“When I was blowing you?”

“Mmmm?”

“And when I had my finger in your bottom?”

“Mmmmmm?”

“And when you were coming?”

“Ohhh yes.  That felt amazing.”

“I’m glad.  But when you were coming, something was fluttering against my finger.”

“Go figure.  My whole body was fluttering.”

“Sure.  But this was different.”

“Different good?”

“Oh definitely different good.”

“Wonder what it was?”

“Oh I know what it was.”

“What?”

“It was your Orgasm Hamster of course.”

*pause*

“My Orgasm Hamster?”

“Don’t you know about your Orgasm Hamster?”

“Um.  No?”

“Silly.  He runs around faster and faster in his little wheel, and when he’s reached maximum velocity, that’s when you come.”

*pause*

“I see.  Well.  Thank you for making my Orgasm Hamster very very happy.”

“You do the same for mine honey.”

“Yes, but your Orgasm Hamster never takes a break.  He gets right back up on that wheel and starts running again immediately.”

“He is pretty frisky, isn’t he?”

“I love your Orgasm Hamster, baby.”

“I’m so glad.”

–later–

“How you doing, honey?”

*pause*

“Honey?  You ok?”

*pause*

“XXXXXX.  Are you all right?”

“My Orgasm Hamster just collapsed into some shredded paper and fell asleep.”

“I wore out your Orgasm Hamster?”

“Yes Daddy.  He’s never going to run again.”

“Oh baby.  I seriously doubt that.”

——

The project mentioned below is coming along nicely.  Go check it out, will you?  I’m open to any and all comments or suggestions on usability and the like.

Also, I believe we have a working submissions form, so if you’d like to be among the first to send in your tale, I’d love it.

Erm.  The main page won’t always be in Latin.

An extraordinary image came across my screen not long ago; it is one that begs to be shared with as large an audience as possible.   I’ve altered it slightly to make it both anonymous and mostly work-safe — or at least as work-safe as anything else on this blog.  Nevertheless, I’ve placed it behind the cut to shield any delicate eyes or sensibilities.

Click the link and read on, below. Continue reading »

Last week this message landed in the mail box of my favorite pervy dating site:

hi there

am visiting XXXXXXXXX for a week on a business trip – can we get together tonight at my hotel?  sure would love to meet someone – send me your face pics plz

regards

‘Twas such a struggle not to respond.  I have an automatic response set up to answer all emails; it states kindly that I’m quite happy with the relationships I’m already in and suggests (gently, really) that reading a profile before firing off a fuck-me-now request might be a great choice in the future.  I knew my correspondent had already received this, and yet I was sorely tempted.  So tempted in fact that I allowed myself to draft a response with the promise that I would not hit send.

Wanna read it?

Dear XXXX,

Yes!  Yes indeed, I would absolutely love to drive 200+ miles tonight to meet you, a perfect stranger, for an evening of awesome sex.  I’m sure it will be extra steamy hot considering that we’ve never met each other before and have in fact no clue what the other’s likes and dislikes might be.  And I’m absolutely certain that I’ll feel so very safe with you considering that we’ve exchanged one email and I’ve not even seen a single picture of your face, only one of your entirely average penis.  It did look like a safe little fellow!  What a brilliant idea this all is.  Please send me the name of your hotel and your room number.  I’ll be there at 8, lubed and ready to go.

I didn’t send it.  But perhaps I should have.

In two-plus years on that pervy dating site I think I’ve got it figured out.  A sizable majority of the men can be grouped into one of two categories.  First you have the men like the sender of the email above.  They ask in short, “Are you living?  Do you breathe?”  If the answer is in the affirmative, then you’re good enough for them.  These men are The Desperate.

Polar opposites of the first, the second type sets out tediously detailed lists of characteristics that must be met before sexual congress can take place.  The Dreamers want a girl of winsome appearance who is also thin, young, full-breasted and blond.  And bisexual.  Available at a moment’s notice too.  When I read ads like this I want to create some mathematical model illustrating the statistical improbability of finding this woman in any average city, and the even smaller chance of finding such a woman who wants to get naked with the kind of vapid man who would post this ad.  No doubt math wouldn’t take the starch out of our dating site Dreamer, so then I might remind him that the chances of a profound sexual connection springing up between himself and a random (yet gorgeous!) woman would be about the same as a parasitic twin erupting from his lover’s belly button at the point of orgasm.  And wouldn’t that put him off his feed?

Given the prevalence of these extremes in asshattery is it any wonder that I feel undeservedly blessed to have such wonderful friends and lovers in my life?  I am blessed indeed.

This time he paid the bill while I returned a phone call, so I did not hear anything that might have transpired between my partner and the restaurant’s owner.   So engrossed was I in my own conversation that when the owner walked past, tossing a smirk in my direction, I barely noticed.

Then the call ended; I made my way toward my pal waiting by the door.  “He asked what we were up to today,” he murmured into my ear.  “I told him we were going home to have more hot wet sex.”

I pulled away.  “You did not.”

“Yes, I did,” He answered with such calm assurance that I had no doubt.

And yet I couldn’t let it go without absolute confirmation.  “What did he tell you we were doing today?” I asked as the owner passed.

He leered at me.  “He said that you were going home to have more hot wet sex.”  And once again I was left utterly speechless.

“You turned every shade of red,” my partner told me when we were safely on the way home.

I’m sure I did, but honestly?  His response was what I should have said the last time we were asked.