does time flow the same inside and outside of text? How often is there a disconnect from artistic license or bad memory? Considering scale and time it must be terribly disconcerting to read here something that references oneself. Reading things about myself no matter how favorable sends me into squirming worry even faster than toe-sucking. 1

Thus are the dangers of blogging and reading what’s blogged, and we won’t even touch the trouble over things that must go unsaid, the very very many things that must go unsaid. You should be asking yourself about every blog you read: What is this writer not saying? What should she be saying but isn’t? What subjects did she once talk about so freely but now does not? And most importantly, why?

Answer those and you’ll have a better grasp of the truth.

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  1. This is why it is best, I guess, that I only ever slept with one other sex blogger, though ohmigod there a few to whom I would give my very soul, if I believed in such a thing, in exchange for a single night. It is safer that way. []

The problem would diminish if not disappear completely were I to take a less extreme view on the topic of hygiene, most specifically pre-oral-sex hygiene.

You see, I enjoy being on the very bleeding edge of cleanliness when it comes time to part my legs. I’d be happiest if I could step directly out of the shower and into bed, but as that kind of scheduling brings up problems of its own, I’d allow that perhaps two hours could pass between bathing and (ahem) eating before I’d be too twitchy to relax.

I know this is silly; and these rules don’t, mind you, apply to anyone but myself. The memory of a sharp note of sweat on a partner’s skin can make me breathe heavy and swallow hard weeks after the antecedent, and I don’t think I’ve ever turned someone down for for being too funkified. At least not in recent memory.

If I have an early date on a night the kids’ father comes here to take care of them I can bathe at my leisure before he arrives, then beat a hasty retreat the moment everyone is settled. The problem arises only on nights when the ex comes here and I have a late-starting date, because due to my aforementioned neurosis over cleanliness, the getting-ready portion of the evening must take place with the ex in the house.

He has to hear me; he must know what’s going on, for what possible reason other than imminent nekkidity would require a half-hour shower at seven o’clock at night? Why else would I kiss the kids goodnight at leave at five ’til eight, wafting behind me the scent of shampoo and barely contained glee, adjusting the altogether inappropriate underwear concealed beneath my clothes? As keenly as I anticipate being naked and touched and very well-loved, it is disconcerting to walk out of the home — a home that, if I’d have been a different kind of person, would have provided everything in every aspect of life I ever could have wanted.

But I wasn’t, and it didn’t, so I try every week to juggle the needs for hygiene and privacy and sex and fail every time.

Oh. I’ve just right this very moment thought of another solution, but as it involves refusing any offer of oral pleasure, I think it can safely be rejected out of hand.

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Aug 302010

Imagine living in a country where we are free to eat any sort of ice cream that we desire — or, for that matter, no ice cream at all.

In this frosty land the government wouldn’t show a preference for eaters of any particular flavor. There would be no test before being granted a job or any other benefit. An employer couldn’t inquire “Do you eat chocolate ice cream?” at an interview, as your preference matters not a bit in your ability to work or receive.

Schools would not sell ice cream, but neither would they stand in the way of students bringing their own. One student likes vanilla? Go right ahead, the school would say. Eat up. Enjoy. Another likes chocolate? Have at it. Just don’t try to shove your butter brickle down the throats of your table-mates, or scream that they’ll burn in hell for their scoops of strawberry.

Would schools teach about the various kids of ice cream available in the larger world? Perhaps, in the right subject area. If responsible science agrees that one should eat a balanced diet and not just ice cream, or that one should avoid the varieties to which one is allergic, or that utterly no research has shown a correlation between ice cream consumption and pedophilia, then those ideas should be shared.

Privately, however, citizens could shout out their ice cream beliefs no matter how unscientific to the high heavens with no interference. You think chocolate ice cream is the very best? Set up a store and serve nothing but. If you feel so strongly, prohibit vanilla-eaters from crossing your threshold. Go right ahead, if you wish, and incorporate The Church of Chocolate Ice Cream; preach each Sunday about the evils of Neapolitan and refuse to marry any but the most ardent chocoholics.

From the sidelines I might think you a very great fool, but I would not interfere. I would not interfere because, given enough time and the vagaries of reproduction, chocolate ice cream might not always be the ice cream of choice and The Church of Chocolate Ice Cream might not always be the most powerful; meaning that churches and governments should be as far removed from one another as can possibly be managed and that each one should stay out of the other’s business.

Why is this so hard to understand?

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