Today is the day I start to cook for Thanksgiving. There’s so much to do that I’m almost overwhelmed. Do you think my family would mind too much if we just ordered in a pizza?

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I suppose I should clean, too, but that seems pretty pointless, as the little people make messes faster than I can clean them up.

Ah well, at least I have the comfort of knowing that time’s arrow is indeed functioning properly in my house!

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In somewhat related news, I’ve broken yet another vibrator. If you are keeping track, this is the third vibe that has met its demise in the Bermuda Triangle of my puss this year, and that doesn’t even count the couple I’ve trashed because they were completely worthless.

This rechargeable vibe might be a good Christmas present from me, to me. What do you think?

These things I’ve learned about buttsex.

I record these things here, so that I will remember, in the (increasingly-unlikely) event that I am ever allowed to partake of its multifarious pleasures.

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Recently a good few days had passed since I’d had more than little orgasms, wee orgasms, tip of the iceberg orgasms. My body was due for a big one, so badly that I was nearly vibrating with lust.

I followed my usual routine. Couch. Vibe. Toy. New batteries. Everyone else sleeping or absent. Jeans off to avoid the puddles. Towel under me. Then I got down to business.

When I haven’t come for several days, it’s hard, fast and urgent. One right after the next with not even a pause to catch my breath. The toy in my bottom was a buttplug this time, a soft jelly one that I wanted to try out. It did its job admirably–or at least it did at first.

As a stealth-masturbator, I typically wank with as few clothes removed as possible, so as to have at least a modicum of deniability. I got to the point that nipples had to be touched. They were screaming to be pinched bare, the pinching sending shocks directly to my already-throbbing clit. I pushed up my shirt. I pulled down the top of my t-shirt*.

Pinching my nipples and moaning, moving my hips in increasingly intense circles, feeling my bottom throbbing around the plug–some days orgasms are the sole thing that make life worth living. This was one of those days.

As I pinched and rubbed my nipple, I felt a small crunch. Crunch? What could possibly be crunching there?

I turned off the vibe so that I could investigate the crunching. As I did so, I realized that the plug had shifted during the last intense row of orgasms and was now nearly out of my bottom. I coerced it back inside of me and began feeling up by breasts.

Crunch.

A small lump.

A small goldfish shaped lump.

Dammit. I fished it out**, made sure the buttplug was firmly wedged back where it belonged, and resumed with the highest possible vibe speed. Sometimes a short break gives my body just enough time to relax and recover; the orgasms started up again, urgently moving toward that huge final one.

With something in my bottom and the final orgasm fast approaching, I’ve noticed that I have a tendency to moan aloud, “nononononononono.” Why? I don’t know. It’s certainly not the same “NO!” as was spoken here, but I could see how the two could be confused.

If I’m ever being fucked in the ass, verging closer to The Orgasm to End All Orgasms, moaning “nonononononono”– and my partner actually stops, I’ll have to bite off his head. Seriously. This will have to be discussed in depth beforehand, so that he will know that “nononononononono” in that particular context and ONLY that particular context means “if you stop, I will bite your head off.”

Only if I say “marmalade” should you actually stop. “Marmalade” will be my safe word.

With moans that surely could be heard throughout the Midwest, I came, the final huge come that generally leaves me spent for at least five minutes. I rolled off the couch. My buttplug rolled off after me, having apparently become dislodged at some previous point. It bounced away cheerfully.

Left on the couch was a shower of goldfish crumbs, leading me to puzzle over where on my person the rest of the school could be hiding.

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And so I summarize the things I’ve learned about buttsex:

1. Whoever buttfucks me will need to hang on tight or risk being dislodged repeatedly.

2. Whoever buttfucks me will need to search for goldfish in my bra beforehand, unless he has a crush fetish***.

3. Whoever buttfucks me will need to remember the safe-word and not dream of stopping when I moan “nononononononono.” Unless he’d like to have his head bitten off.

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*As I had no other plans for the day beside domestic duties and a really big wank, I wore only a t-shirt with a built-in shelf bra.
**Believe me when I tell you that I have found goldfish in far odder locations than my own bra.
***Does anyone have a crush fetish for goldfish?

I feel so guilty when I ramble here. I should give you decent, quality writing.

But no. Some days you get only the spewing detritus of my jumbled thoughts.

Forgive me?

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Strangely enough, one is not really expected to sleep much during a sleep study. The nurse must have woken me up a dozen times.

A friend of mine mentioned that a nurse waking you throughout the night could lead to some porn-like moments. Hm.

Could have happened, I suppose, if she’d not told me repeatedly that I was loosening my chin electrode by drooling as I slept.

The romance was dead before it even started. Alas.

No one likes a drooler.

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My child has a new occupation. She drops her goldfish crackers carefully onto the ground and then crushes them with her tiny heel. When I tell her to stop, she calmly says “no.”

She calmly says “no” to nearly every thing I ask her (other than “Do you want a cookie?”). With perfect coolness and equanimity, she continues to crush goldfish, gaze at me with her liquid-blue eyes, and say “no.”

I’m raising a tiny Bartleby.

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Steve Watson is in a new show on HGTV. He’ll be all sweaty. God. That whisky voice and sweat, and building things.

Capable men make me weak in the knees.

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Ah, you really want to know why I lack the brainpower to write something substantial today?

O: Ugh! I’m the worst possible blogger today!

me: Noooo I surely am.

O: I’m the worst blog citizen. I never comment on anyone, hardly.

me: Well all I can do is sit and look at my own masthead!

O: Hahaha. Yes, damn you.

me: Come on over. You can look at it too!

O: I did! I was! Iam! I’m getting no work done today!

me: Really, just now?

O: Yep.

me: We’re pathetic!

Seems that most of you are enjoying the new masthead?

I’m glad.

Once an ancient priest gave a present to a young monk. It was a tiny carved box. “What shall I do with it?” the young monk asked.

“Anything you like,” answered the priest.

So the monk took it home and placed it on his mantel. Immediately he noticed that the beauty of the box emphasized the shabbiness of the rest of the mantel. The monk took a moment to straighten the mantel.

But he noticed that the mantel now threw the chaos of the rest of the room into sharp contrast. He cleaned it up, so that it would match the order of the mantel.

When the room was beautiful, he noticed that the rest of his house looked shabby in comparison. So he put the rest of his house into order as well.

After his house was straightened, he looked outside and noticed the disarray of the rest of the world. He took one last look at the beauty of his house, then stepped outside to begin the task of restoring harmony to the rest of the world.

This is where I am with my repair/paint project. Every little bit that is completed shows up more the entropy around it. Every job creates three more jobs.

Can’t. Stop. Fixing. Things. Can’t. Stop. Painting.

I tell myself I’m fixing and painting so that when the time comes to sell, it will be ready. The house will be ready.

I hope that when the house is ready, I am also ready.

The kids are lucky they are all mobile or else I’d paint them too.