Author Archives: Steffani Cameron

Thoughts on a Saturday morning, before coffee, no less

Do you ever have those dreams that are all too real, you wake up, and your mood’s already shot?
I’m supposed to have a nice day today. Got someone coming by about 1 for an hour, then I have to head out to my father’s 64th birthday — a crib tournament. Oh, “whee.” What freaks me out is the Guy’s disappointed he can’t go (he of gimpy leg and crutches). I suppose that’s a good sign — he actually wants to meet my folks, which is likely happening Monday. Whack, hey? A late-night rendezvous with the Guy is scheduled this evening, and I’m sure that’ll be up to its regular real-good-stuff, but I’m still grumpy.
I don’t recall the contents of the dreams, just “dead Dad” as synopsis would suffice. I suppose this is one of the reasons you want to listen to your voicemail before bedding down for the night: You have one of these all too real dreams, and the message indicator’s blinking at you, it’s a little disconcerting.
Anyhow, I know my mood will shift. The big pressing question is, it’s an unpredictable Wet/West Coast day: Do I take my little ol’ scooter all the way the hell out to the burbs, some 45 klicks, and risk the rain? If I do, I imagine the “Warm me up NOW” demand on the Guy could certainly provoke fun and games when I get home.
Oh, dilemmas. Anyhow, like you care. All right, then: Smut, smut, smut, smut. Happy?
No, last night was another good night with the guy — kissin’ like fiends and, well, yes, okay, we had the dirty s-e-x thing, too. The Guy’s kicked the codeine, and it seems like my evil tricks do indeed stir the creature from its dark depths all too well. I wasn’t planning on fucking the boy, but hey, sometimes the best laid plans should be laid aside in favour ofgetting laid. So, we did.
It’s fun, this relationship journey. It’s like you carry a mental notepad and keep score of every little thing you learn. (Well, if you don’t, you should.) I’m forming this hierarchy of things I can do to rile the Guy, and lord knows he’s got his list on me.
But there’s this other list, this list that continues growing of things we both share loves for. Writing, reading, film, they’re all at the top of the list. We’re both very, very passionate about words, and he’s incredibly invested in my writing, which rocks me all the day long. But then there’re those inconsequential little things that really add up to “a hill of beans” in this big ol’ world. Both of our favourite frozen pizzas are McCain’s International Sicilian thin-crust pizza (which those bastards don’t sell at the Canadian Superstore.) We’re both big Anthony Bourdain fans. We both dislike mushrooms. We both can cook well. We’re both cute but a bit on the geek-chic-y side of things with glasses. Yada, yada, yada.
Maybe it’s true, maybe opposites do attract. But do they stay united? I’ve never found that they did. I’m enjoying the fact that not only do we share passions for the word, for each other, et cetera, but we share inconsequential little likes and loves, as well as very similar life experiences. Some days, it freaks me out a tad. I feel like Jim Carrey in Truman, as if I’m beginning to realize the joke’s on me.
Up there in the cosmos, Ed Harris as god, chortling a “hardy-har-har” as he watches with grand amusement while I begin to realize, yes, it really is all too very good to be true.
But just because I feel that way, doesn’t mean I actually believe it. I just continue to be the more cautious one in this relationship, but the caution’s starting to fade a little. The Guy makes a point of telling me how much he digs me, and often, because he’s finally in the position where he doesn’t need to be the analytical one anymore. He gets to read this shit and see, “Hey, she’s analysing it and being cautious. Cool.” He sits back, enjoys the knowledge that I’m not running into this as some madly possessive swooning chick who’s already searching out wedding bands (and that’s NEVER gonna happen, babe). Most guys don’t get the experience, probably, of having an articulate girlfriend who can reason out all the beginning stages of fear/apprehension/knocking down walls in a relationship. I suppose it’s an interesting experience at his end.
And, honestly, as a chick, this is a bit of a rare experience at my end, as well. Not a lot of guys tend to be so forthcoming about their feelings — and not in a I’m stalking you kind of way, and not in an I’m needy kind of way, either. No, he’s pretty casual in how he expresses his feelings, and it keeps it comfortable and simple.
I think keeping most of the in-between-evenings contact confined to email means we don’t feel too tethered to the other just yet. Our only phone contact this week was when I knew he was having a lousy day and I left a message to the effect of, “I’m sorry for the day you’re having, you’re in my thoughts. I’m looking forwards to seeing you, and I hope your day’s improving.” His only contact with me was essentially a “I was thinking of you and wanted to hear your voice” type message. Yes, both were voicemails, and I suppose we probably both felt fuzzy afterwards. Then, it’s back to email until we happen upon each other. I keep my life, and albeit limited to crutches, he keeps his.
But, when we’re together, dude says all the right things, and I try to, too. Okay, well, no, we’ve both said ridiculously bad things at times — we’re both painfully irreverent, and it sometimes means ludicrous things get said in bed that are followed with five-minute laughing fits, which I love — but they’re bad things said in the right way.
So, sharing passions should be the backbone of a relationship, but the commonalities make it fun. This is fun. I’m enjoying it. And I know I’ll never have to be forced to eat mushrooms when he cooks for me. Wicked.
But Jesus, was that a depressing dream. Hey, I know. I’ll make bacon for breakfast. Bacon fixes EVERYTHING. Right?

Kiss Me, You Fool: Some Tips

It’s Friday, do you know where your lover is?
I’m going into kissing withdrawal. You have to understand, I just absolutely love kissing. It’s really not often we find someone whose mouth fits ours perfectly and whose kissing style works with yours. This relationship has that fit. We could kiss for hours. And do. Among other things, of course. But KISSING… oh!
Now, I’ve got mad kissing skills. I can go soft, gentle, tender. I can deliver a deep, probing kiss that says nothing less than, “Take me now, you beast!” Kissing’s a world of wonderful variety. Long, deep, slow, hard, furtive, ferocious, fun. Whatever works for you. And it ALL works for me.
Why do we kiss with our eyes closed? Ever wonder? Muscle memory, baby. It’s easier to kiss by feel and sensation when you take the visuals out of the equation. I’ve noticed that every time I open my eyes to study a guy mid-kiss, I lose my pacing. Sad, but true. And I know I’m a good multi-tasker, so, hey, it’s a hit to the pride to admit.
I was asked recently to post some kissing tips. I will. I’m not getting into actual techniques today, just tips. So, without ado:

  • It’s best to kiss with your heads off-set at 45-90 degree angles. It allows for better contact, lip-sealage, if you will. Sometimes, though, just contacting is what it’s about. You crank your head up off his lap for a kiss while watching TV, whatever, and then, you go where it takes you. Don’t think so much. Yoda might say, “Do, or do not, there is no think.”
  • Always try to swallow before you kiss. Nobody wants a mouthful of saliva. Moist, not wet. There’s a big difference, and it ain’t just semantics.
  • Get your hands in on the action. Caress their face, hold their neck and pull them to you. Whatever, but it shouldn’t just be about lips.
  • Lips have a great deal of nerves in them, happy nerves. Don’t forget to suck and nibble the lips in between tongue-probing. I love, love, love lip-nibbling and nibbling lips. OH.
  • Do you suck tongue? You should. But for the love of god, try not to be too aggressive! Light sucking, like you’re feasting on a Creamsicle. Use your tongue to toy with theirs as you suck, too, if you like. Lightly drag your teeth up their tongue as you release your prisoner.
  • Every now and then, detour away from the lips to let them get their sensation back. May I recommend dotting their face with light kisses (and light sucking), particularly over the eyebrow hump thingie, the earlobes, and on the neck just under the chin and jawline? Hell, anywhere will do, baby. Money-shot: Back of the neck. Yeah, baby! Me, I kiss every inch of a guy’s face and neck (and more), and just love doing it. They don’t seem to mind, either.
  • Feel free to moan softly during kisses. The vibrations of the moans can add a nice little dimension to the kissing. But, really, don’t go over the top. It’s a mood killer. Soft, barely-there moans. MmmmM.
  • Don’t dominate the kisses. Do quick exchanges of probing. Stay interactive.
  • Sometimes, stop and linger with the lips just hovering in proximity of each other — a half inch or centimetre away. Breathe softly, take quick lip nibbles, and linger teasingly slightly apart. Now’s a great time to lean in for a hard, long kiss. MmMm.

I’ll get into specifics of kissing techniques another time. It’s sort of daunting, actually, trying to think of how to describe tongue moves, et al. But I have a pretty spiffy research subject, and he’s willin’.

Now, get out there and kiss, people. God knows it’s in my plans.

The Passion of the Artist (And the Lover)

I’ve been thinking of artists and passion today, and how important it is to keep that passion alive, whether in life or in love.
I saw the Johnny Cash biopic Walk the Line last night and came home wanting to write about the importance of having your passions appreciated by those you love. For some reason, I’ve been unable to put it together in a way that works.
This morning, I began thinking of another movie coming to that same theatre I so love here in Vancouver, the Hollywood, a classic theatre from 1937, which has been owned by the same family for all these years. I’ve seen movies like Casablanca, Gone with the Wind, and The Wizard of Oz there, and secretly covet the knowledge that they all aired there first-run, all those decades ago. These days, it’s a second-run theatre that specializes in great double-bills for the low, low price of $6. (Add to that real butter for the popcorn, and you’ve got yourself a winner.)
The other movie coming soon is Capote, and I’ve been thinking a good deal about it thanks to a conversation with The Guy. You might wonder what Capote and Walk the Line have in common, but they’re both about artists and how destructive the quest for one’s art can be.
Cash was very nearly destroyed by his music, as a result of his first wife being unable or unwilling to appreciate or support his craft – something as integral to him as the air he breathed. She fought him on all things musical and demanded he be the cliché man-about-the-house when he was no longer on tour. He felt like he was living a lie, and lies are as destructive as any force of nature can be.
Capote, on the other hand, one of my life-long writing influences, sacrificed everything to tell a story he predicted would change the way non-fiction was written forever. He was right about the impact of his creation (In Cold Blood), but failed to see what being unwilling to compromise his story would do to him as a man, and what it did was destroy him utterly. He never wrote another word and succumbed as a bitter, angry, heartbroken man to the diseases of alcoholism and loneliness.
I was a writer with writer’s block for six years. Anyone who tells you writer’s block is a myth doesn’t know what they’re talking about. What it is, is simply the failing to know yourself anymore. It’s the failing to know the route inside yourself, and they don’t sell those compasses. I believe that once you’ve overcome writer’s block – true, heart-wrenching, long-term writer’s block – that you’re stronger than it is, that you learn more about yourself than you ever would have otherwise, about the dark places inside, and the block will never happen again. (Not to me, anyhow.) But it destroyed me then. I felt dead inside and out. I hated my life. I wonder sometimes how intentional my two life-threatening accidents really were, whether I subconsciously sought an “easier” way out of my pain. I’ll never know.
For some of us, what and who we are is simply not negotiable. I am a writer, a woman, a photographer, a lover, pretty much in that order. Even as a failed writer, I knew it was all that I was – a writer, but a writer without the words, a writer with the failure to realize her potential. Today, if a lover ever tells me to stop talking about writing, I’d be out the fucking door like a shot.
When I was seeking out men as The Queen of First Dates, the litmus test for me was my writing. Did they get it? Did they care? Were they intrigued? No? Buh-bye, and thanks for flying Air Not in This Life.
Our passions are who we are. Our loves are who we are. Our actions are who we are. Our dreams are what we aspire to, and thus who we are. We absolutely must be appreciated on those levels, for if we’re not, we become shells of who we possibly can be.
Too many of us have to face the reality that we don’t get the support we need in our lives. Too many of us settle for lovers who don’t understand our visions, who don’t push us in the directions we need to travel in.
Instead of saying, “Wait, I deserve better,” we somehow begin dismissing those dreams, those loves of ours, our passions. We tell ourselves that it’s OUR obsession, not theirs, and we shouldn’t inflict it upon them. We somehow justify the segregation of who we are in those quiet moments in the dark of night with who we’re supposed to be in the light of our relationships. We compromise.
And we pay the price no one should ever have to pay.
Capote and Cash are perfect juxtapositions of what could have been and what was, in the face of artists sacrificing for their art. Cash finally had his first marriage end as a result of his destructive behaviours, and was ultimately saved from that destruction when he was finally able to act upon the passion he’d long felt for June Carter, who saved him from himself by becoming the love of his life. So much so that when she passed away in 2003, he’d follow her to the grave inside of four months later. The bond of love sometimes transcends death, for the lucky and the few. They were of that number.
Capote (seen here in a photo taken shortly before his death) had to choose between fighting for the life of a man he’d come to love, or praying for his death by execution, a death that would make his book a best-seller and give him a writing angle that would be unparalleled. The execution inevitably happened, with Capote looking on as that neck snapped and the body dangled from the gallows, and despite then finishing what would be the crowning achievement of his literary career, it destroyed the man.
This is what art can do. This is what passion is.
A few years back, I lost all my passion. Every bit of it. I don’t know if it was due to the adversities in my life or due to the writer’s block, it’s really a chicken-or-the-egg non-sequitur that I’ll never solve. I know the result, and there are nights I still remember the hollow I’d become, and marvel at the changes I’ve seen since. I drank to excess every night. I numbed myself into oblivion with drugs and irresponsibility. I cut myself off from everyone in my world. I didn’t give a fuck about anything or anyone except the pain I felt. I wallowed in it and never rose above the surface. One day, that began to change.
Now, passion is all I have in the face of an uninspired bank account and a not-so-rivetting lifestyle. But the passion is all I need, and I’m more content than I ever dreamed I could be. When you rediscover passion – for life, for love, for art, for nature, for all of the above – you realize how incredibly disposable the rest of your life really is.
But it isn’t something you can acquire externally. It comes from within. Your external choices, though, can impact how much of the passion you can embrace. Does your lover share your passions? No? That’s an obstacle. Does your work encourage your passion? No? Another obstacle. Does your life allow for you to pursue that passion? No? A greater obstacle. When we amass enough obstacles, we choose to avoid the struggle it takes to keep passion alive. It’s easier. Thus, we coast. We meander meaninglessly through life, and ultimately, we succumb instead to avoiding death, not celebrating life. Get busy livin’ or get busy dyin’, like the man in Shawshank Redemption says.
I’m happy I’ve found someone who seems to get what I’m about, on every level. It’s such a challenge to find that. It’s so easy to cloud the issue with silly things, like we like the same movies or we both play baseball. At heart, what are you? Does your lover understand it? Do they appreciate it?
If not, you’ve got to ask yourself if you deserve – no, need – more. I know I did. For the moment, I have what I need, and that’s a start.

HIV: Are You Shitting Me?

Africa is the canary in the coal mine, folks. AIDS is an epidemic on that continent, and this Western perception of “it can’t happy here” is bullshit. AIDS was born there (arguably), it spread around the world, and it’s growing faster in Africa than any other place.
But it will continue its spread. Things will get worse. COUNT ON IT. The only weapon we have against AIDS is education, but we all know that ignorance is as epidemic as the virus.
More than 6,000 people die of AIDS each day on that continent, where 25 million people presently suffer from its wrath. In two years alone, the portion of adults in South Africa with AIDS jumped from 13% to 20%, from 1997 to 1999. There is no country in the world facing a greater threat from AIDS than South Africa, and ignorance of the problem has not disappeared.
In this BBC story from today, we see how a political power-broker in South Africa is accused of raping a woman known to have HIV, in which he did not use a condom. He instead showered after the encounter, believing that would negate the virus’s ability to infect him.
This is an “educated” and “successful” man, and he believes this shit. This is a continent in which education is nowhere near where it needs to be, where superstition and age-old cultural beliefs trump modern knowledge. A place where the Catholic Church (fuck them and the horse they’ve ridden in on) is still militantly campaigning to not have condoms distributed freely in an attempt to stave off the spread of AIDS & HIV, which some experts say might well have spread to a quarter of the continent’s population by 2020.
We in the West are far too ignorant of Africa’s problems. We like to think this disease’s problems will stay confined to the jungles and savannahs of the Dark Continent. But they won’t. In this day and age of world-wide air travel and international immigration, this disease is coming to a body near you, if it hasn’t already.
Educate yourself. Have protected sex every time. The few people I know with AIDS or HIV can tell me almost with certainty which encounter they believe caused it — calculated risk? Not so calculated, it would seem.
Test yourself and your partner, and demand to see the evidence, before engaging in “bareback” sex. I’ve never been promiscuous mainly because AIDS and HIV scare the living shit out of me. And rightfully so. The Dark Continent tells of a dark future for us all, if vigilance and education aren’t increased.
America is taking ignorance to new levels — allowing for states to have “opt-in” sexual education, like in Kansas, where if a student has not received a signed permission slip from a parent, they will not be taught sexual education. Ironic, isn’t it, when it’s the students whose parents won’t consent to such education who are most in need of it?
It’s time we put our so-called quest for morality away, and focus instead on educating ourselves about the possible transmission of this disease. Just the other day, some fuckhead politician in the States was talking about the transmission of the virus through tears. (Not likely to happen, Bubba.)
The topic of AIDS and HIV are ones I’m very passionate about. The ignorance of Africa as a problem on more levels than one is another I’m passionate about (one word: Darfur). But they depress me and I avoid writing about it, because I want to do it well, and to do it well means finding the facts and figures that can be used to shock awareness into people. I will, however, aspire to it over the coming weeks. It’s time people get their fucking heads out of their asses and learn about this. The spread of AIDS here in the West IS increasing as the spread of education has been reduced in the past half-decade or so. Teens are more ignorant than ever, and it’s the politicians’ faults. Women are contracting the disease faster than they ever have, and the dangers are not diminishing.
Use condoms. Always get tested. Be aware. Educate yourself. Never, ever touch blood without protection provided by latex gloves or what have you. Be vigilant. And stay uninfected.

Erectile Problems: Bent Outta Shape When Not Takin' Shape

I have long been a believer that men have far too much pressure on them when it comes to sex. It’s why I started writing about how to become a vixen (such as this and this, which I must continue, and will) and it’s why I’m constantly saying that I feel women need to initiate sex as often as men, if not more.
God knows I try to.
There is one thing people are eternally guilty of, and that is believing the notion that sex is about orgasms, not intimacy. As a result, we have a market flooded with Cialis, Viagra, and other miracle-cures for the Minute Man.
It enrages me when I hear about women whining that a man couldn’t get it up. It happens, honey. Get the fuck over yourself.
The reasons why a man might not get it up are many – from a too-long bike ride to an allergic reaction to his meal to too much alcohol to too much job stress to a woman who can’t keep her mouth shut about certain topics during foreplay. I’ve had guys tell me they couldn’t get it up because a photo of her mother was right there. Who the fuck knows what’s causing it? All that matters is, it happens, and more than the media and women want to accept. Tough. Get over it.
The common penis doesn’t come with a helium pump for inflation purposes. There is no “on” switch. Trust me, if there were, I’d have fucking nailed the technique by now. When it comes to sheer instinct on the male body, I’m certainly near the head of the class. When it comes to technique and attentiveness, again, I know I’m there.
Yet, nonetheless, the Guy had difficulties with maintenance during an otherwise great Saturday night. Neither of us realized at the time that the copious Tylenol 3s he’d been needing to take all week for his horrendously broken leg (on which he had surgery on Tuesday afternoon to insert two Titanium plates and countless metal screws around and in both his tibia and fibula, for a total of three through-and-through breaks, which was then wrapped in a too-vulnerable soft cast that kept getting knocked by Miss Butterfingers here) came with a side-effect of erectile dysfunction and decreased libido.
Well, the libido? Trust me, not a problem. It wasn’t that he couldn’t get it up, he sure as hell could – far too many times. It just didn’t want to maintain long enough for follow-through. Thus, frustrations understandably ensued – not from me, but from him. He was bitter and maybe even a little unnecessarily angry at himself, because his track record was anything but that of inconsistency.
But, you know, we talked, we made it through the night in relatively good spirits, and in the morning, with a sponge bath by yours truly and a start-up blow-job, everything worked out quite nicely. Enough that I had to cancel my evening plans to recoup, honestly.
A little research later and suddenly the light came on: Drugs will fuck you up. C’est la vie.
(And for all the guys out there cringing and thinking, “Oh, my god, how could she do this to him and tell this story?” Well, I told the Guy I’d write something and pretend a reader sent in a letter, and he said not to bother, it was cool. Now THERE is a man comfortable with his sexuality, people. And rightfully so.)

Here’s the deal. Erectile dysfunction happens. It’s not the end of the fucking world. When guys get bent out of shape because they’re not taking shape, it’s really unattractive. A little frustration is understandable, but getting pissed off about it, walking out, anything like that, it’s childish, unattractive, and shouldn’t happen. Guys, get over yourselves.
But is it that simple? No. The media and women are most of the problem on the shame-over-“failure” front, sadly.
Chicks who take it personally, who the hell do you think you are? Get over yourselves. Most of the time, it’s not about you. Most of the time, it’s any one of a hundred little things that can transpire to blow a mood… Or maybe it’s major surgery with insertion of too much Titanium four days previous and a hellishly fucked limb.
Any which way, when a guy can’t do what guys are supposed to be able to do, it’s a crushing damned blow, and not one they’re wanting to have to face – OBVIOUSLY. For you to escalate it by doing the whole, “What’s wrong? Is it me? Well, what can I do to help? Maybe we can try again later?” 20-questions, woe-is-me, I-must-not-be-sexy crap is about as lame a thing as you can lay on a man – a man who really doesn’t need your shit at that moment.
Kiss him, tell him it’s cool, slide your hand tenderly up and down him, tell him you’re thrilled to feel his warm, sweaty skin next to you as it is. Ask him if there’s anything he’d like to do instead. If he wants to give you oral and get you off that way, then that’s something you should encourage. If spooning’s his bag, great. Whatever you do, don’t make it about you. Even if it IS about you, don’t get hung up on that.
Any chick who’s really baffled about the mechanics of the cock (or guys, for that matter) – and it’s not as simple as it looks – could read Dick: A User’s Guide in order to get exposed to the basics about penisology. For something more in-depth, focusing on psychology of the cock and all that, I’m not sure what to suggest, since I’ve not happened upon something that fits that bill. (Although Paul Johannides’ Guide to Getting It On is about as complete a sexyclopedia as you’ll ever find, and it takes the psych-side of cock quite well, plus all the other need-to-know sex basics that every lover should pore over.)
Let’s face it. Guys tend to be pretty non-communicative. That’s typically how they work. Stress can impact performance, and you putting a negative spin on it’s really fucking uncool.
I know I didn’t. And I wouldn’t. Sex isn’t just about orgasms for me, it’s about intimacy, and if things aren’t working, I’m more than happy to be entertained in other ways. It’s about the closeness, which I fucking love.
It helps that I understood somewhat the world of pain the Guy’s been in this past week, having spent about 20 weeks in a single year on crutches myself a couple years back, so I had pretty low expectations going into things. I was pleasantly surprised on Sunday and in the end had a pretty wicked time of things. It was a “gee, I could really go to church and do confession now” kind of weekend despite mechanical difficulties on Saturday. Now, the guy’s prematurely weaning himself off the drugs, in a conscious decision that he’d rather endure pain so he can enjoy the pleasure in between. I secretly don’t mind. 😉 I know a couple pain-negating moves, I assure ya, Guy.
I’d like to think the Guy finds me hotter and cooler now that he knows I’m not going to be a bitch in a moment like that. I’m not looking for brownie points, that’s just the kind of chick I am. I get this shit, and you should, too.
One of the worst things to ever happen to sex, in my point of view, is the whole Viagra thing. Yes, lasting’s awesome. Yes, orgasms rock. Yes, being hard’s much more fun than soft. But it ain’t all about that, and when it comes to the little blue pill, that sometimes gets forgotten. Sex should be about remembering what the point was in the first place: Getting close, experiencing the person from head to toe, travelling the terrain of their body, exploring all they have to offer. It’s not just about getting hard and getting off. It’s time to take the ego out of sex, before the ego kills the fun.

A Rant: An Interested Lover is a Stalker?

So, a comment was left on yesterday’s post, and it went to the effect of this:

Steff, I have to say it’s kinda’ creepy or something……with you writing about your guy and your guy adding comments to your blog.
I know it’s a free world and people can do anything they want.
But, this Blog is beginning to give me flashbacks of watching the Brady Bunch or something. It’s almost like……is he watching over your sholder all the time or stalking you? Doesn’t he have anything else to do? It’s making me sick!

The Guy makes comments on posts relating to him. Suddenly it seems stalkeresque to that reader, and perhaps others. The comment put me on the defensive, and then it made me think.
The Guy said, “Hey, she posted to my blog first. And what you see as creepy I see as caring and supportive.” I’d have to say I agree. And it’s true, I did comment on his first. (And no, I won’t post the link. You find that shit out on your own, kudos, but I like him being a rather non-distinct entity. It makes him stay more mine, in some weird way.)
The Guy’s a writer and an editor in his own right, and as a result, he’s extremely supportive and encouraging of my attempts – because he knows what you don’t: Nothing terrifies me more than writing, but there’s nothing I need to do more. He reads everything I write every day, (including on my other blog) and tends to send off a couple short emails each day, considering that he knows I simply sit at my desk most often and write. He knows I don’t like MSN/instant messaging, so he doesn’t push me to use that, since he realizes I find it interrupts my work ethic. I send him far more emails than he sends me, and it’s a wonder he’s not slapping a stalker label on my ass. But, of course, he’s definitely slapping my ass. You don’t need to hear about that.
Anyhow, that wasn’t what had me thinking.
I’m an independent chick. I don’t “need” a guy to feel whole, and my backlog proves that. But I want a guy. I want The Guy. And why not? He fits the bill of what I’ve been looking for, and vice versa.
In writing about our recent collision in matters of the heart for his own audience, he had this to say: “It’s exciting, fun, and works. We’ve jumped in with both feet: there’s lots of trust and sympatico there, which helps. It feels, in a way, like it’s been a long time in coming, and I don’t think I could explain that sense if I tried.”
And neither could I. Really, explaining this shit to the masses is like trying to explain why you like a certain food. You can try, but really, unless you’re sitting there and munching it yourself, you’ll never understand.
I’m in an unusual predicament. I’m supposed to be writing about matters of the heart and loin, and I try to push myself to create new content on a daily basis. Somehow, I mostly succeed. Yes, some days are weak and of little consequence, and others are fun and quirky, and on rare good days, I manage to even pull off the odd hint of insight.
But through it all, it’s fuelled by me – my experiences, my life, my fears, my curiosities, my takes, my opinions. Me. I leave myself out here on the clothesline to be whipped about by the elements, and hope like hell there’s no tatters when I’m through.
There are moments when I wish The Guy didn’t have access to this blog. Moments like The Relationship Ride posting from last week. But he does have access. What’s more, it seems to matter to him what I’m saying. When I posted that writing about my early-days fear, he didn’t post some lame-ass comment for you all to read, he called me and deflated any anxieties I had through good old-fashioned conversation. We actually only talk on the phone once or twice a week. We save conversation up for being in person, but we keep communication open via email. He told me the other day I could be writing about quilting and he’d still check it daily, but the fact that it’s about sex is just “total bonus.” Then again, he knew my writing from long ago, and liked it just fine when I wasn’t giving instructions on how to perform oral.
So, it bothers me that someone who’s interested in what I say has to be labeled as a “stalker.” What the fuck is that about? As a result of him being interested and reading what I say, our communication process is probably far more sophisticated only a month (technically, but that’s not allowing for our exchanges from four years ago) into the relationship than most people probably experience after several months in. I encourage everyone to try and find their way to a communicative experience like this. Throw in a little hot action, and there you go.
It also means he understands what I want from sex, what I expect from a lover, and more importantly, what I, too, will (and do) bring to the table. Our physical exchanges are passionate, open, rewarding, and fun, and we know how to talk about it before and after the fact. Our verbal exchanges skip to the heart of the matter, because so much has already been said and understood, if even only through these pages.
I guess the long and the short of it is pretty simple. We live in a fairly cynical age where interest and affection can be perceived as indulgent and sappy. We’re so fucking bent on being “cool” and maintaining an image, and even playing fucking head games, that we tend to forget about being — or even how to be — real in between it all.
On here, I am what I need to present myself as. It’s as much a marketing ploy as anything. In print, I’m real, but I’m a stylized, heighted form of my reality. In person, I’m someone who can be hurt, who can cry at the memory of a tragic event, and who needs someone who can make that pain go away and who makes me laugh and feel safe and sexy. I’m cute, affectionate, doting, open, smart, communicative, excitable, and engaging, and I really, really need someone who mirrors that. Luckily, it would appear that’s what I’ve got.
A “stalker” is someone who shows unwanted attention to another. They’re obsessive and they pursue their subject with little regard for the subject’s desires.
The attention I’m getting is wanted. The “obsession” appears mutual. And my desires have met with nothing but his regard. And vice versa.
There will be posts in which some aspects of my relations with The Guy will find their way on here. This doesn’t look like a short-lived relationship, not to either of us, and I suspect there will indeed be things worth writing about. I think it unlikely I’ll ever share a great deal of detail with any of you in regards to that, as I do value some privacy and really do feel that keeping things to myself sometimes makes them mean more, but I’ll certainly allude to things, and I intend to continue sharing my fears, apprehensions, optimism, hope, and more. That’s what this place is about, and it indeed will change with the landscape of my life… a landscape that isn’t as empty as it was a month or two ago.
This thing I have going might seem sappy or whatever the fuck you perceive it to be, but that’s a truncated, inaccurate portrayal of what, to me, is mature, fun, communicative, supportive, and really fucking hot. So, y’know, whatever you wanna think, think. I know what I got, and I’m cool with it.

To Sleep With You, Perchance to Sleep?

You know what I love about casual sex? You can tell ‘em to get the fuck out at 4:30 in the morning, and still roll over, and have a great few hours of sleep. It’s awesome.
The problem with my actually caring about a man and sleeping with him is, well, I can’t SLEEP.
I toss, I turn, I fidget. I stare at the walls, wonder when rest is gonna find me. And I hate it, because even though I care about the guy, I’ll find myself sort of resenting that he’s there. And then I resent that, because I know I don’t resent him, and I resent feeling resentful.
Luckily, there’s a couch, a wall, and a door. Ah, the fine art of boundaries.
I’m one of these people, that even thought I’m a passionate romantic and love to fuck like the Energizer Bunny, I don’t have many issues with the idea of sleeping separately. I’d rather be able to sleep together, spoon, caress, plant kisses on the shoulder or suck his fingers, but when it comes down to it, if I have to choose between half-conscious affection, or a good night’s sleep and a lazy Sunday filled intermittently with rambunctious fucking, well, let’s just save ourselves the coin-toss, all right? I know what I want.
But, you know, in a perfect world, I wouldn’t live in a little 1952 character apartment with limited bedroom space and the appropriately-sized double bed. I’d have a sprawling bedroom with a king-sized bed, two duvets, and then I’d have my cake and eat it (and him) too.
It isn’t, however, a perfect world, and I do, in fact, have a double bed. (And a wall, and a door, and a couch.)
What I don’t have, though, are the insecurities that if my guy chooses to sleep on the couch that it somehow means he doesn’t want to be with me. I know it means he’s trying to shore up a little energy for the next round.
And of that I do approve. ‘Cos god knows he’s a-gonna need it, as am I.
Unfortunately, society tells us that couples need to be glued together at the hip. Remember when Linda McCartney died? They made such a big deal about Paul and Linda McCartney having never spent a night apart in all their years of marriage. Oh, swoon went the press corps. Aww, how romantic!
I’m not sure that’s anything I’ll ever aspire to. I see myself wanting to occasionally take a weekend away to myself, or having a night alone here or there. That’s just the way I’m built. I love intimacy. I LOVE IT. I love cuddling, kissing, fucking, making love, spooning, groping, teasing, taunting, whispering naughty things, spankin’, slappin’, laughing, feeding each other, smothering each other’s body… and all manner of other sinfully good mutual delights, but I love my time alone. How would I write, otherwise?
Well, I guess there’s always shipping him off to the couch at 4am, and spending a few minutes writing… Like now.
I guess the point with relationships isn’t about what’s right, what’s wrong, what’s typical. It’s about what’s working for you.
All I know is, I’m on the all-sex diet, and I still get to sleep alone, yet have some toy-time ‘round sun-up and for hours afterwards. It’s truly a beautiful thing. ‘Course, more than three hours’ sleep last night might be a good way to go. Next time. Snicker. Right, yeah, that’ll happen. Isn’t that what the next night is for?

Sugasm #28

The best of the sex blogs by the bloggers who blog them.

Thoughts on Sex: Sex Commentary, Sex Advice, Blogging
All About Oral: Odor, Etiquette, and Why Some Women Don’t Want It (cuntinglinguist.blogspot.com)
Anatomy Lessons Part 2 (swelteringcelt.com)
And it Burns, Burns, Burns… (sexeteria.blogspot.com)
Classic S Spot – More on Masturbation (shayssexcolumn.blogspot.com)
Damn Leeches! (anawtymouz.blogspot.com)
His Addiction (onaniajournal.blogspot.com)
Love Conquers Some But Not All (realadultsex.com)
Pussy on the Loose (taratainton.com)
Funny / Sex News / Grab Bag
10 Lies Pornographers Tell (sugarbank.com)
Angelina Puts Collagen Rumors to Bed (tgp.com)
I Bet You Didn’t Know the Ancient Greeks Had Strap-ons… (tirepaddle.com)
Last Night Dick Slipped… (janeluvsdick.com)
Sex in the News – Celebrity Sex Tales (seskuality.com)
Shit Week (nakedloftparty.com)
Reviews and Interviews
Interview with Sophia (chillivanilla.com/blg/)
Sugarjoy Review: Xervious Anime Labs (sugarjoy.com)
BDSM and Fetish
Always Ready… (seanandmel.blogspot.com)
Bath Time (ropegirl.blogspot.com)
Daddy’s Little Girl (redvelvetropeburn.blogspot.com)
Edging (sheenv.blogspot.com)

Shop's Closed fer Schtuppin'

So, as you know, I’ve been sick, sick, sick. And not just in the head. 😉

Not anymore, though. Well, still sick in the head, but hey, you like that sort of thing. I’m not only well, but I have (gasp) endurance.

Anyhow, given the choice of writing or, as a certain someone has stated, being “ridden like a government mule,” what do you think my choice’ll be? So, I’m closing up shop, back on Monday.

Like my sign? But I’d just like to say that I know a certain contingent of my readers consider me the “Singles Poster Girl,” judging from some emails I’ve gotten of late, and while I regret to inform you of the decision to no longer be single for the foreseeable future — (freaky shit’s going down, like making plans not only for two weeks from now, but two months from now… quite strange to my inner-commitmentphobe, really, but I blame him) — I promise, this will not turn into one of those nauseating “how do I love thee” bullshit blogs, nor will I ever be part of a couple’s blog, despite the fact that he’s a quality writer in his own right.

Not to slam couples’ blogs at all, it’s just not my bag. Whatever would I do without my soapbox?

Anyhow, here’s hoping y’all get lucky, too. But unfortunately for you, you don’t get to eat my cookin’ before you do. The Guy’s getting laid, and fed, both exceedingly well. God, I’m a cheap date.

(BTW, the sign’s one I made in Illustrator. Ah, desktop publishing. How fun.)

All About Oral: Odor, Etiquette, and Why Some Women Don't Want It

So, I received an interesting email recently, and the reader had this to ask:

I was wondering what your opinion is on oral sex etiquette. For guys AND girls, is one obliged to kiss someone who just finished going down on you? If your partner doesn’t feel like swallowing, what should he do about his come?

Personally, I can’t wait to kiss a guy who’s just gone down on me. I’m not really sure why it is, but I like to think that a) it shows my appreciation, and b) he finds it hot. Similarly, if I go down on a guy, I also can’t wait to kiss him afterwards. I find those kisses the hottest, most intense a kiss can get. I look forwards to them every time. Besides, planting a smacker on your lover after they’ve gone down on you is the subtle way of making sure you’re tasting great. I’ve often grabbed the guy mid-oral, made him kiss me, find out the taste-test way if I’m tasting as clean as I want, and if I am, he’s shipped back south to finish the job, and my fears and insecurities are abated. Smart, crafty? Of course I am. 😉
I think it’s rude, really, not to kiss your lover after having received their oral services. I don’t know why, but I do. I’m not sure there’s a hard-and-fast rule out there, but really, if you avoid a lover who’s just been indulging in your bodily juices and such, it communicates that you’re repulsed by yourself. It’s not that sexy. Own your sexuality, own your body, and prove it with a post-oral kiss.
When it comes to swallowing, I’m not one of those “good girls swallow” proponents. I often don’t. It’s different in a relationship, I suppose, and it depends entirely on his hygiene and his personal flavours. I’ve occasionally swallowed, and the first time I ever did it, it was by accident and I was surprised it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as I thought it’d be. I’ve sometimes chosen in the past to let a guy ejaculate in my mouth, and as I’ve snaked back up his body, kissing everywhere I go, I’ve deposited bits back on him, and then we kissed and squirmed happily together. I think it doesn’t really matter too much, but guys absolutely love a girl that swallows, not only because her lips are around him as he orgasms in that happy, warm place, but because it shows she accepts him in entirety, and that’s arousing no matter what sex you are.
If you haven’t brought him to orgasm orally, then it comes down to either finishing inside you, or by manual means, in which case either a condom catches the ejaculate, or it “goes where it goes.” Again, what happens with his come in a manual situation’s pretty much up to you, him, and the moment. There’s no real etiquette involved. Want it on your belly? Great. Want to take the chance that he’s not a squirter and your walls or floor won’t catch it? Great. Do whatever strikes you as the right way to go.

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In keeping with this topic, I’ve been asked a few times and just never get around to answering it:

What can a guy (or gal) do to change the flavour of their ejaculate/personal juices?

It comes down to general health as well as diet. Are you prone to infections? There might be little you can do to change flavours if UTIs and/or other infections find you regularly.
But usually it’s a diet-related thing. Most sources tell you that a meat-heavy diet can result in a more bitter-tasting sperm. Rumour has it that vegetarians have the best taste out there. (For some reason, I just find vegetarians a little less sexy, though. There’s something odd about a man who doesn’t like sinking his teeth in meat, you know?) Focusing your diet on more carbohydrates, fruits, and vegetables, as well as drinking a lot of water and other pure, non-sweetened juices can do a lot to giving you a better flavour (and odour).
Smoking, coffee, and alcohol can also result in a bitter, unpleasant come.
You want to eat foods rich in anti-oxidants, high in fibre, and with lots of juice content. Pineapple juice is thought to be one of the best things you can drink in regards to improving your flavour, and is great for overall health anyhow. Drinks like blueberry juice and cranberry juice are also great in this regard. Celery is said to be a terrific food for come.
If you’re really wanting to get serious about things, you could invest in quality juicing at home. Cucumber, celery, pineapple, ginger, and so forth, all mixed together with some protein supplement can really help you develop a sweet, nutty flavour.
There are pills on the market that swear by improving the flavour of come, but what they don’t tell you is that the pills are rich in things like ginger, aromatic herbs and spices, and vegetable supplements. Sticking to a diet that’s rich in spices like ginger, low in sodium, high in natural sweeteners, will do the same trick.

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There are women who resist having men go down on them. These women are resistant for a number of reasons.
One, maybe they just don’t like oral. Strange, but true. Oral’s a very intense experience, as most of us know, and for some, it’s simply too intense.
Two, they’ve had bad experiences. Lovers can be idiots. We can say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, and it can turn a pleasant experience into a scarring one. It’s hard to shake the memory of someone who’s been a thoughtless lover, and it takes patience and encouragement and support to overcome a negative experience.
Three, they have a history of infections. Some women are predisposed to infections. Maybe they swim in natural bodies of water too often, maybe they have a bad habit of shaving their legs in the tub, maybe they have poor post-workout hygiene, maybe they’re just built that way. Whatever the case, a history of infections can leave a woman with a really negative sense of herself and her privates.
Four, they simply have a negative sense of their personal odours. Like most women, I’ve had times when I’ve been self-conscious about my odour. I’ve avoided intimacy with a guy based on paranoia, not reality. In the end, I’ve come to learn that I generally smell the way I’m supposed to, and I have an average, if not desirable, taste to me. The only way a woman overcomes these sensitivities is by way of supportive, open lovers who offer compliments and kindness, not crass observations. The odour a woman emits is filled with the pheromones that turn men on, but the pheromones don’t work on us. Instead, it makes us paranoid. I actually worked in a fish restaurant as a teen, and was belittled by guy friends for smelling fishy after work. For years, I’d have issues about any odours my vagina emitted, and was never able to relax when a man went down on me, not until my mid-20s.
Five, your guess is as good as mine. I recently did the piece “Twats and Knives: Together at Last” in which I discussed the new trend of women getting cosmetic surgery done on their pussies. Why would a woman do that? Who knows. It’s not always something we’ll understand.
The point is, whatever the reason, some women aren’t into letting a man perform orally. If you’re a woman and you’re really, really concerned about your odours and tastes, you might want to try douching. It’s not something you should do regularly, as it kills natural bacteria that can fight infections, but if it’s something that gets you past the fear of having a man perform on you, then maybe it’s something worth trying. Including things like pineapple, ginger, celery, and other juice-altering foods in your diet might also give you a better sense of your emissions and scents.
If you’re a guy and you know she won’t let you go down on her, then don’t force the issue. Instead, sometime when you’re fingering her, you can lick your fingers and tell her you love the way she tastes, and you wish you could try it firsthand sometime. Comment on how her natural scents get you aroused. Linger by her belly, kissing her groin and surrounding areas, and toy with her, breathe her in. Don’t be obvious and say all the positive comments all at once, just occasionally make statements, and you’ll probably slowly wear down her resistance.
Insecurities are a hard thing to overcome, and as women, we’re barraged by advertisements on television that tell us we have to worry about our smells. Once every month, we get periods and there’s always inevitably that moment where we discover it’s a little on the ripe side. It’s not a wonder that women have insecurities about their sexual juices and aromas; it’s a wonder we ever overcome it, considering all the crap we see in the media. Any woman who’s ever had a yeast infection and has seen that look on their doctor’s face as he/she describes the “cottage cheese” within her knows how awkward it can feel to be aware of this thing growing inside of her.
It’s a struggle to overcome the paranoia, but supportive lovers get us there.