2009 June • aag • Page 2

Stretch Open

Jun 172009

There comes a point in nearly every meeting where he asks me to lie back on the bed and stretch open my legs. I do, of course, and with eager alacrity, because I know what he’s planning.

It’s best with my head hanging back over the edge of the bed. The combination of mild lightheadedness and sensory deprivation from not being able to see what he’s doing bump up the sensation to a nearly unbearable level.

He drips lube between my legs and I gasp at the chill. If allowed I’d clamp shut, hoping to avoid the cold and the scrutiny all at once. But he’s wedged himself solidly in place, head propped upon one soft thigh and knees squeezing hold of my opposite leg. I can go no where without a leg-cramping struggle, and why would I want to move away from his gentle fingers on me and in me?

I love it, but no matter how long we spend together or how hard I come from his expert touch at some point a vile voice suggests that I should wonder what I look like from his perspective. I can only imagine it: incompetently shaven labia, soft stretch-marked belly, breasts lolling off to the sides. Does my sex look funny? Will the tummy wobble? How can he bear the horrific sight?

Yet he never seems to mind. Instead he tells me while I come how beautiful it all is and how much he loves to give me that intense degree of pleasure. Every time he tells me, and every time it sinks a tiny bit deeper into my stubbornly insecure brain that he really does enjoy being with me. He really does like to give me pleasure. He really does love my body.

And with that realization I stretch open a little wider.

Opportunity

Jun 162009

I confess that the ringing of the phone does not always spur me into immediate action. This is especially true when a number shows up that I don’t recognize and all my family members are either in earshot or the care of someone else.

Yes, this is very terrible and I am an awful awful person. Sue me.

So when an unknown number showed up while my partner and I were enjoying breakfast the other morning, I didn’t answer it. The children were safely with their father and the number was from a different area code, meaning that there was no chance the call was from any local hospital. We went back to eating eggs and debriefing from our pre-breakfast sexytime activities.

But then it rang again, and again, then once again. I know of only one person who calls so determinedly: the mother of my little ones. You may once again call me a dreadful person because I turned off the ringer and continued on with eggs and rehashing. I knew she’d call back.

Later that night she did, from yet another unknown number. She has no phone of her own, relying on whatever friend is willing to donate a few pay-as-you-go minutes to her cause. As it turned out she had a specific reason for this call. “Someone wants to talk to you,” she said, then handed the phone to a person nearby.

Imagine my surprise when I was greeted by my son’s biological father, with whom I’d not spoken since our boy was only a few weeks old. After that one meeting he made overtures about wanting to raise his son but then took nary a single step toward making that happen. Even when given explicit instructions by the social worker as to what he needed to do. Even when prodded along by the child’s mother. Even when the his court hearing drew close, and he was told it would go much better for him in any future custody situations if he’d give up his rights willingly instead of forcing the court to take them away. Even then he did nothing, preferring I suppose to avoid the pain of failure by choosing the passive role.

He too has lacked steady residency or contact information, but I asked the kids’ mother to reiterate our phone number and willingness to see him on the rare occasions that they spoke. I’m positive that she did; she’s constantly happy to encourage others to gaze upon the beauty of her children. And yet he never called. He never wrote. He never attempted to set up even a single meeting with the kids.

Until now. He and the little ones’ mother are back together again, attempting tentatively to forge some sort of workable living arrangement. I should have been shocked to hear this, but really? Not so much. They’ve both adopted the “any port in a storm” method of dating. I don’t expect this to last.

We are set to meet in a few days at a neutral location where the children can run free and easily be observed. We’ve spent enough time with their mother thus far that they both can at least parrot back the basics of their relationship. I guess the best approach with my son right now will be to lay out the blunt facts as levelly as possible. “This is your biological father,” I’ll tell him. “He helped make you grow in your mommy’s tummy.”

Although he probably won’t much care right now, eventually he will. Best to have the facts in place before the far more difficult emotional questions come up later.

Of New Phones and Names

Jun 152009

Twenty months ago my cell phone was eligible for an upgrade. Having forsaken a land-line some eight years back, the cell gets quite a lot of use and abuse. But that wasn’t the only reason I shelled out precious dollars for a new one. At the same time the divorce was nearly final. It was well past the point for that aspect of our life to be teased apart as so many others had been earlier.

It’s surprisingly difficult, I found out, to separate oneself from the plan of another. While I’m sure cell phone providers handle requests like that one multiple times per day, the process seemed to be designed for maximum frustration and embarrassment. “Why do you need a different plan?” the agent asked. Then “Who is the primary account holder? And what is your relationship to him?” And “You do realize this will be much more expensive than if you kept your current plan?” For added fun, it was necessary to ring up the soon-to-be-ex for an extended phone consultation in order to ascertain that I wasn’t some unbalanced relative or pissed-off friend trying to weasel my way out of an existing bill.

A thousand times I had to rattle off our relationship: We’re getting divorced. He’s my soon-to-be-ex-husband. No matter how many times I said it I struggled for the right words, for a way to put a name, however awkward, however ill-fitting, on the new relationship. Eventually the questions were done. In my purse was tucked a teeny electronic device and a copy of the first cell phone contract I’d ever held in my name alone.

Recently my son showed up in the living room with three jagged plastic pieces which when reconstituted made up my almost-functional phone. Once he’d discovered the trick to disassembling it, he had less trouble doing so again the next time. And the next. To the point that the front cover barely stayed on and an ominous grinding click accompanied the phone’s opening.

Once again I went in for an upgrade. There were no questions about my relationships this time, only the swift transition to an even tinier (and shinier) device. “Can I donate my old phone?” I asked the agent. He nodded yes, busy with the new phone’s SIM card. “I’ll just run out to the van to get the charger,” I said, then quickly realized that the reason I had time to set up the new contract without the assistance of eager little children was because they were with their father for the weekend — and he had the minivan.

“Oh, I’ll have to bring it in another time,” I said. The agent looked at me questioningly. “I’ve got my friend’s car instead of my own,” I offered in explanation, the words out of my mouth before I even realized what I was saying.

Twenty months it took to make the transition from soon-to-be-ex, from getting divorced, to friend. As commentor Annie so rightly pointed out, very few relationships end. They just change, grow, expand and move. We’ve moved, and will continue to move. I hope it’s in the right direction.

“Friend,” however, isn’t exactly the right name either. I need something better. “The kids’ father” isn’t quite it, as that infringes on territory reserved for the little ones’ biological dads. And I hate using “ex,” as it sounds so coldly negative. What do other divored yet friendly couples do?

Debate

Jun 122009

For the first time ever I allowed myself to enter into an argument about abortion. “Enter into,” however, is not exactly correct. I started the argument, and not just with some random stranger on the internet. It was with one of my oldest friends.

For over half our lives we’ve been friends, and yet somehow his views on the topic hadn’t sunk into my head until I read a comment he left on another friend’s Facebook message — a message which referred to the murder of Dr. Tiller. It struck me in the worst possible way; I stewed silently until one night when he spoke to me about an unrelated topic and I completely lost my shit.

I don’t know why. Rarely do I lose my shit, and when I do it’s usually with a neutral third party well-versed in the art of letting me vent long enough to calm down. This time I’d not preemptively vented. I had no conscious intention to speak that way to him, but somehow I could not hold back the words.

How, I implored, could he possibly feel that no woman should ever seek an abortion? Especially knowing my history?

Oh that’s not how he felt, he assured me. Perhaps some women in very special, very rare cases should be allowed to terminate. But he could not, he told me, ever support the killing of healthy, innocent babies just because their mothers felt inconvenienced by falling pregnant.

Would he then be willing to judge what qualified as a righteous termination and what did not, I wanted to know? And how did he plan on keeping those pregnant women healthy as they waited out their nine month stints as reluctant incubators? Was he willing to add to what he thought was an already excessive tax burden in order to feed, house, even jail them to ensure that they met some as-yet-to-be-determined standard of fetal and maternal care?

No? He wasn’t willing?

And please show me, I continued, ranting away furiously, where he had adopted even one of the hundreds upon hundreds of children already born to parents who could not care for them and who were this very second waiting for homes? No, I asked? He hadn’t adopted any of those unwanted children? Was he planning on it at some point in the near future? No? Really?

I wasn’t the one to get pregnant. I take care of my own children, he responded. It’s not my responsibility to take care of someone’s else’s babies.

Perhaps, I told him. But if you take no responsibility for caring for the unwanted children available now, when abortion is legal, then you get no say in forcing the births of even more unwanted children. None. None at all.

Somehow we managed to end the conversation still friends. I’m sure my impassioned words had no bearing on his opinion, as it is held as reverentially as my own.

Call me closed-minded. Call me an encourager of baby killers. But I cannot comprehend why anyone would ask a woman to complete an unwanted pregnancy without also having the desire to provide a home forever to the child — especially one bearing lifelong scars from less-than-enthusiastic prenatal care — that he forced her to bring into this world.

——
Please take the time to check out the waiting children at AdoptUsKids.org .

Freedom on the Swing

Jun 112009

Another chill morning arrived with the threat of imminent rain, so the moment everyone had dressed and swallowed breakfast I sent them outside to burn off excess energy before we were trapped in the house for the rest of the day. Again.

The middle child grabbed the swing first, much to the annoyance of her siblings who disappeared behind a row of bushes to plot how best to unseat her. By the time I settled myself on the porch to watch to tableau unfold, my daughter had pumped herself to the highest amplitude possible, at least without some seriously negative repercussions.

Her face was a picture of ecstasy. She sang Hannah Montana, eyes closed in concentration and dress flipping above her knees at the height of each oscillation; I watched her, rapt, enjoying the cool weather and the unmistakable joy glowing from her entire body. And then a thought nudged itself against my brain. Something was wrong with her appearance but her wonderfully free attitude momentarily disguised the problem.

Recently she’s showed a strong preference for wearing only dresses. By itself this is not an issue. I remember pitching horrendous screaming fits at her age when denied explicitly girly clothing. But at the same time the child’s decided that underpants cramp her style. Constantly she hitches them down so that the top band sits in the junction between leg and bottom. Constantly I remind her that they must be pulled up for decency’s sake.

Constantly she ignores me.

She ignored me before scampering out the door, and on the swing she’d arranged her skirt to float out behind her as she pumped. This placed her bottom in direct contact with the swing’s seat and exposed both fore and aft to the delicate morning breezes.

I hated to stop her and didn’t want to shame her. I certainly understood the wish to run naked (or nearly so) and free outdoors with body exposed. But the rules of polite society and the potential for pervy passers-by forced my hand. “Baby, I need you to stop the swing and come here.” She did, complying for once on the first instead of the seventy-first request. “Will you please hitch up your panties?” I asked.

She said with irritation but not a hint of sheepishness, “I like them better down.” She adjusted them to the lowest possible point which could still technically count as above her butt.

“You can keep them down in private, baby, but not outside,” I said, and once again wondered how best to teach a child the intricacies of socially acceptable behavior without hurrying on the body shame and self-consciousness which almost certainly will arrive much sooner than I’d wish and which may forever put an end to bare bottomed swinging.

Indolent Wastrel

Jun 102009

No matter what frantic magnitude of work I assign myself, I cannot shake the feeling of being horribly lazy. No matter what I’m doing, I feel guilty that I’m not doing something else.

Writing for aag? I should be working for Jane’s Guide. Writing for Jane’s? I should be working on Beyond the Birds and the Bees. Laboring away as BeBe? I should be vacuuming. Vacuuming? I should be playing with the kids. Playing with the kids? I should be organizing the goddamn spice/medicine/band aid cabinet. And on and on and on.

In an effort to convince myself that I’m not an indolent wastrel I’ve begun jotting down quick lists of tasks completed on a day-to-day basic. Does laundry count? Damn straight it does. So does untangling recalcitrant WordPress plugins and strands of children’s beads. Weeding counts. Cooking dinner counts. Everything counts, and perhaps once I learn to count everything I’ll no longer discount everything.

You may join in the fun as well. Have a peek below at a smattering of things posted over at Jane’s lately:

Recent Jane’s Guide Reviews

Teen Sex Shack: Click on the link to TeenSexShack.com and instantly be treated to the sight of a pig-tailed young woman bouncing enthusiastically upon a man stretched out on a … could it be? Could it be a bus seat? Why yes, I believe it is!

Hot Red Apple: I love the fact that Quiring’s photos are gorgeously artsy and yet still look real. Skin has texture, faces have lines, and thighs even show a few quite beautiful stretch marks.

Anal for Women: The webmaster tells me that she was tired of sites that portray anal sex as something painful, degrading or non-consensual.

Free Gooey Porn: Under normal circumstances I would have ignored a site like this one, as it is pure, unadulterated crap with nary a single redeeming feature. But how could I resist a name such as FreeGooeyPorn.com?

Voytastic: A crack team of Russian voyeurs turns their cameras on dressing rooms to capture folks getting naked.

Sean Uncut: They feature the single worst set of thumbnails I’ve ever seen. A whole page of gray squares whose only differentiation lies in a slightly greater or lesser degree of grayness? Another page with near-identical nipple shots? Please! If these are automatically generated, please add the human touch, Sean. If they are personally created…well then I really have no advice.

Photo4Photo: Photo4Photo.com cannot distinguish between porn photos and non-porn photos. Oh yeah, I went there. It gladly gobbled up images of a pretty woman’s face and a daisy, in each case spitting back hardcore photos.

Insex Archives: Prices are listed in Euros and are quite steep; $84 USD per month is the single most pricey membership fee I’ve ever seen.

Tenga Male Masturbators from GoodVibrations: Crack the label then open the lid on either of these products and you’ll find it oozing a clear, thick goo. Don’t panic.

Bloomy from Babeland: And this is a very good thing, because Bloomy is excessively versatile. Use it in a girl’s vagina or anyone’s ass.

Dai-Do #1 from Big Teaze Toys: “We’re going to have to warm this up before you even think about putting it in me,” I warned. He jokingly threatened to use it on me unwarmed. I jokingly threatened to put it in his bottom, large end first. Suddenly he agreed with me that warming it up prior to use would be a wonderful idea.

G-Pop from SteelVinyards: I was pretty blissed out, but not so much that I was unaware of a sharp crack as my partner brought the toy toward my body. “Are you ok?” I asked, worried that he’d chipped a tooth and would soon be going to the dentist instead of making me come.

SmartBalls Teneo Duo from Babeland: Also, they’re often painted in fake gold paint, which peels off. Ew. No one wants fake gold paint peeling off in the coochie. At least I don’t.

So You Think You Want to Fist, Part Two

Jun 092009

Read So You Think You Want to Fist, Part One first, wherein we discuss consent, pleasure, gloves and lube.

For successful fisting I rely upon the position technically known as “lying down.” The vagina-owner should have legs spread as wide as possible, and (this is an important part) hips relaxed. The giver should don a glove and liberally apply lube. Apply some more. And a little more. Make sure the gloved hand is completely covered in lube up to the wrist, and that the entire vulva is also super-slippery. You really can’t have too much lube.

Er, it should be quite evident that a towel beneath the hips is a great idea. Right? Unless you enjoy sleeping in a soggy slippery lake, toss down a towel.

Start with a single digit, finger-banging your partner as you usually would. Curve up toward the g-spot; any additional orgasms that occur will be most welcome. Remember, this is about pleasure, not about how fast the hand can be jammed into the pussy.

Now comes the part where you must be very patient. Over an indeterminate time period the fister needs to add fingers to the finger-banging party, gradually working up from one to four. I cannot tell you how long this will take. It could be minutes. It could be weeks.

Things will be more fun if someone can supply clit-twiddling or vibrator-diddling throughout. The fisted woman may be able to, or the fister could use his or her other hand. If you can manage it, recruit another person for this task. Heck, bring in an extra for each breast if possible. And a dedicated kisser. A floater to supply extra lube, drinks or fluffing would be nice too. Fisting’s hard work. It pays to have a large and energetic team. Bedroom too small for more than two? Prepare to practice ambidexterity.

It will help if you work out some signal which means “pause,” bearing in mind that the fistee may lose the ability to speak at the least opportune moment. Tapping the bed, perhaps? She’ll want to clench up when the feelings get intense, but this urge must be resisted. Tension and fisting go together like sardines and ice cream (ew!), and it’s not going to be fun for anyone if fingers are forced into a too tense vagina.

Pause and relax completely when you sense tension. Pause repeatedly if necessary. Resume only when the fistee is noodly-limp and ready to try again, even if this means you wait several days. It’s not a race. No one wins a badge for Quickest Fisting, though wouldn’t the symbol be interesting?

Eventually you may get to the point where four fingers fit. As you can possibly imagine, the fingers are not held straight across; instead they are collapsed upon themselves so that all four tips are close together. This is a quite wonderful position, as it puts the thumb in the perfect place to caress the clit.

Renew lube if necessary (here’s where a floater would be really nice), then with the hand shaped like a duck’s bill and the thumb laid tightly against the palm (the exact opposite of what your older brother advised when the school bully threatened), slowly coerce the base of the thumb into the vagina. Remember: Thumb in palm is bad for punching but great for fisting.

If everyone is still happy at this point, the fister can gently rotate the hand so that the thumb knuckle rubs against the g-spot. Keep in mind that what feels to the giver like a minuscule movement will feel to the receiver like the shifting of tectonic plates. Scale down motions accordingly. A millimeter is enough. Really.

Now this is important: Done correctly, fisting doesn’t hurt. If you’ve gone slowly enough that the body has had time to relax, you’ll feel pressure and pleasure but no pain. If there’s pain, it’s time to stop. The giving partner should freeze. Do not remove your fingers unless she tells you to, and then only very slowly. Take extra time in easing the base of the thumb out, as this is the largest part. Ripping fist from vagina feels like being turned inside out in a very bad way. I don’t recommend it.

Also, fisting does not stretch out the vagina. I wish I could offer scientific proof of this, but unfortunately I left my micrometer at home before my first fisting session. Instead I have only anecdotal evidence from two sources: My partner, who when asked to describe my tighteness responds only with a muffled groan, and the fact that I could perform the most difficult set of exercises with the Kegelmaster on the first try. Scientific, no, but if fisting truly stretched the vagina, after two years of the practice I’d have flappy labia down to my knees. I don’t. It doesn’t. This is evidence enough for me.

But is it fun, you ask? Is it good? Is it worth doing? The answer for me is an emphatic yes. I love the feeling of fullness and clit hypersensitivity; even more I love the intimacy my partner and I must cultivate in order to practice fisting successfully. There’s something deliciously exposed about having him between my legs focusing all his attention upon my pussy. I’m not suggesting that fisting is the only way to such closeness, but as activities which cultivate closeness go, you could do much worse; for example, bowling.

Now sally forth with gawker-like interest satisfied and horror averted. Talk fisting over with your lover and report back on your activities. I look forward to hearing how it goes.

So You Think You Want to Fist, Part One

Jun 082009

Not long ago I posted a Twitter status message which read in its entirety “Got fisted.” I assumed that (from me) this message would garner no more interest than your average “ate sandwich for lunch” or “really glad it’s Friday” tweet, as (in my mind, anyhow) everyone in the universe knows that I enjoy the periodic insertion of my partner’s hand into my cunt.

Instead, a flurry of subsequent tweets expressed a range of emotions from horror to gawker-like interest in the mechanics of the act. I’m a huge fan of the gawker-like interest. Having considered and ever so reluctantly discarded the idea of a video tutorial, may I then present you with some hard-learned lessons in The Art of the Fist in written form?

Please keep in mind that any knowledge I might possess comes from two years of both giving and receiving whole-hand lurve. I am not a professional, unless many hours of bedroom/laboratory study qualify me as such. For more information from a bonafide expert, check out this highly recommended fisting book.

As is the case with any sexual act, fisting can be wonderful or horrendous depending on the attitudes of those involved. It should not be attempted unless all parties are cool — nah, thrilled — with the idea. To do otherwise is to risk irreparable damage to vagina and relationship, either of which would leave the fister with no place to put his or her overenthusiastic hand but upon his or her own genitals.

The fister should make sure that rings are removed and nails are trimmed short and smooth on the active hand. It’s best to use a glove, not only because it adds an extra layer of protection between pokey fingernails and tender skin but also because it looks damn cool when all the air gets pushed out by the vagina’s immense strength. Sometimes an amusing gassy sound accompanies this air expulsion, but don’t worry about that. What good is sex without the occasional gaseous explosion and resultant hilarity? My favorite gloves are Black Dragon from Babeland. Don’t have any? A condom will serve in a pinch.

You’ve heard me extol the virtues of lube before; if you ignored me then, you must listen now. Lube is absolutely required for successful fisting. I’ve used Sliquid but it’s water-based. This means that any fisting-inspired gushing will wash away the slippery before the fun even starts. I much prefer Eros Pjur, which is silicone-based, very long lasting and so incredibly wondrous that I’m on my second liter.

When the time is right, make sure your partner is nicely warmed up. Is she multiorgasmic? Give her a few. Not quite yet? Get her as close as possible without going over the edge. Penetration’s good too, whether by dildo or body part. Anything you can do to get the juices flowing will be well worth your while when the fisting starts.

Some folks like to fist with the receiving partner on hands and knees. My partner loves to put me in this position, but as much as I’d like to indulge him, I fear it. Such an omnipresent weakness hits me by the end of a fisting session that I have almost no control over my muscles. Maintaining the doggie-style pose? Bish please.

And now this post is getting far too long to manage, so I’ll leave you to mull over gloves, lube and positioning until tomorrow, when our lesson will commence with “finger-banging” and carry on through “removing the hand without turning the vagina inside-out.”

Ta-ta for now!

Don cha know he fisted me ten times before,
don cha know that does not make ME a whore,
don cha?

–thanks to my new pal Heidi from
The Fat One in the Middle for this musical inspiration

Mooove the Moo Cards

Jun 062009

011 When the gorgeous little Moo Cards I ordered last week for Beyond the Birds and the Bees arrived at my house yesterday, I squealed. Yes, literally. And out loud. If you’d have driven by at exactly the right moment you would have seen a curvy chick in an orange shirt standing by the road and cooing with undisguised glee at the enormous quantity of qte contained in one tiny card.

I love them.

And now I need to mooove them. I’d like to move them all around the world, and this is where you come in. If you’d like a handful of the new cards to give to friends, drop at the doctor’s office or daycare, tack to bulletin boards or fling from a low-flying biplane, let me know.

Send me an email (aagblog at gmail dot com) or just leave a comment here with your email address (it will be visible only to me) and I’ll get back to you. Include a quick sentence or two telling me how you plan on distributing the cards; extra props to anyone who can actually carry out the biplane idea.

Thanks in advance, readers, for helping make this happen.

Good News & A Concern

Jun 052009

On the same day that it was featured on Fleshbot (thanks, Lux!), generating a humbling numbers of hits and loads of new interest, I also received a troubling email from someone with an objection to Beyond the Birds and the Bees.

She’d visited not through Fleshbot but instead through the site’s Facebook page. Facebook has a feature where bloggers can post their content via RSS feed, then select other users’ blogs to read and follow. I did this with any number of blogs both familiar and new to me; it was my goal eventually to contact some of the new-to-me bloggers and invite them to read and share at the new site.

One of them noticed her new follower. After reading some of the current posts, she left a terse comment requesting that I de-link her on Facebook, as she was not comfortable promoting the site to her readers. After some twenty minutes of bitter complaining to friends (thanks for once again talking me down from the ledge, friends), I answered her comment with an email. Thus began polite exchange during which she explained that while she strongly believes that parents should be responsible for educating their children about sexuality, she did not support the methods I condoned on the site.

Condoned? I was seriously taken aback. Even now, at less than a month old and with just under forty posts, the “methods” represented range from open-minded to so constrained that sex was never even mentioned. Posters have contributed stories that demonstrate extreme discomfort with how they acquired their knowledge and the opposite. I thought that the diversity of experiences — even in such a small sampling of posts — showed that no one method was the best but instead that people receive their knowledge in an almost infinite number of ways, some of which end up causing a multitude of problems while others produce unexpectedly peaceful results.

But I guess that wasn’t as clear as I intended. It’s made me do a lot of thinking about how best to articulate the mission of the site. I guess it looks like this: I’ll publish accounts that are on-topic and legal, no matter how well or how poorly they mesh with my own theories. But is it truly possible, I wonder, to publish a wide diversity of viewpoints without suggesting that any one of them is better, or the best? Will the site end up as “fair and balanced” as that well-known faux-news channel?

Eventually the conversation with my new Facebook friend reached a happy conclusion. I did indeed remove hers from my followed blogs. But also I invited her to share her experiences no matter how different she thought they were from the others on the site.

I most sincerely hope she will.

Thoughts? Suggestions? Feedback? Please share in the comments below.

——

Want to get involved in the new site? You can subscribe to the site’s feed as well as the comments feed, or have new content delivered directly to your inbox. There’s also brand-new shareable widget in the sidebar.

I’d also very much appreciate it if you’d consider listing Beyond the Birds and the Bees in your blogroll or telling your friends and readers about the site. What are you waiting for? Share your experiences now, and thanks in advance for spreading the word.

Older Entries Newer Entries

Stretch Open

Opportunity

Of New Phones and Names

Debate

Freedom on the Swing

Indolent Wastrel

So You Think You Want to Fist, Part Two

So You Think You Want to Fist, Part One

Mooove the Moo Cards

Good News & A Concern

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