Him: You are amazing.
Me: No. Me? You did all the work. I was just lying there.
Him: Honey, people might accuse you of a lot of things but “just lying there” will never be one of them.
_________
Thank you to all Twitterers who responded to my request for help with this post. Approximately 50% said the above title is correct. The other 50% said it should read “Just Laying There.” Some also opined that it all depended on which side of the pond you call home. Fat lotta help y’all are. :)
You should have seen my offspring scurry when I informed them that the Easter Bunny only visits houses which are entirely picked up. Never before were little children so very motivated to place toys on a shelf — any shelf — just so long as everything could be considered clean.
Honestly I couldn’t have cared less what the Easter Bunny thought of the house’s pick-uppedness. My concern came from a different quarter: The little ones’ mother and her mother were set to visit us at the end of the day. It was to be the first meeting between the grandmother and us; up to that point my only impression of her came from stories passed on by her daughter, none of which were very positive.
A few months before her first child was born (and only a mercifully few months after we were approved as adoptive parents), the agency sent along a packet of information about the woman who would become my babies’ mother. Its purpose was to give us enough background details about the family that we’d be able to judge if we could parent a child grown under such conditions. Only then would our history be passed on to the potential adoptive mother (along with histories from other candidate families) so that she could make a decision about where to place the child.
I tried to read through the information objectively, but it’s hard to be objective with the vision of an infant eclipsing every other thought. At that point I felt capable of handling almost any deficit as long as it was accompanied by the squirmy, fragrant delight of a newborn. Probably I should have been more worried than I was as I pored over the report.
Even remembering what I’ve long known about the family, I couldn’t help but fret as I wielded dust rag and vacuum. Would they notice the hand prints at child-height, I wondered? The hard water scaling caked on the refrigerator’s water dispenser, which they’ve just learned to manage alone? Would they judge me if the boy’s shirt was stained? Or the girl’s shoes on the wrong feet? Would they worry about thin shins covered in bruises? Or sheets pulled asunder from beds? Would they conclude that the number of crumbs on the floor was proportional to my inadequacy as a mother?
“Your house looks like children live there,” my main squeeze told me over the phone, and while I knew he was right I went right on eradicating more patches of filth. I eradicated until the very minute when the call came that misleading directions, bad temper and a late start were forcing them to cancel the visit.
All that cleaning turned out to be for nothing. Not that it would have mattered anyhow. I’m almost certain that they were at least as intimidated as I was, and a super-clean house would only have given them more reason to abhor me.
_________
Check out Babeland’s one-day tax sale TODAY!
Please do not construe this post as bragging. It is not boasting, or gloating, or showboating. Instead it is the unvarnished truth with no embellishment whatsoever. When we last were together after a three week long separation, my partner in the space of three short hours came six times. Yes, six times.
Bear in mind that he’s eleven years my senior and I myself am no spring chicken. I am at best a late-summer or early-autumn chicken. At forty and fifty-one we suffer from creaky joints and various other less than sexy afflictions. My doctor even today lectured me on the exigence of consuming plentiful fiber. The shame!
Old or not, I came more times than anyone could hope to count, unless of course they employed one of these, which might not be a bad idea at some point if only for the sake of posterity and accurate record keeping. But that’s no big. I come come all the time, as easy as breathing. I’m coming even now. Six for him, though? A man of fifty-one? That my friends is impressive. There’s no denying it. Don’t even try.
His first two went off in quick succession, one during a doggie-style cervix-pounding bang that left us both breathless, then another with my head hanging over the edge of the bed, focus wavering between coming and hoping not to lose my lube-covered grip. Then we rested, like God on the seventh day, except that there were warm washcloths, a brief tussle over the covers, and cats. Although who knows? Maybe God enjoyed the company of cats. And after six days of creation he surely could have used warm washcloths at least as much as we did.
Then he fucked my ass and I returned the favor, because we’re reciprocal like that. If you’re counting (and why wouldn’t you be counting?), that covers his orgasms number three and four.
Another brief rest and clean up over (and curious cats nudged away) he placed my hand between his legs, where a thrill ran through me as once again I felt what he’d grown for me. I had to suck it; I did suck it, expecting nothing more after four previous orgasms. But he rewarded my efforts with orgasm number five. And then some fisting.
This time we needed a long rest, long enough that I thought for sure that we were done. He rose as if to go but surprised me by jamming his again hard cock down my throat, grabbing the back of my head, forcing me to take it. He bent me over the bed and while my legs shook gave me orgasms who-knows-how-many and himself orgasm number six.
Is this man not amazing? Is he not a treasure? Am I not lucky beyond belief to be the recipient of his love?
See? No bragging at all.
_________
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“You give oral better than any man,” she purred months ago as both our partners looked on, stroking cocks hard and straining and wishing, I’m sure, for the explicit invitation to do more than watch.
Her pronouncement thrilled me. It thrilled me so much that I added it to my name tag at the party, along with my screen and real names. “Gives Oral Better Than Any Man,” it announced. I wore the title with pride.
So when I read her email last week asking if I’d like to spend some time with her, alone, I was dismayed to realize that my first reaction was not excitement but rather fear. I cast my eyes back over the message, hoping I’d missed some allusion to bringing along the men. There was none. She wanted only me.
The prospect shouldn’t have terrified me. I’m fairly certain that I know my way around the female body. I’ve given orgasms to women with fingers, lips and toys. I’ve fisted. Never, not even once, have I been on the receiving end of the shifty-eyed “No thank you” when I’ve issued my own propositions.
Yet I worry because every time in the past that I’ve made a woman scream, it’s been with the assistance of at least one man. I’ve been in the company of cocks, playing only a supporting role if truth be told. I’ve given the warm-up oral, the helpful nipple-licking, the auxiliary clit-twiddling (which should not be confused with axillary clit-twiddling, as my beleaguered spell-checker hopefully offered when I committed the dozenth misspelling in this paragraph alone). Never had I been in charge all by myself. I fear that I don’t have the chops to carry a scene on my own.
But really, what’s the worst that could happen? If I were absolutely a failure at solo girl-lurve, what would be the most negative result? Would I lose my street cred? Would the word go out over the bi-girl network that I am a fraud, a sham, a charlatan? Would they revoke my bi-card? Would the real lesbians laugh at me behind their hands?
Call me silly if you will, but it is thoughts like these which made me send the most non-committal of responses to my friend. I hope she’s not offended. I hope she understands that it’s based only on insecurity.
“You worry too much,” I can hear some of you thinking. But what is a blog or any diary for that matter but a place to worry too much, a place to excercize your neuroses? And if you’re lucky, exorcise them?
Reposted from Viviane’s Sex Carnival
Apr 12th, 2009 by Viviane
amazon rank
Function: verb
Inflected Form(s): amazon ranked
1. To censor and exclude on the basis of adult content in literature (except for Playboy, Penthouse, dogfighting and graphic novels depicting incest orgies).
2. To make changes based on inconsistent applications of standards, logic and common sense.
Etymology: from 12 April 2009 removal of sales rank figures from books on Amazon.com containing sexual, erotic, romantic, gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgendered or queer content, rendering them impossible to find through basic search functions at the top of Amazon.com’s website. Titles stripped of their sales rankings include “Bastard Out of Carolina,” “Lady Chatterly’s Lover,” prominent romance novels, GLBTQ fiction novels, YA books, and narratives about gay people.
Example of usage: “I tried to do a report on Lady Chatterly’s Lover for English Lit, but my teacher amazon ranked me and I got an F on grounds that it was obscene.”
Alternate usage: “My girlfriend wanted to preserve her virginity, and I was happy to respect that, then she amazon ranked and decided anal sex was okay.”
[via Smart Bitches, Trashy Books]
See also:
It was nothing more than a quick lunch on our last day of a summer course, hastily proposed and executed before we both went on to greater conquests — grad school for S. and a job for me.
Even that was an unexpected opportunity. We’d made vague promises to stay in touch at graduation some months earlier but I’m not even certain we exchanged phone numbers. We were twenty-two. What does anyone know at twenty-two?
When we had our lunch I was seven months into the final death march out of my parents’ house. It was set to last as long as a pregnancy and by the seven-month mark I was beyond ready to be born into my own life. Nights I spent working in a bakery; during the day I went to school and simultaneously dealt with constant demands that I spend more time with the family. Quite frequently sleep came in two or three hour long chunks. Exhaustion never went away.
Loneliness also was inescapable. Family time ruled out almost every opportunity for a social life; the few times I tried to have friends to the house I got flak for days before and afterward. No friend was good enough for their little girl or for them. Every one they met was dissected, criticized and found lacking. I resolved early on to put in-person socializing on the back burner.
Phone calls too were almost impossible. The one phone sat in the kitchen and afforded its user no privacy. My mother answered a call one day during the third month of the death march from a male friend. “I’m so glad to hear from you,” I squealed into the phone after she handed it to me with a sharp warning glance. “What’s up?”
“No lady asks a boy ‘what’s up,’” my mother lectured later. “Did you want him to say ‘Eight inches just for you?’” It took me several long moments to figure out what my mother meant and even longer to accept that she thought me prone to that kind of joking at twenty-two. After that I resolved to stay off the phone.
The internet was but a dream then and even letters caught my parents’ careful scrutiny. I received one from a college pal spending the semester abroad. “Look at the stamp!” he’d hastily scrawled on the back of the envelope. I did. In fact all of us did. It pictured a pair of colorful ships in an azure harbor. My parents thought he was smuggling drugs. I did my utmost to collect the mail after that.
Work and school required long drives as we lived in the middle of the country. Sleepless and lonely, I’d imagine pushing pedal to floor as I rounded a corner, sending the car fast and straight into a tree. It would have meant no more worries about having enough money to move out as scheduled. No more nights in the bakery followed by early mornings spent with the family. And if I were dead I could sleep.
But S. and I scheduled lunch on that last day of class and as we ate spaghetti and drank diet soda (or perhaps she was enjoying her signature drink, water), I talked. I don’t recall her speaking a word, although politeness (and my bites of pasta) must have allowed her to offer up a few thoughts. I’m not sure the mid-day meal without wine loosed my lips enough to admit all the ugliness of the summer, but it didn’t really matter. It was such a relief just to talk, to talk to someone who didn’t judge me or hurt me or subtly hate me. It might be too much to say that S. saved my life, but perhaps not. At the very least she helped me keep hold long enough to get out of that house.
“Were we the last generation able to lose track of each other for decades at a time?” she wondered recently after I’d tracked her down on Facebook and we met for another lunch, only eighteen years after the previous one. It’s certainly easier to avoid this fate now. Everyone’s got a cell phone; numbers don’t go bad just because we change towns or jobs. Everyone’s googleable. There’s really no excuse now not to stay in touch.
I won’t make the same mistake with S. again.
“Hey Nelson X, I need you to write something about big beautiful women. Have it done in twenty minutes. Got it?
“Sure thing, Mr. Miller. Anything you’d like me to focus on? Our magazine is supposed to be about marketing adult products, right?”
“Eh, whatever. As long as we can mention lots of fat-girl videos it’s all good.”
Perhaps a conversation like this one took place between author Nelson X and editor Dan Miller before the publication of AVN’s “The $500 Stocking Guide: Fattening Up Sales.” I can’t link directly to it, but you can skip to page 82 of the Retail News: Merchandising section and enjoy reading it for yourself.
Or maybe you won’t enjoy it so much. I certainly didn’t, after learning about it via Good Vibrations Magazine and then reading Fatty D’s excellent response: Heifers, Bovines and Baconators.
While Nelson X’s remarks seem designed to heap maximum ridicule on bigger women and the people who dig them, I found myself after reading it more baffled than anything else. Surely there’s a better way to encourage the marketing of BBW niche films. Surely they can be spoken of with respect and passion instead of derision.
So I decided to attempt a brief rewrite of Nelson X’s piece. While it’s not a word-for-word redo, perhaps it manages to convey the same ideas in a more positive way:
In the past, BBW movies received far less respect than they deserved. Shot on a shoestring budget, most featured ample women getting screwed (badly) by less than stellar actors and in the very lamest locations. But now things are changing. Today many of the industry’s mainstream studios are devoting top-notch production values to these films, allowing those who love larger ladies the opportunity to jack off to women who embody their ideal of feminine beauty.
After exchanging actresses’ nondescript, loose-fitting clothes for high-end lingerie, provocative fetish wear and bikinis, studios now showcase Rubenesque women as glamor models. This trend crosses all racial and fetish lines. Choices abound for men who prefer their thick chicks black or white and getting nasty with men who are black or white. Studios are building loyal followings by demonstrating what some of us have known all along: Large women have as much fun in the sack as do their thin counterparts.
Many studios dish out extensive libraries of titles for resellers intent on increasing BBW sales. They coax awesome performances from the most gorgeous curvy chicks in the biz, making it easy to serve up these sexy products to consumers who crave them.
At a time when the country’s broke and people turn toward more realistic and less idealistic thoughts, videos featuring lovely big women remind us that a performer don’t doesn’t (Thanks for the catch and the linkey-luv at The SmackDog Chronicles) have to look like the stereotypical porn-star in order to leave her fans begging for seconds.
Want to make your feelings heard about AVN’s piece? Nelson X’s email is nelson.x@avn.com and his boss can be reached at dan.miller@avn.com.
Lately I’ve been attempting to make some changes in my overflowing feed reader. I’m trying to purge blogs that are no longer updating and add blogs that are new to the blogosphere or new to me.
This is not an easy process. Even though I’ve gathered well over 400 blogs, I’m absolutely certain that the list is missing some great ones. Recently I removed a number of dead feeds and while I hope they all re-added, it’s very possible that I missed some. And I try to keep abreast of sex blogs’ comings and goings, but wow it’s hard. And depressing. So many start off promising and then a few weeks later…nothing.
This is where I need help, if you would be so kind. Could you please have a quick look at my blogroll and suggest sites that I should add? At the same time could you check your own site to make sure that it’s listed? Keep in mind that it’s primarily from sites listed on my blogroll that I compile the Tuesday Fleshbot Round-Up.
And if you happen upon a link that seems to be dead or no longer updating, let me know.
Whatever is missing or out of date, please don’t be shy. If you were once listed, or think you should be listed, or are really really pissed off that you’ve never been listed, tell me! Politely, if you wouldn’t mind!
Leave it in the comments below or send me an email (aagblog @ gmail) and I’ll snap it up like a hungry turtle.
::snap snap::
Thank you!
When I told the husband that I was done with marriage, his very first concern was over how we’d manage time with the children. Specifically, he wanted an assurance that if his job forced him to move away from our current town, I’d pack up the children and move with him.
On one hand I applauded his obvious desire to stay close to the children. On the other hand I was annoyed that he didn’t first mourn the loss of me. Not that it was any surprise. But this old news is not worth reopening.
At the time I assured him that if he moved to another location I would at least consider moving with him. “You don’t have to do that,” my attorney advised. “He has no legal standing to force you to move.”
“You’d be crazy to go,” my friends said. “Why would you uproot your entire life?”
Unfortunately it’s a question I’ve had to ask a number of times in the two years that we’ve been separated. He’s desperate to leave his current job; the man puts complete faith in the geographic cure for all life’s little quirks. In a new location his job would be fulfilling, his diet healthy, his free time stimulating, his love life fantastic. Any faults in the above areas now exist only because we live in the Midwest. A coastal home would alleviate every pressure.
I’d understand his wish to leave if his job were in danger or if he’d maxed out on the educational benefits he could receive here. But currently his job is as secure as anyone’s in this economic climate, and he’s been dilly dallying around with finishing a terminal degree for years. Yet he continues to job hunt even knowing that his prospects would be much improved with the addition of a few more letters at the end of his name. He job hunts instead of concentrating on earning those letters.
It’s a mad method which contributed to my giving up on the marriage. Stopping work on a degree because one judges it to be unnecessary, tedious or no longer a thing ardently to be desired? This I completely understand. Dithering over the work for years while jawing the whole time about how much it needs to be finished? I don’t get it.
“Please stop job hunting,” I’ve asked him. “Concentrate on the degree ’til it’s done, then look for a job.” Good advice perhaps, but advice that he’s consistently ignored.
From time to time he’ll casually toss out the name of a city over dinner. “Would you consider moving there?” I should know by now to expect this, but each time I have to remind myself to breathe, chew my pasta contemplatively and pause before answering. The answer is always the same. Of course I’ll consider it, I reply. I’ll consider it very carefully.
Then I spend the next several weeks willing myself not to consider it. I can’t get my panties in a bunch every time. He prattles on about property values, school systems and average days of sunshine per year in whichever coastal nirvana is the current focus while I with extreme stoicism focus only on the now.
As you have probably already guessed by the mere existence of this rambling post, he’s in lust right now with a job prospect in California. That state has more than its share of charming delights such as beautiful weather, Disneyland and Karl Elvis; furthermore I am reasonably certain that I could be happy no matter what my zip code.
But I’m tired of thinking about it. Until I know something for certain I’m putting it far away from my mind. As far away as California.
It might sound astonishing, but my parents actually talked to me a fair bit about sex.
Only the negatives, of course. Infection, pregnancy, pain, embarrassment and heartbreak featured prominently in their lectures. To hear them tell you would have thought that the very first foray into fuckery automatically would result in disease, deformity and possibly death. And a child. Not to mention postmortem shame which would transcend generations.
There were long talks about contraception during childhood road trips; as a captive audience my choices were listening or else hasty disembarkation onto the side of the highway hundreds of miles from home. Their main objective it seemed was to make sure I was absolutely clear on the fact that no device, pill or membrane could give certain protection against that most grievous of inconveniences, the baby. Other times they’d nab me as I tried to slink away after dinner to do school work; while I fretted about incomplete essays and unread plays they’d speak of the social and emotional ramifications of being an easy girl. There was nothing to recommend that course of action. Nothing at all. Everything was pathological. Every outcome was negative but for one, the sole path that their daughter should follow: school, college, job, marriage, sex, kids.
But now my eldest is about to the point of needing some of these same lessons. Our ongoing conversations about anatomy, physiology, relationships and where babies come from have been deepening lately. Her classmates are entering puberty at an alarming rate; miniature bosoms are bustin’ out all over while she remains as flat as a dead calm sea. “No mom, I’m developing,” she argues, pointing through her t-shirt to the base of her sternum outlined beneath nearly unpadded skin. “See?”
She’s not developing but I don’t want her consternated when her friends begin whispered conversations about bras and pads. Recently we again dragged out my favorite book about changing bodies
This is the easy part. We’ve only scratched the surface of the normalcy of both gay and straight, monogamous and non, married and single, abstinence and experimentation, masturbation and partnered sex, having children and not. We’ve got a lot more talking to do.
