Author Archives: Steffani Cameron

Tuesdays are Good Days!

Aside from the wonder of reduced admission at movie theatres, Tuesdays bring plenty of goodness! Such as, the sunshine outside, for instance.

Or, even better yet, the prognosis that Boyfriend’s on his way back to bein’ two-legged!

Yep, you heard it here first. I’m soon to be not dating a cripple. Awesome! He can do partial weight-bearing and in six weeks or so, he’ll be able to walk with just a cane for a bit. (It figures that his favourite TV show is House.) It’ll be a while after that before he’s a “Go-Go-Go” man again, but shit, anything’s better than what his life was reduced to these past few weeks, and I, for one, am elated!

Aside from that, I got my haircut. Remember the rant? Yeah, well. Fuck that! I didn’t go back to my $60 guy, but instead went to a hair school and paid $8.56. HA. And it looks CUTE! I’m a punk rock girl. Without product, I’ll look like a Chia pet, but with, I look pretty darned kewt, if I may say so myself. Plus, it looks almost identical to how my hair looks in the Guy’s fave pic o’ me. All good, that.

I was boppin’ down Main Street on my scooter, singing — as I often do. If you see a Eurotrash girl zipping around Vancouver and singing: Janis Joplin (“Oh, Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes-Benz…”) or the Hip (“And it’s part hard–hard to remember, and it’s part hard–hard to say…”) or Tom Waits (“Jesus gonna be here…”) or anything else along those lines, just shout out a “HEY, STEFF!” and I’ll wave.

Today, I was spoofing Black Sabbath’s “Iron Man.” It went something like, “I am punk-rock girl!” And insert a few head bangs right there. Then I sang out the stupid riffs. You have no idea how much I hate that song! Still, it was a hoot.

I’m sure I look like a freak when I’m in a great mood, zipping around town, belting out the classics, but shit, you gotta make your own fun, and I make mine. Besides, my scooter’s fucking LOUD, man. It’s like an early warning system for the Boyfriend, who can hear me approaching from two blocks away, he claims. I have to be singing LOUD for y’all to hear. And today I was.

Well, a friend’s coming over and some celebratory beer is to be had. It is a Good day. On top of that, I’ve finally cracked the top 10,000 blogs in the world, according to Technorati. Who knew, huh? So, THANK YOU to all of you who keep coming back for more. Gluttons for punishment, y’all are, and I loves it so. Y’all rock and rock and rock all the night long.

Oh, you wanted SEX. RIGHT. What made ya think this was a sex blog? Oh, ‘cos it is. Right. Well, come back later, my friends, and I’ll tie you up. A little bit of bondage or something shall be posted at some point tonight, after I’ve had some beers and pizza and chill time out in the world. Happy Tuesday, kids. Don’t spend it all in one place.

The Great Divide: When Relationships Falter

I read one of my reader’s blogs this weekend and found myself thinking about it afterwards. Now, there’s two takes on this posting of his, and this is the first of them. The other I need to write, and it’ll probably be shorter. Since this posting, he’s had awesome sex with the wife and things are looking more promising. (Again, two words: Cock ring.)
He said the following:

Lately my wife has a new habit of staying up as late as I do. She falls asleep early often, but it is on the couch, refusing to go to bed until I do, which is funny since we all know nothing is going happen there. If she goes to bed, she wants me to use the computer from the bedroom. It’s like she’s making sure I have no life to myself, that everything about me must belong to her.
I am married, not owned.

The last line really hit me. No, he’s not the first to say it, but it’s a powerful statement any time it’s spoken. We are not possessions. We are not commodities. We need air, space, trust, and faith. We cannot consciously be shown on a constant basis that we are not trusted, or not only will the fabric of the relationship shred, but so will our self-esteem.
When self-esteem goes, so does any hope of a genuine relationship. It’s a vicious fucking cycle, and one that’s often created out of the insecurities of one lover not trusting the other. Often, it’s simply communication issues, which I’ll talk about next time.
That previously mentioned distrust can be valid. Very. Infidelity isn’t some urban legend that wives whisper about around the water cooler, in daunted tones like they’re talking about the relationship equivalent of Boo Radley; it’s a pressing concern for many relationships, and something both parties need to work very, very hard to avoid.
Creating an atmosphere of distrust when you have no proof, when it’s just you being insecure or having a bad time of it, is dangerous. You’re creating a bell-jar effect for your relationship. Meaning, you’re conjuring a sense of psychic disconnection from your lover by forcing them to be guarded, defensive, or even secretive.
In talking about the article in question, my loverman and I were discussing how, technically, Haaaaa’s blogging manner is an act of defiance and untrustworthiness simply because he’s airing the dirty laundry without seeming to be working on it with his wife, but that’s arguable, considering that she doesn’t seem to be talking, and just pointing fingers. I commented that I felt he was doing the lesser of all evils; he either blogged about his anger and disconnection in a way to get to the bottom of it or would find some commonality with others out in the world, or would instead find himself an outlet or Band-aid out in the world, via an inappropriate relationship with a woman, or some other negative stopgap.
Let’s say this loud and clear: You do not own title on your lover. You simply have lease on a part of their lives, whether you’re married or not. It is always, always, always in your best interest that your lover maintain some of their privacy and “me” time.
Clichés are true for a reason; the law of averages states that, more often than not, that is the truth in that given situation. Such as, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” The more you see a lover, the more chance you’re running out of time for yourself. The less time you have for yourself, the more the likelihood that your thoughts are getting drowned out in your mind.
You may want to be with your lover every day, but it’s just not entirely healthy. Time alone needs to be had, not just by you, but by them. Men, in particular, need that time alone. Manhood is a fragile thing, and when men get too embroiled in their women, they can lose touch with part of themselves. It may not be an immediately pressing issue, but it will eventually become a problem for both people in the relationship. Women need to be more possessive about their alone time, too, because it’s far too easy to find “self”-worth through a relationship – also a very detrimental thing, and something all too common with chicks.
Personally, alone time is absolutely essential to who I am. I can do without a social life, but I cannot, WILL not, do without time alone. To do so would be to destroy who and what I am. To do so would mean you’d get no fodder to read.
Marriages, I presume, eventually have phases where things get a little crowded. We’re told that, because it’s a marriage, it’s a “partnership” and everything is co-owned and shared, etc. In the end, though, it can’t be. I’ve quoted Grandma Death from Donnie Darko before, and I’ll do it again now: “In the end, every living creature dies alone.”
Between now and your death, make certain that the person who finds their way into that pine box is a reflection of the person you’ve always been. Keep your passions, keep your loves, and allow your lover the time to maintain their own. Healthy people make for healthy relationships.
Each partner must be able to indulge in passions and enjoyments on their own, or soon, they will lose some of their sense of selves, and while the relationship may continue to seem decent in an average kind of way, it’s not going to be same as it once was. Ever. Instead, the relationship becomes a tug-of-war, or worse, routine. Never, ever settle for the routine, and tug-of-wars aren’t worth the energy expended on them.
We can easily forget about the things that make us tick. Face it, life is designed to distract us from unhappiness. Not thrilled with life? The new Audi will solve that problem. Things getting too difficult? The airline has a 2-for-1 deal on flights. Insecurities getting you down? Bedhead’s got great hold in their hair products, and they smell nice, too!
When we’re unhappy in relationships, in life, we fill the gaps with things, with television, with sleep, with food. We do everything we can but face the problem itself, fearing that the cure is worse than the illness – which is often anything but true. Talk to your lover. Trust them. Give them space. Go listen to Sting’s “If You Love Somebody (Set Them Free)” and remind yourself that the song’s just echoing an eternal truth. Love comes back to you. And if it doesn’t, it was never yours to begin with. Again, clichés are true for a reason.
Why it takes so long to leave an unfulfilling relationship is that we can sometimes forget what it was like to be single, and we forget the sense of fulfillment we can take from ourselves. It’s scary, the notion of being alone versus being unhappy and together. The devil you know, etc. Relationships have a way of falsely making us feel whole – until the relationship’s flaws begin to become evident and we remember that, once upon a world, we were a different person with different needs and somewhere, somehow, who we were began to murkily assimilate with who our lovers were, with the lines dissipating in the dark of it all.
We are not possessions. We are flawed, imperfect beings who sometimes need the space to remember ourselves, for our lovers’ sakes. But, mostly, for our own.

White sheets? Why, for god's sake?


Now, admit it, this picture’s hot. I don’t care who ya are, boy or girl, this is hot. If the sheets were any other colour, would it be as hot?
Probably not. If you take a look around, almost every gorgeous erotic shot you see featuring sheets, they’re white. There’s something about white sheets — simplicity, purity, crispness. I don’t know what it is, exactly, but there’s something evocative about white sheets. We all identify with them.
Practical? Not so much. Sex is messy. It’s really, really messy. Good sex is messier. Great sex is downright sloppy. There’s that sweat, the juices. Sometimes women bleed. Sometimes you want a little taste of the good life while you’re tasting your partner, and chocolate sauce enters the picture. Hence why I like to own dark sheets. Dramatic, sexy, romantic in candlelight, and practical. I’m a pragmatic romantic — a fine combination.
You may or may not know this about me, but I drink the Oprah Kool-aid. I can’t help it. I never watch the celebrity shows or the “hear this tragic tale” type shows, but I love anything she does on sex, politics, or human rights. One time I was watching one of the fluff shows, and she got to talking about jersey knit t-shirt sheets. I remembered how comfortable she said they were, and broke off my ass, I wasn’t going to justify $50 or more for sheets when food and rent and other things came first.
Then came the near-demise of my fucking awesome burgundy flannel sheets. Oh, flannel, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways! Your warmth comforts me on cold, cold nights. In the face of the world’s harshness, your soft and luxurious feel takes my edge away. Flannel, I could never leave you.
But you’ve quit me, you motherfucker. Yep. The flannel sheets have begun to wear dangerously thin. I suspect I have one, maybe two more washes before they get butchered for housework duty. I will probably weep when that day comes. I know, it’s weird, I’m attached to sheets. But they’re flannel, dammit, and they’re the colour of red, red, wine!
So, I decided I would listen to Oprah. T-shirt sheets. Sure! I bought the cheapest variety I could find, since I decided that cracking open the piggy bank for new sheets was now a wise choice, with Regular Sex now becoming a promising feature in my life. Almost the entire stock was gone. They had two colours left: pale butter yellow, and pale sky blue.
That was a problem. I like dark sheets, for starters, and I’m into aesthetics. My bedroom’s got a chocolate-coloured wall, with the remainder being desert-sand colour, lots of wood, and some Indian batik fabrics. Blue’s not gonna cut it. The butter yellow sort of worked, I thought, so I picked them up.
And they did work, blending in decently in my surroundings. Up there with the flannel? No, not so much, but they’ll be more summer appropriate. September, I’m buying chocolate-brown flannel sheets.
Yep, as practical a colour as sheets can be.
See, I just put my clean sheets on the bed. Well, clean, in theory, except for the recent addition of stains. Less than a month old, the sheets are now stained. What can I say? We broke out the chocolate sauce. Well, I say “we”, but I really mean “me.” I had him tied up and blindfolded. He looked so yummy that I thought I’d have my version of icing on what was already a nice cake I could really sink my teeth into. I dribbled the sauce from his testicles to his tongue, and navigated my way north. Sadly, smudges made their way to the sheets.
My sheets, it would seem, have been sullied by the dirty s-e-x.
You know, I’m not much of a literalist, not really, but it’s not like I break out the mud and filth in order to have the “dirty” s-e-x. I just like to think how unclean the nuns from my old Catholic school would think me to be if they knew all the things I enjoy doing, that’s all. Hygeine’s important, kids. Wash your hands and pee-pees, okay?
Ah, sullied. Sad. Sullied, just like their owner. Sigh. Fortunately, it was good fun. Oh, hey, there you go. It’s the souvenir of good sex. “Why, I remember that fine chocolate smudge right there, oh, and the caramel blob over there. That was right before I gave you some head and a handjob. Oh, the good old days. Shall we relive them? I’ll get the rope.”
Which reminds me: I owe you a piece on bondage. Okay, tomorrow, then. I promise. No, really, I do.
PS: Yes, I know they’ve invented a chemical called “bleach.” I realize I could buy white sheets and bleach my filth out so I can pretend I’m a clean, upstanding citizen, but a) I’m a disaster with bleach and finally just got tired of all the bleach stains finding their way onto coloured clothing of mine, and b) I wouldn’t have gotten to write this, which I found quite fun to do. So, humour me, okay? You may like bleach, but I’m a happy detergent-only kinda gal. Besides, it’s been a while since I murdered anyone and had vast quantities of blood to clean up.)
Ed. Note: It’s 2010 and I have white sheets. And a white comforter. And more white sheets. Some other sheets too, but now I like ’em white. What can I tell ya? Growth, change.

Cock Rings: Not for a Saturday in Guadalajara

In regards to this, I have two words to say: Cock ring.
We finally used one, things were good., and now he’s gone home for a good night’s sleep. We were having issues sleeping together in the beginning, but since then, we’ve problem solved. At first, two blankets, then just one. And then other little things as, it seems, I snore sometimes. Yes, there we go, the dirty truth. I’ve been known to snore. It’s terrible. A light poke in the ribs from him, apparently, and I cease my ode to lumberjacks and chainsaws. I think there’s a subliminal dance we do — he pokes, I shut the fuck up. All good.
Despite all that, we still only sleep about six or seven hours a night, and since he’s still pretty needing of sleep, we’ve finally reached a concensus that he going home to get a good night’s sleep means more likelihood of actual dirty s-e-x unfolding, and since we’re both big fans of the dirty s-e-x and even have desires to toy with the filthy s-e-x or the unmentionable s-e-x, I think we’re both in favour of the boy getting some rest.
But, hey, I think we may decide on afternoon delights later today, in 12 or so hours, since I’m heading over. Daytime sex is always fun, especially when you think of all the dumb things the people in the hood are doing — shopping, mowing lawns, fixing the sink — while you’re getting laid. Fun!
Anyhow, cock rings? Get one. Use it. Even if you’re one of these “but I last and last and last” braggarts. One day, you’ll be sick, or tired, or injured, and you’ll want to fuck like a bunny, but your (or your man’s) cock will disagree.
Enter: Cock ring. Trap that blood, enjoy that ride, and send me a postcard.
(I’ve always been a big fan of the “The weather is here, wish you were beautiful” card, myself.)
In comments, Haaaaaa has mentioned what I think intimidates a lot of people from getting into cock rings — what one should you buy? Above is the photo of the one I have, the Lasso. It’s a great introduction to cock rings ‘cos it’s adjustable for any sized guy, and is easy to get on and off. The intimidation factor is nil. Apparently metal ones give you more restraint, but they’re not recommended for neophytes (newbies). Another really awesome benefit of the cock ring is, if you’re still using condoms in your relationship, you can firmly attach your cock ring over the condom to prevent the condom from coming off, or just slippage. Get one. You’ll love it. Every now and then, it should come out to play.

Sombre Thoughts On A Friday Night

You ever have that feeling of, “I want sex. Now.” Well, of course you have. Haven’t we all? Now, how about that feeling coupled with a non-existent desire to masturbate?
See, now you understand why I’m confused. Well, I’m not confused now, but a few minutes ago I was, when I was lying in bed, planning on doing the dirty deed – naked, under the covers, at 7 on a Friday. Why? Because I’m tired. I want sleep. I’m really, fucking tired. I’ve not been in the bed so early (for such an innocent reason) on any night, let alone a Friday, in a long-ass time.
But I was lying there, contemplating masturbation for the first time in a while, and literally shrugged it off and said, “Fuck it, I’ll write.”
I’ve barely seen my man this week. Briefly Friday, a little Saturday night, and a nice but disappointing Sunday, and not since then. It feels weird, like forever or something. Normally, we hook up Fridays. I don’t know if he stayed home tonight after all, but there was talk of poker – which would be his first time hanging out with the guys since he badly broke his leg six weeks ago, and probably just the kind of night he needs.
Okay, let’s call a spade a spade: Broken legs are shit for the sex life, all right? They are. We’ve been doing our best, trying to manage between positioning, fatigue, pain, and all those complications that arise from any serious injury, but when it’s a leg, it’s all just that much more frustrating and hard. Besides, sex, when positions are not much of an option, tends to be a little unfulfilling. It’s really too bad, because it’s all about variety, isn’t it?
Mentally, I want to get fucked silly. One of those exhausting, sweaty, draining experiences that leaves you gasping – with this guy of mine. Physically, I suppose I probably desire it, but I don’t feel it. Logically, I know it’s just not going to happen for a bit. It’s all depending on what the doctor tells my man Tuesday.
In case you haven’t already heard, he shattered his lower right leg when it snapped like a twig during a bad tumble down a slope. A couple titanium plates later, and he was in a world of hurt for a long while. He’s had no cast on the leg, just plates, so he’s been very vulnerable for the duration of the injury. He’s also in a world of suspense. Apparently, he claims, 5% or more of patients of this kind of injury need to be opened up again (and he has two 5”+ incisions, on both sides, just above the ankle) and have the plates re-set.
So, Tuesday, we find out. He’s worried, and I’m concerned. Honestly, another six weeks of this… there’s a lengthy rehab as-is, but going back to square one would be so hard, because then there’s another wait, another period of suspense, and more pain, more adversity… Who needs it?
We just don’t know. I’m positive about it, but I can’t say I’m optimistic. We just don’t know. The possibility, though, is freaky. If he gets a “Wow, you’re doing dandy!” from the doc, man, I can’t imagine how good each of us will be feeling about it. That’d be sensational. God, would that be great. We’d have hope back and could start talking less tentatively about the future.
It’s not until you’re at the end of these kinds of scenarios that you really begin to appreciate how difficult it has been.
As the “girlfriend” of the boyfriend who’s on the disabled list, I’m left having to check my emotions all the time. I’m not allowed to be too concerned, I can’t be too fluffy or doting, and there’s so fucking much that I have to resist saying or expressing.
I’m left feeling like any of my concerns are selfish or that they pale in comparison to his problems. But we all do this. “Oh, but X has it harder than me.” So? Your emotions are invalid, then?
Who says our feelings come with built-in comparison scales? They don’t. Whatever pain, sadness, grief, hardship, woe it is we feel, it’s ours, and ours alone. It’s valid by the very nature that it exists. Is it selfish? Maybe, yes. So then you need to find a better way to deal with it. It must be prioritized against others’ needs sometimes, but it can never be disregarded.
I’ve been prioritizing the Guy’s needs in a lot of ways, and it’s beginning to wear thin – not because I don’t want to make him a priority, but because I’m just getting a little worn out, I guess. It’s different, right? Normally in relationships you can be more spontaneous. You can call them up and say, “Hey, can I get me a little somethin’somethin’?” You pop in, get what you need, have that quick, nice visit, and life is good. Or sometimes it’s 10 or 11 and you’re thinking, “Yeah, going to bed alone tonight? That sucks. I’m dialin’ up some love,” and you get your ass into their bed as quick as you can.
We can’t do that. I’m the one that has to go to him for anything spontaneous (which iis to say not at all), and really, late nights? Just not happening much at all when we’re together, never mind when we’re apart.
Injuries change relationships. There’s no getting around it. I understand injuries far too well, having spent much of four years in chronic pain earlier this decade, so I hold no grudges against my guy. He’s had a bad stretch. Soon, we’ll know if we’re into phase two. Waiting, though, from now until Tuesday is going to be fucking killer. I really, really want to know what our future holds. Regular sex? Score. Going out on the town? Score. Somewhere down the road, a real walk where we can hold hands? Score, score, score.
As of tonight, suspense. Nothingness. No clue. I’m scared of a bad prognosis, but I really, really doubt there’ll be one. It’s the possibility, however small, though, that’s the terrifying thing. There’s nothing that can be done but wait. And it’s not four days – it’s four days on top of nearly six weeks.
But he’s a fine man, and worth a wait. It’s because he’s a fine man that I’m getting so tired of waiting, though. I really, really want to enjoy him at his best, but we’re all adults and sometimes there’s just no fucking hiding from reality. It’s going to be a while, one way or the other, but the other’s just so much less desirable, that’s all.
Still, being in those arms again sometime very soon would be a good, good thing. And the suspense will be over soon, thank god.

RANT: Another Fucking Bad Hair Day

I should be leaving for an appointment right this very second, but I’m SO mad! I HATE my hair.
There is nothing worse (esteem-wise) than bad hair days. Except maybe bloating days, but We Don’t Talk Of Such Things.
I splurged. I came into a few bucks and went to my fancy-pants expensive hair guy, paid him a ridiculous $65 about 3-4 weeks ago now, and got the cut I have. Which I hate. And in the process? Had to put up with the dresser being, essentially, a stereotypical “pissy queen.”
My best friend is GayBoy. I love him to death. Gay? Not an issue. But standing there and being a negative, pissy bitch of a man while getting paid more per hour than I’ve ever gotten is pretty much a fucking affront to anyone. Worth it, MAYBE, for a good haircut.
Which this is not. Unusual for my fancy-pants coif-man, but there it is: It SUCKS.
And because he spent the whole fucking hour whining at me about life and people and traumas, I won’t be going back.
Know what? Here’s a fuckin’ memo: Shrinks get $120 an hour, or more, to listen to people bitch, piss, and moan. Know why? Because they fucking DESERVE it. Whiners suck! Issues suck! Who wants to hear them? Not many people. That’s what best friends and lovers are for. Not fucking hair-dressers!
Now I’m gonna make myself even later by dunking my head under the tap and hoping it dries in better positions when I put my motorcycle helmet on. Fucking people. $65 for a whine-at-me session and a bad haircut.
When I say I like to get screwed, that’s not exactly what I have in mind. GRR!

Sex Toy Review: The Remote Controlled Egg

(Fun for everyone! I forgot that I have a few things in my stores I can post, like this review:)

You know I’m a fan of voyeurism, but sometimes the best voyeurism is the one where no one even knows what’s going down.
An egg, an itty-bitty harmless egg came in my mail lately, and while awaiting its arrival, I began hatching a scheme for reviewing it.
Wireless remote, I thought. Why, that means, have egg, will travel. But travel to where, I thought?
Well, I’d insert the bad little egg and I’d take on the world, I thought. I’d zip downtown, egg in use, scootin’ through the masses. But I’d remove the battery from the remote for the scooter ride downtown. I mean, really, like you wouldn’t want that thing going off on the main drag.
“But, Bob, I think that woman on that little scooter is having an orgasm. Oh! She is. Oh, my…”
Bob veers sharply to the left, killing the granny in the passenger seat of the Caravan. No, we would avoid tragedy today. Battery, out.
So, on a perfect early spring day: Beach volleyball. Shirtless men. Sand. Sun.
I found myself a comfy spot on the sand, took in the view, and got cracking.
Yes, it’s a bad little egg, but I’m a fan. This summer, my outdoors life just got a whole lot more entertaining.
And, hey, who says loverman can’t get me off in a crowded room, huh? This is the kind of toy made for outdoors, made for indoors, but the wireless remote control means things can get fun not only for me, but for he who wields the remote, while the fun’s still private.
Oh, wireless, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. “Quiet and discreet.” Oh, indeed.
(The only way I’d like this better is if it were multispeed. But, then, multi could get mighty annoying if it were, in fact, some party setting where your loverman was playfully controlling the remote, and you’re there trying to schmooze with some big-wig. Loverman’s flicking through speeds like a kid with ADHD. Can you imagine? “And yes, the product launch was more successf…. errr… um, well, more successful than we — oh! I’m sorry, it must be the shrimp. Oh, DEAR. I think I need to take a moment. I’ll be right back.”

It's The End of the World As We Know It…

And I feel fine.
Despite that, life, as we know it, will never be the same again. Scientists have made water run uphill. Yes, Chicken Little, that is indeed the sky you see falling. Damn you, Gravity!
Even before seeing that, I was having a strange day. For what else can you call a Monday spring morning with rocketing gusts of wind, a bacon & tomato sammich for brekkie, while watching the Godfather?
Leave the gun. Take the cannoli.
Which is to say, life is about practicalities. How do you manage, though, when even the practical becomes unlikely?
My guy proclaims that he has been a cripple now for five weeks.* I feel for him, yet there’s pretty much nothing I can do. If I help too much, he’s left feeling useless. If I do too little, he’ll think I’ve changed. It’s a “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” sort of situation, and I have a hard time straddling that really persnickety line. Such is life.
There comes a time in every injury-rehabber’s life, this breaking point. Just when you think you’re never going to improve, things change rapidly. Before the progress, though, comes a period of unknowing, and there’s little more frustrating than that of just not knowing where you stand.
For those around the injured person, it’s difficult. You either can’t fathom what they’re going through (and most underestimate the amount of adversity a serious injury brings with it), or you can relate too well, which can sometimes be frustrating for the injured person, since they’re going through so much that your easy ability to relate is almost demeaning to their present adversities.
The Guy and I have discussed bondage off and on since we began dating. I had plans to tie the boy up much sooner than I have, but I began thinking realistically. It dawned on me that he’d been badly hurt, was on too many painkillers that had some sexual side effects, and all that, and I knew that, on the one hand, being tied up and pleasured would be perfect for him because he’d not have to exert himself and could simply enjoy the moment, but on the other hand, I knew he couldn’t return the favour and my kindness might wind up psychologically backfiring. So, I decided to postpone it.
This past week, I thought we might be at a point where I could tie the Guy up and just have him enjoy the experience now. Well, he did, absolutely, and I loved being able to do that for him, ‘cos that’s what it’s about, but… I’m a kind girl and I tend to be generous, and the Guy matches me well in those regards. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing he’d like to do more than rock my world in response to me rocking his, but then there’s reality. It’s just not quite that time, he can’t. I knew this when I tied him up, and I know it now.
That doesn’t make it any easier for either party. It’s frustrating when you really care about someone to any degree yet can’t show them the affection you’d like to exhibit, all because either you or they happen to be limited by physical realities.
There are things I can’t do that well right now, sexually, just because of injuries I have from over the last four years thanks to a small assortment of serious accidents. Giving head ain’t what it used to be – I can do maybe five or so minutes at a time before I get serious neck cramping and headaches, with my jaw locking up randomly for the next day or so. Doing the cowgirl ride, on top, makes my right knee go all wonky and every time I try it, my kneecap begins sliding off-base and my tendons snap like silly. These things piss me off, and I can’t even begin to understand what frustration the Guy must be having these days. He is a romantic, after all.
Don’t get me wrong, we’ve had some pretty awesome moments when both of us have been functioning in good form. I just know there’d be more of them if we were both at the top of our game more often. In fact, our on-the-town budget might dwindle drastically if full-on sex and all its trappings were on the menu every night.
Fortunately, I have to say that my sex drive’s at a really low point right now. Mentally, I want to go at it like wild bunnies in mating season with the Guy. I’m all about the thumpin’, you know. ‘Specially with him, but… Then there’s reality.
I’ve been doing battle with estrogen in one form or another for many months now. I had this near-insane reaction to an older birth control pill (Marvelon) that has a high estrogen content last October. Went into this black-as-hell depression and nothing but nothing could yank me out of it. You can see some evidence of it in October, 2005’s postings in the archive. I tried to keep most of it private, and maybe my other blog has more personal postings in it, but boy, it was one of the darkest periods I’ve ever experienced.
At the start of my next pill cycle, I switched to Alesse, a lower-dose pill. And now, well, my mood’s better, but my sex drive isn’t what it used to be. In fact, it hasn’t been for quite some time.
I got a lot of new readers earlier this year, in Feb/March, as a result of a series I began on masturbation. What you probably don’t know is that I don’t think I masturbated once during that series. I’ve been a little bothered by this unSteffness of mine for a while, but didn’t really know the extent of it until I got involved with the Guy.
It’s interesting, knowing the extent of your arousal intellectually and emotionally with someone, and not being interested in displaying it, or even able to do so, sometimes. Now, keep in mind, I have a high sex drive. As a chick, I probably have as high a sex drive as you can have without being addicted to sex. (Yes, it’s a real addiction.) So, perhaps having a little of the sex drive diminish isn’t such a bad thing. I’m not too concerned about that. I’m still pretty damned feisty from time to time, and probably still more than the Guy needs just now. At least he knows that when he’s ready, I’m willing, and that’s a start.
What I am concerned about, however, is the lack of sensation I’ve discovered I have.
It’s one thing to be able to masturbate yourself to orgasm… you lose a little sensation and you just dismiss it as getting disenchanted by the thought of having to take yourself to orgasm solo yet again. Like one reader wrote to me once, it’s like drinking water to eliminate a hunger. It’s not exactly a model solution.
When your lover, though, knows their shit and you just can’t feel like you ought to feel, like you know you should feel, you begin to realize it’s not them, it’s you, and that’s as frustrating as hell, too.
Next cycle, though, I begin yet another new birth control pill. Hopefully I’ll be a little less emotional some of the time, and hopefully my sexual sensitivity gets back to what it used to be, and hey, a little more drive might not hurt, but given the present scenario, I could wait a month or two for that.
So, the sky’s falling, water’s running uphill, my sex drive’s diminished, and the Guy’s having a rough week of it. What else is new? Life goes on. Storms seem the longest when you’re in them, and as time passes, you realize what a blip it was on the radar of things. When you’re being bombarded by gusts and howlers, it’s a little harder to see the big picture.
That’s why they made days only 24 hours long; having to get through anything longer would be inhumane on some days. As it is, it all starts anew tomorrow, and soon enough, another week’ll come along. It’s important to live in the moment, but it’s more important to realize time doesn’t stand still for anyone, least of all you.

*If you’re new-ish to the blog, a few weeks after we met, the Guy had a mishap and broke his right leg in three places above the ankle. Two intense surgeries were done to insert titanium plates and far too many screws, and he’s been on crutches ever since. Next week we find out finally if his bones have been correctly knitting, but he’s had no cast since week three, and can see the “monstrosity” he claims his foot/leg has become — covered in scars, bruising, and the like. If he gets the a-okay from the doc, he can finally begin putting pressure/weight on that leg. As of today, it requires great care and protection to keep it on the healing path. Frustrating for its owner, indeed.

Warning: Excessive Bliss May Be Good For You

I would have said that “the Guy has this saying,” but according to Google, there’s 14,700 hits for the phrase “post-coital bliss.”
It’s all about the PCB. Blissed out and riding that wave back to normalcy. Nothing recharges the batteries like a good lay, don’t ya think?
It’s Saturday morning (as if you didn’t know) and it’s cooler than it has been, but not cold. There’s 94% humidity – yep, count it, 94% — and the air’s got that built in chill-enhancer that’s not so friendly in the morning. Still, I’m in bare feet, just not happily naked like I normally am in the morning. Oh, well. The headache burrowing into the back of my skull’s not really a high point this morning, either, but I’m ignoring it and listening to Gomez over my headphones anyhow.
The gym was supposed to be my destination, but I have that all-over-body sore that says somethin’ physical’s been up of late. (The dirty s-e-x, that’s what. I tell ya, the death-grip with your legs around the waist, hiking him towards ya, good fer thighs and ass and abs, ladies.) I figure instead I’ll do some ab work, play with free weights, write, watch TV a spell, and then that’s my day. The Guy hobbles over, crutches and all, to my place this evening.
Back to the more interesting of topics thus far, PCB. It was after the dirty s-e-x that the conversation steered towards the PCB. Nothing takes a sting out of a working man’s week better than getting him laid by 10 on Friday, you know. My guy’s cut from a slightly different cloth. Instead of having sex (the dirty s-e-x, even) and rolling over to sleep the sleep of the dead, he gets energized. He actually enjoys cuddling and talking after a good shagging. How do ya like that? Now that’s serious PCB, folks. He even gave me a couple decent writing topics.
I, for one, am a big fan of the PCB, baby. Sex for everybody, says I. Didn’t you get the memo? I took over the duties of World Domination and Universal Autocrat as of midnight last night.
Lucky for you fuckers, too.
Sex for everybody. Yep. Just step right over here to your frequency lanes and pick a number you’d like as your sexual quota each week. What, three times? Four? More? All rightie, then. Pick a lane, any lane. That’s the number of times you’ll be getting’ your love on each week, my friends.
Ah, if only. I would make such a KICK-ASS dictator. None of the genocide crap, man. No illegal law enforcement. No intimidation. All about the bliss, baby. Personal freedoms for everyone, medical insurance discounts for anyone getting shagged often, sex toys would be tax deductible… If only.
In my pie-in-the-sky utopia, I’d have sex four to six times a week. A couple double-dips and such in there, of course, as well as lazy sleep-in, clothes-off, shaggin’ Sundays.
I’m looking forwards to next month. We’re on the verge of warm, warm nights now, and I’m thinking how much I’m gonna love those late-night just-got-laid departures – riding through the fragrant streets on warm, breezy nights, my scooter weaving back and forth under canopied streets as various perfumes from flowers assail me and cooler air pockets surprise me. Sigh. That’s always the best time to be out commuting in the world: a summer night after sex.
(There you go – a road rage solution. Road rage is all because people aren’t having sex enough. C’mon, people! Spread the sex around. Let’s reclaim our streets. Nice, happy drivers who just couldn’t give a shit if you go faster. They’re thinking about getting a little more of the shaggin’ they just had. A far better traffic pattern would emerge, I bet.)
Y’know, I went out for years with this guy who lived about 35 minutes away from me, and I still, to this day, remember loving the ride home almost as much as I enjoyed the sex and/or his company. It’d be 4am, and I’d be driving out on a highway that always had this awesome turn-off that made it feel like you were driving literally into the sunrise. Whoosh, around the bend, and back headed south-east, towards the sunrise again. I almost always took the long way home.
There’s just something great about sex in the summer. It’s better when you have a fan to cool yourselves off after all that work, but hey, seasonal shagging’s all good. I love staying in for sex in the winter, but if you have to leave, it’s such a bitterly cruel contrast – the cold, cold nights against the warmth and sweat and fury of your recent encounter. Yeah, I’ll take this… summer and the PCBs.

You Asked: What Do I Consider Cheating?


There’s an old saying, “A man never introduces his wife to his mistress,” or vice versa. Last night’s episode of Boston Legal made for good breakfast fare this morning, and the closing line was that.
It reminded me of an email from a reader, to whom I’ve yet to respond (sorry about that, you), inquiring as to my opinion on what “cheating” means today. That email is excerpted here:

At what point do you consider someone to be cheating on another?
I’ve been poking a few friends with this one and been getting back some interesting answers, but outside of my older brother’s girlfriend, I’m getting generally 20-something’s answers. So I figure I should get an older woman’s view too 🙂
In case you’re curious this whole thing got started because a female friend (that’s an oxymoron when you’re a guy isn’t it?) was doing one of those Myspace surveys and the question, “Have you ever cheated on someone?” came up. And I just saw her freeze up for a second and give it some serious thought. So now I’m just randomly poking people for their opinions 🙂

Well, apart from the ass-kickin’ I wanna lay on this boy for calling me an “older woman” at the sweet age of 32, I found it an interesting question.
When this question came in nearly two weeks ago, I didn’t hesitate to bring it up with the Guy. It’s a great conversation for every couple to have, and soon. What is YOUR perception of cheating?
Does it matter only if it includes Bill Clinton’s definition of “sexual relations” or is it something more intrinsic, maybe even innocuous, than that?
Fidelity is a complicated web. Some women feel betrayed if their guy eyes an ass wiggling down the street. Some men feel betrayed if their girlfriend only watches sports and drinks beers with her best guy friend and never him. Who’s to say where the line is?
Every couple needs to set parameters. I’m in an interesting situation here, since I write this sex blog and about sexuality in general. That puts my man in a very interesting situation since he is constantly learning new things about my perspectives on relationships, sex, and everything else under the sun. It also means we’re often in the situation where we’re talking about things other new couples might be deliberately not discussing for a while, since there’s the chance of making it all seem more serious than things really are.
There’s that whole theory of push/pull when it comes to relationships. One partner becomes needier and pulls the other in closer than they should, sooner than they should, and the needed partner then becomes spooked and pulls back. Like rocking a boat, regaining balance (and FAST) is a major challenge, and if not met, the relationship will then be doomed. I did my “pulling” on this blog, and the Guy patiently let me.
In that time, we’ve talked about a great deal of “serious” issues, and nothing’s really spooked either of us, since we’ve confronted it. Cheating is just one of the many topics we’ve broached, but out of all of them, finding his stance on this topic was the thing that made me feel most comfortable about where we stood.
His response was that anything that smacked of intimacy (ie: beyond flirting) could be construed as “cheating,” with the stipulation being that you’ve declared “exclusivity” with your partner. I brought up the point that I occasionally receive sexual emails and I have been known to do semi-extreme flirting in one or two cases with correspondents, and I said that my role in those emails stopped as soon as I began seeing him, since I started to feel as though I would be betraying a trust.
I know my views on “cheating” are fairly old-fashioned; it’s anything that makes me feel like I should be saying or doing that with my Guy, not that other person. I have high standards for what I expect of friends, for what I expect of lovers, and even what I expect of myself. This time, we’re on the same page.
In this day and age of cyber worlds and information highways, “cheating” can take on a million different looks. You can engage in cybersex, have a long-distance literary love affair while still involved with a lover, you can ignore your sexual obligations in a relationship and spend all your time digesting porn and masturbating instead, or you can simply do the old-fashioned stalk-and-hunt of an extramarital lover via internet dating. It doesn’t matter. To me, if you’re in a relationship where you’ve vowed to be exclusive, there are things you unequivocally should not do – such as kissing someone else, exchanging love notes, or an afternoon rendezvous in a $49.99 motel. And you must, without a doubt, seek to have a strong and passionate sex life with your partner. It’s not called “roommates,” people.
But there are fine lines to what may or may not be construed as cheating, and the only way you’ll ever know what your lover would feel is a betrayal is if you ask.
Oh, and if you need to stop and deliberate as to whether the action could be construed as cheating? It’s cheating. I mean, use your fucking brain. Really. If you have to ask how much, you can’t afford it, baby.

But enough about me.
What do YOU think constitutes “cheating”?