aag

If you’re too tired to have sex, then one would have to assume that you would be too tired to blog about the sex you are having. All I have to say is, “Sweet dreams.”

Rest up, hun. You’ll be all the better for the next date.

:D

Did you fall asleep mid-post? The end seems to be missing.

In any case, rest up. From your recent activities it sounds like you need it.

Actually thank you, thank you, thank you for mentioning it, AAG. The trick is that only a *real* self-respecting sex-blogger admits he or she’s *alive* and not battery-operated.

Also, you’d expect someone who’s no longer outright starved for sex to be able to admit other urges and interests.

Anyway, so good for you. The pauses between notes in a song are at least as important as the notes themselves.

Take care,

figleaf

…went tits-up for something like 42 hours.

Oh my. That sounds quite pleasurable.

Yes, I admit it. I am a sleep slut.

If I can manage to stay awake long enough to start my own blog, I ‘ll name it Kochanie’s Real Adult zzzzz.

Glad you’re ok, aag.

I skipped a fetish party on Saturday in order to go to bed early and snivel into my husband’s armpit. Oh, the exciting and glamorous life.

poor baby!

Maybe it’s because of the whiskey in the jar? you bold deceiver… :-)

I *hate* it when something goes up even with typos in it, much less completely unfinished!

Thou ill-form’d offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth did’st by my side remain,
Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad expos’d to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th’ press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call.
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight,
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.
I wash’d thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run’st more hobbling than is meet.
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun Cloth, i’ th’ house I find.
In this array, ‘mongst Vulgars mayst thou roam.
In Critics’ hands, beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known.
If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none;
And for thy Mother, she alas is poor,
Which caus’d her thus to send thee out of door.

The Author to her Book by Anne Bradstreet

!