If you were on my blogroll and have fallen off in this transition, please let me know and I’ll fix the mistake.

If you know of a great blog I’m missing, please leave a comment.  I’ve been getting nearly all Fleshbottable material via reader these days and I *love* to read new stuff.

Hope you’re having just as lovely a weekend as I am.  Bye!

“But I’ve never been to your site,” she protests.  “Just like you asked.  I’m only reading where you’ve been quoted and what other people say about you.”

“Then stop,” I growl through the phone.  “Stop tracking it down.  Stop googling.  Stop reading the bits and pieces other people quote.  Just stop.”

She can’t help herself, she tells me.  She’s so terribly worried about the risks I’m taking with my life that she’s compelled to nose around, even though she knows she shouldn’t.

I’ve got enormous potential, she tells me.  I could touch hearts, she thinks, or change lives.  I could have people all over the world reading me, if only I focused on the topics of children and family and motherhood.

“So you are uncomfortable with the fact that I talk openly about sex,” I ask, though of course I know the answer without asking.

“There are some things that should stay private,” she whispers.  “Sex should be private.  And sacred.  I’ve showed some of your writing to your father, but there’s so much I’ve hidden from him.  He couldn’t handle reading it.”

Whose fault is it that you have to hide it, I think but do not ask.

After eighty (yes, eighty) unproductive minutes on the phone, the discussion is tabled.  She wants us to seek “professional help” for this issue, she says, and I realize that now I know another reason she’s so keen on herding me to a Christian counselor.  She wants that person to fix me.

This shouldn’t bother me.  It shouldn’t matter that according to my mother the only thing I’m good for — in terms of writing, at least — has to do with the children.

Eh, who am I fooling?  Her preferences extend beyond what I write.  She’d very much rather that I concentrate on children, home, and finding a decent job, perhaps (once again) as a teacher.  Maybe her scheme includes me dating someone.  ONE someone.  One male someone.  And not putting out ’til he places a ring on my finger and promises to take care of me forever.

Because that’s what a good girl would do.

Unfortunately I’m not a good girl.  I’ve never been much of a good girl, even when I acted like one.  It must be horribly disappointing to her that I’ve turned out like this, and that there exists a visible record of how far I’ve strayed from what they hoped.

In a never ending quest to force independence on the small people who share my house, I’ve recently been encouraging them to undress themselves, put their (wet! only wet!) diapers in the trash, drop their laundry into the washer and wiggle into their own clothes.

Because I’m simply too busy to hunt down, dress and redress children the 478 times a day required by their unabashed love of both dress up and nudity.

We performed this routine the other day before bedtime.  I noticed nothing out of the ordinary as I placed diapers on the little ones but for a touch of extra goofiness on the part of my middle child.  I was tired, she was being weird, it was past bedtime — I didn’t investigate further.

Kids in bed, I fell on the couch and worked without ceasing until my own bedtime.

Imagine my surprise then the next morning when upon opening the refrigerator door to fetch milk I found a wee pair of pink panties tucked halfway into the crisper bin.  I stared at them without comprehension.  In the time it took for it to register in my brain that YES those were pink panties (and not just a figment of an overworked imagination), it ran through my head to think that I must have — I must have! –kicked them into the fridge as I opened the door.

Yes, that was it.  They’d been dropped on the floor just moments before, and my agile toes had inadvertently flung them into the fridge — nay into the crisper bin! — as I opened the door.  That had to be it.  Because no one would purposefully have put her panties into the refrigerator.

By the time these thoughts finished percolating through my head, I’d bent down.  I’d laid hands upon the offending pair of drawers.  And…they were cold.  The panties were cold.

I’d had panties in my fridge overnight, and when I involuntarily asked (though I knew it was mad to ask) “Why are there panties in the refrigerator?” my question was met with rounds of giggles from behind me.  There’d been a plot, you see.  A plot to store panties in the refrigerator.

Their plot had succeeded.  The mother was flummoxed.  And all was right in their little world.

It’s not like I didn’t know the statistics.  The numbers are whispered by aghast (and yet inordinately interested) talk show hosts or printed in shiny magazines so frequently that they hardly seem real.  Twenty-five percent of girls and seventeen percent of boys will be sexually abused by the time they are eighteen.  One in four.  One in six.

So why should I be surprised that nearly every time I mention sexual abuse, someone discloses to me?

I shouldn’t be surprised, yet whenever I hear a disclosure I am.  I’m surprised, and shocked, and horribly saddened when people disclose, especially when the people disclosing are ones I love.

There’s undeniable power in the telling of abuse stories.  Each time the story is told, a weight of shame and responsibility is lifted. Eventually it occurs to the teller that there’s no need to feel disgrace or guilt.  There isn’t now, and there never was.  They did nothing wrong, not in being abused or in talking about the abuse.

I won’t blindly encourage folks who have thus far stayed silent suddenly to start spilling.  But maybe they’ll begin thinking about considering even the possibility of someday (someday soon) telling someone.

Bonus points if you can figure out which blogger I’m referring to in the first sentence.

And sometimes posts happen because I haven’t even the first hint of a whiff of a clue about how to handle a situation and I hope that writing will help clarify for me an  appropriate path.

This is one of those posts.

Not long ago my parents became angry with me, not only because they discovered my unusual means of employment but also because I refused (once again) to allow them time alone with the children.  It’s my opinion that I’ve been perfectly clear in articulating my thoughts about the first issue:  I don’t appreciate the intrusion into territory I’d asked them to avoid, but we’ll make some changes and get past it.  I think I’ve also been clear about the second issue.  It’s simple:  No.  Not going to happen.  Seems pretty straightforward to me.

Many times I’ve had the impression that I’ve been exceedingly clear, only to find my listeners lost.  Apparently I’m not quite so articulate as I’d like to believe.  Maybe this is one of those times.  In any case, my parents have requested that we receive some outside assistance in “healing” our relationship.

Many years ago I requested the same thing.  I did everything but beg on bended knee for them to attend some sessions with my counselor.  They refused.  They invited me to see their counselor.  I initially refused, but eventually went to one harrowing session.

It was informative to say the least.  Informative but ultimately not very helpful, because while they had been seeing this counselor for many months, they had not been entirely honest in characterizing me or my concerns.

So the matter dropped, or mostly dropped, until the divorce gave them hope that perhaps the restrictions would vanish along with the ex.  Leaving the children alone with my parents is one issue on which he and I are in perfect harmony.  However, I’m convinced that people almost always believe the thing which will cause them the least amount of pain.  It was easier for them to believe that he created that rule.

Now that we’re no longer married and yet the rule still stands, they have reached another crisis.  They want our relationship to be fixed.  They would like for me to find them a counselor who will help us.

And not just any counselor.  A Christian counselor.

I was raised in the Christian tradition but now follow few of their doctrines other than my own somewhat slipshod interpretation of the Golden Rule.   I’ve pointed out that because they are the ones who want that particular characteristic they should be the ones to search, but they have refused.

They want me to be comfortable with the person chosen, they say.  They want someone neutral, so that he or she hears our “sides” of the story without the impediment of a past relationship.

I am hesitant, extremely hesitant, to embark upon this course of action.  First, I’m not really comfortable with trying to find someone Christian enough, but not too Christian, or the wrong kind of Christian.

Second, I’m not sure that a Christian counselor would be able to help.  I see that kind of counselor as heavy on the Christian and light on the counseling; I may end up with three pairs of eyes on me waiting for the endowment of that magical substance, forgiveness.

Even if forgiveness is not thrust down my throat (no I’m not bitter), what good could come from this?  I most seriously doubt that anything said in a counselor’s office is going to persuade me to lift the ban on unsupervised visits, so what’s the point?

Could a random Christian counselor bring us some sort of peace?  I have no idea.

Here we are, at the end of the most annoyingly self-referential post in the history of this site (that one pushed it right over the edge) and I’m no closer to an answer.

Whaddy’all think?

Jilda’s latest offering is the New Wave, a dildo that’s both long and thick, made from American Cherry wood.  I’ve tried a number of her other toys (loved them!) and have a New Wave on its way to me now; hurry sweet dildo, hurry!

Leave a comment below if you’d like the chance to win this cool toy.  You’ll need to provide a working email address (visible only to me) and be willing to send along your shipping address if you are the winner.  I’ll choose one entry at random after the contest closes at 12:01 am Monday, July 21st.

Happy commenting!

I’ve come to enjoy those times.  He seems to look forward to being here more than he ever did when we were married, perhaps because family time is no longer a daily expectation.

I take those opportunities to fix a nice dinner, one that does not include “nuggets” as any of the ingredients.  That night I made chicken, potatoes, salad and fresh fruit.  The weather was fine, the children were behaving, the food was delicious, everyone was having a pleasant time — until the boy, seated next to me, sent his plate flying off the high chair and directly at me.

I dodged the plate but gasped in surprise, which managed to lodge a shred of chicken in my throat.  I coughed, I choked, and eventually I had to leave the table so as not to gross out the rest of the family as I retched helplessly.

“Are you ok?” the ex asked as we cleaned up the dishes later.

“Yes,” I answered, voice hoarse from coughing.  “It’s just my gag reflex.  It’s gotten so sensitive lately.  If anything so much as touches it, I’m done.”

“Hm,” he said, giving me an almost playful look, “Then I guess we split up at exactly the right time.”

This is but one small measure of how far we’ve come.  We can enjoy a family meal in peace and then joke about blowjobs while cleaning up the kitchen.

If only we could have done this well during the marriage.

***************

Cool swag from here tomorrow.  Come back then to enter!

But the wall wouldn’t budge no matter how ardently he pushed or I wished it.  I gagged hard as I moved him against my lips and the saliva which had pooled in my throat leaked out over him.  He moaned, the gagging and drooling egging him on even more.

When he’s very, very excited, that’s when the veins stand out so clearly that I can feel them with my tongue.  Gagging subsided, I opened my mouth to him again, letting him push into me, leg braced against the bed so as to maximize the range of motion of his hip.  I watched, fascinated by the slippery slide into my mouth and the working of his muscles, the clenching of his ass, the feel of his hair against my lips.

I broke free for a moment despite his protests to pour lube over my fingers.  “I want to put my finger in you,” I murmured, my lips close to his.  “Will you let me?”  He pulled my head down to kiss me hard and I felt a noise that only could have been assent from somewhere in the region of his heart.

I swirled slippery fingers around his ass as he nudged his purple cockhead toward me.  I refused to open my lips, concentrating instead on coercing the tip of my finger past the first ring of muscle, but he couldn’t wait longer to push himself against my lips, parting them as I whimpered in a play of pathetic refusal so that he could play at force.

With my finger in him and his cock in me, his veins popped out high enough that I could have sucked each individual pathway between my lips if I’d not been taking such hard thrusts into my mouth that all I could do is hold on, hold on and moan and gently slide my finger over that hard ring of muscle again and again and again until at last he clenched his hands fully in my hair, pushed me down to the point of gagging and came hot down my throat, calling out loud to whichever god accepts praise for the receipt of good sex.

Me: I’m trying to persuade someone to send me a dildo made of granite.

Him: I can’t see why you would want this.

Me: Because I write about unique sexual products.

Him: Other than for aesthetic reasons…I sure wouldn’t put a granite dildo anywhere intimate.

Me: You have noticed that I like to be fucked by really hard things, right?

Him: Heh, yes, that I have.  But granite?

Me: Until they make a dildo out of diamond, granite’s about as hard as it gets.

Him: What’s next? Topaz?

Me:  Baby, if someone made me a topaz dildo you bet I’d fuck myself silly with it.