Category Archives: General

Stupid is as stupid does

I’m doing the online dating thing. Let me say ONE THING: Your opening line is EVERYTHING, boys.
So, the guy who just opened with: “May I have your panties?” Uh… Where to even begin on the lameness scale for that one?
Remember, “block this person” is the most valuable tool you have when doing the online thing.
Block, block, block. Fucking twit.

______________

So, Dear Readers, I’d like to ask you to stay tuned. Starting next week, I’ll have more time on my hands and a more diligent writing schedule, and I have a few ambitious ideas to tackle. Hopefully this place’ll be hopping again. In the meantime, I’d like to leave you with this lovely image.
Why this image? Because I’ve been pursuing the online thing more of late, and my GOD am I getting frustrated.
Okay, here’s a mini-rant.
Men are willing to go off to war. They’re willing to scale mountains. They’re willing to do all manner of stupid, life-endangering things, like running with bulls, but god-fucking-forbid they have the balls to cancel on a chick or see through some plans. (Obviously, there are awesome men out there who are not these guys… WHERE ARE YOU? Come HITHER. Now.)
As far as I can tell, these guys all want me. They’ve said so in countless ways, but as soon as our plans roll around, the guys are typically forgetful men and they often FORGET the dates. Instead of having the balls to say, “Shit, I forgot,” they pussy up and never contact me again. And the amusing thing? I’m usually pretty cool about that sort of thing. I’m a busy chick, and I like my time alone, so getting a night to myself is often a bonus, not a horrible event.
I’ve always thought I was pretty decent at decoding men, but these days, I’m getting just a little flustered. I tell you, I’m five minutes away from walking into a bar and laying it on a guy. Trust me, I could easily walk in, and walk out with a dude on my arm — I just hate the got’em-at-the-bar kind of deal.
On the flipside, meeting a nice CHICK someplace seems like a fuck of a lot LESS (ed. note: seems I forgot the most important word in this sentence earlier… AHEM.) hassle. I tell you, I’m so close to being driven to dyke by the dicks. So very close.

The Failure to Fuck

impotence4

Not too long ago, an Italian man was ordered to pay his now-ex-wife damages for failing to disclose to her before they tied the knot that he couldn’t get it up.
Apparently the courts have told him he’s guilty of abusing her “right to sexuality.”
Now this is why I believe in getting sex out of the way. Pfft. I mean, wait? Yeah, that’s gonna happen.
But you gotta wonder: You’re abstaining, but you make out, right?
So, there you are, you’re makin’ out, gropin’ a little, wandering around, pressing together, getting all heated up… and you never once notice he doesn’t have a stiffy in response?
Honey, do you have any powers of observation?
What chick, getting kissed against a wall, doesn’t notice a guy’s degree of interest? Which chick doesn’t judge its rigidity at that time? And if the guy ain’t putting it out there in a covert yet obvious way? Something’s up, and it ain’t Dick.
Honestly, it’s a pity they’re divorced. They seem impeccably matched.

A Detour: Acquisitions

Normally, I tend to write about sex on this blog. At the beginning, though, I had said it would be frequently about sex, but occasionally I might write about something else that was possibly inappropriate for my other blog.
So. This is one of those times. Certain people read my other blog.
Some of us are fortunate enough to have steady, reliable drug dealers. Now, me, I only do dope. I’m mostly well-behaved. Recently, though, I had a stoner concert to attend and thought I should acquire some… inspiration. I found out then that my formerly regular dealer is, get this, on “hiatus.”
“They give you those, do they?” I asked.
“When you ask ’em nicely, yes,” he said.
Deciding that This Concert was worth the effort, I figured, “What the fuck? Let’s see what I can do.”
So, without ado, I decided to negotiate an acquisition on the streets. I headed to Vancouver’s primo chemo district to get me some cheebah. Now, keep in mind, I’ve done this once in my life. I’ve somehow always had connections — a variety thereof. Buying on the street has never been required.
How does one tactfully approach someone and, essentially, ask, “Say, are you a dealer?” Why not just tack onto that, “And hey, I have a family of four that needs killing. You up?”
But this is how you do it. Find a way to observe the street for a few minutes. Walk up it, then down it. Make note of who’s stationary, and better yet, leaning on a wall. Find a way to keep an eye on the scene for a few. Who stays put? Who crosses a sidewalk to talk to someone, then crosses back? Do they use hand gestures? Do they keep looking around, twitching?
Dealers.
Now you walk back towards him/them, and making eye contact, you raise your eyebrows.
That’s it. You’ve done it. Easy as pie. Now: “Holdin’?” “Whatchoo need?” “Weed.” “Yup. How much?” “20.”
Next thing you know, you’re holding two dime bags. Go home. Get happy.

e-Dating: a Rant

I have recently gotten back into the world of e-dating. This is my third attempt. I’m not a clubber. I’m kind of a shy chick until I have an “in,” and despite getting increasingly flirtatious in real life, it seems that every fucking man I meet is attached, married, or gay. So I’m going where the odds are better.
e-dating began for me in the spring of 2004, and I thought it was a great new tool. No, actually, it’s mostly where you find the tools. Still, there are a few diamonds in the dark, dark mine.
The first date I had was with Paul, who had an inability to relax. Over the course of a 90-minute meal, Paul drank five beers and had the worst body language you could imagine: He sat there with his leg shaking violently under the table for the entire meal.
“It’s just him,” I thought. “Things will improve.”
The next date was with this cute Asian guy, and we decided to go watch a hockey game in a pub and have a couple drinks. Well, the pub I recommended wound up taking some 45 minutes to deliver a plate of nachos to us, and dude literally held me personally responsible and couldn’t shake the annoyance regarding bad service. His mood was the shits, so I naturally let him pay, and I fucked off.
Since then, I’ve probably had about three dozen dates. Maybe three have really went well, but the connection ultimately wasn’t mutual. The rest have flat-out tanked.
I have another one scheduled for Saturday, and I’m really looking forwards to it. Something sounds different about this guy, but I’m having a hard time sending my skepticism away.
Let me say this as plainly as I can: There are a LOT of losers out there. I’m pretty sure that’s not exclusive to the men’s side of this deal. From what I’ve heard, there are a lot of pathetic women in the picture, too.
Where did common sense go? Does anyone have a brain anymore? Is etiquette really as elusive as it seems to be? Does anyone understand how to attract the opposite sex in print? And finally, can people please learn to fucking spell and punctuate their dating profiles?
I had tried the “dating” and “relationships” sections on Lavalife, one of the prime dating systems in cyberland, and finally decided to say “fuck that,” and have moved on to the very pointed “intimates” section.
Intimates is where folks go when sex is an important factor in relationships. If you’re into “alternative” lifestyles, it’s also a great place to find those interested in the same things.
That said, there’s some scary shit out there, and I’ve slowly learned how to tell the freaks from the pack. Sadly, the freaks dominate the pack.
When I first posted my profile in the “intimates” section, I had more than a hundred local men respond in the first two days. Why? Well, for starters, I know how to write something sexy. I was honest and blunt. I said I was overweight, though I’d lost quite a bit of what I’d used to weigh already, but I was very, very confident in my abilities.
I touched on my interests, explained things I thought were romantic, and alluded to the music and movies I enjoy, plus the other activities I liked. Most specifically, though, I said what qualities I wanted in a man, and what I didn’t want.
To this day, I’m continually baffled by the stupidity of other people’s profiles, and their approaches towards the dating field.
A few cases in point:
“Peachmuncher” said, “I love to munch peaches.” Let me clue you guys in. Sure, there are men who don’t like oral. (I have yet to encounter one in my sex life, though.) But the fact is, the majority of men seem to love giving oral. You think it’s a selling point? No, it’s a cliche. Have some creativity and use anything else for a line than that. For god’s sake, have some DEPTH. Oral ain’t going to last all night, every night, and you better be bringing something else to the arena.
The Illiterate. I cannot tell you how many men seem to hit on me who have none of the qualities I list as being ones I’m seeking in my profile. Read the fucking profile. Consider it a checklist. If you don’t meet the criteria, then move the hell on. When I say “No older men” and I’m 31, if you’re more than 40, move the hell on. This goes for the morons who are my FATHER’S age and hitting on me — in their 50s and beyond.
One brainiac retorted to my “Not interested in older men” response to his advances with “But a hard cock is ageless.” I simply responded, “Yeah, with a little fucking blue pill, right?” and then I blocked him.
If she’s not interested in age (or vice versa) then take your reality check and walk, bub.
The Stupid. The line of the night of late was a guy who didn’t even say hello, just messaged me with “I’m looking to get fucked tonight.” His name was “22inches14internal”. I lost all my tact and responded with, “you’re a piece of WORK, pal. One word for ya: Hoover.”
Which brings us to names. Choosing really stupid names like “HungLikeHorsie” and “SheCumsFirst” and “Thick1forU” are probably not going to net you any significant catches. But if skanky hoes do it for ya, then have at it.
The Sad and Disenchanted. Sure, some people might be interested in distance, but when someone says “Not interested in distance” and that they like “to have sex often,” the odds are pretty good that your being located more than 50 miles away is going to take you out of the running, let alone the twits who are 2400 miles away yet still think they have a chance.
The Grammatically Challenged. When a chick says she’s intelligent, and you claim you’re looking for a “smart, sexy” woman, but you fail to use any grammar or spelling or punctuation in your ad or in your communications with her, then you’ve got to expect little or no response from the calibre of chick (or guy) you’re seeking.
After all, how hard is it to understand that the profile you put in the e-dating world is your handshake, your business card, your first impression? It is. It’s EVERYTHING, people. Spend a little time on it! Write something that evokes you. Then spell-check it. Check the grammar. And when it’s nice and good, then you can post it.
The Non-Photogenic. Taking a photo where you’re in your stained t-shirt with holes in it, sitting in front of your computer with bad hair and a tired expression on your face will do nothing towards getting you laid! Taking a photo of yourself in the mirror where the flash pops and the viewer gets to see nothing of you will also do nothing towards getting you laid. A big panoramic shot of you standing in front of Matterhorn Mountain? Also not gonna do it. You’re talking about a 2” wide or smaller photo on the net, in a panoramic, you’re a flickin’ blip on the screen.
Make it a frickin’ head shot, people, or at the very least, your upper body and head. Is that so hard? Put on a nice shirt. Do your makeup or shave or whatever the hell it is that gets you looking your best, and then take a photo. It doesn’t have to be the level of Vogue’s photography, but you could put some effort into it. You can ad an awesome full-body shot in your additional photos.
If you’re in an intimates section like I am, use your brains. A photo of JUST you cock or tits or ass is not going to do the trick. Having a nice cock is easy enough, and so too is having the face of a horse. I won’t be choosing my mate because he has a nice rigid cock and nothing else. Think about it. Jesus Christ. You have no idea how often I’ve seen shots of just a guy’s ass.
The Computer-Phobic. You’re using electronic dating for your social life but you get pissed off at having to chat in MSN or something? Get past it! That’s the new culture. Sure, you can talk on the phone, too, but don’t insult someone because they favour MSN or something. I tend to stick to online chatting for a bit so I can gauge intelligence in print.
And finally, a word about etiquette. So far, I’ve experienced a lot of guys who make plans and blow them the fuck off. For every date I make, half are kept. Fortunately, they’re often guys I’m only half-interested in, so it ultimately doesn’t matter. It worked out great the night I accidentally set my hair on fire and smelled like burnt dog, though. Having him blow me off was just perfect that night, especially since admitting that I set my hair on fire would’ve been a major crushing blow to my ego. I guess I need to tell you about that now. Hmm. Later.
But normally, guys seem to think it doesn’t warrant a simple courtesy email or call. “Sorry, I lost my interest. Things have changed. Can’t make it.”
It’s respect, people, and EVERYONE deserves it. The e-dating world is full of enough bullshit, but you deliberately adding to it is completely uncool. You can block the person after you’ve shown them basic respect, if you don’t want to deal with their bullshit after the fact. But at least give them that much.
Now, the pluses of e-dating? For a chick like me, I really get to test the waters intellectually. The funny thing has been that most guys say they’re looking for a smart chick. I’m a disarming chick — I’m funny, I’m easy-going, but when I turn on the smarts, you best look out.
So the fine print tends to have been thus far, “As long as she’s not smarter than me.”
E-dating has allowed me to cut through that crap and establish my intellect. I scare off more men than I attract, and that’s just fine with me. I’ve had a couple decent dates, and they’ve been fun.
Unfortunately, most haven’t been. One guy was guilty of false advertising when he stuck a sock down his pants to make himself seem larger, and when we finally got to fooling around, his cock was miniscule. My hand was wider than his “hard” cock was long.
Why the games? The chick’s gonna find out, guys. Ditto for girls with padded bras. What in the HELL are you thinking? Be yourself. Someone’s gonna dig it. There are “teeny queens” out there, and guys who don’t like big boobs. Putting on an act is just moronic.
Fact is, most of dating is rife with failure. Most dates turn out ludicrous. Most marriages fail, for God’s sake.
But the fun is in the hunt. Get over the bad happenings and move the hell on, but don’t add to the negativity by being a cunt in the hunt. Have a little decency.
POST-SCRIPT: A commenter is freaking out about their first upcoming e-date. I say go! Do it! E-dating’s great positive is that it’s like a conveyor belt of dating. Everyone knows it’s supposed to be a short hookup. Meet for coffee and a walk. If they blow, so do you — right on outta there. 🙂 I won’t stop e-dating, I just won’t hesitate to tell a guy to take a hike, either.

The Sex Tips Scene from "Friends"

When this scene originally aired nearly a decade ago, I howled with laughter. I thought it was as true then as it is now, that guys fail to realize just how goddamned much of our bodies can be tagged as erogenous zones. This was from early in the fourth season. I think it’s relevant to this topic of cunnilingus.
My point for posting this, actually, is so guys get it into their heads that what we want is for you to wander our various erogenous zones like a gypsy with vertigo. Don’t set up camp, as Monica says. Have no fixed address, and have a variety of rhythms, like a jazz session gone awry.
Part two of the Man’s Guide is in progress. Hang tight.
SCENE:
Monica, Chandler, and Rachel are in the girls’ living room as the topic comes up of Chandler having fucked a woman that previously had slept with Joey.
MONICA: [to Chandler] So, did you do it?
CHANDLER: [dejectedly] Yes, yes, we had the sex.
MONICA: Uh-oh, was it bad?
CHANDLER: It was fine, you know, but she didn’t agree with me as strongly as she agreed with Joey. She was more like, uh, “Oh, I see your point. I’m all right with it.”
MONICA: Well, it was the first time. You know, there’s not always a lot of agreement on the first time.
RACHEL: Yeah, not for girls anyway. Guys agree… [snaps her fingers] …like that.
CHANDLER: Look, you have to help me, okay? I mean, I know what to do with a woman. I know where everything goes. It’s always…”nice.” But I need to know what makes it go from “nice” to “My God, somebody’s killing her in there!”
MONICA: All right, I’m going to show you something a lot of guys don’t know. Rach, hand me that pad over there.
[Rach gets a pad and pen off the table and hands it to Monica.]
MONICA: All right. Now… [starts to draw]
CHANDLER: You don’t have to draw an actual wo– [looks at Monica’s drawing] Woah, she’s hot!
MONICA: Now, everybody knows the basic erogenous zones. You got… [starts labelling her diagram] …one, two, three…
[Chandler nods impatiently]
MONICA: Four… [now Chandler looks up, surprised] …five, six, and seven.
CHANDLER: [shocked] There are seven?
RACHEL: Let me see that. [looks at the drawing] Oh, yeah.
CHANDLER: [points to diagram] That’s one?
MONICA [chuckling]: Kind of an important one.
CHANDLER: Oh, you know what? I was looking at it upside down.
RACHEL: Well, you know, sometimes that helps.
MONICA: Okay, now, most guys will hit one, two, and three, and then go to seven and set up camp.
CHANDLER: And that’s bad?
RACHEL: Well, if you go to Disneyland, you don’t spend the whole day on the Matterhorn.
CHANDLER: Well, you might, if it were anything like seven.
MONICA: All right, uh the important thing is to take your time. You want to hit them all and you want to mix them up. You got to keep them on their toes.
RACHEL: Oh, TOES!!
[She jubilantly raises her hands in air. They both look at her.]

RACHEL [slightly abashed]: Yeah, for some people.
MONICA: Okay, you could, uh, start with a little one… a two… a one, two, three… a three… a five… a four, a three-two… a two, a two-four-six…
[Monica starts to get into it ]
MONICA: Two-four-six… four…
[Rachel kind of moves back and stretches out]

MONICA: A two…
[Monica now has her eyes closed and is getting visibly excited]

MONICA: Two… four-seven… five-seven…
[Chandler looks away from both of them as if he can’t believe what’s happening]
MONICA: Six-seven; seven, seven, [faster] SEVEN, SEVEN, SEVEN-SEVEN-SEVEN-SEVEN-[Chandler looks at her in disbelief] SEVEN-SEVEN!
[Monica, eyes still closed, leans back and shudders and says silently, while holding up seven fingers, “seven”.]

Ex-Sex: Breaking/Making Up

What should’ve been a six month relationship stretched into seven years because of ex-sex. Every time T. and I broke up (let’s just say it didn’t take a blue moon), we’d encounter each other socially since we ran in the same circles, and next thing you’d know, we’d be up against a private wall or back at his place.
For a time, maybe four or five weeks, it’d be incredible. We’d hook up at 10, 11, 12 at night and just do what we did, what we did so goddamned well, until I always invariably left him just before sunrise for my long drive home.
(God, I loved those sunrise home stretches. I still remember that spent but relaxed drive with quality alone time and music, hitting that curve in the highway where the sun would be rising behind Mount Baker, glimmering over the distant ocean.)
But then we’d somehow fall back into the pattern of passion and caring for each other, and next thing you know, we’d be “an item.”
Then it’d all start falling apart all over again. The deconstruction would never take more than three or four months, usually less.
The funny thing was, when it was just sex, we were more there for each other. We’d have these really passionate conversations before and after. We’d lay there on his roof under the stars and talk about anything from poetry and film to philosophy and science. We could really count on each other emotionally, even if only in conversation.
Then convention would enter the picture and we’d start measuring ourselves against this perceived idea of sex and romance, we’d start getting jealous or bitter towards each other, and we’d crumble with a vengeance.
“That” guy, in those four or five blissful weeks, was a guy I thought I could be with for decades. He’s one of the primary reasons I’m as articulate and well-written as I am. He was a huge influence on me intellectually, and those nights of lying in bed, climaxing, then conversing… I’m not sure I’ve ever had such a dually pleasurable experience. Getting off physically, then intellectually… that’s really unbeatable.
And that’s what ex-sex can offer: a pared-down version of a relationship, where all you’ve really got is the intimacy. With that intimacy, tends, in my experience, to come a kind of simplicity that often gets lost in everyday relationships. Once you step out of the narrow confinces of ex-sex, relationships get bogged down with mundanities that tend to incite conflict or apathy. It’s a shame, but that’s how it often works, since that’s usually what killed it the first time around.
I love ex-sex. I love how right that wrong always feels. So goddamned right.
Hell, I want a longterm boyfriend right now just so I can break up with him and then crawl right back. I wouldn’t be the only one crawlin’, I assure you. That prolonged denial followed by incredible satiating… Always a wonderful thing.
So, I’m wondering what your ex-sex experiences were. Come on. You know you’ve had ‘em. After all, there’s nothing quite like being surprised with the familiar. There’s something great about ex-sex, just like going home again. It’s warm, cozy, moist, and good, and you already know it’s a failure, so you don’t need to worry about perfection or how it shakes down the next day, right?
So tell me about your experiences. Emotionally, did you find it easier? Did it seem more honest, less forced? More detached? Meaningless, even? Intimate? Better than it was during peacetime? Were you hurt? Did you care? Was it fun? How did it reignite? Did they push for more? Did you get back together? How did it get complicated, and did that end it? And whatever else occurs to you.

Sexual Q&A: What's so hot about that?

A male reader emailed me to ask me what it is that men find so hot about the stockings-‘n-panties look. I said, “Can’t help you! I’m a girl!”
So, boys, what’s the deal? Does it get you riled, too? Can you pinpoint why?
Me, if I was a guy, it’d likely be the whole Meg Ryan panties’n’tank top look that’d get me hot, and it’s been that way with some of the guys I’ve been with. Hell, I don’t even need to be a guy to find that hot. It bothers me when neighbour chicks across the way wander their apartments that way. Can’t help but watch.
So, let’s hear it. And, girls, what about you? You partial to either?

Bad Ass

Navarro2

Ooh, all those piercings. Makes me wonder if you got royalty, too.
I dunno, I’ve been with some bad boys, but you might just be the baddest yet.
If I get you.
If I do… oh. I don’t even think I can tell you the things I’m thinking of doing.
The passion that emanates from you… I wanna be provoking that. Receiving that. Enjoying that.
When I think of the things you create with those hands, I want to be a part of them, to be under them. To control them, deprive you of them, and then to be at their mercy.
I adore the way you speak… that deep, sexy, measured voice. The way you articulate with passion, the way your sounds jumble together every now and then, thanks to your pierced tongue.
And, oh, do I want a piece of that.
Yeah, I came here looking for inspiration. And in you, it just walked right on in.

Shut Up and Screw

I coulda helped you with that

[Ed. Note: It’s three years later and my thoughts on sounds during sex have drastically changed. Sure, I lapse into silence, but I consider sound a very important way of letting a lover know what’s working and what could use some work.]
I’ve been very heavy on the description in the Saga of J., but seemingly light on the dialogue. So, let me explain.
During sex, when I’m not using my mouth for pleasure, I keep it shut.
My enjoying of the silence stretches back to “the day.” When I was in my teens, my first lover lived with his mom, since he was my age. We were together for the better part of 7 years, on “breaks” often, hence the Saga of J. and other tasty delights (patience), but when we were together, the sex was the reason, aside from both of us being intelligent lit-types, of course.
Sex fascinated us and encapsulated our relationship. We’d have sex multiple times, never just once. I remember endless nights with five go-rounds. But, that said, geography was a bitch, and our encounters often needed creativity and discipline.
There were only two-and-a-half places we could count on for sex: my car, his place, and when the cosmos aligned ever so magically, though obviously infrequently, my bedroom at home.
The catch with his place, the most convenient of our options?
It was a loft bedroom with three-foot walls, and no door. The stairs led directly into his room. Their creakiness was a godsend, as nothing else would signal an impending intruder.
The culprit? His mom, this super-petite woman, 4’8” high, and weighed about a buck. She moved with the grace of a faerie. Meaning: We could never hear the bitch.
God, it was difficult. There we were, feircely sexual, exploring each other at our every opportunity, and no private place to do it in. Sex had to be absolutely silent.
But the silence had its uses.
The best attribute of his bedroom was just outside the sliding glass door, where he had access to the entire rooftop of his apartment building — strangely, he had the only access, except the always-locked utility door.
Sometimes, we’d pull his mattress out that glass door and onto the roof of the building, where we’d fuck under the stars during the spring and summer. We’d enjoy keeping it quiet since we’d hear the city bustling past below, during the act.
But we never spoke, we never urged the other on. Silence was as much a part of the game of sex as lube was. It helped us tremendously when we discovered what a turn-on sex in public places could be, but that’s another tale for another time.

getting naked

Anything we said was said by our eyes or our actions or a select group of barely audible utterances. Such as: a shuddering gasp, stifled groan, a quick intake of breath, muffled moan, or exhaling sharply.
They’re all seemingly small and inconsequential sounds, but I assure you, they are well beyond communicative.
There isn’t a lover in the world who shouldn’t be able deduce what a shuddering gasp is trying to reveal.
The thing is, though, that when you have only a few perfectly concise sounds you emit in otherwise-silent sex, it’s very, very clear what’s working. But when you’re largely silent, the sex act itself becomes intensely focused on both the body language and the looks that should ultimately say it all, that should mean both players are utterly involved.
The memo I got said that was kind of the idea. Unfortunately, the memo apparently wasn’t widely distributed, since screamers abound.
In my humble opinion, noisy sex kills intensity. Instead, this potentially incredible moment becomes overplayed and insincere, almost a charicature of itself.
I’d far rather have a guy moaning under his breath or gasping and exhaling when I stop to tenderly nibble his shaft’s loose folds of skin in between base-to-tip licks than grunting, “Yeah, baby. Oh. Oh, yeah… God!”
Put a fucking cork in it, buddy. I’m working here. A little respect. Close your eyes. Focus on what it is I’m doing, and concentrate on nothing else. If I can hear you, you’re not in the moment, and I’m wasting my time and skills. Simple.
It’s obvious that a lot of lovers lack either experience or sincerity, and as a result, they overcompensate and let their voices do their talking when their bodies can’t.
Not in my bed. My lovers have always, to a man, converted to my way of thinking in the sack, if they didn’t arrive ready-molded.
Also, they have a very, very clear idea of what I like, and what I am like, before we even hit the bed, because I believe in talking about it before I do it. What I want to do, what I will do, what I want, more than anything, for them to do to me.
It’s not a lecture, it’s a very erotic conversation with examples and fantasies interplaying with handy instructions. And it goes both ways, I assure you. I love to learn about what my lover wants of me, and I try to ensure he receives it.
Naturally, after our conversations, before we even go bump in the night, they realize I’m going to be a very quiet partner, but that the sounds I do make can be taken at face value. And when a “stifled groan” means I’m sinking my teeth dramatically into their shoulder to quiet myself down, as I gutterally groan against their skin, I’m guessing they grasp 2+2.
Without a doubt, they discover within a few encounters exactly how communicative little talking can be, and how intense.
(*In response to comments about the photos: Those who’ve followed from my other blog know me to be an avid photog. Thus, you should know– none of these photos were taken by yours truly, but rather, have all been blatantly stolen from brilliant people who’ve mistakenly let a corrupt bitch like me gain access to their intellectual property on the web.
And for that, I thank them.)

What a coincidence… I'm wet, too

Mm, now we're all wet
I’m off to the gay Pride parade now. This one goes out to all the gay boys I know.
It’s just yummy. I wonder how many dykes will try hitting on me today. Sigh. Going to a gay pride parade isn’t exactly the number-one hetero-chick thing to do when it comes to meeting the kind of men I can take home and fuck, now, is it?
But I’m sure to take some fun photos. Bottoms up. 😉