No, it’s not just you, blogger hates me, too. Yes, the site’s been down tonight. Hopefully the last of the outages for awhile. They come in flurries, you know. Too tired and a little too tipsy to post Goose’n’Gander’s playtime tonight. Damn Gayboy and that actual palateable cheap red wine!
A bath beckons. If you know any good new jokes, share them. Comment away. I’d love a stupid chuckle. š Thanks. Had good sex lately? Do tell.
Humour us. Indeed, humour the masses in search of filth and dimestore sexual philosophizing who’ve logged in only to find the sloth of a smutress who keeps this rag alive is more intent on bathing with mineral oil than updating this whorey site. In short, appease them. I must bathe. š
Rachel, of Wicked Ink, popped by here to inform me this morning that Iāve been tagged for a Meme. Now, I hate memes. āAnswer āem yerself,ā methinks, āBut donāt drag me into the fray!ā
But, since appeasing peopleās a rather special skill I have, I thought, āHey. Sure.ā It’s a relevent topic, and I think I have a couple different twists to my list. So, I sat my ass down and spent the last half hour doing this. In keeping with my personal feelings about memes, I shall not poke others into the act of doing such a list. But, I invite any readers to do their own and to clue me in if they have.
Other things a guy needs to be: Somewhat motivated ā not in the āIāll be CEO by 36ā kind of way that honestly makes me ill, but motivated in the sense that he knows what he needs for happiness, and he pursues it. Whether thatās playing guitar, swimming in competitions, cooking, whatever. Thereāre passions we all have, and doing nothing with them does nothing for us. And he has to be sort of active. Iām not talking āhe scales mountains on Saturdays,ā or anything, but yeah, he breaks a sweat and helps keep me in line, in bed and out.
Thanks for the Food for Thought, Rachel.
Itās a my-time-of-the-month movie night tonight. Legally Blonde is playing, followed by Miss Congeniality.
I so suck, I know. Normally, Iām a fan of those crazy things called Subtitles. I like artsy flicks and intellect and drama and suspense and sexiness (hence subtitles: bring on the Latin flicks). But when Iām feeling sorry for myself, I like the stupid shit.*
I screwed up my back again! JESUS CHRIST. What, is this the reality check of āMiss, youāre 32 years old now, you canāt DO that shit anymoreā? Because, I tell you, Iām getting pretty choked.
You know what it is? When Iām exercising regularly, Iām fine. Right now, though, Iām trying to get back into exercising after having real life intrude with my willpower/etc. Ever since my broās accident, everything kind of just stopped. Workaholic, sick, obligations, all that stupid crap began to interfere, and I was WEAK. I was UNDISCIPLINED.
And I am PAYING for it now.
Iām lucky Iām normally able to feel as well as I am, when I keep active & exercise a lot. In the last decade of my life I have:
In short, Iām a fucking catastrophe on legs. Iāve had bad luck in the past, and though thatās all behind me now and life is good, I need to be more vigilant with being regular on the exercise thing. I get really passionate and dedicated, but whenever life turns up the heat, itās the first thing I drop when I start losing my grip on things, and it takes a long time to get it back. If thereās anything I hope to change about myself, thatās it. I enjoy being active, I push myself fairly hard when I get into it, but this copping out and rough-ride-back bullshit is making me a little too cognizant of being over 30 and what the consequences of neglect-meets-age might be.
But isnāt that the way it always is? We forget how good ānormalā can be, we let things lapse, they fall apart quicker than weād have fathomed, and getting it back to par is a hell of a chore. And sometimes, you canāt help but start thinking itās unthinkable, or even, āis it worth this?ā
And this is what Iāve done, I neglected myself. I started living a lifestyle I hate ā one commanded by work and money, not time and passion. And I forgot the little things I need to do to keep myself in the zone of Steff that I love the best, the one where I feel good, up, happy, and like a player. I love the vibe I have when things are good ā so why do I stop?
Once I get to this point, I smarten the hell up for a good long time. Invariably, once every year or so, though, this happens.
It brings on another realization, though. The difference between blaming others, and blaming yourself. Youāll notice, Iām not blaming life ā Iām blaming my own inability to better manage my time. I know the fault lies on me, and thatās the thing I need to know, because then I know I can change. Thatās the beauty of accepting responsibility for shit: You know youāre not a victim, you know youāre in power, you know you can be an agent of change.
So, here I sit, bitter and angry at this world of discomfort Iām in, but I know itās my fault, and this time is the last time for a while. I am now a stretching fiend. Limber is my name. Heh. Right?
My den of slack and agent of change (aka: living room and remote of control) are beckoning me back to the realm of sloth. I hear my calling, and I choose to accept the task before me. Later, I will go for the loser-slouchy-sore-back-girl walk around the block where I feel like an alien creature has infiltrated my spine, causing me to walk as if Iām auditioning for George Romeros.
How I dream of muscle relaxers. Anybody? Anybody?
*You thought I had something bright to say? Something new, exciting? No, no. It’s just whining.
I donāt know if itās the new rage, but thereās something pretty hot about it, you know? Sitting around, toying with yourself as someone repays you in kind. Itās the ultimate in voyeurism. You’re there, front and centre, watching ā and satisfying yourself in the process of ā someone experiencing the deeply personal act of giving themselves an orgasm.
I had a man recently ask me if ā since I didnāt engage in sex-for-sexās-sake sex ā if I might be interested in masturbating for his pleasure.
Now, you have to realize that, before this point, this was one of the sexiest, most intelligent, and thought-provoking conversations Iād had with a man in a while. If thereās an iota of truth to the brain being the largest sex organ of all (and thereās plenty more than an iota to that) then suffice to say that I was about as aroused as Iād been in a while. (Unfortunately, he was married. I don’t go there.)
Some chicks look for big cars, some chicks look for big words. Which am I?
So, he asks me this. And I seriously considered it. I know it can be a really intense experience, if you can get behind the walls of bullshit we all conjure for the world at large, then yes, itās a pretty intense experience to share with someone.
So, I was giving it due consideration, and then I realized that, for me, it would be as intensely intimate as fucking him would be, something I considered incongruous with my own ethics, as much as I really did want to do it. And I thought, wow, what a gift Iād be giving a guy I didnāt feel like I could afford to be that way with. Just, yeahā¦ a gift, really.
The nature of masturbation, when you get down to the heart of it all, beyond that fleeting sense of ecstasy, that arrogance of knowing youāre always able to make yourself feel like that, the prideful sense of independenceā¦ beyond all of that lies the very, very simple truth of being literally absolutely naked with yourself. You think true thoughts, have real fantasies when you masturbate. I think thereās seldom a time in which weāre more brutally true to ourselves than when we masturbateā¦ for good or for ill. It comes down to what it takes you to go there, the imagery you need to form, the thoughts that find their way into you.
To lie there opposite each other, and get there in the manner you would if you were naked and alone, itās a very eye-opening, fly-on-the-wall kind of moment.
Yes, it can be incredibly hot.
But yes, it can also be incredibly weird. There are those out there who believe thereās no sense in bothering with the mutual masturbation ā letting your partner start & finish fully without touching them, this is the definition of mutual masturbation. And they would be wrong. It really is about the ultimate in vulnerability with your partner. Not because you need to submit to their touch, but instead, you must submit to their scrutiny in your moment.
With that experience comes a different kind of bond than one just forged by sex and love alone. Vulnerable is the hardest thing to be in a relationship. I struggle with it. My independence and strength have been towers of power in my life, and to submit to vulnerability is to give up all thatās gotten me through to now. A small little seemingly insignificant act like mutual masturbation is enough to bring all that to the forefront. In sex, itās easier to hide behind those eyes-closed moments.
Anyhow. I just need to clarify, as much as I believe mutual masturbation is a really important stage in your sexual evolution as a couple, and as much as I think it benefits on an emotional level, too, it can be a really intense emotional experience sometimes, and you sort of need to anticipate that, particularly if trust issues are something youāve had in the past.
I honestly think, though, that it can do nothing but good for a relationship. And, hey, if youāre single, itās truly safe sex.
In the meantime, please feel free to comment on experiences youāve had with it, thoughts you have on it, whether Iām right / wrong, why, and if it applies, why you wonāt / will be doing it anytime / sometime soon.
One of my favourite male erotic bloggers is Easily Aroused. I like him for his lyrical prose that often, for me, evokes the intimacy of the encounter. The reason why you go over for one blogger, one author, over another is pretty simple, really. It comes down to style. Some have it, and some wish they did. He does, and I’m feeling quite privileged to have him along for the self-love ride.
With his ode to discovering how good he could make himself feel through exploring his body as a teen, here’s Easily Aroused. (Thanks, EA.) For obvious reasons, the photo is clearly not of a teen.
________________
My love affair with my cock started in earnest after my twelfth birthday. However, my desire for women (a desire that I anticipate prevailing until my final breath slips from between my lips) began to crystallise a little earlier than that.
Itās quite possible that its origins lie in the moment that I saw Sean Connery using a dermatome to cut the straps on Anna Dorās evening dress in ‘You Only Live Twice’. As I watched him ease her zip down the line of her spine, the camera teasingly fading out just before her waiting buttocks were exposed, I was captivated.
Iāve been bewitched ever since.
It was at middle school that I first sought to emulate the brawny Scots spy. From somewhere deep in my genetic makeup came the nascent desire to explore and enjoy women with the same philandering style that Bond did. The problem was: how to do justice to such grandiose designs when youāre only ten years old? Beyond kissing – and by ākissingā, I donāt mean something Valentino would have nodded approvingly at – I had little idea what I was meant to be doing with the girls I dallied with; no concept of the true effect they were meant to elicit in me.
In senior school, the real differences between men and women started to become apparent to me. For one thing, girls matured faster when it came to sex. Much faster. It wasnāt long before the fairer sex was turning its collective attention towards older boys. By the time I’d reached my teens, the more sexually assertive girls in my class were dating school leavers, surly youths who sported Don Johnson stubble and driving licences. How the hell could my peers and I possibly compete?
And that was a problem. The girls I stood the best chance with were shy, demure creatures. They didnāt share the adventurous appetites of their more desirous sisters. They wanted to hold hands and giggle, to kiss with tightly pursed lips and their tongues safely out of reach. They swiftly moved your hand away if it got within a foot of their bosoms, slapped it sharply away if it dared stray towards their thighs. The sad truth was that they couldnāt hold a candle to the bad girls. Not at that point. So the mere fact that the bad girls had less than zero interest in me didnāt deter me from being drawn to them like a moth to the scorching dangers of a naked flame.
I donāt recall how it started, but I began writing fantasies about the girls who piqued my interest the most. My scribblings were confined to a hard-bound book which I secreted at the back of my wardrobe. There were no real favourites as such: my lustful attentions tended to flit between the most pronounced objects of my adolescent desire. I donāt remember the scenarios as being especially explicit, either; they were mostly concerned with undressing the girls to their underwear (and beyond) and indulging in some foreplay. Either I lacked the knowledge – or the confidence – to take things further, even when my desires were confined to the literary world.
Yet despite the naivety of my written fumblings (who knew what was to come, eh?), I found myself aroused by the words dancing across the pages, by the images that accompanied them in my mind. They provided my first self-delivered, earnest erections. Iād be lying on my bed, or sometimes the floor, my ears ever alert for sound of feet ascending the staircase, writing feverishly away. Without realising it, Iād be pressing my pelvis into the mattress or the carpet, my cock hard against my belly, trapped, squirming and thrusting as my excitement built.
Inevitably, on a warm summer’s evening, my excitement reached an entirely new stratum. The sensations emanating from my loins went from being ‘good’ to being unbelievably good, utterly consuming in their deliciousness. I began to thrust harder and faster as I wrote, until I reached for the first time what is now an unmistakeable peak. I didnāt realise what had happened right away. I saw the semen squirting from my cockhead and wondered, āHave I broken something?ā But how could something that had damaged feel *so* good? And finally, the light bulb flickered on. Iād done it, achieved that mythical goal I’d heard about in the locker room. Iād ejaculated. I’d *come*.
Of course, in doing so, Iād circumvented the more traditional route to masturbatory success. The next step in my private education was to learn how to produce the same effect by using my hand.
And that is a whole other story…
________________
BACK TO ME: I must say, EA, I’m always quite the fan of a good tease. Nicely done.
I want to be a sex goddess.
I know: Iāll buy teeth-whitening strips. Thatāll do it.
Skill? Who needs skill? Communication strategies? Pshaw! No, I just need white teeth.
This is what the media would have you believe, isnāt it? Hey, she must be an all-American girl. See how white her teeth are? Geez. She really is the driven snow, but hey, I’d let her drive me.
Ahh, the media and beauty. If ever there was a more bastardly combination. Sigh. Where to begin? Where, oh, where, oh, where, oh, where?
Well, letās go back from whence we came. Teeth-whitening. Well, Iām a cute gal. Iāve got a gap-toothed smile, though, you know. Just one gap, and not in the centre. I like it, actually. Character. I also have this one eyebrow with a crook in it, which leaves me easily delivering “devious” gazes in times of seduction. Those, and a small scar on my nose from when I had a tete-a-tete with a paintcan in grade two, are my flaws. But despite those, I have pluses. Iāve got warm green eyes that emote brilliantly, decent cheek bones, and even with their itty-bitty flaws, my teeth are pretty darned white, ergo I have a nice smile, and Iāve got nice, plush, full lips to frame āem. Iām all right, gap and all, ‘cos I’m just who I’m supposed to be, right?
Still, I did it. Those fuckers sucked me in. I bought them. I did. I justified it, though. āIām buying generic. Iām not a sheep. And hey, itās on sale!ā And I forked out $25 of my last dollars to pick up the fabulous, oh-so-now box of GLAM, BABY. Yeah, I bought the strips. What’s more, I bought the possibility of a less-flawed me. That’s what they’re really selling, after all.
Have you done this shit? Seriously. All right, we all know that getting sexy is an ugly, ugly business. Hair removal? Not attractive. Some ugly things go down when weāre alone and trying to get all sexed up. The things we inspect, the preening we strain to do. Oh, dear. Itās a wonder we come out of that with any self-esteem at all (even more mysterious considering those who willingly use the 10x magnification uberflaw-exposing mirrors — shudder).
But these strips? Dear, god. Insert them, and become a drooling mass of incoherence, a moisture monkey. Sex factor? Nil, man. I did one individual set of strips a couple weeks back and havenāt been back to do another set since.
I swear, you drool like Lenny when George has let him pet the rabbits too much. “But, George, I like to pet the rabbits. They’s so soft, George.”
Slurp, drool. Itās repulsive, really. Do not do this around your lover. Itād be so inconvenient to have them conjure a drooling-mass in-coital image of you arise to shatter — mercilessly — any hope of orgasm for that foreseeable moment.
And this ain’t no “God, I’m being pleasured ORALLY!” slurp of sexual satiation we’re talking about here. This is along the lines of “Granny’s having soup again, put her teeth on the counter”. So, unless you’ve a geriatric fetish…
But you know why they keep sucking us in? Insecurities. Beautiful means loved means admired means successful means laid, laid, laid. Oh, yeah, Iām in for the Kool-aid. Gimme some of that.
Itās our insecurities. I mean, hell, if you could find the ego as a bodypart, you could go and put an X for āhit me hereā right on top of it. Our psycheās one big soft spot. Weāre all vulnerable in one way or another. Weāre all judging ourselves a little on the harsh side, some people excessively so.
All our lives, weāre told to be better. Doesnāt matter who you are, where you are, youāve been told one of two things: Be better, or conversely, forget better — youāll never be any better, you’re trash. It’s all the same, still boils down got to look better, act better, live better, do better, speak better, better, better.
The cosmetics industry is playing that up like you wouldnāt believe. And now theyāve gone and gotten the boys all worked into a frenzy now, too. The last bastion of oblivion has been shattered, giving way to the rise of the metrosexual. Such pretty boys. I hate to admit it, I do like āem. They got that ready-to-eat look that conveys “yummy” and “sink teeth in” to me. Come on, you know what I’m talkin’ about. Some people are edibles. Some have “food group” and “recommended part of a balanced diet” all over ’em.
But there’s a lot to be said for rugged men, too, though. They clean up, and well. I like doing the cleaning, too. Rinse-and-repeat. Mostly repeat.
But you see? This is what theyāre doing. Men are getting as compartmentalized and as stereotyped as women have always been. It started a couple decades ago, probably even as early as the ā70s, but itās blown out of the water in the last five or so years. Now guys are getting just as silly as the girls have been, via spending insane amounts on cosmetics and other beauty fixes. (Surgery, anyone?)
Iāve always been that type. My insecurities seemed tethered to my expenditures. “But it’s expensive, I’ll be beeyootiful the instant it touches skin!”
I’ve spent so damned much on the myth. I’ve always had a little bit of problem skin. Iām of Irish descent, so my complexionās really fair, right? So, Iād often get blackheads on my nose. Every product I bought would do jack all about the problem, and I was spending $40 a bottle for this crap.
These days, I use a variety of skin cleansers, but when I want to exfoliate, I throw some sugar into it and lather up. My skinās the best itās ever been, my rosacea is completely gone for a more porcelain (ergo more corruptable, ergo good) look, and Iāve been looking five years younger since I started cheaping out. And my face is softer now, too. Truly. (Which is no mean feat since I ride a scooter and get exposed to the elements year-round.)
The irony is, They (the Man, et al) used to tell men that sugar was a great face scrub. I always thought, āDamn men, theyāve got all the luck.ā I was gullible. But I put two and two together when the Queer Eye for the Straight Guy guys came along. At the start of the series, theyād tell the guys to scrub with sugar. It didnāt take long for them to be selling the āmenās exclusive facial care productsā crap to the guys, though. āBut itās crushed avocado seed. Itāll give youā¦ā rosacea, actually. Geez. That’s not exfoliation, that’s abrasion, dudes.
It took being broke to give me the best complexion Iāve had since my teens. Fuck H20, the Body Shop, and everyone else. Some things are worth spending money on, for sure, but I think the face-washing thingās getting a tad out of control. My skinās proof.
And this rant all started from me brushing my teeth before bed and eyeballing, guiltily, the box of whitening strips. My point? Itās a sad fucking thing that our insecurities cost us so much both financially and chronologically. Ah, if only being a sex god was simpler.
These are the kinds of guys I find hot. The ones who know how to relax, who seem to have enough grasp on what’s important that they find their way here on a rare sunny winter’s day in Vancouver. I mean, if you can’t find your way to seize moments like these when they’re so far and few between, what kind of life are you leading, right?
Oh, so, of course, I made my way there, so it says something about some of my values. I sprained my ankle, though, and had to cycle another 4km to the bus station, which wasn’t very much fun, but geez, this day was worth a little pain. The good things always are, n’est ce pas? And the first hour and a half rocked my world, so, hey, there’s that.
And I’d like to talk about photography for a second. This one is one of my photos I took today. I enjoy photography and have been known to snap a pretty pic or two, days like this, I love it, but I need to take a moment to say that every single photo you’ve seen on here (the Cunt), besides this one, belong to other people. They’ve been found on the web. I don’t make money off this site, so, it’s kinda fine.
But I just can’t help it, they’re all such hot and great images. I love ’em to bits. Makes for a nice look, yeah? Anyhow, I have a good eye, but they just ain’t mine. I’ve mentioned it before, but not for a while.
You have those nights sometimes, the nights before a simple kind of day, a your kind of day-day, where the only thing you really know is this: Youāre calling the shots.
The man? Fuck him. The woman? Her too. And everyone in the sub-genres? Them too.
Itās 12:24 a.m., and Iāve decided that whatever it is I do when I roll my lazy ass out of bed, itās okay. Tentative plan: A fine breakfast, a little South Park, a trip with the bike and the camera downtown to play tourist, for kicks. Thatās it.
Before, I had these grandiose plans of, oh, I donāt know, accomplishing something, or something. Iāve come to my senses. Partly sunny. Dubious, you think? Fuck no. Partlyās sounding like itās from Godās lips, man. Yep. A fine day, whatever materializes. With the last 45 or so days being filled with 40 or so days of rain, well, Iāll take drizzle, man. Just get me the hell out.
Though I feel like keeping to myself after my crazy past six weeks, I am going to force myself to be social. A tad. But only to cute men.
The women, theyāll get nods and grunts. Yep. Balance. Itās all about balance, isnāt it?
Oh, Iām joking. I play well with all others. My folks brought me up with manners, etiquette, you know, and that makes me the mostly charming young thang before you. I say āmostlyā because having a mouth like Susan Sarandon at her time of the month is really not doing me any favours. But it feels so damned good, and the hedonist in me, thatās all she really needs, ya know.
_____________
Hopefully the following applies to none of my male readers, but, guys, Iāve been hearing some horror stories.
See, Iāve heard all these things through regular conversations with real, live guys, not through this blog. So, Iād like to just say this right now, that thereās a little too many instances of this sort of thing. You want chicks to feel all right about touching themselves and such, then we need to get on page about this.
Chicks, weāre sensitive, right? Estrogen: License to Pill. Itās rough, yeah, baby. Real rough some days, and you guys, youāre so lackadaisical and oblivious. Normally, it makes us chuckle, but sometimes, yāall leave scars.
These conversations Iāve mentioned, have all included guys, who, upon going down on women they were with, reacted in one or more of the following ways:
I mean, my GOD, guys. If youāve done this, you are such an ass. Even if it was totally unintentional, oh, lord.
Donāt you ever get the sense that some people are the needing the emotional form of toilet training? Instead of just blurting out every fucking thing you feel in the split instant it hits, try something incredibly nouveau and cutting edge: Hold your goddamned tongue until youāve let the stupid idea rattle around yer skull a moment.
And that doesnāt go out to just guys, thereāre so many women that applies to, and we all know it.
If a guy reacts like that in one of those moments, itās akin to a woman snickering at the size of a manās cock. āYouāreā¦ not cold, are you? Oh, sorry, yes, that was optimism. I was hoping I could at least turn the thermostat up. Sadly, thoughā¦ there might be little point inā Oh, I made a punny! (giggle)ā
I just find myself wondering what such an experience would do to a womanās future sex drive, considering how much more governed by emotions (and estrogen, sigh) we happen to be.
Iāve only had one real experience of issue with a bit of a foul odour, and it was after an eight-hour car trip with a guy I really, really, really wanted to sleep with when I lived in the North. He had a girlfriend at the time, and I had shit going on long distance, so I constantly felt the hopelessness of that, too. He paid me the most incredible compliment that day, too, that would sound totally cheesy to say here, but probably the greatest thing a guy ever said to me. It was his tone of voice and the way he stared through me as he said it, though. I melted. A couple hours after that, and needing a washroom for a bit, and I was conscious of my scent. Nothing too intense, mind you, but it was there, perceptible, a little, and I became hyperaware. We arrived at a washroom within five minutes of my noticing it, and I was able to wash up and feel great again, and Iām pretty sure he never picked up on it.
But if he had, it probably wouldāve been a source of pheromones, not offense. Since that time, I kind of started to quiz the guys Iāve been with, and have been remarkably surprised at what was, I perceived, an offensive odour, and what guys have found attractive. They seem to have a more accommodating standard, I suppose. We chicks, we get bombarded by media ads about āfeminine freshnessā on a daily basis. Hell, they have āfeminine wipes,ā which are the female equivalent to the babyās-dirty-ass-alcohol-soaked-wipe. Unfortunately, thereās a market for them. Itās called ābeing single.ā The Age of Paranoia.
Iām just saying, guys need to be empathetic to the issues that chicks sometimes have to deal with, and being nice and delicate about the fact that she needs a shower can go a long, long ways. How about, āGod, I bet youād be incredibly hot all lathered up. But mostly, I wanna do the lathering. Get you wet. Dripping. In the shower.ā
That way, you get to play with a bar of soap. (Dove is nicely contoured. Ever notice that?) You get a nice shower. You get a clean chick. And you get to get laid after all. Everybody wins. She keeps her pride, and you get to enjoy the perks.
And though thereās not such an amenable conclusion for chicks who are usually stupid enough to blurt out a comment about a manās penis size, really, they just ought to bloody well know better. I mean, Jesus. A little empathy. Just like God gave you that flabby bit on your inner thigh that no amount of working out can resolve, the small-penis thing wasnāt likely a request, and surgery aināt no walk-in-the-park boob job, either.
Anyhow, thanks for coming on my tangential walk this evening. Iāve clearly been sort of colouring by numbers on this posting, but hey, itās been fun for me. Come again.
In honour of masturbation:
