2009 March • aag

Prayer

Mar 312009

He’s circumcised but not excessively so; when relaxed but one-third of the head peeks out from beneath a wonderfully soft fold of skin.

This of all his features is the one upon which I fixated. We were seated in a crowded classroom where the teacher spoke from the back. I sat on the floor of the first row. When I turned to see the teacher I was delighted to be nose to knee with him and in possession of the most extraordinary view of his bid’ness.

My eyes couldn’t stay off of it. He sat naked and perfectly at ease in a room full of people listening to the droning of the teacher. Or not. At one point she paused and asked for the omnipresent murmuring please to quiet down. It did momentarily, but as soon as she again began to speak the noise level rose until my attention was wrenched away from my partner’s cock and onto the rude whisperers.

I rose and walked back to them. I demanded that they hold their impertinent tongues while the teacher spoke. They looked at me with no comprehension and went right back to talking. He embraced me when I returned to my place. “You were brave to confront them,” he whispered, and then we were all called to rise for prayer.

Do not question the dreaming logic of saying prayers in a crowded classroom with my naked partner behind me. Only try to imagine how it felt as all heads lowered reverentially, leaving us in virtual seclusion. Imagine how his arms went around me and his hands cupped my breasts. Imagine his softness growing hard against my backside, and him sliding up the skirt I suddenly realized I was wearing, and the feeling of wet skin moving resolutely toward more wet skin even as the prayer turned into one of overwhelming thankfulness to their god and I felt my dream heart swelling up with the very same gratitude.

Imagine my disappointment when suddenly I woke up alone in bed with no one pressed resolutely into me. Nevertheless, the feeling of his body has stayed with me all day. And so has the gratitude.

I’ve Always Wondered How These Things Got Started

Mar 302009

“Honey, why don’t you have your panties on?” I asked my daughter one morning when I noticed her lack of appropriate underwear.

Calmly she answered, “I put them on my brother’s face.” She didn’t even look up from the puzzle she was busy assembling. When I looked closely at the boy, I saw that what he was wearing pulled down over his ears was not, as I’d first thought, some makeshift headgear crafted from doll clothes. I was momentarily flummoxed.

“Why would you put your underpants on your brother’s face?” I finally asked.

“Because I wanted to make him smell them,” she replied in the most matter-of-fact way you could possibly imagine before dropping the puzzle and retrieving her undergarments.

And I was left to wonder if I’d inadvertently witnessed the birth of a fetish. Whether it will be one that affects the boy, or the girl, or the both of them is yet to be seen.

Hermit

Mar 272009

Given another life I’d make different choices.

Let’s face it — I’m not a very social person. In fact I’m not social at all. My earliest memories involve abandoning the fellowship of my family for my own room where all alone I’d read, draw endless pictures of Aquaman (I loved Aquaman. Don’t even think about telling me that Aquaman was wimpy.) or just stare off into space thinking whatever deep thoughts plagued my kindergarten self.

By the time I’d reached my daughter’s current age the behavior had solidified. I begged and received permission to quit going to a babysitter’s house after school; instead I went straight home and enjoyed two or three glorious hours of peace before the rest of the family rolled in. I did homework, cooked dinner, cleaned, read books. I reveled in the solitude. It’s taken me a long time to realize how very much of that kind of thing I actually need. This is not something that’s optional. It’s an absolute requirement.

Halfway or more through this life it’s too late to initiate plans for full-time monastic living. Any solitude I get will be in itty bitty chunks doled out on alternating weekends. But I certainly don’t regret the long string of decisions that have brought me to this point. Not at all.

It’s likely nothing more than an extra dose of crankiness and stress brought on by a combination of factors this week. My eldest is home for spring break; this has caused an unstoppable slamming of the screen door and a continuous flow of friends in and out of the the house. The excitement is unbearable for the little ones. Add to that a slowly improving hole in the throat, lingering cough and enough antibiotics to kill off every good bacteria within a ten-foot radius of me and you’ve got someone stressed out enough to shriek about it via Twitter. Five times. In a row.

Would you, if you could? Would you live another life completely differently than the one you’re currently inhabiting? Share please, in the comments below.

Priming the Pump

Mar 262009

If early on he bends me in half at the edge of the bed, head hanging over the edge and knees bent back as far as they go; if I commence to push the soles of my feet against his solid shoulders and tilt my bottom up off the bed; and if he strokes into me with the steady beat of a metronome; then something clicks in me for the rest of the night.

Or morning, or afternoon, or whenever. The time doesn’t matter. What matters is the priming of the pump, so to speak, that once completed sets free a never ending fountain.

It amazes me and must surely shock him, I worry, although he says he adores it. Concern about the bedding and some tiny remaining shred of seemliness suggest that I should try to hold it back. Every time I fail. Perhaps some day I will learn that it is less like a faucet and more like a waterfall, a waterfall which despite all human intervention goes where it wants to thank you very much.

He curled between my legs in the latter part of the visit, face dangerously close to the flood plain as he worked our current favorite buzzy thing over my bits and pieces. He’d primed me to the point that the gushing seemed uncontainable, despite the fact that I hadn’t sipped my drink in hours and was dying of thirst. I gushed until I stopped worrying about the bedding because I was more concerned about leaks through to the room below. Or electrocution from all the water rattling around in the vibe.

Finally I pushed him away. “Please turn it off,” I whispered, and for once he did as I asked immediately instead of holding on for just one more. His cheek rested on my thigh; he stroked my legs, belly and mons. Then he turned his head just enough that he could oh-so-gently lick me, and I think it finally sank into my stupid insecure brain that maybe, just maybe, he actually enjoys all the filthy sexy intimate drenched things we do.

Smoke

Mar 252009

“Did I tell you I’ve stopped smoking?” asked my little ones’ mother not long ago.

That’s awesome, I answered. How difficult was it?

“Not difficult at all,” she answered easily. I puzzled over this news for a moment before she spoke my name in a slightly harsh tone. “XXXXXX. You do realize I’m not talking about cigarettes, don’t you?” She thinks I’m terribly naive. I’m not sure I blame her.

Oh, I said vaguely. Right.

She chattered on about how she’s recently made some decisions about her life: moving away from friends who weren’t good for her, continuing to work a difficult job, standing by a boyfriend doing time, and giving up the green — at least for the moment. “I needed to change some things,” she said. “I didn’t like the way my life was going.”

I’m glad, I told her. Were you smoking much before? I asked, even thought I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.

“Too much,” she told me. And then she proceeded to describe exactly how much she smoked during the last two of her three pregnancies. It seemed like quite a lot but what do I know? Any amount would seem like a lot to the naive person raising this young woman’s first and second child. “But he’s ok, you know?” she continued. “He’s perfect. We’d know by now if there was something wrong with him, don’t you think?”

I don’t know, I answered. “I’m sure he’s fine,” she said firmly. “He’s perfectly fine.”

And I can only hope she’s right.

In Which I Wish for a Redistribution of the Energy in My House

Mar 242009

He explodes into my room at first light, having disturbed his sister’s slumber by jumping on her bed. “He woke me up too early,” she complains, trailing several steps behind and pushing hair out of her eyes.

The boy has already shimmied onto my bed and is scaling my barely-awake body. Before I’ve fully opened my eyes I’ve gotten a foot in the ribs and a headbutt to the chin. “Can you two go make your beds?” I mutter with the hope that their absence will allow me time to wake up marginally more.

They both race out. The girl barely makes a noise as she prances on tip-toe, but the boy has somehow perfected the art of running like he weights ten times more than he actually does. It shakes the floor. I don’t know how it doesn’t hurt his chubby feet to travel this way all day long.

If I wanted them to make their beds quickly it would take an hour. Since this time I desire rest and a sliver more solitude they are back in under a minute. We snuggle for a moment and then I send them off with the injunction to get dressed. Each bounces back at least three more times with concerns ranging from “Is this on the right way?” to “There’s toothpaste all over the bathroom.”

Ten more minutes of negotiation result in mostly dressed children, a semi-sentient mommy and breakfast on the table. And then begins the morning in earnest, wherein the boy only stops running for food and when he bodily slams into something. Which is frighteningly often, and which surely would convince any other child to stop running if only for a moment.

Hours later he slows enough to sit quietly and read a book on the couch, his hip wedged solidly into mine. His body is still but his tongue races on, describing each illustration in intricate detail while I smile and nod and rub his curly head. “Stop it mom!” he says, and pulls himself away. “I don’t like that!”

This makes only the 547th time thus far that he’s said issued an emphatic “NO” to something I’ve asked, and I have to wonder distractedly if I’d have been a better mother had I acquired these children a decade (or more) earlier in life.

I would have had less sense but more energy. Less patience but more fun. Less money but more marriage. I was raised to think that later was far superior to earlier motherhood. After reproducing as a cranky old woman, I’m not sure I’ll teach my kids the same thing.

Back to the Beginning

Mar 232009

“I have no choice but to dismiss the case,” the judge said. “You can refile if you want, but you may run into the same brick walls again. Or you can just let it drop.” After only a second of stunned silence I thanked her and left, hoping to make it back to the car before the tears came.

I’m certain that the law is meant to be logical but this felt only absurd. Originally I listed my ex-boss by title and business address as the defendant, reasoning that he was the one who hired me, fired me, and refused to pay me. I thought I was asking for him to pay me in his capacity as the president of EF.

Two court appearances ago the judge said I’d done this incorrectly. I amended the filing to show that I was requesting payment from EF, not from an individual person. I asked then if I needed to do anything else. “Just give it to the judge,” the clerk told me, so at the last court appearance I did. She accepted the amended form but we got no further with the proceedings because EF’s lawyer was missing one signature.

This time he had the signature but pointed out to the judge that the company had not been served. “You didn’t have them served?” the judge asked, looking coldly at me over her glasses. Of course I had them served, I said. Months ago. She shook her head no. I should have had them served again with the amended paperwork. But it would have gone to exactly the same place, exactly the same person, I protested. It would have asked for exactly the same payment. And that’s when she threw the case out.

I should have known, I told myself, weeping angrily while driving away. I should have known, or asked, or figured it out somehow. I felt too stupid to try filing again. I felt too stupid to deserve the money EF owes me. I felt too stupid to live.

After a few hours (and a visit from someone who cheered me up extraordinarily well with ice cream and orgasms) I realized I was being ridiculous. Cases get dismissed all the time. People who go to court every day for a living screw up in ways that make my misstep look brilliant. Even EF’s own lawyer failed to get a necessary signature. These things happen.

But what to do now? My mind’s not yet made up. I see the sense in re-filing the case with errors corrected, even though it means entering again into a system that I don’t understand and which might once again boot me unceremoniously out after taking more of my money. I also see the sense in releasing the debt to the universe and being done with the whole sordid mess.

I’ll wait a few days (or weeks) to let the emotions settle and then try to come up with some workable solution.

It is not necessary to accept everything as true,
one must only accept it as necessary.

Whining Weekend Swag

Mar 202009

Two weeks ago I came down with a cold. One week later I realized that swallowing was significantly more painful with each successive day. I gazed into the abyss of my throat by early-morning light; gazing back at me was a wicked red blob with a yellow depression in its center. “It hurts to talk,” I told the doctor an hour later.

“Then don’t talk,” he said, not looking up from the prescription pad.

So I’m attempting not to talk. I’m extending the vocal ban to writing as well, not because I sound out the words as I type (I don’t! Really!) but because I prefer to mourn my lack of energy and good health in complete silence. Except for when I’m whining. I’ll save my voice for that.

Instead I’ll offer you some swag. Joseph Reid will send one lucky winner an 8″x10″ or 11″x14″ print of one of his nudes — your choice. By clicking on the link or by leaving a comment, you verify that you are 18 (or 21, depending on your location) and can legally view images of naked people. NAKED PEOPLE ZOMG!!!!!

Check out all of his photos while you’re there. The portraits are particularly striking.

Please only enter if you’re a US resident who can provide a street address for FedEx shipping. If you’re not willing to hand over your shipping address so we can get the print to you, please don’t enter. We can’t teleport the swag to you. Really.

Leave a comment with a working email address between now and when the contest ends on Monday, March 23rd at 12:01 am. I’ll randomly choose and then notify the winner via email shortly thereafter.

Good luck!

Your Review Sux and You Suck Too, Sucker, So Go Suck It

Mar 192009

Recently my inbox has seen a striking uptick in email wherein the author endeavors to point out how very much I suck, and not in a good way.

Most of the messages have had to do with site reviews I’ve written for Jane’s Guide. I can certainly understand the frustration in building a site and filling out the submissions form only to find that your hard work has been panned. I’ve been there. It stings.

But why vent wrath on me? If your site makes me smile I’ll be the first to sing your praises from the internet version of the mountaintops. If it’s got issues, I have to point them out. Politely. But I will point them out.

For instance:

Are you the webmaster of an adult site charging $29.99, $34.99 or even $39.99 a month for the privilege of viewing the members area? Then you’d better have the goods when I visit. Prices this high suggest huge sites with many months or years of high-end content. If you’ve been around for three months and have but six updates, your price is out of line compared to your competitors.

Have you posted image sets which were obviously taken by a pal who owns thousands of dollars worth of equipment but has only the most rudimentary grasp of pointing and clicking? Owning a camera doesn’t make you a photographer, points out fetish photographer Christine Kessler, and I couldn’t agree with her more. Crappy video editing, constant bursts of camera flash during a scene, pathetic sound quality, lame off-screen direction…they all make you look like a n00b. Don’t complain if I call your work “amateurish” when it so clearly is.

Is your blog nothing more than a way to sell a book, ebook or internet seminar? Great. I heartily salute your efforts. However, there’s a good way to do this and a not-so-good way. The most successful method is to tie your posts to the product you’re trying to sell. Have you written a book about erotic bondage? Then post interviews with practitioners, reviews about bondage products, information you’ve written yourself about the various types of bondage and et cetera. If you’re only posting excerpts and articles you’ve plucked from other sources on the ‘net, don’t expect me to act impressed.

Got a site whose every boundary is devoted to advertising? Right sidebars, left sidebars, above the header and footer, in posts, affiliate banners, interstititials, peel-backs, pop-ups and lil’ naked dancing girls from Adult Friend Finder? Expect me to complain. I love internet advertising. I feed my family on internet advertising. But please use some restraint. There’s a point of diminishing returns when it comes to placing ads on a site; if you’ve passed it, I will point it out.

Does your web design look as though it’s existed unchanged since 1996? Do you use the flash tag? Music that auto-plays? Blinky graphics? Pink text on a red background? Expect to hear about it. No one has to spend a ton of money to get usable, well-organized web design. WordPress.org and a reliable webhost will give fabulous results for just about anything you can dream up.

Do you offer an inexpensive “trial” version of your site which automatically converts to a full-price membership after a few days? Shady. Even more shady is the increasingly popular pre-checked box option, wherein the webmaster offers membership to one (or more) additional sites for a small fee. The only problem is that if you don’t manage to cancel your subscription to sites you didn’t even realize you’d signed up for, you’ll be hit with a full, recurring membership to those sites. I’ve seen sites that try to bill for $65 worth of additional porn after a 3-day “trial.” This is crazy. I’ll can’t give good reviews to sites that do this crap.

and finally…

God help you if your site resizes my browser window. I will cut a bitch. Srsly.

Submit work for any sort of review and you run the risk that what’s written will not be to your liking. This happens from the first crayoned artwork handed to teacher or parent and continues as long as creative endeavors are attempted. It’s a risk you take. Don’t want the risk? Don’t ask for the review.

Alternatively, you could remember the old advice that all publicity is good publicity. A listing on Jane’s Guide has the potential to bring in many hundreds if not thousands of hits after it posts. No matter how crappy the review reads plenty of folks will click over for curiosity’s sake, if for no other reason. Some of them will disagree with what the reviewer said and will stick around indefinitely. Some will come back repeatedly because they hate you. That’s where half my traffic comes from. I’m quite sure of it.

Here’s the good part. If you think I’ve misunderstood your site, or (better yet) if you take the criticism to heart and make some changes, just send me an email. If you’re nice I’ll take another look.

Just don’t harp on too long about how badly I suck.

Dressing Left

Mar 182009

If his head is north, his cock while resting points determinedly northeast.

The man is both a show-er and a grow-er. Smug satisfaction might envelop any man prone to envy who would observe him directly out of a warm bath, fully sexed-out and content as belly-baring cat. “He’ll not grow another millimeter erect,” such a man might think, but such a man would be wrong. He grows enormously, amazingly, extravagantly.

All that extraordinarily length must go somewhere when it’s not put to use in my vagina. Were I him I’m not sure I could manage it. Surely my innate dorkiness would leave me a dick-flapping testicle-flashing oddity, doomed to walk the earth a ridiculous exposed fool into perpetuity.

“Is that where it always goes?” I ask, watching him dress from a naked vantage point under the covers. “Do you always put it left?”

“What, this?” he asks, pointing it diagonally along the flat of his lower belly and pinning it down with his jockeys. “This is just how it goes.”

“What if you point it the other direction?” I reach out from my nest and boldly tug at his drawers. “Doesn’t it want to go on this side sometimes for a change?”

He is exhibitionist enough to gratify my curiosity. Out it flops, then he pushes it over to the northwest position. “Like this you mean?” I nod, enthralled. “This is uncomfortable. It doesn’t want to go there.”

“How about straight down? Don’t some men do that?” I am nothing but a novice when it comes to the intricacies of member management.

He cites a name of a man among our acquaintance, a man we’ve both seen naked and excited during parties. “He dresses down. Haven’t you noticed the…” He bends his fingers into a downward curve.

“Oh really. Is that why he points down like that?” My ignorance knows no bounds.

“At least partially,” he answers, but I wonder if it’s a case of the chicken and the egg. Which came first: The downward slope or the dressing south?

This merits much more study, so I will start with you. Where, my penis-bearing friends, do you point your trouser-snake? Does it perpetually point to some cardinal or ordinal point? Do you feel that bending it into submission has affected its erect state?

Please share your experience with this ravenously curious girl.

Older Entries

Prayer

I’ve Always Wondered How These Things Got Started

Hermit

Priming the Pump

Smoke

In Which I Wish for a Redistribution of the Energy in My House

Back to the Beginning

Whining Weekend Swag

Your Review Sux and You Suck Too, Sucker, So Go Suck It

Dressing Left

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