High-Capacity Player

When I was girl, perhaps of six or so, I would go for walks in the summer rain. Without shoes. I would splash in puddles, the steaming hot concrete melting under my skin thick soles, and luxuriate in the sensation of the water washing over my feet and soaking into the cuffs of my Tough Skins. I was in the street, alone, and alive.

After the rains washed the gutters clean I would wander the allies and sidewalks, running my knuckles along cement walls while I imagined walking and walking and walking until I was far, far away from my childhood. Casting my eyes downward in supplication and submission - which is to say in owning my strength, my instinct for survival - pride and power and perseverance rushed through my veins as I watched my bare feet walk over sharp shards of broken glass and the refuse of humanity without flinching or failing.

And when I read your words my friend, "you're a high-capacity player," that same pride and power and perseverance was reborn in me as the image of my tender toes tripping along the hot summer streets flashed through my mind like the flash floods of my California childhood. Thank you for helping me to remember who I am, and where I come from.

Self-fulfilling prophesy or just bad timing? Either way it hurts like hell.

Truthfully, I knew all along what she would do with me. Break my heart.

What am I gonna do with you?

Her eyes were steel blue and locked onto mine like wrists cuffed to a bedpost; like cool black leather, tanned dark from sweat and spit, scarred and scuffed from a life of hard living, but lined with the softest sweetest fur this side of Texas. We kissed lightly on the lips, briefly, and as we each pulled back she gave me one last firm look and asked, more to herself than to me, “What am I gonna do with you?” A sweet Texas drawl that slowed down time lassoed the “with” and it fell to its knees like a helpless calf. “Mmm mm” she mumbled as she turned and slipped down from the cab of my truck.

It was only a few hours back that we first laid eyes on one another. We had been exchanging email for a few weeks but I had no idea what to expect. All I knew was that there was a certain quality of persistence in her, a determination to grasp life by the horns, that pulled me in her direction.

**********

I was careful when I posted that ad. I wanted someone who matched my intensity, my longing, my desire. I wanted energy that would accompany mine like the eager lead in a waltz. I wanted it all; the sweetness, the hardness, the grip and the caress. And I wanted someone who knew what I was looking for, what I needed.

I want to be your girl.
The one who brings you breakfast in bed on Sunday morning, just the way you like it.
The one who falls asleep with her head on your chest and her arms around you.
The one who grabs your arm when the movie turns scary.
The one who purrs and arches her back when you scratch that one spot.
The one who buys you the right kind of underwear for Christmas.
The one who gives herself to you with absolute trust and abandon.
The one who's softness yields willingly to your hardness.
The one who feels honored and moved when you cry in her presence.
The one whose wrists go limp in your firm grip.
The one who adores your quirks and accepts you as you are.
The one who's heart flutters with pride and joy when you say "that's my girl."

“What is your name? What do you drive? Where do you live?” I looked at
the return address and noted the name. Tex. For a moment I wondered if
Tex was a man or a woman and then I hit delete. A few days later another
message appeared, “What does it take for you to respond?” I felt the 
back off stir in me and replied “Someone who is willing to share something
of themselves before asking me my name and where I live.” 

“Ah, I got your attention. SWEET!” came the reply, and the blinking red
light of warning in my brain changed to green. Go. We chatted back and
forth for a few weeks until a date was set. We would meet at Margaritas
and then go for a stroll in the park.

**********

When Tex walked in the first thing I noticed was that she had on more make up than I, and damn if it didn’t looked better than mine! I felt my mind strain as it tried to comprehend a butch in Ralph Loren and Lancome. But there was something about her confident swagger and the way she smiled at the waitress that reassured me she was indeed the one who had demanded my attention.

We ordered. We chatted. We looked at one another, sizing each other up. The dance of getting acquainted was smooth and easy. Comfortable. Familiar. That is until she interrupted my friendly “date chatter” with “Your eyes are so beautiful.” The “so” sounded like a cowboy calling his dog to his side. As she pinned me down with those piercing blue eyes I could feel my pulse beating and the perspiration gather on my upper lip.

As our lunch went on my heart rate returned to normal, but I remained alert and ready to bolt. It wasn’t that I was scared, or even uncomfortable, but the tension of pursuit vibrated in my body like electricity in the air before a thunderstorm. We ate our lunch and then walked in the park. The familiarity of the bronze Botero sculptures grounded me in place and body. Tex had never seen a Botero, which I found refreshing and appealing; I imagined she could look upon the rotund figures with eyes unjaded by theory and critique, with a freshness and openness that I found lacking in most. We got some waters and sat for a bit in the sun, Tex conversing with strangers and me drinking in her easy way of making them smile like a sip of sweet tea from the south.

She walked me back to my truck and, not knowing how I was going to say good bye just yet I offered to give her a lift back to her car - despite the fact it was just a few blocks away. She gracefully accepted and was gentlemanly enough not to embarrass me for asking.

It was then, as I idled next to the curb in front of her car, that I leaned in and kissed her. A soft, hesitant, I’m not sure if this is a good idea kind of kiss. A polite, I’m a good girl, I’m a sub kind of kiss. A quick, impulsive, I want more of you kind of kiss. Our lips parted and that is when she said it. “What am I gonna do with you?”

I watched her as she slipped down and stepped away from the truck, closing the door behind her. She disappeared but my eyes remained fixed to the spot as my mind wondered what would she do with me.

The Science of Lonliness

I did indeed wait. What else does a girl like me do?

Besides, I knew my anger and hurt was, in large part, coming from inside me. True, he hadn't returned my calls or texts. True, he hadn't reached out to me since the night I arrived. True, it was a shock to discover him sitting on the couch with another lover when I had no idea she would even be at this event. But the pain I was feeling was coming from some place deeper than all that. His actions were just fueling it.

It was an awful weekend. Dark and lonely. The kind that makes you want to disappear. To just check out. After trying, unsuccessfully, to meet new people, or even connect with old ones, I gave up. Perhaps my energy was repelling people in some energetic fashion. It's possible. Maybe every electron in my body was spinning out a negative force pushing away all the happy, positive protons in everyone else. Or maybe it was my bad hair scaring people off. Who knows? All I know is I was lonely and sad and felt like a loser around all the happy people having fun with each other.

On the final day, the day Papi was to come to me, I just couldn't stand to be in my own body anymore. I went for a long walk but when I got back my room was still empty. I forced myself to take a nap and when I woke up I was still alone. I tried calling and texting and still nothing. I was in so much pain I just wanted to be gone. Asleep. Unconscious. Dead. Anything not to have to feel so lonely - so unimportant - another minute.

Will I?

post deleted after sobering up

Just Poppin In to Say Hi

It has been months since I've posted. I just wanted to drop by and say boo; let folks know I'm still alive and kickin. I had to say good bye to my beloved Diva a while back. She was truly my soul mate. I doubt I will ever meet another being like her. I miss her like crazy.

Papi and I are still together in our own special way. He was here a week or so ago and we caught up on snuggling and spankings. I was sick so we didn't get to fuck around much. We did have one wonderful morning of caning and flogging and fucking that will have to last me a while. At the moment our next plans to see each other are a few months away.

My sister Peaches came for a visit last weekend. I miss having her nearby to share stories and questions.

S'bout it for now. Hope y'all are fabulous.

Fuck On!

C.P.

Creepy Sexy

I’ve always been drawn to sexy ugly. You know, the Mick Jagger, Sandra Bernhardt and John Turturro types. I like the ones that snag your eye from across the street. The ones that make you stare even though you know it’s rude. I remember having a crush on a boy in grade school who had a club foot. When he walked his whole body would fall jerkily over to one side like he had tripped and then slowly, with great effort, arch back the other way as he righted himself. He had a twin brother who was really hot (all the girls swooned for him). But I found his brother to be snide and full of conceit. They were both whip smart and sassy and funny as fuck, but I was just a sucker for the one with the swanky stride.

But I think I recently crossed the line into creepy sexy. And that just seems like asking for trouble.

A few weeks ago during yet another excruciating bout of middle of the night loneliness with empty in-boxes, I placed an ad on Craigslist:

Tying the Knot?

I want strings attached. Lengthy lengths of cord tethering me to your heels; thick ropes wrapped round and round our trunks; thin threads of tinsel dangling from our toes and fingers. Like seaweed floating in the sound. Like roots joining trees in a subterranean twine. Like nothing can cut us apart.

Amazingly most replies were still your typical “hi i’m bob you sound nice pic 4 pic” variety. One reply was from a sweet sounding artsy type, let’s call him Red, who sent a picture of himself standing at a campground. The picture was great because you could tell he was handsome and smiling despite the fact he had his hand over his face shielding himself from whoever was taking the picture. I like people who send pictures that tell a story. He and I wrote back and forth a bit, spoke on the phone once or twice, and ended up going out for sushi, after which we mutually acknowledged the lack of sparkiness and that was that. And the rest of the replies I deleted.

Well, all except for one:

like blackberry bushes, spreading, sinking roots, sending up shoots, even as thorns bite ?

Could it be that someone had actually picked up on my subtly suggested penchant for bondage? I knew it was subtle because I had even asked Red if he’d picked up on it. He said he hadn’t, and that despite the fact he had some experience with ropes.

Now generally I refuse to respond to people who don’t put much effort into their replies. But Mr. Thorns here had managed to do what no others had – match me. His reply was as cryptic as my post, and yet it put it all out there really. It was luscious and suggestive, and still mysterious. And, furthermore, it tapped into a thing I have for blackberry bushes. Tapped right into the very heart of the thing.

So I wrote him back. And, since it was anonymous and therefore whatthehell, I put it all out there. My kink that is. And my desires. Passion. Companionship. Paternity.

So he writes back, and I write back, and so on. Him not really telling me much, but pressing me for more. He tells me his procreation days are over. He tells me he’s a dom. Actually, he tells me he prefers sensualist, but he’s "been called master, dom, owner, yada yada yada. . ." It’s the yada yada yada that gets me.

Each time he writes I have this strong attraction/repulsion thing going on. The fact that he tells me so little about himself (and never shares a picture) and uses words so sparsely makes me suspect. I need extreme honesty and forthrightness. I can’t tell if he is just a man of few words or actually hiding things. And I tell him as much. At the same time the few words he does use hook me like a fish. Words like theology, wrists, honored, whips, fingertips, faith, desire, relentless, wanting giving taking.

Even now recalling his words puts me on that edge again. It was like each time he wrote I had these clashing compulsions to both tear away fast and to turn myself over without a struggle.

I was unusually cautious. Not giving out too much information. My location. My phone number. But I did share my first name. And I also shared a picture. Basically, with those two pieces of information, anyone who really wanted to find me could. It wouldn’t be hard. So I felt vulnerable and exposed. And yet still curious.

I was cutting blackberry vines again, a long green pliable tendril with thorns not quite hard yet made me think of your wrists and ankles

Of course it didnt take long to imagine that long vine pressing into your breasts, ................................ pressing between your thighs

So coffee is suggested and then I catch myself before saying yes and request a phone conversation first. I just needed to verify something. Anything. His phone number. His voice. His cadence in conversation. Something. I just needed more information. A sign he was safe.

So I pick up the phone and dialed.

He answered and without missing a beat he says “When we meet I want you to be wearing a skirt with nothing under it. Even if we don’t touch I want to know your body is as open as your mind.”

Gulp.

I had to admit that was a great line. And yet, it totally squicked me. I mean I’m a sub, but I’m not a plaything. A person has to know me and respect me and care for me, to be trustworthy and safe and loving, before they get to tell me what to do. So I backed off. I said I would probably wear jeans and a t-shirt. But there’s that damn curiosity so I don’t hang up. We talk for a bit. And I note he has a slight slur to his words. A stroke? Is he drunk? I don’t know. But I notice it. And the space between the words. And I notice he doesn’t tell me much more about himself, and yet he wants to know about me. Where I walk my dog. Where I grew up. It just doesn’t feel right, you know? The balance.

The thing about me is I will give and give and give. I will. And I will give happily. But, as I get older, and indeed wiser, I realize that those who take and take and take will just keeping taking. They will never give me what I really need. And now that I actually know what I need, well, I don’t think I can settle for less one more time.

So, I thanked him for his time and I hung up. But not before he reiterated “when we meet I want you to be wearing a skirt and nothing underneath. I want to know your body is as open as your mind.”

Fuck if that isn’t the hottest thing to say to a girl like me.

On Why I'm Agnostic

Theism is a deep-seated conviction that there's some hand to hold: if we just do the right things, someone will appreciate us and take care of us. It means thinking there's always going to be a babysitter available when we need one. We all are inclined to abdicate our responsibilities and delegate our authority to something outside ourselves. Nontheism is relaxing with the ambiguity and uncertainty of the present moment without reaching for anything to protect ourselves.

from "When Things Fall Apart" by Pema Chodron


I guess this is just what being human is all about. You long for that hand to hold while secretly suspecting that ultimately there is none and all that is left is to submit to what is. I know it sounds sort of new agey and woo woo, but for me being a sub touches on that mystical experience. When I'm naked and exposed and at the mercy of my lover I can't help but to think that it is in the act of giving myself over to the unknown that I am part of something bigger than me, something that will care for me and make sure my needs are met even when I don't know what they are.

A Year in the Life

It was a year ago April that I started this blog. Odd, it seems such a long time ago. Usually, these days, time goes by so quickly; like I spin slower and slower with each passing year so everything else around me appears to whiz by that much faster. But I feel as though this blog and I have been going at it for ages.

I started this blog in an effort to get to know myself better; as an outlet to explore my desires, my needs. And I've found, when it comes right down to it, what I want is this: to love and to be loved. That's pretty much it. Sure, I want honesty and passion and adventure. Challenges and edginess and intensity. Companionship. Sex. Sensations and sweetness and silliness. But the thing under it all is love.

The thing is, I have most everything I want except the companionship part. That's what has been missing. When Papi is with me I feel so grounded; like this is what has been missing. It isn't even the sex. It's more the joy of having someone to share things with. Share my food. My thoughts. My body. My joy. My pain. My life. That's what I long for. That's what I need.

Is that so bad? I feel guilty for wanting companionship so intensely. The message I grew up with is that I should be enough. I should never need anyone besides myself. And for all these years I pretended that was true. I was like a rock. Even in my relationships I never allowed myself to need anyone or anything. To need affection. To need respect. To need to be loved. That's why I like being a sub so much - it is a safe place for me to get what I need and not feel guilty for it. Even now, with this confession, I feel like if I were more mature, more advanced, more enlightened, I wouldn't need anything except myself.

Anyway. It is hard to be 40 and just figuring this out. I think most people go about it the other way around. They just jump into the whole love/relationship thing when they are young and then as they get older realize the need to individuate and be more independent. Hence, lots of the people I meet now are interested in NOT being in a relationship just when I'm interested in the opposite. It sucks being a late bloomer.

On Stress and Sleeping Alone

When stress rolls in I get this craving, this urge, this need, to be bound tightly and teased and tortured.

The feelings start to creep in late in the afternoon, like the fog gradually inching forward from the bay, and you look around and suddenly it seems the entire city has been engulfed in a matter of mere moments. It's a foggy grey that turns cold and dark once the sun has set and I'm alone, in my house, by myself. The worst is when I climb into bed, lights out, laying there with my eyes closed but unable to sleep. Thinking about you. Missing you.

I imagine you at the foot of my bed. You start with something soft and wide, perhaps it is a very long Ace bandage. You wrap it around my ankles, tight, and up over my calves. My muscles tighten, then relax. Still. Then, to move things along, you graduate to something bigger for my bigger parts. Maybe a long swath of raw silk. You bind my thighs, my groin, my hips and, arms at my sides, you continue up my torso to my breasts and shoulders. You tuck the silk inside itself down along the length of my neck, and roll me over onto my stomach. A soft bandana is tied across my mouth, gag style. It smells clean, freshly washed, and wicks the saliva out of my mouth leaving my tongue dry and cottony.

That's the beginning. I imagine you humming and speaking to me in low, slow, languid tones throughout. I'm mostly quiet. Perhaps a moan here and there. But mostly quiet, tranced like, present. Unknowing, and trusting.

The middle is something heavy. I'm not sure what. Maybe heavy ropes bound around the encasing. Maybe six wool blankets piled on top of me. Maybe the weight of you, laying across me. Something heavy pressing me into my core, grounding me, grinding me, holding me, containing me.

And then the pressure somehow builds. Is it torque? Have you suspended me? Pulled one rope taught or twisted something, say my feet, just enough to cause the dull ache building in my muscles? There are hands at my throat, thumbs digging into my clavicle, lips pressing against my mouth. Energy restrained, like friction and fusion and fast fucking, but not yet released. Impending implosion. I'm screaming, and it sounds like a gravelly whisper through the gag. And I'm crying, but the tears are instantly absorbed by the mattress my cheek is pressed into. And inside I'm writhing and bucking, but outside it looks like a gentle rocking. Because of your hold on me. I'm tied to this earth. I'm weighted down. You are my anchor. My gravity. My tether.

Suddenly there is release. Was it electricity? Vibration? Frottage? Friction? Frisson? But we're spent and limp and wet. You start where you started, at my ankles, and work the blade inside the fold. You cut upwards along my middle, where the scissor slips into the seam easiest, where the pressure valve was hidden all along, and slowly unzip me. With each torn tooth the air rushes in like a gasp and a sigh and I expand again. Not like a balloon. Or a vacuum packed sweater. Or a stressed out woman trying to fall asleep alone in the dark. Like a moth in the moonlight. Like a butterfly. I fall out and unfold and feel reborn.

On Being Special

I've been thinking about putting this blog to rest. I seem to have lost the drive that spurred me on. The past few months I come here, draft a few words, but rarely post. I'm not sure if has served its purpose and I'm ready to move on or if something has dried up. I don't feel stuck as much as just empty. Not depressed empty. Just empty. The bowl is empty. You know? I'm not ready to quit just yet though. I keep thinking my enthusiasm just might get renewed once again. We'll see.

A few weeks back I hit a rough spot with Papi. He went on a date, two dates with the same woman actually, the last time he visited. It wasn't so much the jealousy that got to me . Jealousy I can deal with. Like a bitchy neighbor I just smile and nod and say have a pleasant evening Ms. Jealousy. But when I learned that Lilo, a perfectly sweet and wonderful woman, wanted to continue seeing my Papi as his new submissive I was thrown for a loop. It isn't that Papi and I have an exclusive thing. I'm under no illusions there. Nor did we have any kind of agreement he wouldn't have any other lovers in my town, or other lovers in general who were submissive. But something about the combination of Lilo being in my city and being a sub, well . . . I just felt deflated and washed up. What can I say? It was as though my specialness was gone. Here was a woman who was offering what had heretofore been my special offering and she was all shiny and bright and new.

Anyway. I guess we've sort of worked it out now. But I must say I still feel all old and tattered. Maybe that's a good thing. Like a favorite pair of tattered old sweat pants that you always come back to. But right now I feel like the thing that's gonna get shoved in the back of the closet and ignored until one day he stops to ask himself where did those comfy old sweatpants go?

HNT #11: Spring Thaw

I don't come here much these days. I'm not sure why. I feel things shifting, like tight little buds straining toward the hard crust of frozen earth. All around me people are blossoming and I hold myself back for fear of what?

My rutabaga boy left these little purple petals on my spine. It brings tears to my eyes to think of it just now. Not because they hurt. But because the tenderness and sweetness and love with which each kiss was given feels like the hyacinth blooming in my back yard.

Spring. Doesn't it make you wanna cry happy tears too?

Snuggle Me

On our last night together Papi asked me what I wanted to do and all I could think of was snuggle in his arms. It was his longest visit to date and we had yet to use a single toy. That expensive flogger hung unappealingly on my wall. A basket full of spoons, clothes pins and rope sat quietly in the corner of my bedroom. A plug of unpeeled ginger root sat on the kitchen counter ready for the compost bin. Papi had even lugged all his cocks and a special pink (pink!) vibrating butt plug all the way here just for my benefit. And all I could think of was snuggle. I want to snuggle. Could there be something wrong with me?

HNT # 10

I know it's Friday, but does this still count? Happy Half Nekkid Friday!

HNT #9: Word Picture

I wanted to post an HNT picture last Thursday, but I never got the chance to take it cuz Papi was here. Ironically, had I had the opportunity you would have seen a picture of my pale gringa hands with my newly painted nails, pink and girly, resting on top of Papi's chocolate brown manly manos. He says his hands are girly. I suppose because they are not much larger than mine and his skin is smooth and soft. But I find them very masculine and strong and guapo. I love looking at the way our different skins complement each other. I think his rich chocolatey shade brings out the pink tones in my flesh (and not just when he smacks my ass either). I wish I could show you with a picture. But I guess words will have to do once again.

HNT # 8: Ass Slapping Good Time

This is not my butt, but I wish it were. Since I'm usually on the other end of this view let me ask you: do our asses really look like this when you are done with us?

Love Bugs of the Undesirable Kind

Turns out Tea Boy's std test came back positive for HSV 2. Which wasn't a big surprise. He warned me he suspected it would. It was still a hard thing to take in. I felt sad and cheated and irrationally pissed off. But the good part of it is that it has forced me to better educate myself and take my health more seriously. I've learned so much already. Here I thought I was being so safe, but really I was more focused on HIV. I had no idea you could contract HSV even if you were using a condom, and I was only vaguely aware that you could contract it when the infected partner was asymptomatic. And I didn't have a clue that having herpes when you are pregnant can be quite serious, particularly if you have an outbreak during labor (in which case you get an automatic c section).

But Tea Boy has been great. We've been talking a lot and being very careful not to do anything risky until I've made a clear decision about what level of risk I'm willing to accept. If I weren't wanting to get pregnant it would be less of a question since HSV isn't that big a deal save for the social stigma you have to deal with in the dating scene. But it sounds like the majority of the population is already infected anyway - they just don't realize it and probably wouldn't bother to get tested to find out for the sake of their potential partners. God, people are such idiots. I was saddened to learn that Tea Boy had had unprotected sex even after being (knowingly) exposed to HSV. I guess he wasn't really thinking. But it makes me sad that even the ones who are thinking (like myself) sometimes don't think enough (like myself).

Anyhow, do any of you have any experience with this? I would especially love to hear about experiences being pregnant with HSV or just about dealing with dating and HSV. Or if you've struggled with the decision about what level of risk you were willing to accept when having sex with an infected partner.

And, for those of you who don't know, here's a few important facts to know:

You can get herpes even if you are using a condom. You can get herpes even if your partner has NEVER had a symptom (like Tea Boy). HSV 1 and 2 can present either orally or genitally (ie, cold sores either place means it could be either HSV 1 or 2). You can spread HSV 1 and 2 both orally and genitally (ie, you can spread either kind of herpes through oral sex). Lecture portion of this post over.

Oh, by the way, Tea Boy and I are going to the coast this weekend. The beach, a rustic cabin, a fire place, and Tea Boy - what else could a girl ask for? And then Papi is coming next week and I get him for almost a whole week. I feel like the luckiest girl in the world right now!

Oh, and furthermore, Diva is coming to the coast with us. Yea for the incredible indestructible mutt!

Once Upon a Time...

Something about my tea boy leaves me without words. Like I can't tell you the story just quite yet because I don't know how it ends. Which is ironic, since he and I are all words. He tells me he fell in love with my words first (since our first meeting was a prolonged back and forth through email and then IM) and then with the physical me when we met face to face. But I've forbid him to use the L word, for now, so he hedges around it and makes up all kinds of ways to tell me he loves me just the same. Puppy love. Infatuation. Rutabaga.

And, since we aren't in love, we certainly aren't a couple just yet. Nor are we partners, or boyfriend and girlfriend, or even dating. I've committed to "getting to know each other." We're getting to know each other. But that's about as far as I can go.

And, by way of getting to know each other, we decided we need a certain amount of face time to offset the virtual time. So we spent last weekend together. And you know what? It was really nice. Not crazy bacchanalian fuck fest nice. Just really rutabaga nice. I woke up Saturday morning all the way scrunched over on my side of the bed, almost falling off, with him all hot and sleepy and snugged up against me. I had to butt shove him back to his side so I wouldn't fall out of bed, but not before I made note that he's the first person in a long while to reach for me even in his sleep.

It turns out he fucks not unlike me: sort of bitey and thrashy and switchy. He knows what to do with me when I go all limp and subby, and yet without so much as a word we can switch places; me pinning him beneath my weight, grabbing his balls and biting into the thin skin above his collar bone while his eyes roll back in his head and a beatific smile spreads across his face. He instinctively grabs my wrist when I rest my hand in his, and yet he follows my lead when I grip his hair and guide his mouth to my breast. And when all is said and done we fall asleep in a puddle of sweat and a knot of limbs where it is hard to say exactly where one of us begins and the other ends.

And speaking of knots, he's gonna be one fine roper one of these days. I don't know if he is just so darn eager to please me or if he truly is a natural (I think maybe a little of both) but he picked up that 30 feet of nylon and started tying and wrapping and looping like he knew instinctively what to do with it. He was like a brainy kid with a Rubik Cube, turning and tightening and twisting until the thing magically fell into place. As we watched a video (Alfred Hitchcock's Rope, appropriately enough) he absent mindedly fiddled with the lengths of cord until I looked down and found my feet bound together in these funky stirrup kinda things. Then he stood up, smiled at me devilishly and went out on the porch to have a cigarette leaving me to hop about the house dragging 28 feet of rope behind me or figure out how to get the things undone myself so I could go out and join him for a smoke.

And if that wasn't enough I knew we would get along just fine when he emailed me this after our first night together:

"The little ache when I walk is a pleasant reminder in a twisted way, though. As were a couple of bruises I found when showering."

The funny thing was that I had found bruises in exactly the same spots on myself that very morning and wrote him an almost identical email.

So, as I said, I have no idea how the story will end. But with any luck there will be lots of chapters and a happy ending one way or another.

Just Checking In

For those of you who are curious about Pussy here are a few updates:

Diva is still alive and hopping. That Metacam stuff seems to be doing the trick for now. Her appetite is good, she walks on all three legs, and her spirits are still high (if a little drowsy at times). I still don't know if we're talking days, weeks, or months, but I guess I never did before either (I just thought I did). There's a lesson here somewhere. But I'm too busy snuggling my dog right now to think about it.

Tea Boy did indeed come over and stay the night with me. We had sex and it was fun. Maybe even more fun than I expected it to be. I had told him up front that I'm a kinky sub with some switch potential in the right situations. And even though he isn't kinky per se he seemed fairly familiar with the terminology and concepts. He explained that it's a geek thing somehow, which I had never known. But now that I think about it there are a lot of gamer types on bondage.com.

At this point I should say I'm still trying to figure out what I feel comfortable saying here about this tea boy. I'm still struggling with that. My thoughts are all muttled. I want to respect his privacy. I don't want to say anything that would hurt him in any way should he ever read my blog. And I don't want jeopardize Papi's anonymity either. And since tea boy knows of Papi if he were to read my blog he would probably be able to put two and two together. At the same time I love having this place where I can share my life and my discoveries about myself and the world. Where I can write freely and get feedback from others about my thoughts, my experiences and my words. Plus, well, I just miss you all. I miss the support, the flirting, the insight, the affirmation and acceptance that I get here and I'm not ready to give that up.

HNT #7: Butterfly Kisses

I felt silly despite the fact that no one could see me. Even Papi was hundreds of miles away. But I still jumped at his voice growling "work it out" into my ear when I complained that putting the clothespin directly onto my nipple would hurt too much. So I did as I was told until I looked like a funny kind of porcupine with pink and blue plastic clothespins for quills. I made a mental note that the next time I was in China Town I would think twice before buying the cheaper bag of clothespins.

I had pins on both nipples and surrounding my areolas. Then a few on the outsides of my tummy just above my pubic bone. And finally two on either side of my vulva and one at the top of my clit on the edge of my Venus Mound. That last one pinched like anything and I howled and cried but he wouldn't let me take it off. He told me to focus on breathing deep. I did so and after what seemed like a very long time I got to the place where the pain was acceptable, even welcome.

Then he told me I could touch myself. Honestly, I really didn't want to. But I knew he wouldn't let me take them off until I had cum for him. So I tried to reach my clit but each time I did my arm would bump some goddamned clip and I would flinch away. I asked him if it would be alright if I used Wanda figuring at least with her I could avoid bumping clips. Thankfully he let me and it wasn't long before I came for him quite loudly.

After all was said and done I was allowed to take the pins off one by one. Oddly enough the ones that hurt the least going on hurt the most coming off. The ones on my nipples left these tiny little dents that looked like someone put butterfly bandaids on my tits.

Cautious

This thing with tea boy is unlike anything I've experienced. And I don't know why I call him tea boy. He doesn't drink tea. I do. He drinks beer or diet coke or coffee. But I haven't wanted to say much about him or give him a "real" blog name because, well, I'm just being cautious. But this is a good cautious.

As you have probably figured out I'm not known for being a tease. I have no problem sleeping with someone on the first or second date. If I like them. But I've been consciously holding out with this guy. Getting to know him. Trying to decide if he's the person I think he is. Or, more accurately, if I like who he really is and not just who I think he is. And so far I have to say I do. He's sweet and thoughtful and gentle and smart and geeky. And he's silly and considerate and tells me repeatedly just exactly how fond he is of me. And that he wants me.

So I invited him to come to my house and have me. Tomorrow. And even though I'm crazy horny I must say I'm mostly just really looking forward to falling asleep in his arms. And waking up next to him.

A Minute at a Time

Thanks all for your sweet comments and support. They have really meant a lot to me during this difficult time. Diva dog is still by my side (quite literally at the moment). Things were looking grim there but right now we have a brief respite from the storm. Friday evening we drove along the beach. She lifted her head a bit from the back seat and sniffed the salty the air. Just the night before she had stood up to see the beach. And a mere week before she had jumped from front seat to back repeatedly while emitting her characteristic high pitched aren't-you-gonna-stop-the-car-NOW shriek.

I told her (yes, of course I talk to my dog) that if she could show me she was able to enjoy the beach I would know she wanted to stay around, but if she couldn't even frolic just a tad I would know she was ready to leave this place. I lifted her out of the back seat, not an entirely easy feat since she is not the smallest of dogs, and set her down on the grass. She toppled over. I helped her stand up again and then she skipped on two legs over to a shrub and tried to pee. She's only got three legs to begin with and now she was lifting her rear leg off the ground to avoid putting any weight on her cancerated hip. I had to support her hind quarters in order to keep her from falling into her urine. But we managed and then she skipped along quite fast (I had to jog to keep up with her) to a new spot where we repeated the ritual for a poo. You can bet the people jogging by thought I had one pitiful canine. I brought out a padded fleece and we sat in the grass for a bit watching the waves and shivering in the cold. She was exhausted and seemed defeated and I knew I would have to say good bye very soon.

But not at soon as I thought. Because that night I gave her a new pain medication, one that was supposed to help with any inflammation and therefore might help her walk. A tiny bit of my heart held out for the magic drug but I was still on the phone making the arrangements with the vets in the morning. But I'll be damned if that drug didn't work a small miracle. By morning she was walking on three legs again, albeit somewhat gingerly. Her eyes lit up again and lost their sunken, hopeless haze. She even frisked about the back seat as we drove down to the beach for a test drive before calling the vet to cancel our last visit.

So, as I said, she's by my side and we are taking it one day at a time. Actually, more like an hour at a time, a minute at a time. I trust she will let me know when she is ready to go and I will rub her belly one last time and kiss her sweet dog lips and say goodbye. But I'm cherishing every single second we have together until that moment arrives.

HNT #6

For the past eleven years only one being has been by my side loving me unconditionally, always forgiving my shortcomings, and adoring me whole heartedly. My dog.

The past few months she slowed down a bit. But this morning she fell out of bed. Then all day long she kept falling and tripping and moaning, looking at her backside questioningly, like she sometimes does when she farts and then tries to figure out what invisible thing just ran past her butt. By the time the emergency vet saw her she had collapsed on the floor. Her head in my lap she looked up at me with her big, brown, loving eyes imploring me to help her. It turns out the cancer we thought we had "gotten" has come back. And this time there isn't anything we can do. Except wait for the inevitable. And love each other desperately every minute we have left.

Happy Valentine's Day Lovies!

So tea boy went and got an HIV/AIDS test today. Is that not the sweetest Valentine's Day present ever? Still no nookie though. I've been holding fast to that three date rule. But tonight is our fourth. So who knows...

Email Whore

It isn't right that I should go for so long without getting fucked. It just isn't right.

I'm still taking things slow with this tea boy. I dunno. His words on the screen make me adore him, but then face to face he's still just a stranger. Silly me. Maybe I'm just an email whore.

Rules were meant to be broken, right?

Just dropping in to say. I'm off to go have dinner with tea boy. I'm wearing my favorite thong undies even though I've told him I'm sticking to my no sex until the third date rule.

By the way, I finally succumbed and ordered myself some Monk rope. I couldn't resist this month's special color: dirty pink! It came today and I'm sooo crossing my fingers that I get to find out just how fabulous it is very soon! Ooh, I even stopped at the library and got myself some books on knot tying. Best to be prepared you know!

HNT #6

This one's kind of cheating since I took it last week and it is rather similar to the one I posted last week. But I'm just so very sleepy I really must get some sleep. I have a second date tomorrow night with the tea boy and I don't want to loose my umph you know?!

Puppy Love*

OK. This tea guy rapidly turned into a full blown crush on both sides. The internet just works that way for those of us who are wooed by words and ideas. We've only met in person once for a scant two hours and it wasn't any crazy love at first site kinda thing for me. But you know, those love at first site things never worked out so well so why continue to believe they're a good thing? So I'm saying let's just take this slow - my god that is a challenge for me - and see where this takes us. If we play our cards right at the very least we'll each make a new friend.

So the deal on the kinky is he says he's never really had nary a kinky thought. Mm. Yeah. I didn't buy it either. Then he says he'll try anything once. Which I believe were my famous last words. So then I ask him if he were to try something kinky what would it be and he says he might be interested in taking a class at [insert name of local sex club which he obviously was aware of here] on working with hemp rope. At this point in the conversation my eyes turn into those big googly spiral eyes in the cartoon when the girl is struck by love. But we're on the phone and thankfully he can't see my goofy grin. So I just calmly say "nice" in a very nonchalant way and we move on. He proceeds to tell me he's up for giving ropes a try - he'll tie me up or I can tie him - and I make a mental note to self to work on tutoring that inner switch a bit more.

The interesting thing is that I have to confess a pattern I've now seen as a pattern and not just a random collection of coincidentally similar occurrences. The more someone likes me the more stand offish I get. This guy likes me. He has told me so. Quite honestly and openly. And each time he does so I feel my feet inch backwards towards the exit ready to bolt. Actually, it is more my brain. I start thinking disparaging thoughts that I'm sure are meant to protect myself from getting hurt but really serve to just, well, almost ensure it.

Oh, by the way. I told him about Papi last night. So today we get to see how that one goes over. Ooh, and on the Papi note, I have a visit coming up and I am very much looking forward to it! Perhaps he'll grant me the birthday spanking I requested.

* Yes, the tea guy actually used the phrase puppy love. It's quite apt.

Nice to meet you. By the way, I'm kinky.

So, I mentioned that I had tea with one of the few worthwhile responses to my ad, right? We've been having a lovely email exchange. The kind that is fun and exciting and sweet, that makes you a little giddy when you see something in your in box... and makes you anxious when you don't. Last night I told him that I wanted to have a baby - soon - and that went fine. Then this morning I told him that I'm kinky and now I haven't heard a peep. It's probably just nothing. He probably works when he's at work (unlike me). But I hate the suspense.

It's so hard to know when to tell people these things. If I put it in the actual ad I get all these creepy responses. Or guys who think just because they're doms that's enough. But then when I don't specify in the ad the stress of knowing when and how to tell them is just so, er, stressful. Oh well. I guess we'll just wait and see.

Are u fat?

I've had insomnia lately. And often when I have insomnia I end up writing a personal ad on Craigslist just so I can get some email. I'm not one of those mean teases though who never writes back though. I do write back if there is a nugget of appeal in the response. Anyway, here's what my last one said:

HWP? Who gives a flying f*ck?! - 40

I may be HWP. I may not. But the guy for me doesn't really give a rat's ass.

What he does care about is that I'm creative and adventurous in all things; laid back and easy to talk to; would rather read a book than watch crap on the boob tube (unless I'm watching it snuggled up in the arms of someone who enjoys said crap); enjoy food, both the cooking of it and the sharing of it; am passionate and loyal, once I trust you; enjoy being in my body; I'm not afraid to make the first move, but will appreciate it if you do, even I don't follow your lead; I follow my own moral compass; find beauty in all things, all people, and all bodies.

One thing though, I abhor lazy writers. Sure, it's just a silly Craigslist personal. But please, use your Webster's and your Strunk and White if in doubt. I don't mind a little e. e. cummings like creativity but I won't respond to "are u fat?" or "pic 4 pic" and the like.

Of course I got lots of replies. Anyone can post an ad under women seeking men and just say "hello" and get oodles of replies. Here are some of the ones that made me wince and hit delete:

"Hi my name is jerry and i realy would like to meet you. wana go for a cup of coffie or something........jerry"

"Are u fat?"

"What man would want to be with a fat cunt like you?"

"Male 52 6 foot, 225 would love to meet you. Professional and unhappily married."

And I wonder why I'm depressed about the whole dating scene?!

There were a few thoughtful replies though. And I had tea with one of them today!

HNT #5: Two Buttons

Word of the Day

I've missed you all, but I haven't had anything to say. So rather than come here and blather on I stayed away. But today, on a hunch, I looked up Webster's word of the day and once again it was like someone was reading my palm.

abulia • \ay-BOO-lee-uh\ • noun : abnormal lack of ability to act or to make decisions

I must have a prodigious quantity of mind," Mark Twain once wrote. "It takes me as much as a week, sometimes, to make it up." The indecision Twain laments is fairly common; only when inability to make decisions reaches an abnormal level does it have an uncommon name: "abulia." The English term we use today comes from a New Latin word that combines the prefix "a-," meaning "without," with the Greek word "boulē," meaning "will." "Abulia" can refer to the kind of generalized indecision that makes it impossible to choose what flavor ice cream you want, though it was created to name a severe medical disorder that can render a person nearly inert.

At times I'm somewhere between the slack-jawed lady staring at all of Baskin Robbins 31 flavors (I swear it looks like more!) and "nearly inert." I just never knew there was a name for it except indecisive.

HNT #4

Took myself out for a pedicure the other day. Don'tcha know I just had to go with Holy Pink Pagoda. Visions of the Boy Wonder kneeling at Batman's feet, brushing on a top coat of paint, when the nail polish bottle inexplicably spills over and he exclaims... that's right: Holy Pink Pagoda, Batman!

Please bare with me.

I'll be back soon no doubt. It's just this mother fucking rock. It is so damn... heavy.

40

Today I turned 40. That was the best gift of all.

HNT #3

The puss and the monk

went out to play

on a big pink nipple one day.

They thought it such a lovely stunt,

they asked another puss and monk.

Sisypus

Well, you know that moon watcher thing I put down there? I did it more for my own benefit; so I would have a heads up as my lunartic time was approaching. I thought I had evaded her this month. I was just saying to Papi the other night that hey, I snuck under the lunar radar this month. Well. No such luck. Last night it hit like a two ton boulder dropping blap right in my path again. Unlike Sisyphus I never get the damn thing to move an inch so I don't even get the satisfaction of making it to the top and the pleasurable agony of being mowed down by it. Nah. It just sits there and shove as I might I can't get the fucker to budge. And the fucker is my mood. It gets dark and despondent and nihilistic and downright nasty. Not good nasty. Bad nasty. Like soggy grey rainy nasty. Like no sunshine for months nasty. Like your car won't start and your bank account is hurting and you stubbed your toe and it's bleeding nasty. Like why bother trying any more and why am I alone and where is my tribe nasty. Like the mortgage broker got pregnant even though you started inseminating before she did and your dream house is turning out to be a nightmare and you're turning 40 and you still don't know what you want to do with your life nasty. Did I say soggy grey rainy nasty? And, like the rain, I know it will blow over. But, for now, I'm just sitting here staring at this mother fucking rock.

Charon and the PusSybil

In the day's last rays you could just make out the hull of the boat slicing through the wet mist and the captain's profile, just a dark shadow really, steering the craft toward the shore. The PusSybil stepped out to the end of the dock so as to indicate another passenger awaited. It had been a long day of ferry rides - back and forth, back and forth - and Charon was in no mood for another whining, sadsack soul. "Oh please, don't make me go Mr. Ferryman! Pul-eeeease! I promise to repent. Never again shall I..." And here Charon had heard it all. To steal. To kill. To watch TV. To buy Nike. To fornicate. The list was endless. But one thing was certain, regardless of their sin, their passage to hell was all but paid for - and as soon as the PusSybil handed Charon the coin their journey began.

Charon lifted his oar to stable the boat against the pier and, seeing the PusSybil alone, he sliced the oar through the air and demanded "Where is you fare? I see no one!"

"It is I, Charon. I would like to take a ride with you."

"Don't tempt me woman! It has been a long day and I am in no mood for your shenanigans. You know as well as I that only the sinfully dead shall pass over to hell."

"Ah, my friend, why just today you ferried over a nurse who had the compassion to assist a man in interminable pain, a homeless lad who stole a pair of Nike's to pay his mother's rent, and young woman who stabbed the man raping her. If the very image of so much goodness moves you not at all, well, here is your damn bough." She tossed an olive branch, shimmering and golden in the light of the setting sun, at his feet.

"Alright. Have it your way. Climb in," Charon grumbled as the PusSybil lowered herself into his craft. He arched his oar high up into the air and swung it back around, pushing them off of the pier and into the churning currents of the river.

They sailed along for a bit without speaking. The PusSybil sat herself down on the seat in the bow and leaned over the edge studying her reflection in the murky depths. Her grey hair and wrinkled hands betrayed her years, but she thought she looked pretty good considering everything (and here the last ray of light vanished below the horizon as if Apollo himself was reminding her of the price she paid for her purity).

The PusSybil let her fingers trail along in the black waters. In the darkness the sound of Charon's oar slicing through the waves sounded menacing. With each stroke the water warmed degree by degree until soon the waters were boiling and the PusSybil pulled her hand out. She lifted the back of her palm to her face and inspected the red blush on her otherwise pale skin and smiled serenely.

Charon arched an eyebrow and announced, "We are very near the shore now. You must take care not to fall into the river as you climb out or your ass will be toast."

He then pushed his oar into the sand and hoisted the boat as far as it would go onto the shore. With surprising agility for such an old man he jumped from ship to shore with one leap. He reached for the PusSybil and gripped his hand around the fleshy part of her arm. Her skin felt cool and silky. As she leapt toward the shore she stumbled and landed thigh high in the river. "Ouch" she squealed, and then giggled.

Charon raised another eyebrow and roughly yanked her toward him.

"You stay in that water a minute longer and you'll be a puddle of..."

"Oh, hush, a little boiling water never hurt anyone," retorted the PusSybil.

"Well, here we are. What's your pleasure?" Charon asked.

"I was thinking it might be interesting to check things out a bit. I hear level two is the place to be on a Friday night."

This time he raised both eyebrows. She was one curious PusSybil indeed.

---------- to be continued ----------

Anybody wanna tell me how the stroy ends? It seems the next page was torn out of my version and I can't find my Cliff Notes.

Sicko HNT

I've spent the last 36 hours in bed. And not in the fun way. Seems I just can't stay up any longer than is required to get another cough drop. Or look at my site meter. I feel so accomplished that I even managed this HNT.

Fragment Pussy?

Slightly over a thousand visitors in four days. Interesting. And here I thought I was just baring my soul to the void (and the fabulous few of you who stay long enough to say hello). I guess it only stands to reason since my title includes the word "pussy" and that seems to be a very common word to search by. Probably explains why most seem to land on my site and then quickly click away (since they are more likely to be greeted by words then beaver shots - although they may get those on occasion now too thanks to Citarre). The most amusing part of this tracking stuff is seeing how people stumble upon you through searches whacked out. Here's a recent example of phrases that linked to me (bad spelling/grammar not mine!):

smallest pussy
ouch papi it hurts
I sat on my grandpa's hard cock
autistic lover
sploosh
eat pussy cp
dykes hardwood dowel
ragged out pussy
pussy rope pull
ways to praise your pussy shirt
fragment pussy
what does a pussy supposed to look like
what to loop a pocket pussy with
strong cunt

And my personal favorite:

webster's definition of tofu

Pouty Brat's Cumuppance

Well, Charon kinda beat me to the punch line there. Oh, I'm so witty! But I have to tell you the long, drawn out version of the end of the story just because, well, that's what I do.

Let's see. Where were we? Oh yeah, Papi had just ordered me down on the bed and there I was with my naked ass up in the air and my face smashed into the mattress of my own accord. I had just gotten out of the bath and the chilly air in my bedroom smarted my flushed skin like a whispered hint of what was to come.

Papi started teasing me by slinking the tails of the flogger over my ass. Their soft, icey kiss made my skin shiver. I swayed from side to side a bit and made a yummy groan. Papi let the tails tickle along my hips and down my thighs. Then up between my legs, slowly, taunting me and making me squirm. He lifted the flogger off my skin and let it come down with a soft swish and tapping, testing the handle and the weight. He began swinging it in what sounded to my ears like infinity loops so it smacked first one cheek and the the other. Gradually he increased the tempo, the intensity, the game until he was really beating me quite hard. What I recall is this: it fuckin hurt!

Those stingy rubber tails bit into my skin like a switch. But the weighty thump of leather immediately following each stinging bite was like a caress that entreated me to forgive the stroke and pusuaded me to welcome another. My mind kept trying to figure out if I was enjoying myself while it scrambled to recover from each stroke, but Papi increased the pace until I had to give in and accept it without the comfort of the answer to that question. Acceptance wasn't really the word. More like resignation.

It's kind of a blur really (maybe Papi has a better recollection of what transpired that morning). I remember hearing my cries echo off my bedroom walls in an unnerving kind of way; I remember scrambling to the edge of my bed trying to crawl away and then backing up until my ass was up against Papi's body, pressing into him in a posture of a bottom in supplication - an appeal for forgiveness for not being able to take it with more composure; I remember his cool lips kissing my hot branded ass; I remember feeling very, very wet; I remember giggling inexplicably; I remember begging him to fuck me, please, fuck me.

He brushed his hand across my cosita from behind me and it felt like... I don't know... like the electricity of your very first kiss. Like velvet. Like the scent of wild roses. My insides quivered and waves of energy shot through me. He continued to caress me with his hand, his fingers, until I couldn't take it anymore. "Please Papi," I said, "please put your fingers inside me." He obliged (I think I may have groaned an oh god yes thank you sir groan right then) and started to finger fuck me rapidly. "Shhh, shhh, shhh. Slow, Papi, slowly please!" I gasped. And again he obliged. But still it was too much and I was crawling across the bed and he was scrambling after me trying to keep up and not slip out. I think he had his hand on my ass - whether he was stabilizing me or himself I don't know - and he was saying "geez, all this from one finger!" That must be the problem, I thought and I asked him to put another finger inside of me.

Now, normally one or two fingers is enough to slightly irritate me and make me slap your hand away. But somehow this morning it was like each finger had morphed into one of those fucking rubber tails and was biting the inside of my cunt. I felt like crying and screaming and wailing. Not because it hurt but because I so wanted to be fucked and I couldn't understand why my body was betraying me.

"It hurts papi. It hurts," I cried and he pulled his fingers out and wrapped his arms around me. "I don't know why. I don't understand," I said and he kissed me softly. "It's ok," he said. "It's ok. It's just not the right time." And he held me and rocked me and kissed me while I wept. Papi thought perhaps the flogging caused my body to react that way. But I suspect that my cunt sabotaged the fuck since she knew that Papi had to leave momentarilly if he was to make his flight. My cunt and my heart must be in cahoots; neither one will really let you in if they suspect you will leave me.

I needed to have him inside me one way or another so I reached for his cock and surprisingly he let me. I didn't think he would, but he did. He gasped that gasp he does when I first touch him that I love so much. I stroked him slowly at first. It didn't take long for his cock to harden under my touch. I love that. Somehow we moved about and then he was on his tummy. I pressed my face between his strong thighs and started to suck him into my mouth. I licked and sucked and rubbed until he came strong and hard, squeezing my face between his thighs like a vice so hard I couldn't escape.

Then we raced like the devil to the airport. But it was too late. He missed his flight. Too bad the next one wasn't sold out!

Salty or Sweet?

This is just such a lovely shot I had to share it with you. It makes me think of ripe fruit and sea life. It makes me wonder if she tastes salty or sweet. If you like it you should check out Citarre's The Genital Arts site for other lovely lady landscapes (and a few sweet cock shots as well, which are always appreciated).

TwiddlyBits Where are You?

Does anyone know where TwiddlyBits and DanglyBits went? Did I miss something in the blogosphere? It seems their link expired and I miss them terribly.

Site Meter

It is no secret I am a slow learner. I finally installed a site meter this morning. From the time it took me to install it and then go check it out I'd already had peekers from the US, Denmark and Spain. All this time I've been blogging I knew that anyone anywhere could have a looksee but I really didn't believe many were since I generally get relatively few comments (as compared to other blogs I read). I love the feeling of being "watched" by all you anonymous eyes all over the globe. Makes me feel so small and huge at the same time.

HNT

Way, way back - or what seems like way, way back anyway - when I first started this blog, I was encouraged by our dearly departed Unfurling to post pictures of myself. The thought alone made me faint. Sure, there is the pesky little issue of anonymity - which I've said before is more for the protection of my partners than myself - but as long as I'm being honest with you all I might as well confess that the real underlying issue is that I just don't feel like anyone would find my body sexy or beautiful.

I've always been a big girl. Ever since I can remember my boobs were more droopy than perky (they're on a slow migration to my arm pits as a girlfriend in college once described them). And my tummy is lopsided and droopy too. I'm covered in stretch marks and I don't even have big tits or a plump ass to make up for my lack of curves. I've always struggled to love my plump droopy self. My smart brain gets it - that there are no "good" bodies or "bad" bodies - but my dumb brain doesn't. On the surface of it I come off as confident and comfortable in my body. But it doesn't take much digging and poking to see there's a lot more to the story just under the surface.

This past year has been an interesting one in that I've both gained a lot of self confidence in myself as a sexual being and I've also lost some as well. It has been wonderful to find that there are lots of people out there who enjoy having sex with me. But it has been heart breaking as well to realize that it is indeed still true that the majority of folks would never consider a fat chick beautiful. Sure, they might fuck me. Sure, they might like fucking me. They might even like me. But chances are they don't like fucking me, or like me, because they think I'm hot.

Now, before you go and correct me, before you reprimand me for my self doubt, consider this: I have had exactly two lovers tell me that I am beautiful. Papi and Chico. And we all know that Chico was lying like a rug. So that leaves Papi. Now, I know that other lovers have loved me. And even enjoyed having sex with me. And perhaps found me attractive. But the fact that I'm turning 40 in less than a month and I've only heard "you're beautiful" from one qualified lover, well, that says a lot. It is kind of hard to tell yourself you're beautiful, and to believe it, when you're (almost) the only one saying it. The irony is that I find chubby chicks to be really hot. Just not myself.

This stuff goes way back. To play grounds and buss stops and best friend's backyards. Back to the boy I lost my virginity to. My highschool sweetheart. He was skinny as a stick and grungy and sort of funny looking but I adored him and thought he was incredibly sexy. After we made love for the first time, my first time, he turned to me and said "don't you think it's special that I love you even though I don't find you attractive?" Uh, yeah?

Anyhow, a few weeks ago I was thinking about all those bloggers out there who post on HNT and wishing for the life of me that I could find one plain, middle aged, chubby chick joining in the fun. Fuck but I would love to see a plain, middle aged, chubby chick HNT webring! I considered posting a picture of myself, but then I thought better of it. I figured those of you who read my blog might get more into the stories when you can imagine me to be in the body of your liking. But you know, the whole point of this blog is to be able to share my struggles as well as my joys... and there are times when the things that bring me joy are the very things I struggle with. Like my body.

Then tonight, peeking around at new blogs through linking to links on the sites of those of you who have left comments here, I came across Dave's pictures of Am in her maid outfit and I thought "finally, a body I can relate to!" And when I read Dave's comments on Am's comments the disconnect resonated deeply. When Papi looked into my eyes and told me I was beautiful the first time we made love I thought surely he was lying even though he had absolutely no reason to. I had already given myself to him without a struggle, as he likes to point out, so what was there to gain? But it is so deeply ingrained in me, this feeling of ugliness and unworthiness, that I couldn't imagine that he could simply be speaking his truth.

Occasionally I have moments when I feel sexy or beautiful or even just acceptable. But they are few and far apart. I would like some day to have a whole hour of feeling beautiful. Then maybe a whole day. A whole week. A month. A year. But for now I would settle for a few minutes every Thursday.

Confessions of a Pouty Brat

It was almost noon and I was feeling like a pouty brat. I knew I had to take Papi to the airport in an hour or so but I wasn't ready to say goodbye yet. Silly really, since I had already scored an extra day with him due to some nasty weather necessitating a flight postponement. I felt like a greedy, selfish child. But I just wanted more. I'm that way. Chocolate. Wine. Sex. You give me a little and instead of being satisfied with one square, one glass or one fuck I'll eat the entire bar, drink the whole damn bottle and suck you until I make you miss your plane.

The night before I had fallen asleep in his arms already wanting wanting wanting. His head was resting against my breast, cradled in the arc of my arm, and he had been rolling my nipple between his fingers like an absent minded writer chewing on the end of his pencil until he inadvertently nips off the eraser. His finger tips gradually ratcheted down their grip until he was squeezing so hard I could feel it in my clit. Literally. I wanted him inside me so badly then, and I told him so. "Later," he said. "Later." Then he fell fast asleep as I laid there in his arms waiting waiting waiting for sleep to douse my desire with her darkness.

When the alarm began squawking at 6:30 the brat in me let it buzz a bit longer than usual longing for him to bolt upright and ravish me for hours. Instead he slept like a rock all morning. The brat tried snuggling up to him and pressing her icy toes between his calves... nothing. She tried scratching his back hard like he likes with her stubby nails... nothing. She turned on the reading light and loudly flipped each page as she finished it... he just pulled the covers over his head. Finally she resorted to the sure fire trick of rocking the bed and moaning while she masturbated next to him. She even got out Wanda, who, as you know, has seen better days and is quite the loud lucy of vibrators. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

Right about then I went from bratty to pouty. Surely a girl had the right to feel sorry for herself when her papi wouldn't even wake up to fuck her before leaving her for days, weeks, months? Although, in the interest of fairness, I should say that he has certain health issues that render him unconscious in the blink of an eye like that guy who slept under the tree for years and years. Plus, something about the four pieces of toast and plum jam I had given him the night before acted like some weird psychotropic drug that put him in a thick fog for the remainder of the evening.

When he finally did stir he giggled and mumbled something about "Johnny Carson was driving with no windows."

"Oh yeah," I said. "Then what happened?"

"What are you talking about?" he said, squinting and trying to get his eyelids to unzip the sleep that was sealing them shut.

"You said Johnny Carson was driving with no windows."

"You're nuts. I don't know what you are talking about," he insisted.

Clearly he was still under the influence of the plum jam and toast.

Papi's not a morning person - noooooooo sir eeeeeee! - and all of my machinations to get him aroused were just serving to irritate him and make him crankier. So I threw in the towel, or picked it up rather, and went to run a hot bath to warm my toes and get my blood flowing the way I do most mornings. Alone. Just as I lowered my pouty self into the gardenia scented suds Papi appeared in the doorway and said sternly "get out."

"But I just got in," I pleaded.

"Get. Out." he said and disappeared.

I was a little befuddled and confused - but giddy inside. Like when the teacher calls you to the front of the class on the last day of school and you're nervous thinking you'll be humiliated in front of your friends for failing the quiz... but inside you know that you're really about to get a big gold star because you're teacher's pet. I stepped out of the tub, dripping wet, and hurriedly wrapped the towel around me without drying off.

When I got to the bedroom Papi was standing there in my jersey bathrobe and pink bedroom slippers, flogger in hand. How could you not love a man like that? I breathed a sigh of relief before realizing my reprieve was going to be short lived. We had already played with the flogger once before and I found its stingy rubber tails quite hard to bare. But the soft thuddy leather ones had enticed me enough to beseech him to use it on me again. I was hoping to get to that place where nothing else matters that Red described so well.

"Assume the position" he said like some kinky track referee. I tossed the towel aside and threw myself down on the mattress, face first and arse up in the air.

(to be continued...)

Spanking Ripples

Papi found a series of pictures by some guy who figured out how to rig up his camera so the sound of impact triggers it to snap a picture. They are really quite marvelous.

Spanko Bouquet

Pez and I took a mini vacation the other day and while I was strolling around the Chinese markets I found not one but two stores that carried thin ratan switches about 30 inches long with a little loop of cord on one end for hanging it on the wall. The store I bought this one at - for under a dollar no less! - had it in a vase with the fly swatters. You would have to be one fast handed mutha fucka to get a fly with this puppy. What in God's name could this be meant for other than caning? When I asked Dex she suggested it was for "poking." Poking or spanking. That's all we could come up with. How about you?

In other news, Papi arrives tonight and I made him this pretty spanko bouquet. Martha Stewart look out!

Curious Pussy's Good Things

OK. I confess. When I'm really randy, which, as you know, is just about always, I can't go shopping without drooling over the oddest things. I recently bought a house (did I tell you all that?) and I've worn a rut between my door and the hardware store. Every time I go out for nails or caulk or whatever I inevitably wind up in front of the rope section or the chains and locks or the wooden dowels just standing there dazed and wet and scheming. Not long ago I went out for drywall putty and I came home with this brush. I have absolutely no idea what it is for... or supposed to be for anyway. But it sure feels nice on the inside of my forearm.

Worse than the hardware store is the cooking store. Ooh, those spoons and spatulas and gigantic chopsticks just send me. Even better is walking around the utensil isle of a market that specializes in goodies I'm not familiar with. Tonight I went out to buy some pac choy and tofu and I came home with this:


It's my new favorite thing. It says "ART" on the handle. And ooh, if only you could feel how yummy it is. The handle fits perfectly in my hand and the paddle part is solid and cushy at the same time. It's some kind of hard thing like plastic on the inside padded by fabric and elastic on the outside. The colors are the sexiest part of all if you ask me.



There were some directions on the packaging that just added to the mystery of the thing. Maybe I'm just a sicko, but I think the graphics are sexy and alluring in the same way that tampon and condom directions always intrigue me and make me want to see the next page of illustrations.

Webwashing

Whoaaaaaaaaaa! Maybe this was here all along but I just now noticed the "flag" button on the upper righthand side of the Blogger navigation bar. Has this always been here people? Or is Blogger jumping on Alberto Gonzales' webwashing attack? My lord! Where is the justice? Where is the morality? When you can sell weapons and drugs on the internet but you can't write about sex between two (or three or more) consenting adults!

Spankos

I saw this painting, again, last year and was rather shocked that I had never realized before that Max Ernxt was a spanko. I did a little research and indeed it turns out he was quite the kinster for his time. Anyway. It got me thinking about the role spanking plays in my psyche.

I was peeking around some sex blogs this morning and somewhere, god help me I can't remember where, I saw a post about the need for a good stress relief spanking. It spoke to the impetus for my craving so succinctly. I wish I could find it again... I would link it here for you.

I've always doubted my credibility as a full fledged spanko since the idea (or act) of spanking doesn't really get me off sexually. I read about people who cum just from spanking alone and I'm so envious. I wish! No, for me spanking is just like good foreplay. But mostly I just experience it as a form of grounding. Not being one for meditation or guided visualization or any of that other new age woo woo stuff, spanking is my preferred mode for centering myself.

When I'm tense or anxious or despondent I have this primal urge that is experienced in a very physical way - like the need to scratch an itch or stretch a sore muscle or yawn - to be backside up and have my ass soundly whacked. I feel the need deep within my flesh, somewhere about the outside of my upper thigh. If you were to take your hand and cup my ass, then just let your hand drop a bit and slide out, that is where I feel it. In the muscles there. It feels like an aching tooth, a sore muscle, a bruise, that just needs the applied pressure of an outside source to provide relief.

Something about the sound and the sensation and the complete surrender allows me to release everything that is balled up tight inside and causing me discomfort. Some days I just wish I could come home and say "hey lover, I had such a crummy day and I'm so tense and anxious and wound up" and then s/he would say "c'mere baby and bend over my knee and let me spank that sweet ass of yours."

Anyway, I always thought I was alone in this. I figured most spankos liked spanking cuz it got them off. Until I read that blog posting today.

The Last Time

I woke to the feeling of Papi's whiskers bristling against the thin skin on my neck and his hoarsely whispered words, "wake up, sweet Pussy." I snuggled closer to his touch, like a cat waking from a nap as her master chucks behind her ears. "Now, wake up Mr. D cunt!" My breath caught and my eyes snapped open at his command. I reached over and laid my hand on Mr. D, the tips of my fingers tracing the cord of scar tissue that cinches his chest up taught and firm. He stirred and mumbled "huh, what?"

Papi had his arms around me now and his top leg hooked in the crook of my knee effectively prying my legs apart. He was rhythmically grinding his hips into my ass. The heat of his breath on my neck sent shivers across my cool skin. I purred and arched my back into him, feeling my muscles pull and stretch and limber loose as they warmed up. Suddenly I gasped and exhaled as he tightened his arms around my breasts and throat, binding us together tighter than any ropes ever could.

Involuntarilly I gripped down on Mr. D's upper arm. His body was hard now. He was awake. Listening. Waiting for his cue.

"I think you better fuck this Pussy, Mr. D," Papi said.

"You think so, do you? Well, I better see about that." He rolled over and wedged a hand between my thighs. He fingered me quickly, just long enough to feel how wet I was. "Mmm hmm, yeah, that's it, that's a good girl," he cooed to me in his monotone voice. Then he said to Papi, without looking at him, "hold the bitch down." He hoisted my calve onto his shoulder and pressed himself into me.

I had always loved how Mr. D kept his cock on after fucking. I remembered how, after the first time we fucked, we sat and chatted in my brightly lit kitchen while he nonchalantly played with himself. You know, the way guys just sorta knock their dicks about when they're soft and in the way? The only difference being that his dick was always 10 inches long and hard and ready to fuck again... even if he wasn't.

But tonight he was. Albeit, unbeknownst to each of us, it would be our last time.

He fucked me good and hard while Papi held me tight and whispered sweet and nasty things into my ear. And even though it was Mr. D who was deep inside me and Mr. D who's eyes were locked onto mine; Mr. D who was rocking my body with the force of his own and Mr. D who had pried my legs apart as far as they could go, his right hand gripping my ankle high above his head and his left knee restraining my other thigh; somehow it was really Papi who was fucking me. It was Papi's pulse who was beating in time with my own. Papi's breath pacing mine. Papi's kisses comforting me and letting me know I was loved. Papi's arms I drifted back to sleep in afterward.

In the early, early morning Mr. D and I took the elevator downstairs together in silence leaving Papi sound asleep in the hotel. We walked across the deserted lobby, Mr. D two steps in front of me. We stepped out into the chilly morning air. I motioned to my car parked half way down the block to our left and said "I'm just over there." He said "ok, see ya" and turned to the right.

Licketty Split

In a few days my friend Pez is coming to visit for a spell. You may recall she's the one who brought me La Cuchara. These days La Cuchara lives in the nightstand next to my bed. I figure most of my friends wouldn't really think to ask why I have a wooden spoon in my bedroom. The ones who would get it wouldn't bother to ask and the ones who wouldn't get it wouldn't bother either. But Pez, she might bother. And I don't know that I'm ready for that conversation with her. So I've been wondering if I should put La Cuchara away for her visit.

In general most of my friends don't know about my subby, masochistic leanings. And honestly, I think most of them would be quit surprised. I've heard this is true of many a sub. And for those of you who are reading who are subs I would be interested to know if this is indeed true for you as well. For me it isn't a question of shame as much as not wanting to deal with their misinformed judgments. I think many of my friends would see my subbiness as anti-feminist. Of course, to my thinking, there is no contradiction. I find that being true to my subby ways makes me feel more empowered as a woman, not less.

The day I drop Pez off at the airport is also the day I pick Papi up. So, if I do remove La Cuchara for a spell, you can bet she'll be back where she belongs licketty split.

Saturday Night

Well, it is Saturday night and I have managed to end up back at home feeling kinda mopey. But actually somewhat appreciating that at the moment.

After a series of unfortunate events I ended up being an hour late to the art opening tonight. I had no way to reach this guy I was meeting to let him know I would be delayed so I was somewhat surprised to find him still there when I got there. He, of course, thought I was just another internet no show, which of course made me feel awful. Apparently he had consoled himself by partaking of the free wine because he was quite drunk. We munched on cheese and crackers for a bit and then I politely said I was ready to go. Standing in front of his car he invited me over to his place for more wine and I declined without a moments hesitation. It was nice to be asked even though I hadn't the slightest desire to accept his offer. Don't get me wrong, he seemed a nice enough guy, and he looked like a cross between David Bowie and Lyle Lovett, which was not entirely unappealing. But between being drunk and being a punner I had absolutely no desire to torture myself any longer.

So, here I sit, home alone on a Saturday night, somewhat mopey that I can't seem to find a sweetie to be with, and equally pleased to be home by myself instead of out with the wrong person.

Mr. Yucky

Mr. Yummy is now Mr. Yucky. Petooyee! Blechy! Ick! I spit him out and wash my mouth out with soap!

This is getting rediculous people. I seem to go from bad to worse. Am I just at the dregs of the barrel at my age or what?!

I don't even have the energy to go into it dear reader. Like many a preadolescent child this time of year, I want to believe that "he" exists, but apparently believing with your heart and believing with your head are not always compatible.

Two Strangers on the Horizon

So, looks like I'll finally be meeting Mr. Yummy - the guy I met on Craigslist a few months ago. The one who wants to be a father. We've been emailing and talking a bit on the phone and generally feeling each other out. We agree that the other one drives us each a bit nuts. But still there is something there. And it just so happens I will be in his city and state toward the end of January for a week so we have a date set for coffee. Most likely nothing will come of it (I have very low expectations these days). But, who knows? I believe I will be there right about the time I'll be ovulating. You never know, you know?

In the mean time, I'm still waffling back and forth between giving up on dating altogether and giving it all another chance. I made a date to go to an art opening on Saturday with this guy who emailed me from a personals site I have a profile on. Usually I get the most lackluster emails from that site. But this guy seemed like he had a brain at least. We chatted a bit on the phone yesterday. Nothing really stood out except that he likes to makes puns. I'm not much of a punner myself and I get on punner's nerves because I don't laugh at their, uh, jokes. Anyway. At least I won't be sitting home all mopey this Saturday night.

Just curious...

Hmm. No one commented on my "Cunt" post or the "Be Mine" one. Are the longer posts just too tedious to read? Or is there something about them that turn people off? Just curious.

That Lunar Lady

It never ceases to amaze me how the moon exerts control over my emotions and libido. I swear I looked at the moon last night and she looked less than half full. I was confused because I was weepy and horny, always a sure sign of a full moon. Then tonight I look up and sure enough it looks like she is just one hair's breadth away from full. That lunar lady does it to me every time and I'll never understand how. I suppose since the moon controls our tides, and our bodies are made up of mostly water, it stands to reason she controls my tides as well.

When Mr. D and I were, uh, friendly I would leave my back door unlocked on full moon nights. He would sneak around the back of the building by the light of the moon and come in after I had gone to bed. I would wake up to the sound of him shushing the dog and tip toeing into my bedroom. He would say something about how I should be careful leaving my back door open like that because some strange man could come in and have his way with me just before he would have his way with me.

Word of the Day

Webster's on-line word of the day is:

chatoyant • \shuh-TOY-unt\ • adjective : having a changeable luster or color with an undulating narrow band of white light

As in: Her clit glistened like a chatoyant jewel waiting to be purloined like pirate's booty.

Those frenchies sure come up with some good words. Mais oui! Non?

Cunt

I felt as though I had been hit, hard, in the face. Not an open handed girly smack that smarts like "bitch!" No. More like a full on manly punch that pushes you off your feet and sends you reeling backward wondering what-the-fuck-just-happened-to-me? Had he really just called me a cunt? Did he really say that? How could he possibly think that was gonna turn me on?

I could take all the grabbing and hair pulling and pinching, all the shoving and choking and biting he dished out without so much as batting an eyelash. But that one word knocked me out cold like a fist. It made me feel beaten down and degraded. If words could leave bruises I woulda looked like Jake La Motta's wife right then.

As a child the only time I heard that word was when my mother was irate. Livid. It was reserved for moments of utter contempt. The boss who fired her was a cunt. The landlord that evicted us was a cunt. The friend that lied to her was a cunt. I knew, without being told, it meant the person was beyond redemption. They were no longer welcome in our lives. And only women were cunts. Men were just jerks. Or assholes. Or bastards. And that was pretty much to be expected. And readily forgiven. But a woman who was a cunt was a traitor to all. She was worthless and debased. She was to be ostracized. Alienated. Banished.

Unwittingly, unwillingly, I had inherited my mother's vernacular, just as she had surely been handed the torch from her mother, and so on and so on. Vernacular, from the Latin vernaculus, from verna, a slave born in the master's house. And the truth of the matter is that women have a long history (doesn't that word just say it all?) of being the slaves of men, sexual and otherwise, since forever and that legacy is built into the very fabric of our beings. Our language. Our thoughts. Our desires. What made that word sting so much was the subtext; that my entire being, my intellect, my soul, my body, could be reduced to one word: cunt. And not even my cunt. His cunt.

And here was my lover, this man who is so sweet and gentlemanly, who had been so careful to establish clear boundaries and respectful limits before any salacious words were spoken or bare flesh revealed, who surely knew firsthand what it was to be reduced to a cunt himself, even he found some satisfaction, some thrill, some power in using the one word that rendered me powerless. Or so it seemed to me at that moment.

But, as it is with all things that hurt at first, there was a lesson to be learned. An opportunity for transcending the pain, for personal transformation.

cunt (noun)
1 the female pudenda; also : coitus with a woman
2 usually disparaging and obscene

Now, intellectually speaking, I know that there is nothing inherently evil or "obscene" about my cunt or about sex. God gave me both, right? And it seems to me that God meant for me to celebrate his/her gifts, not to snicker and sneer at them like I'm the victim of some unfortunate white elephant gift exchange. That's what my head says anyway. But, if I am to be truthful, there are voices that say yes indeed, my cunt is icky and smelly and shameful, and my desires are something I should be ashamed of. But I know in my heart that I should tell those voices to shut the fuck up. They are the same voices that tell me I'm too fat to be sexy, or too stupid to be president, or too weak to kick your ass. And we know whose voices tell that story, right? His story.

Rather than buy the "disparaging and obscene" definition of cunt any longer from here on out I'm gonna opt for the new improved unabridged Curious Pussy definition:

cunt (noun)
1 the female pudenda - a sexy, splendid and sacred part of the female anatomy that is gifted with the power to give joy and pleasure to the owner and the person(s) with whom she chooses to share her cunt
2 an expression of praise and reverence of the sensual and sexual powers of the cunt, often uttered during moments of passion inspired by the cunt; as in "yeah, that's so nice you cunt, you're gonna make your daddy cum for you."
3 one who possesses the powers of the cunt

So now, whenever someone calls me a cunt, I'll take it as the compliment it was meant to be.

By the way, if you haven't done it already, you really should read "Cunt" by Inga Muscio. It's a beautiful thing.

Speechless

Are you caught up on the latest witch hunt brought to us by the Bush (mis)administration? Oy vey!

Thud or Sting

The thing about being a sub and, yes, I admit it, a bit of a masochist, is that most of your toys don't work so well without a little help. I mean heck, have you ever tried spanking your own damn self? The thwack really loses something at your own hand.

Papi is coming to visit for New Year's and he suggested, well, ordered me actually, to get a couple new toys. So I dutifully went shopping with my pal Magda. She browsed the vibrators while I found the flogger section and pulled out three versions of the particular flogger he requested. I was a bit nervous about the rubber bits - seems like they might bite more than I've bargained for - so I opted for the one with medium tails for more of the thud then the sting. Plus, honestly, those things are pricey and the smaller one was cheaper. I didn't go for the very smallest though. That just seemed, well, for ninnies. I may regret thinking that come Jan. 1st though, eh? I also bought this little rubber thingy that seemed like some hokey tupperware sex toy thing. But Papi insists it is better for more sensitive areas like nipples and whatnot.

Magda left empty handed and I left almost $90 poorer and really cranky, once again, about going home to an empty house.

Tuesdays

Uncle Mike emailed me today. Said if it wasn't too forward could we get together tonight. We used to have a standing date every Tuesday. But I ended that after he ran out just before his girlfriend's nightly ten o'clock call because he didn't want to talk to her while he was still at my house. "She might hear the train in the background and wonder where I am." So much for his "open relationship." I told him to call me after he had a few more talks with his girlfriend.

Anyway. I almost said sure, come on over. Good thing I had to work tonight. I've just been so lonely and cold and craving human touch. I fucking hate being single. I don't want to come home to an empty house and a cold bed. It would be nice to have some company, even if it is just on Tuesdays.

Be Mine

I've never been one to pay much mind to Valentine's Day. The way I see it it's just another greeting card industry scam with the florists and chocolatiers in close cahoots. But last year was different. Last year Cupid grabbed his pistol and aimed straight for my heart.

I just happened to have a free pass to see Beautiful Boxer on Valentine's Day. So I invited Mr. D, not really taking into account the significance of the day until the evening of the show. He is generally quick to accept a free pass to just about anything, being such a cheap bastard, so naturally he said yes.

When the evening came I remembered what day it was and thought I would dress up a bit. Play the part. I was feeling amorous and I figured what the heck, maybe I would get me some lovin if I played my cards right. It hadn't been too long since he and I had our first tryst with Papi, and even though he had definitely cooled his jets with me the flame wasn't snuffed out just yet.

It took longer than expected to change out of my jeans into a girly girl outfit because I couldn't find the right match of shoes and skirt. After countless variations I ended up with a short black skirt, a pink top, black thigh high nylons and three inch fuck me pumps. But now I was running late. I called Mr. D and told him I would meet him at the theater instead of picking him up at his place.

I found a parking spot a few blocks from the theater and was rushing to the show when Mr. D pulled up along side me in his creepy child molester van, complete with tinted windows in the back, and said, "Hey little girl, want a ride?" Of course I did since I was wearing a pair of heels that made me wobble like a drunk drag queen. I jumped up into the front seat and said "Thanks Mr.!" He looked at me and smiled. Something about his grin reminded me of the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood.

The movie was great. Up there on my list of favorites really. It's the true story of a young Thai girl who was born in a boy's body. She becomes a really good kick boxer to earn money for her family, her sex change operation and to fulfill her promise to her mother to stand up for right to be herself. At one point in the movie she is walking down a path in her boy's body and she sees this lovely girl sitting on a bench. She walks up behind her and I was confused. "Who is that?" I whispered to Mr. D. He leaned into me and whispered back "It is the moment you meet yourself." My heart skipped a beat with his answer and a feeling akin to humility passed through me. How many people ever truly meet themselves... and then take the step into uncertainty to become themselves? Few, in my experience. And yet here I was sitting next to someone who had bravely done just that.

After the movie we walked out into the cold, rainy night and stood around dazed. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of heavy paper rolled into a tube and tied with a ribbon. He handed it to me and said "Happy Valentine's Day." I pulled the ends of the bow and unraveled the paper. There was a ragged heart torn out of red constructions paper and in his nice strong print it said "to the very good girl." The word "good" was scratched out and he had scrawled above it "bad." I looked at him and he said "because you were late." I should have known right then I could never please him.

We decided to go pick up some burgers and head back to his place to watch tv. He had that skippy air about him and I felt giddy with anticipation.

Back at his apartment we danced around his living room, figuratively speaking. He passed by me and grabbed my wrist, pinning it behind my back, nibbling my neck and making me squirm until I went weak in the knees. Then he abruptly let go and walked by me to go to the bathroom. On the pass back through the living room he leaned into me until he was pressing me against the wall and then, as soon as I gave in and stopped fighting back, he walked away into the kitchen. I was beginning to suspect I was gonna have to fight hard to get his affection tonight.

I turned the television on and laid down on the floor to watch America's Funniest Videos. There was only one seat in his livingroom and it was reserved for him. He came over and stood above me for a second before leaning down and switching the channel to CSI. He loves that show a bit too much, if you know what I mean. Then he mumbled something about something and lowered himself onto my back. The next thing you know I feel his hand pressing on the back of my head so my cheek was smashed against the carpet. He was grinding his cock on my ass, humping me hard and reaching between my legs with his free hand. I tried to push myself off the floor, laughing, and he pushed me back down and said "Where do you think you're going girlie?" The more I resisted the more he insisted. God, he felt so good. He was playful and rough and responsive to every twitch of my muslces.

"Ouch, the carpet!" I complained. He went into his bedroom and brought back a fuzzy synthetic Harley blanket. He threw it down on the floor and then rolled me over on top of it. Then he kneeled between my legs and yanked down my tights, using them to bind my feet together while they were still on. He pulled on my panties until they were wedged up my ass and pussy and then tugged them aside, all the while murmuring "mmm hmm" the way he does that drives me wild.

He ordered me to lay still and stood up to slip on his big black cock. As usual he sort of stumbled into the harness; his old back injury always throws him off balance. I smiled at him and he looked at me puzzled. He assumes I'm laughing at him and I've never had the courage to tell him no, I love him most when he stumbles.

He knelt down awkwardly, like an old man, between my feet and lifted my hips up into the air so I was on my knees, face still pressed against the floor. One hand on my ass and the other guiding his hard 10 inch cock past my panties and into me. He loved to fuck me with my panties on and it turned me on to know it. As he began to thrust inside of me I just couldn't take the size of him. "Shhh" he hissed as I begin to howl. "The neighbor will hear you." His upstairs neighbor is his landlord's daughter. I couldn't help myself, the feeling of him inside me was just too much, and soon I was moaning loudly and begging "yes" and "no" in the same breath. He reached into his pocket and shoved a hankerchief into my mouth. "There, that's better," he said. I spit it out and snapped "that better fucking be clean!" and the moment was suddenly broken. "It's clean as a whistle baby," he said. I bit back down onto it and willingly gagged myself for him.

He's got his hands on my shoulder blades and he's ramming himself into me, hard. I collapse to the floor like I had been hit by a wrecking ball. I'm bucking up and down, trying to escape the weight of him and simultaneously get as close to him as our bodies will allow. He's telling me "Spread you legs wider! Take my cock baby. That's right. Squeeze my cock tighter." I can't escape him and even if I could I wouldn't want to.

He wraps his arm around my neck and my face is now pressed into his hard bicep. I can't breath. Up close the earthy red brown of his skin and his faded tattoos make me salivate. I feel his breath on my neck and the sound of him "mmm hmmming" in my ear and I feel dizzy, light headed, like I'm gonna pass out.

Then he pulls out of me. I spit out the gag and cry "NO!" and thrash about. He shoves me to the floor one last time, pulls off his harness, and mounts my hip. He humps me hard and fast, really fast, like a dog, until he cums. He doesn't make any noise when he cums. He just stands up and goes over to his chair. He sits down and silently takes the remote and turns up the volume.

After a few minutes I crawl over to him and lay my head in his lap. I want him to stroke my hair or rub my back, but he just puts his hands behind his head, leans back in his chair, and watches tv until he drifts off to sleep.

Have I become my own cat's paw?

Not much going on in my world as far as sex and love and all that. I'm still feeling pretty disillusioned by it all. Mr. D. Uncle Mike. Chico. I think it is time for this pussy to slink away and lick her wounds for a while.

Flash Flood

Seeing Papi is sort of an excruciating and exquisite torture. I go for so long craving his touch, his kisses, his smile, his love and affection that expectations and desire build like magma boiling underneath the surface of my skin. When we are finally together the slightest pressure of his finger tips on my spine or the tingly tart taste of his tongue in my mouth pries open the tectonic plates of time and denial and I feel my body and my heart explode open with a force that overwhelms everyone in its way, including even me.

Like the earth and the heat and the flesh and the gases and the bones and the water and all the unnamed things that flow through the molten veins of the volcano so is my body. The need and the love and the disappointment and the hope that gurgle and bubble and sploosh out of me can be like a fresh water spring at the side of the road on a long dusty drive. Or like a torrential downpour that flash floods your home leaving you confused and distraught in the middle of the night.

He comes to me late, if he comes at all, and I want to scream and cry and thrash about just like a little girl until he holds me tight and comforts me and tells me it's all right, he's here now, he won't leave me again. But instead I try to act my age and sublimate my feelings as best I can like Dr. Freud instructs us is the sure sign of maturity and adulthood. To some extent I succeed and I can be grateful for what I do have, the time I do get to spend with him, the energy that he does have left over for me. But he and I both feel the red hot sea surging inside of me, threatening to blow me wide open at any moment. Perhaps it is just the intensity of a year's worth of desire compressed into a few days every other month or so; the power of this pressure holding the possibilities of gems as brilliant as any star or obsidian as deeply dark as the darkest night.

Still waking up, trying to drag himself to one last meeting, he rolled over and laid his head on my tummy. The sweetness of the gesture always takes my breath, ever since the first time he laid his head there and told me weeks later how he relished that moment. I laid still and felt his pulse beat in rhythm with the rising of the breath in my belly. I wanted the moment to stay frozen in time and all the responsibilities of the day to vanish so I could keep him there with me.

I surreptitiously slipped my hand under the covers and felt the fullness and warmth in my cosita. Like an over ripe fruit, juicy and sticky sweet. His touch always hastens my ripeness like that. I pressed my fingers into my creases and the warmth spread to my abdomen. I wanted to feel pleasure in my body, in his presence, before he left. I thought maybe then I could hold it there, that feeling, until we were together again. As the slow languid movements of my hand and my hips warmed up I could sense his rising alertness and attention. Not wanting to disturb him I sucked in my breath and held my ass firmly to the mattress.

I felt his fingers lightly caress my tummy and then his hand whipped down and jerked the covers off of me, exposing the sight and the sound of my self soothing. The boldness of the gesture made me want to take him inside me and swallow him whole. I held him tight and pressed him into me. I allowed my hips to rise up to meet him just ever so and when he slipped his arm under me and cradled my ass, letting his fingers brush along the bottom bits of my pussy and my cunt... right then that's when the plates parted and it all came flooding to the surface.

From there it was a flash of my bucking hips and begging him to fuck me and thrashing about as he quelled my beseeching with his fingers deep inside me. It was all an early morning blur that ended too soon with his sweet lips on mine and the alarm screaming it was time to say good bye again.

Cake

I get to see mi papi next week. I'm a little anxious, as always, but also very eager. I just want to feel him next to me. Anything else will be icing on the cake. Mmmm. Cake.

Big and Sweet

Well, I just got back from a perfectly fine dinner date. In person this guy reminded me a bit of Forest Whitaker. He was big and sweet, handsome in an unassuming kind of way, and didn't strike me as too complicated or troubled. Not that I know anything about Forest Whitaker personally. Just saying is all.

We ate pho and drank bubble tea and talked about blogging and music and life. It always gnaws at me, the desire to tell people about my blog. But I think it wisest I keep it to myself with most. Anyway, I had to cut the date short as I got an emergency call relating to work that I had to go deal with. But it was kind of nice to have it be short; it didn't leave any room for awkward good byes or time for me to make any stupid snap decisions relating to sex.

No Intention

I have a date tomorrow night to eat pho with a handsome bloke in his forties. And I have absolutely no intention of fucking him anytime soon. So there.

Doors

At least I have Chico to thank for giving me a wake up call. Well, him and Papi and Elle. Papi and Elle were just willing to say what I already knew to be true is all. It's true, some of my choices in the past year have been less then wise. I haven't had unsafe sex in terms of HIV and other STDs, but there are plenty of other ways I have. I've had sex with people when my feelings were at stake. And my pride. And even my physical safety. I've invited people into my house, my body and my heart who disrespected my invitation. Just came in and tramped mudd all over the place and left the door open on the way out. But I think I've about had enough. I don't want to go back to the deadbolts that kept me locked away from people for so many years in the past, but at the very least I'm gonna look into a better peephole so I can see who is at the door before I let them in.

Yummy!

Geez. I'm so horny and there's no one around to mack on. I don't see Papi for another 13 days. Uncle Mike and I are taking a break until he gets the green light from his girlfriend to have "play dates" on the side (I hate that term, whether it is being used for fucking or toddler romps in the park, it just sounds so suburban-housewife-and-wanna-be-scenster). Spanky moved back home to Memphis. And Mr. D is in la la land with his new petite straight biker chick. I guess it's just me and Wanda for another night.

Ah, but of course there is another boat on the horizon. One night a few weeks ago insomnia led me to cruise Craigslist in other cities. I found this one dude in a city I visit frequently and often consider relocating to who was saying he wants to have a baby with someone and was willing to consider the different ways that could look. So we started emailing and have been slowing sussing each other out. But then it started getting interesting after I sent him a picture of me sitting by a waterfall in the town he lives in and he said I looked yummy. Yummy. How's that for a sexy adjective?

We spoke by phone this morning and I liked what I heard. He's candid. Says what he's thinking. Appropriately inappropriate, if you know what I mean. Like me. I insinuated that I'm a tad bit kinky, he reciprocated, and soon we've established that he's a dom and I'm a sub. Crazy how life works. And Craigslist. Anyway. No expectations. Just potential.

But still. Tonight it is me and Wanda and my three legged dog. Good thing a three legged dog is a superior snuggler without that extra limb to interfere with things.

Waiting for the Solstice

Well, for those of you who may have been following my saga: I'm not pregnant yet. My last insemination, my sixth, was the last of Mr. #556, the donor I had bought in bulk so to speak. And I did indeed buy a house... with my life savings. So now I'm left exhausted - financially, emotionally and physically - to take stock of things. Consider my options. Explore the possibilities. Wait for my third boat to drift on by.

November and December will be my winter. Come January I expect to rise like a Phoenix with a new perspective, a new vision, a new season.

No pressure or anything though. Nah.

Grrr

I woke up alert and heart racing. I knew I needed to go work out to rid myself of the panic, but I knew the gym was bringing on the panic as well. Because I would most likely see Chico. But fuck him. I refuse to let him fuck with me any longer.

Half way through my workout I saw him enter. I looked away so I didn't have to think too much about him. I switched from Beck to Hole and ran away from it all to the sound of "Hit So Hard." That has become my theme song of late. Then I switched over to Atomic Dog and worked my way to winding down with Hot Topic (by Le Tigre). That song always makes me proud to be a woman. Jumping off the elliptical I saw Chico in the back pulling weights. I went over to him and sat myself down right next to him. He turned and smiled his cute little smile and said "grrr?" and grimaced at me. He was either asking if I had worked out hard or if I was mad. I said "no." Then I handed him a note that said, in Spanish, "your wife called me Friday night and wanted to know who I was and why I had been calling your cell phone. Please explain."

"She was using my phone," he said.

"Why didn't you tell me you had a wife here?" I asked.

He thought for a minute then said, "You asked if I had a girlfriend, not a wife."

This was bullshit as I had indeed asked if he had a wife. And he had told me yes, in Mexico. And I had asked if he missed her and wanted to be with her, and he said no. And I asked if she missed him and wanted to be with him, and he said no. Regardless of whether I had said girlfriend or wife or whatever he fucking lied to me and to her. And lying I just can't tolerate.

I told him he was a bad man and he said "no malo."

I said "Si. Malo. Adios." And turned and walked away.

The only good part that came out of this is that maybe now I'll get so pissed when I see him at my gym that I'll work out twice as hard. I always work out harder when I'm pissed.

On a side note, this whole experience has made me reconsider my pledge to keep the names of my partners anonymous. You know, I have the right to tell my story and if it happens to include you... well, maybe you should have thought of that before you fucked me. But, for now I think I'll continue to keep their real names to myself simply because I don't want some crazed pissed off wife that I never meant to hurt gunning me down in front of my Y.

Poo Poo

When I started this blog I was curious. Curious about desire. Curious about sex. Curious about subs, and doms, and switches. Curious about pain. And pleasure. And love.

But now; now I feel sated. And disillusioned. And humbled. It took me a while, just about 40 years now, to figure out what the rest of you probably learned long ago. People suck. They lie. They cheat. They fuck you every way they can.

I don't know what the answer is. How do you find the gems buried beneath the plain old stones? I suspect it starts with not falling for fool's gold.

I've never been one to blindly accept the status quo. Never. But these days I'm beginning to think that the stereotypes I've poo poo'ed for years have some basis in reality. What I've been able to verify so far is that:

1) Most men think with their dicks and feel perfectly justified in doing so simply by virtue of being men.
2) Most men really do fall for the madonna/whore story. If you do what they want and fuck them on the first date then you are a whore and therefore deemed worthy of being treated like trash. And if you hold out, well, then you are a prude and are worthy of being treated like trash.
3) For most men it means nothing if you are a good person, a nice person, an intelligent person, a giving, loving, creative, compassionate person. What matters is that you have a nice ass and a good pair of tits.

Breaking the Rules

Today I went and hung out with this tattoo artist hippy dude I met on Craigslist. I responded to an ad he posted. I broke my rule about spelling and punctuation and grammar actually (it has to be at least as good as mine because, hey, if I could teach myself how to write decently so can any bloke). His ad was short, but something about it was appealing. It was unassuming.

Anyhow. I met him at his boat, where he lives. It is actually moored about three minutes from my office. It was this sweet little 29 foot sail boat with beautiful old hardwood details and a homey interior. I met his three legged cat, which of course made me feel like we had a connection since I have a three legged dog. We went and wondered around a nearby flea market where I found a funky little kitchen table for ten bucks. Then we went back to his boat and I looked at pictures of work he's done. A lot of it was on girls' tummies and pubic area. He said he is short on work and would do some inking for me for reduced rate. I would actually take him up on it if I could only fricken decide what I want. I would have to have it on my ass though since I don't think my droopy old lady tummy would make a good canvas.

Anyway. It was fun. He reminded me of men from my childhood in the Haight in the 60's.

Then I went and hung out with Trax and her friends. We carved pumpkins and drank wine. I told them my Chico story and the conversation pretty much stopped. I guess not everyone fucks married men from their gym in their spare time. My bad.

The Thing About Earthquakes

Chico called me last night about 5:30 but I didn't catch the message until later. Actually, there was no message. I just saw that he called. That's odd, I thought. I thought he was at work. At ten I texted him buena noche and climbed into bed. A few minutes later his number was ringing my phone. I ignored it. I was too tired to try and converse in espanglish. The phone vibrated a bit and then flashed at me that I was to page his number. I don't think so, I thought and rolled over.

Minutes later it started to vibrate again and I grabbed the phone.

Hola? I said, kind of perturbed.

You've been calling this number? a woman's voice said, in perfect english.

I'm sorry I said, perplexed, I must have dialed a wrong number. My sleepy head was trying to make sense of things, like when you're standing with the sidewalk rolling under your feet and buildings swaying all about you and your brain just keeps asking is this an earthquake?

Who were you trying to reach? she asked.

Chico, I said.

Who are you? she demanded.

I'm his friend from the Y. Who are you?

I'm his wife! she shot back.

Silence. On both ends. And then she hung up.

The phone rang one more time about 30 minutes later but I didn't answer it. I was on the phone with Papi trying to make sense of everything. I guess that's the thing about earthquakes - they don't really shake you up until after they have passed and you're left standing there trying to figure out what the heck just happened.

You No Cum?

This morning I woke up with a sore throat and a headache so I slept in longer than usual. I knew I should get up and go work out, but I just didn't have any energy. But then I remembered Chico. So I threw on my workout clothes and headed over to the Y.

As I drove up he was climbing into his car so I swung my Camry around next to his Montero and jumped out. It took about twenty minutes for him to convey that he had to go to work today for a few hours but then he would be free in the afternoon. I explained I had a house guest coming tonight so I wasn't really free later to hang out. Throughout our conversation he would take his fingers and touch my tummy as if he were trying to pick a toothpick out of a small jar. Tickley. Sexy. I gave him a hug good bye and he put his hand on the front of my breast as though he was cupping a football or something. Silly men.

I had a decent work out and then I went home to shower. As soon as I stepped inside my phone rang and it was Chico. "Donde esta?" I asked. "At the jeem," he said. "Por que?" He said something about his boss telling him he didn't need to come in till 4. "Entonces, venga a mi casa," I told him. I wasn't sure if I had said it right or if he understood me. But after five minutes or so there he was coming up my steps.

We chatted and kissed a bit and then he asked if I wanted some beer. I said I didn't care for any but we could go get some if he liked. So we did. We came back to my place and drank beer and ate chicharrones and tried to converse. He said "you no cum, sexo con mi?" and said no, I didn't cum when we fucked last. "Why?" he asked and I tried to explain it is "dificil para mi cuerpo." But he just looked perplexed. So I told him he fucked too quick. That he needed to spend more time fucking me. We laughed. "Pero..." and then he said something about all the noise I made when he was licking my pussy before and he gestured that his face was all wet from my cum. I tried to explain that me making noise and being wet didn't necessarily mean that I had cum, but it proved way too difficult for my limited Spanish vocabulary.

I motioned for him to come to me. He looked confused and I wiggled my fingers again. He stood up and came over to where I was lying on the couch. I took his belt loops and pulled him to me. We kissed. Again, those funny nippy kisses with no tongue. Kind of like how Mr. D used to kiss but without the implied disgust that my mouth was contaminated or something. More just like he has a small mouth. He reached down and lifted up my skirt. He put his hand inside my panties and started flicking my clit with his fingers.

Now, I gotta say, that flicking thing really does nothing for me except make me irritable. As far as I'm concerned, if you're gonna touch my cosita then you better be ready to work it. So I pulled his hips closer into me and ground myself against him. He bit at my neck and then stood up and took his pants off. I took the opportunity to jump up and grab his hand and go into the bedroom. The bed would be more comfortable and besides the condoms were in there.

Chico climbed onto the bed after me and was immediately asking for a condom. I laughed and reached over and grabbed one. Then I held it in my teeth while he kneeled between my legs and began rubbing my clit again. I told him yes, si, and pressed his hand more firmly into me. He rubbed feverishly but without any responsiveness to my body's cues. I thrust my hips into his hand to build more rhythm and let the inside of my thighs rub up against his hard cock. He kept saying "el condon" and I held it up indicating to him that I would put it on when I was ready.

Finally I rolled the condom onto his cock and began stroking him, firmly and slowly, and pressing him against me. He began rubbing my clit with the head of his cock, which felt nice but still he wasn't really matching my rhythm. Then he put a single finger inside of my cunt and began to finger fuck me fast like he was poking a hole or something.

After a few minutes of this I took his wrist and pulled his hand away from me. I pushed his cock aside and began rubbing my own clit, Chico still kneeling between my legs, and showing him how to do it. Slowly. Firmly. Matching the movements of my hips. He watched intently, hopefully learning or thing or two.

I pressed up on my heels and lifted my hips, pressing myself into him, lining his cock up with my cunt. He entered me and then laid down on top of me and kissed me frantically while fucking me quickly. He fucked like a teenage boy: quickly and quietly and wide eyed. He came and then, once again, jumped up instantly from the bed. He pulled on his underwear and asked if he could take a shower. "Si," I said. "No problema." While he showered I lay in bed and pondered what the hell is wrong with this guy. He's 44. Hasn't he learned how to fuck a girl?

After his shower he comes back into my bedroom, fully dressed and babbling about going into the other room and listening to music. I told him fine. But I stayed under the covers. I was cold. And my throat still hurt. And I was irritated. He came back in and said "entonces?" I told him to come sit next to me, and he did. I took his work keys off his belt loop so they wouldn't dig into my face and threw them on the floor. I laid my head in his lap. He placed his hand on the small of my back and we snuggled. He motioned toward the Virgen de Gaudalupe votive that was on my dresser and I told him yes, I know who she is. He looked at her and the "El Corazon" prints sitting next to her and stroked my back. "You no cum?" He asked and I told him he fucked me too quickly again and that he needed to spend at least two to three hours if he wanted to fuck me right. "Mi? Tu? You no like el sexo?" I tried to explain it wasn't just about cumming, that all the parts of sex were important. And he agreed. But he still was concerned I didn't like the sex. I told him he needed to practice a lot more so he could please me and he said ok. He would practice.

The best part was afterwards when I stood around and did a sink load of dishes while he stood next to me and talked about life. At least I think that's what we were talking about.

Before going he whipped out his translator and typed in "happy" and shot me a quizzical look. I took the translator and typed in "content" and it translated "contento." I handed it to him and asked him "content?" "Si," he said. "Contento."

More Please

All day I've been imagining those little sharp teeth biting at my neck. Funny, it was a lousy fuck... but it left me wanting more.

Peaches

My sister Peaches is leaving on Saturday. Going back home. I'm gonna miss her something fierce. Now I'll just be my own family here once again. Well, it was a gift to have her here as long as she was. Maybe we'll live near each other one day again in the future. In the mean time, maybe she'll say hi on my blog on occasion. Maybe she'll even have a story or two of her own to tell since she just cashed in the gift certificate I got her for her birthday at our locally owned women's sex toy store.

Fuck On Sis!

Gone Fishing

Today was the day Chico and I were going to go fishing. Or so I thought. It is hard to know exactly what we agreed on, or if we were agreeing to the same thing at all. But as I understood it we would meet at ten after working out and go down to the beach where he would show me how to fish.

At ten he was nowhere to be seen and I figured we had gotten our wires crossed. Not speaking the same language was beginning to seem a formidable barrier to hooking up. So I went home and jumped on the computer to translate a text message into Spanish: Where are you? I thought you were going to catch a big fish for me and cook me dinner. Meet you at 11 at the Y?

Then I turned around and drove back to the Y. As I pulled into the parking lot he pulled in behind me. I got out and we both started laughing, him babbling on in Spanish and me in English and both of us having no clue what the other was saying. I asked him if he wanted to go fishing still and he pointed to the sky and made his fingers wiggle like rain falling. I guess fish don't bite in the rain. I guess. Or he is sneakier than I give him credit for. But I insisted the rain wouldn't bother us so we got in his car and headed toward the beach.

On the way he asked where I lived and I indicated just around the corner from the beach. "Do you want to see my place?" I asked. He shot me look of am-I-understanding-you-correctly and said "yes." So we detoured a few blocks over and went around to my house.

Inside I gave him the tour and then I showed him how I translate from English to Spanish on the internet. We messed around with that for a while and I was able to get some of my questions answered. He's 44. He moved here from Mexico because it was too hard to make ends meet at home. Now he works in a large factory here making donuts. As we passed the laptop back and forth he would rest his hand on my leg, or my arm, or my shoulder. And it felt nice. He has a son who is in his twenties and two grandchildren who live here as well. The mother of his children is still in Mexico. I didn't find out any more details about her. Anyway, it became tiring typing our conversation back and forth, and frustrating how poorly the translation program really works so we stood up and awkwardly gathered our things to leave. After some small debate in my head I decided what the fuck and just leaned in and kissed him.

He was a tentative kisser who seemed to nibble my lips more then kiss. He had sharp ragged little teeth that, along with his scratchy face, made it feel like an animal was biting at my neck. He took his small hands and held my head back a bit and chewed on my ears, then, turning me around, he nibbled on the back of my neck while his hand almost covered my mouth, but not quite. His hands wandered down my neck until he was grabbing my breasts and mumbling something about my heart. I laughed and moved his hand up and towards the center of my chest so he could feel my heart beat.

I really wasn't planning on fucking him. I just wanted a kiss. And to go fishing. But as soon as he started to be the slightest bit controlling I changed my mind. I took his hand and led him back to my bedroom.

He pretty much immediately dropped his jeans and motioned for me to sit on the edge of the bed. We kissed some more, still those funny nibbly little kisses, and then I pulled him on top of me. I could feel his hard on pressing into me through my jeans. We kissed some more and then I pushed him off so I could take my pants off and grab a condom.

He pulled me back to the edge of the bed and lifted my legs in the air so he could take my panties off. Next thing I knew he was rubbing my clit with his fingers and getting down on his knees to go down on me. He began licking long slow strokes from my cunt to my clit. But somehow, despite being slow, he still managed to be rushed and hurried. Then he abruptly stood up with his cock in his hand and was handing me the condom. I'm really not all that skilled at putting those things on but I obliged anyway. He stood at the edge of the bed and entered me and fucked me like he hadn't fucked in years. Our bodies slapped together and he panted from the exertion. I teased him since I regulalry do an hour of cardio while he just spends the whole time lifting weights. He came quickly, very quickly, and quietly, and then pulled out and stood straight up. He had my juice all over his face and he wiped it off on his shirt. I handed him a towel, which he used to wipe off his cock. Then he put on his jeans and went to the bathroom.

Huh, I thought. That was it? After all that lead up? Oh well. Maybe we really should have gone fishing.

The Caning

I guess it started when I asked Papi if there was anything he wanted to do to me that he had yet to try. He said beat my ass with a switch. It turns out he once saw a girl being caned and he liked it. Quite a bit. And he wanted to try it.

Periodically he would share with me some piece of information he had garnered about canes and caning. What kind of wood worked best. How to flick it with your wrist just so. Where to hit. At first I couldn't imagine enjoying being hit with a switch. It just seemed so barbaric. Cruel. Too stingy. But the more he talked about it, and the more I heard how intrigued he was, and thoughtful, and methodical about his education, the more it seeped into my fantasies and I wanted it too.

I wanted it for him. And for myself. I wanted to know what the sensation felt like. I wanted to know if I could endure it. I wanted to know how he would take to it. Would he beat me hard? Gently? What words would he use? I wanted to be his first. I wanted him to trust me enough. I wanted to be special to him. And I wanted to transcend the stinging, rage-filled, flyswatter beatings of my childhood at the hand of my mother that left me feeling humiliated and worthless. And ironically, to have reparations for the beatings I didn't get from my father. For he would send my siblings down to the irrigation ditch to pick a switch of birch. He would command them to pick a long one, a strong one, a green one, and then to strip the bark off of it. Then he would holler biblical passages while he whooped their asses red hot for some small childish offense. Of course this terrified me, and the humiliation quotient was exacerbated immeasurably by the fact that here all was witnessed by a brood of snot-nosed, snickering siblings, but I knew that the fact that he never lifted his hand to me forever separated me from my siblings, and from my father himself. Even in my own family I was an outsider. The way I saw it, now was my chance to come out the other side of a beating strong, proud and loved.

Papi applied himself to finding out everything he could about caning. He wanted to make sure he wouldn't injure me. I reassured him that I was willingly offering myself up to be his guinea pig. I would harbor no animosity if we tried it and I didn't like it, or worse, it was more painful than I could appreciate or went awry in some way.

As our trust in each other solidified we eventually chose a date. What can I tell you? I was excited. And anxious. And the anxiety made me more excited. I wanted my questions answered. But more importantly, more deeply, I wanted the experience to be something we both would cherish. That would leave us each transformed. Afterall, it isn't every day you get to be a virgin again. Or to take a virgin for that matter.

Prior to his arrival (you may recall he lives a plane ride away from me) I went to the various sex toy shops in town and sussed out their equipment. The first place had acrylic canes that looked too ouchy and impersonal. I needed something that once breathed.

The second place had canes too posh and attitudinous. I needed humble. Simple. Something with a Quakerly aesthetic.

The third store was just right. They had a jug of canes whittled from dowels like some home enterprise collaboration with Home Depot and Martha Stewart. They were smooth. And light. And cheap. Perfect!

When the weekend finally came the waiting was tortuous. And delicious. Like Christmas. And when the night finally came and we stopped by store number three on the way home it was nothing short of perfect. I darted over to the bucket and pointed out the switches. As I saw it it was his job to pick one. I busied myself looking at a certain pair of leather cuffs I've been coveting, but inside I was all anticipation, waiting to see his selection. There was a woman standing on the other side of the bucket and she eyed us curiously. When Papi started picking up canes she was like "Oh no! I don't think so" and we all laughed. Me, somewhat sheepishly... since I did indeed think so. Comedy Central was on the tube and the normally sleazy downtown store known for peep booths and porn was magically transformed into a cozy den of friends.

Papi selected two possibilities, one from the thin camp and one from the thick, and asked me to inspect them. I leaned toward the thick one for its thunkiness, but the thin was straighter, more pleasing to the eye, and made my choice difficult. Torn between two ideals. I eventually chose the thicker because I intuited the thump would be more satisfying. And perhaps more comfortable in his hand.

Once we got home the cane hung out on the dresser in my bedroom for what seemed like forever. Papi had the whole weekend with me and what was only a matter of a day or two was beginning to seem like eons. The suspense, the fear, the longing, kept me in a constant state of arousal. We spent the entirety of his last day here in bed, groping and kissing and sleeping. It was so delicious. And still, I was on edge the entire time as I knew, eventually, he would reach for the cane.

Finally the time came. He asked me which I wanted first, a caning or a fucking? Usually I can't make on the spot decisions about anything, but this time I answered without hesitation: first cane me, then fuck me, then cane me again. I brought him the cane. And some peeled ginger root. And I waited patiently for his instruction.

He told me to lay face down on the mattress. "Yes sir," I said as I laid down with my cheeks pressed into the flannel sheets and my ass bared in the air. The flannel was soft. And comforting. I felt him stroke my ass, lightly, with the side of the cane. It felt smooth. And cool. And I savored the sensations, knowing it wouldn't feel that way for long. He brushed my cheeks and dragged the tip of the cane between my legs, up my spine, tracing the lips of my cosita. The feeling was delicate and sharp. Like a tickle and a pinch.

Tap. Tap. He swatted at my ass. Tap. Tap. Tap. Again, a little harder. I moaned and my ass involuntarily rose, just slightly, to meet him.

THWACK! He came down hard on the fleshy part of my ass. The warmth spread instantly from the wood to my flesh. I was surprised that I immediately wanted more. I needed to feel the heat on my flesh with the same desire that makes you run your hand through the red hot flame of a candle. Papi eased back. And made me wait. He gently worked the ginger plug into my ass as he softly traced my thighs with the switch. At first there was only the sensation of hard and cold, but gradually that turned to warmth and then to a fire that burned inside me from my core out. I writhed and moaned as the heat began to burn throughout my body.

It started in my loans and worked its way to my gut. I felt panicky and ill, queasy and sick to my stomach, until SMACK! the cane came down on my ass and grounded me in reality. Papi instructed me firmly to hold still and take it, to stop resisting the sensations. To go with it, not against it. It stung. And it hurt. And I felt alive. And I wanted more. I wanted to be brought to the edge and held over by strong, capable hands. I wanted to be dangled, fearful, yet trusting I would be pulled up and saved. And this I was granted.

He pulled the ginger from inside of me which made me thrash about and scream I don't know what. I've always responded more intensely to withdrawal than to insertion, and this time was no exception. I suspect it's some sort of sexual separation anxiety that taps into deeper stuff I have around abandonment.

Then Papi took the cane and let loose a torrent of crackings like rain beating down on my cheeks, and my thighs, and my hips. He played my skin like djembes, like bongos, like bata and ashiko, and kenkeni. Like goumbe, like danunba, like kpanlogo and like congos. I was his talking drum, his big band, his string section. My ass felt like music as I moaned and shrieked; like rhythm and voice woven together. And sweetest of all I could feel his eyes upon me, tracing his caresses, his passes, his presence. His appreciation. His fascination. His powerful desire.

As I scaled higher and higher, reaching a crescendo, he then quietly tapered off until his smacking turned to tapping turned to stroking turned to teasing. And I felt his stick between my legs, coaxing me, tickling me, threatening me. Menacing and loving. That's what he felt like. A divine combination. Then, he leaned over and I felt his cool lips kiss my ass. He laid down beside me and wrapped his arms around me and held me tight.

A short while later he fucked me so hard with his thick cock I begged him to stop. And then we fell asleep in each other's arms, both of us too exhausted to finish the final act of my request.

And in the morning I took him to the airport. And he went back home. It will be just over two months when I see him next. But it feels like years. The bruises are gone, but my body remembers his touch deep down in my core.

Three Dates and a Flirt

So, date number one was, well, just sort of dull. I figured there weren't gonna be any sparks, but I went out with him anyway just to check him out. It wasn't bad per se. We ate chowder and walked along the beach. I asked him questions about himself and didn't offer much about my life. But he was droll and soft and had no spark. I don't care if you work in a warehouse or wallstreet, but I want to see that something drives you beyond the status quo. We parted with a handshake and a "take care."

Date number two was more interesting. He showed up wearing a purple, velvety turtleneck and a man purse. I figured he had to be bi or European... he was both! He was a renaissance man of sorts and had done all sorts of fascinating things. So the conversation was interesting and we both talked fast and jumped from thought to thought, always winding our way back to tie off unraveled threads. He told me how his parents both had on-going affairs outside of their marriage and I told him about my adventures trying to get myself knocked up. We were like minded in our world views and neither one of us hesitated to put it all out on the table. Our date ended with him blowing me a kiss in a trans-continental fashion (i.e., with more flare than the typical open palmed American gesture) and saying he would ring me up later.

The third date was what I would call comfortable and sweet. I met her at a coffee shop and we sipped on lattes and caught up. I did most of the talking, as I am wont to do when I'm at all nervous and have had caffeine. He chatted about our pets and our jobs and our coming out stories, hers being much more interesting than mine. We took a long walk in the drizzle on a small pier in the middle of town and looked at the boats. It was chilly outside, but being with her felt warm and cozy. We ended our date with a hug and a tentative plan to get together in the coming week.

All three of them emailed later to say they had a nice time and propose we get together again in the future. Which was nice since lately I've been feeling pretty undesirable. But I don't know. I want some sparks, you know? Fire. Or at least some smokey smoldering.

Speaking of which, Chico and I are going fishing tomorrow after working out. I'm gonna play hookie from my staff meeting to do it, which somehow makes it even more exciting. This morning he gave me a brief little massage on my shoulders while I sat on one of the circuit training stations. And while it didn't send jolts of electricity down my spine I think there was just a slight tingling at the base of my spine. Sparks? Maybe so.

Fuck Him

Lord, it is so nice to be back. To have, oh, I don't know, some understanding ears. Thanks, all you commenters. You really lift my spirits.

So. I never told you how things ended up with Mr. D. The thing is, after the first time he and I and Papi fucked he was so skippy the next morning and then... well... and then he stopped fucking me altogether. Months went by. I would call him and we would hang out, and I would get all amorous, and nothing. The fool moon would come and go (yes, I know how to spell fool moon) and I would tell him with each cycle how much I needed him, I wanted him. And still nothing.

The next time Papi came to visit we all connived together (me in the lead, unbeknownst to them) to have another tri-triste. It happened. We fucked. It was fun. And then, once again, Mr. D stopped fucking me.

So, fuck him.

It has been forever.

And I think I understand.

He was never really all that attracted to me to begin with.

He just wanted to get laid.

And yet. We're friends, right? So where does that leave us? Me? You tell me. Please. Tell me.

Tonight. Ages after we've fucked. And ages since Papi came to town once again and I made it clear that I would not be fucking the three of them again, Mr. D treats me like, I don't know, a used something or other.

And I seem to let him. To some small degree. Because I like him. Love him even.

Tonight I invited him out for a drink. He showed up with his new girl friend. He never mentioned he had invited her until she was standing right there.

You know. I am happy for him. I am. And I can see why he never loved me. She was, indeed, petite. I am not. That's his thing. Petite. He likes his girls petite. Him and every other fucking tedious shallow minded cock on legs. But you know, when they walked out of the bar holding hands, it felt like someone had ripped my heart out, thrown it on the floor, and stomped the shit out of it. He never held my hand. Not once.

Whatever. Fuck him. I have three dates this weekend. Four if you count Chico at the Y. Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck him.

God. I miss fucking him.

Maybe

The thing about sex is, even though it is supposed to be wonderful and beautiful and make you feel all alive and shit... well, sometimes... you're just left feeling afterward like you're in a deeper, darker hole than you even knew. And crawling out seems impossible.

But maybe I have just a bit of a foothold now. We'll see.

All my life I have felt pretty much invisible. It seemed that people rarely noticed my presence, much less my absence. On the rare day that someone stops to tell me they have wondered about me on occassion, as Bliatz recently did, I get that flush of validation that comes with being noticed, with being seen, with being remembered.

There's a boy at my new gym who has noticed me. A few weeks ago he came up to me on the eliptical thing and said hello. Oh, I guess we're interrupting each other to say hello now I thought and realised he must of been saying hello for days, maybe weeks, without my really noticing him much.

The next day I asked him his name. And after a few more questions I realised he doesn't speak much english. I think I even speak more spanish than he does english, which really isn't saying much.

Anyway. Yesterday he came up to me and whispered in my ear "you are beautiful." In perfect english.

Me and the Gas Men

I'm sorry I've been missing in action for some time. Most of my energy and time has been sucked up with this move. But being a new home owner (home moaner as Uncle Mike calls it) is providing me with lots of new fodder for fantasies.

I've had a long, drawn out drama with the gas men who were supposed to fix my gas leak before I moved in. Suffice it to say, I still have the leak. And I still have the gas men. They come by whenever the fancy strikes them and tease me with the prospect of having gas one day soon... and other possibilities.

I mentioned to Papi that I thought the gas guys were hot. He said I should have asked if they wanted to come inside and fuck. He's so out going and optimistic that way.

Then Papi did something he rarely does. He wrote me a bed time story. He said I could post it here as long as I shared my responses too. So here you go:

Papi (P): Me and the gas men are going to sneak into your house while you are sleeping. We are going to come to your bedroom and find you and the dog sleeping. We're going to gently lift the dog out of the bed and place her in a different room, giving her toys to play with.

Curious Pussy (CP): The back door is open. You and the gas men enter silently. Stealthy. The dog doesn't bark or growl because she recognizes you and knows that you will protect me from any harm. You and the gas men are so well prepared. You have thought through everything, down to the toys to keep the dog occupied.

P: We're going to come back and one of us is going to put a gag in your mouth. The other two are going to tie your hands and arms to the bed. We are going to look at you, eyes wide with fear and unknowing, and let you stay scared and unsure.

CP: So thoughtful and considerate, you brought a gag and hand ties, soft enough to be comfortable but strong enough to hold me. You even warned the gas men just how strong and powerful I can be when thrashing about. And you know that look of fear is in reality a look of invitation. You know what to look for, what to listen for, to read the difference between a welcome and a rebuttal.

P: One of us is going to start stroking you softly and speaking in whispers, confusing you about what is going to happen. He'll gently stroke your clit, increasing the intensity slowly until you begin to writhe on the bed and scream into the gag. The others will be placing clothespins on different parts of your body, watching you jump each time we release the pin onto your skin. Papi and the gas men take turns placing the clothes pins in a star pattern around each nipple and then simultaneously place them on the outside of your labia, on your lips that are swollen and ripe for the picking. One of us will have an ice cube, which will be dragged from your forehead to your toes, hitting each part of you. Right behind that will be someone's tongue, trailing heat after coolness. You'll be fighting to get the gag out of your mouth, because you want to tell us how what we're doing is making you feel. Clearly it's having a positive effect, since you can't keep still and your pussy is juicing up good.

CP: Papi and the gas men know, despite my inability to use words, that I am enjoying their teasing and inviting them to continue the assault on my senses.

P: Your arms begin to ache from all your moving and you look at us, silently pleading for us to untie you. We laugh. One of us begins pinching, rolling and twisting your skin, making you moan and move and grind into the bed. One of us rubs his dick all over your face, sometimes using it to hit your cheeks and eyes.

CP: "One of us" of course means you, as you are the only man who knows the secret to my nipples. Your pinches and rolling and twisting make me respond like no other's touch can. But it is one of the gas men who slaps my face with his cock. He doesn't care how degrading it is. Actually, he does care. And he wants me to know it... to know that he is degrading me, using me, debasing me, avoiding fixing my gas leak. His flesh is soft and smooth as it smacks against my face.

P: One of us climbs onto the bed and forces his dick deep into your pussy, not giving you time to get used to it and begins to fuck hard and deep relentlessly. The other two untie your arms and retie your hands behind you. We make the one fucking you stop and pull out abruptly.

CP: Of course I thrash about uncontrollably when he pulls out. You laugh. You could have warned him I would do this. But you wanted them to savour the surprise as much as you did the first time you experienced my anguish.

P: We all take our belts off and turn you over so your ass is up in the air, your hands tied behind your back. We each take turns spanking your ass with our belts, using the buckle at times to leave angry welts on your cheeks and legs. One of us uses the buckle to slide up and down between your ass cheeks, making you react to the coolness between your cheeks and shudder at the prospect of having the buckle shoved up your ass.

CP: "Yes!" I think silently to myself, "Oh God please yes!" But I don't say a word lest you make them stop.

P: We untie your hands. We keep you in the doggy position and keep spanking you with the belts and with our hands, sometimes reaching under and slapping the insides of your thighs, listening to you cry out and being inspired. One man crawls under you and kisses you deeply, dueling with your tongue. You feel the weight of another as he crouches above you, kissing and nibbling the back of your neck. Yet another is tweaking your nipples. Hands are all over you, touching, pinching, rolling... suddenly the man below you pulls you down and plunges his cock deep into your cunt. Before you can recover you feel another cock plowing into your ass and your hair is being pulled. You scream out and try to get your body used to the many assaults. It feels horrible, it feels wonderful, you don't want it to stop.

CP: No. I don't want it to stop. I want it harder. And to continue until I am spent and useless.

P: The third man grabs your head and pulls it to the side, exposing your mouth to his cock and balls. He slaps your face with his cock, while telling the other men to fuck you hard and deep and fast, to fuck that cunt and make you their fuck toy. He tells them you deserve to be fucked hard and you want them to spew into you, you want their jism in you, on you, all over you.

CP: Yes. It is true. She wants all three of them to cum on her, to cum in her, to cum on each other. There is no need for protection because it is a fantasy afterall.

P: Then he pulls your head back and barks at you to suck his dick and swallow his cum. He tells you if you think about biting him he'll hurt you in a way you don't like. This both scares and excites you and you open your mouth to receive him. He begins a slow entry, but upon feeling your lips and tongue on him, can't control himself and shoves in deep, causing you to gag. You find a way, between being buffeted between the men fucking your pussy and ass, to regain your composure and control the dick in your mouth so it doesn't gag you too much.

CP: I take him in my mouth like I take communion: with humility and gratitude and the desire to be deemed innocent once again.

P: You realize that all your holes are filled and you're getting a hard, strong fuck that will leave you sore and satisfied. You don't want it to ever end. It feels so good to have been overpowered by three men, three strong men who want nothing more than to fuck you silly. They keep pounding into you, making the bed shake and banging the headboard against the wall. Grunting, groaning, fucking, sucking, plunging... you are a pussy, you are their cunt, you are their fucktoy and they are using use at their will. You are also a beautiful woman being sexed right and letting these men have their way with you.

CP: Yes.

P: The man in your pussy begins to stiffen and jerk and you know he'll soon be shooting deep into you. You feel the cock of the man in your ass begin to throb and swell and you know soon you'll be getting an ass shower. You can't speak because your mouth is full of cock, but inside you are screaming for the men to fill you, to fuck you and fill you with cum, to cum inside you to cum on you, to CUM! And they do just that... all three men begin cumming in you and you are overwhelmed at the sensation of so much juice flowing into you from so many different directions. You squeeze your cunt hard and begin your journey of cumming, your cunt reflexively squeezing out its own juices. It's a moment so wonderful for you...that you are so happy you left the door unlocked and asked for that extra visit to check your pipes....

CP: "Oh Papi!" I pleaded. "Can you meet with the roofer and the gardner next week?"

All I Wanted

Yesterday was such a big bummer day.

I found out I'm not pregnant. Darn. That was my fourth insemination and it just gets harder and harder each time. You get your hopes up, you know? And then you start to feel like you're broken or cursing it or something. Oh well, the fifth time's the charm, right?

And my house is a big pain in the ass right now. I'm having serious buyer's remorse. I don't want to go into the details but suffice it to say the phrase "turn key" was a misnomer.

And Uncle Mike wasn't very responsive to my punishment. I did indeed wear a short skirt and omitted my underwear (they were all packed anyway) the entire evening. This, of course, made for some difficult maneuvering as he made me climb into the back bed of his truck to rearrange the pieces we had loaded. It also made my thighs rub together and the more stuff we moved the more I was reminded of why women fought so hard for the right to wear pants.

Anyway. We moved stuff, ate some tacos, and talked about about how he tried to cover up the bruise I gave him (it really was an accident, I swear!) with his girlfriend. No hanky panky. Well, except for the brief moment when I stuck my hand down his pants and held hands with his cock for a few minutes. But that really was about the extent of it besides a very nice goodbye kiss in the cab of his truck.

The best part of the day was getting home early enough to call Papi and talk to him till the wee hours of the morning. I was feeling pretty blue and he cheered me up. He reminded me that everything isn't my fault. And he made me feel loved and wanted and appreciated. That's really all I wanted anyway.

And of course he made me cum, which was the other thing I wanted.

Blue and Aimless

You would think I would be floating on the clouds. Life seems good. Just bought a house. Trying to get pregnant. Have a decent job. Good friends. But I don't know. I just feel so blue and aimless. Lonely. Confused.

Not very sexy, I know. Maybe I'll have a story to tell after Tuesday. I told Uncle Mike his punishment for giving me a hickey where everyone can see it (I do have some limits) is that he has to help me move a load of stuff with his truck... and I'm gonna wear a mini skirt and no underwear the entire time.

Just Let Me Listen

The ringing of my cell phone jolted me awake. It was only 11:30 or so, but I had already been in a deep sleep for at least an hour. I fumbled in the dark to see who was calling me at this hour. Papi. He hasn’t called me this late in a long time. Actually he hasn’t been calling much at all lately, so I was immediately concerned. “Hey Papi. Are you ok?” I said half asleep. “Yeah,” he said, “I’m fine.” He sounded wide awake. Unusually so for this hour. I tried to will myself awake but I was still in dreamland. His voice sounded so warm and inviting. He laughed at something I said and I wanted to wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his neck.

“You sound so sexy,” I said. “Just let me listen to you.”

“No, I called to listen to you,” he said.

“Oh, I see. Did you want me to cum for you?” I asked him, coming to my senses.

“Yes, Pussy, cum for your Papi.”

I rolled over and started to rub my clit. I could hear Papi breathing, but other than that he was silent, as always, just quietly listening. Within a minute or so I was wet and my body was waking up. But my brain was still foggy and asleep as I continued fingering myself. Soon I was quite aroused and close to cumming. Papi must have known from my breathing and moaning that I was almost there because he suddenly asked me “where is the spoon?”

“The spoon?” I repeated, confused and caught off guard. “Uh, in the bed stand.”

“Get it,” he ordered me.

I fumbled around in the dark before I found the light switch. Turning on the light I saw la cuchara immediately, but I paused a second before admitting that to Papi. I’m always a little unsure what will happen when the spoon comes out.

“I have it, Papi” I told him.

“Good. Now hit your pussy with it,” he told me.

I started to do as told, slapping quite hard and quickly since I had been so close to cumming before he interrupted me. It hurt, and I said so, but it didn’t hurt enough for me to want to stop. And once again I had that weird feeling of being really turned on despite the absurdity of my actions. I would be absolutely mortified if anyone were to see me slapping my own self with a wooden kitchen spoon with one hand and pressing my cell phone to my ear with the other… and yet, somehow, this man managed to make that seem like the sexiest thing since crotchless panties.

I wanted to cum for him, and he knew it. And he knew he controlled it despite the great distance between us. And I knew he was going to make me beg for it, for release from his control, no matter what I did, so I might as well just give in now.

“May I stop now Papi?” I asked, a hint of pleading in my tone.

“Yes,” he said, surprising me.

I dropped the spoon to the bed and felt relief wash over me. Catching myself before I drifted back to sleep, Papi still quietly listening on the other end, I begged “please may I touch myself Papi”

“Yes,” he said. I started fingering myself again and now my pussy was really wet and swollen and tender. If I were fucking him in person I would be throwing myself against him and thrashing about until he put his hand or his cock or anything inside me and fucked me.

“Get Wanda,” he said.

And I did.

“Cum for your Papi,” he said.

And I did.

“Thank you Papi,” I said before falling fast asleep.

Uncle Mike

Well, I'm just going with the flow here. As I said, life seems to be giving me some sort of lesson and I'm still trying to figure out just what it is. Mikel and I have agreed to have a standing date on Tuesdays. Pretty much solely for the sake of fucking. I told him straight up I have no intention of being anyone's "out" of a trying relationship or hooking up with anyone on the rebound for that matter. He's a nice guy, a really, really nice guy, and he seems to have kinks in all the right places as far as I can tell. Just, you know, he's someone else's kinky, nice guy.

Anyway. I told him I'll call him Uncle Mike. Uncle Mike because he's like the nice uncle you wanna go to the park with and not the creepy one you want to hide from. And Uncle Mike because it sounds sweet and innocent, and kinky and pervy all at the same time. Kinda like him. And, most importantly, Uncle Mike to remind me that he is off limits as far as romance is concerned.

Switching

Mikel was with his girlfriend all weekend long so there was an email/phone/text black out. And for what it's worth when I'm denied something I crave it ten times more. So I continued to send emails to him even though there was no response (he had told me he wouldn't be back to his computer until Monday) and in the absence of his replies my imagination got the best of me and I admit I got pretty forward. He said he liked how aggressive I am. I told him I'm not aggressive. I'm assertive. One of the things I like about him is he's pretty subby for a self identified dom. Which works well because I can be pretty dommy for a self identified sub. I guess it's called switching... but I'm not ready to go quite that far yet.

As soon as he got to work this morning he started replying to my emails one by one. And there's nothing like a man who replies to my smutty emails to get me all ready to go. It didn't take long before I was sitting at my desk (yes, I was at work) wet and needing badly to be fucked. I told him so and suggested he come to my place later. He tried to put me off. He had errands to do after work. So come after that, I said. He might be too tired, he said. I'll revive him, I said. He wasn't so sure he should come over, he said. Neither was I, I said. Finally he asked "what's the rush?" "Call it rushed if you want," I said, "but I want you to fuck me and I want it tonight. Besides, tomorrow morning I'm getting inseminated and I may not be up for fucking for a while after that." "I'm leaving in two minutes," he said.

When he arrived at my place he was clearly nervous and uncomfortable. My place is small and at the moment all piled high with boxes in preparation for my move so we skirted around each other awkwardly. I poured us each a drink and we sat down on the couch. We chatted a bit about my dog and his work and whatnot. He put his hand on my thigh. We chatted some more. I kissed him. Chatted some more. Then somehow I'm standing on my couch kissing his forehead and he's pushing my skirt up and squeezing my ass and pulling me to him. It was nice. Really nice. After a bit I climbed down and just walked into my bedroom. He followed behind me.

We laid down on my bed and started kissing some more. He was a pretty good kisser as far as they come. I'm kinda picky and it takes a lot to impress me. You need the right mix of sucking and biting and exploring. And succulent lips. He had a nice 5 o'clock shadow that was perfectly scratchy and rough. As we kissed his hands slid up and down my legs and up under my skirt. He pushed my legs apart firmly and wasn't shy about letting his fingers trace my pussy outside of my panties. "My god girl you are so wet!" he exclaimed after pressing his fingers into me just slightly. "I know. I told you I've been like this all day," I told him. He was rubbing and teasing me, flicking his fingers across my clit, dipping them inside of me. This of course sent me over the edge and I was soon moaning and wreathing and begging him to fuck me.

He inserted a few fingers into my cunt and started to fuck me with them slowly. "God yes!" I said. "Please fuck me." And my body started involuntarily humping his hand. Soon he was fucking me hard and fast and I was close to cumming. It was interesting to have this man I hardly knew with his fingers inside me, begging him "fuck me harder Mikel, please fuck me harder." He laughed at me. I don't know if it was from nervousness or amusement at my sense of urgency, but it seemed sweet and friendly.

Eventually we both managed to peel off our clothes bit by bit until we were finally fully naked. The sun hadn't gone down yet so my bedroom was bright with the afternoon sun. He showed me the scars where they had removed a kidney when he was a kid and we took in each other's bodies without seeming too obvious. He had the physique of a middle aged man, with a protruding tummy and thinning hair. He had strong legs and big hands. His arms and legs were covered with dark hair but thankfully his tummy and back were pretty bare. He had really big balls that were nice and firm, and a rather small cock. He never actually got significantly hard enough for me to find out how big his cock is when erect. I think he was just so nervous. I think he thought I'm some crazed sex maniac - I believe "sexual beastie" was what he said - and so he was somewhat put off by me. I was a bit disappointed because I was looking forward to being fucked by a man with a large cock (I guess what they say about hand size isn't true afterall)... I've been so spoiled by Papi and Mr. D... but then I remembered how nice it is to go down on a guy with a cock that fits in your mouth without gagging you.

I like giving guys head but it is so unpleasant to do with a condom on. It just loses all its' appeal. So I compromised. I took his balls in my mouth one at a time and swirled my tongue around them. As I did this I pulled them gently and firmly away from his body while I let my hands stroke his cock. As he got a little harder I licked the base of his dick and ran my tongue up and down the shaft of his cock. As his cock grew I continued to stroke him with my hand and nuzzle him with my face, letting my hot breath tease him. He was obviously enjoying himself, but still he never got quite hard enough for me to climb on and ride him like I wanted.

I thought maybe the old "as if" would work so I climbed on top of him and started grinding myself against him as if he had a big old hard on and we were fucking. Still, no luck. I laid down on top of him and nibbled on his neck while I straddled his leg and continued rubbing my pussy on him. I reached down and cupped his balls. He closed his eyes and moaned slightly. Eventually the rocking motion turned into more of a fucking motion and I told him it made me want to fuck him. He smiled. I spread his legs with my hands and fucked him with my body since I don't own a strap on or even a dildo. He never came or even got hard, but he looked pretty darn happy nonetheless.

The next day he said he noticed that his legs were hurting and when he paused to think about it he realized it was from me fucking him... and he liked it. A lot. He confessed that he was very anxious, particularly about me being so fertile and all, and that each time my pussy got near his cock it made him go limp. I guess he also has diabetes which apparently can effect your ability to get a hard on, or maintain one. The upside of that is his doctor prescribed him cock rings. How cool is that? Maybe his doctor can prescribe him a harness and a big old silicon dick as well!

Soon

It started out innocently enough. I believe I even mentioned him to you in passing - the guy who responded to my personal ad that was basically a rant against people who pick girls based on their physical dimensions as opposed to their character or intelligence or joie de vie. Anyhow, Mikel and I seemed to click, at least as far as you can tell through emails, and have been having great fun being flirty teases in the safety afforded us behind our computer screens.

He told me right off that he had a girlfriend. And when I asked why he was lurking around the personal ads he said that he had her permission to play with others. Hmm. He also confided that their relationship was strained and he was struggling with whether or not to leave her. It soon became clear that the part that was problematic was the sex bit. Apparently she's a very willing partner for trying out his kinks and all, but something about her just doesn't turn him on. Now, if that isn't the saddest thing? Here is a man who loves a woman, and a woman who loves a man, and they seem to have good, honest, open communication about sex... and yet, something just isn't flipping his switch. It made me thankful to be single for once.

So we met up one afternoon in the park. It was a beautiful summer day with crisp, clear blue skies. I got there before he did, or so I thought. He had told me to meet him on the bottom of Kite Hill, but it was such a lovely day I wanted to climb it to get a better view. So I walked a little ways up and stood there for a minute taking in the surroundings. Surprisingly there weren't too many people around for such a perfect day. But there were a few: a pair of lovers laying on a blanket, one resting her head on the other's tummy; a couple with two big hairy dogs and a small child eating a picnic; jet skiers and sailors out on the lake; and me, a middle aged chubby lady in a flowery skirt, halter top and flip flops.

I saw a tall, heavy set man start up the base of the hill and I somewhat recognized Mikel from the pictures he had sent me. He looked frumpier than I had imagined. And bigger, both height wise as well as girth. But other than that he was as I had imagined. Honestly, he reminded me of Shrek in that big, gentle oaf kinda way.

He had arrived early and was waiting in his truck when he saw me pull into the parking lot. He said he had watched me walk up the hill. It made me feel exposed, both in a vulnerable kind of way but also in a hot kind of way. We talked about his exes and his current situation and how he came to be where he is now - a middle aged guy unsatisfied with his sex life. And even though we had been indulging in over the top flirtiness in our email exchanges we both were quite reserved once face to face. But there was this: at one point he looked down at my bare legs and said "I like this arch." And he took his finger and traced from the top of my foot to the bottom of my ankle. And that was when I knew I would fuck him. Not today. Not yet. But soon.

The Way Nature Intended

This morning I went in for an ultrasound. As the physician's assistant rolled the condom onto the probe and lubed it up I lamented the fact that getting pregnant, for me, is so completely lacking of any semblance of romance or passion. She inserted it inside my vagina and began poking around up by my cervix for any ripe follicles. You would think, being shaped like a dildo and placed generally in the right vicinity, that it might feel a smidgen nice. But no. It was uncomfortable and impersonal. It hurt a little. She spied a bunch of unripe follicles in my right ovary and two close to ripe ones in my left. So, tomorrow night at ten I am to give myself a shot in the ass of a hormone that is supposed to make my body finish off the ripening. Then, Tuesday morning I will go in to be inseminated, my fourth time, where hopefully Mr. 556 will do his stuff and his fellows will swim on over to my girls and do their stuff the way nature intended them to... with a little help from Dr. Applehead and a syringe.

Fag Style

When I got home tonight from my day trip this email was waiting for me in my in-box from Mr. D:

"you are so gonna get it when I see you......yea, gonna give it to ya ... fag style..."

I'm sorry. Is it just me or is that not really fuckin' hot?!

What's for Breakfast?

Papi and I were mostly silent as we made our way through the airport terminal toward hourly parking. You would think that the whole world would be able to read the freshly fucked look on my face. But no one paid me any heed. Even the fecund smell that was wafting up from under my skirt where my sex was exposed to the humid summer breeze and the audible juicy slurping as my legs rubbed together with each stride seemed to go unnoticed by the passers by.

Relief washed over me when we finally got to my car and I climbed into the driver’s seat. We were alone now and no longer had to worry about navigating the throngs of people. As I pulled out of the parking lot onto the curly corkscrew off ramp Papi reached over and laid his hand on the inside of my thigh in a comforting gesture. It felt warm and firm. Nice. Sans panties his fingers made their way easily to my pussy. I concentrated on maneuvering my way around the sharp turns as his fingers parted my lips and found my clit. The ramp was lined with row after row of small concrete ridges intended to give your vehicle traction. The unintended result however was a wonderful vibration that traveled through my Papi’s fingers as he pressed his fingers against me.

As we pulled off the ramp the toll booths loomed before us and now I had new challenges to consider. Fortunately I had paid at the kiosk in the terminal, so we were able to cruise through one of the automated paid exit lanes without having to stop and pay the cashier. In the back of my mind I contemplated whether or not Papi would have removed his hand. Somehow, I doubted it.

Merging into the oncoming traffic required a new degree of concentration; I had to make sure my car would ease into any openings as well as try to avoid pulling up alongside the high seated vans and semi trucks that offered their drivers a clean shot at my lap. Just a glance in our direction would have instantly revealed that there was more than a lover’s reassuring touch going on here. My skirt hoisted up on my lap, barely covering my crotch, and Papi’s hand strumming away would have been quite a sight during the morning rush hour commute.

After a particularly challenging two lane merge to get onto the freeway we made it into the easy sailing of the commuter lane. Yes, the commuter lane! Home free. But damn if those fucking yuppie housewives in their SUV’s don’t drive like grannies on ludes. And I have no patience for that, even if I am being fingered by a sexy man in my passenger seat who knows the secret of making me cum. So, determined that nothing would interfere with my infamous offensive driving skills, I did what I would do any other day and wove in and out of the lanes like I was playing Tetris with my Camry on the freeway.

I should point out at this point that I had been running late to the airport to begin with so I had skipped a much need pit stop to the gas station. I had every intention of filling up on the way home. But now, in my zone, I couldn’t bring myself to pull off the freeway and risk interrupting this wonderful hand job. So between staring intently at the gas gauge willing it not to drop further, weaving between lanes, and avoiding pulling up along semi’s, I had my own hands full.

Papi continued rubbing my clit, sometimes in short fast strokes and other times in long, slow passes. I was moaning and mewling, as he would say, and when he got close I would arch my back and press myself into his hand as much as possible without interfering with my constant pressure on the gas pedal or my ability to reach the break should a luded up yuppie bitch dart in front of me. God I wished there was no traffic so I could put the car in cruise and ignore those damn pedals! Every time I got close to cumming Papi would pull back and stop, just letting his hand rest sweetly on my thigh; teasing me into a frenzy of need and desire. At these times I don’t dare to beg or bargain. I just accept his choices and resign myself to whatever will be. I know I have no control and the more I try to exert some the more likely he is to deny me. After all, he is a sadist. He likes to see me squirm.

I turned on the radio for distraction and got only static. And each time I considered pulling off for gas he would somehow intuit my intentions and his fingers would start working my clit again. I was so close to cumming I didn’t care anymore who saw what. A city buss pulled up close on my tail and I ran the geography in my head to figure out if the height of the driver’s seat would allow him a view of my crotch as he peered down through my back window. Doubtful. But then why was he tailing so close on my ass? I pulled into the slower lane as the buss passed on our left. I didn’t dare look out my window for fear of seeing an entire buss load of commuters staring back at me, the buss driver surely having announced over the loud speaker "Folks, if you look to your right you will see one of our city's finest sights, Curious Pussy being fingered by her Papi."

We made our way over to our exit. I purposely chose an earlier exit that would take us a little longer to get home and be less congested. It would also take us past a gas station, which I knew we were in desperate need of. Hopefully, if I had timed this right, there would be just enough time for me to cum before we ran out of gas.

Now that we were on the residential streets my anxiety peeked over the prospect of passing someone that I knew. It was morning rush hour after all and the odds were pretty good once we got into my neck of the woods. But fuck if his fingers didn’t feel so good sliding up and down inside me, coaxing out more of my juices and making my clit pulse with the need for release. By now my pussy was frothy and slurpy; each wiggle of his fingers made a loud wet sloshing sound that made me feel slightly embarrassed and incredibly hot.

As I approached my neighborhood Arco station I was startled to see that it was unusually crowded… with large trucks no less! "Fuck!" I mumbled, "this should be interesting" as I pulled into the entrance. I tried to yank my skirt down just enough but it really didn’t make all that much difference. Anyone looking in would see my Papi looking non-chalantly out the passenger window while his left hand was clearly messing with my stuff. Despite the fact that we were beyond empty I decided that I was just too close to cumming to allow him to stop and I cruised right through the station. I knew we were minutes from my house and just beyond that there was another gas station I could hit, assuming I didn’t need to call the Triple A guy to come help us out before I made it. To the gas station that is.

We rolled down the quiet tree lined street and I humped his hand while cruising quietly past my neighbor’s windows. We passed the Dugan house and I imagined Elisabeth and her daughter inside eating breakfast and peering out their window. "Look, there goes Curious Pussy! Wave good morning!" Elisabeth was surely instructing little Amelia.

I pulled up to my apartment building and turned off the ignition. With the engine silenced the only sound now was that of my heavy breathing and my juicy pussy. I felt a new kind of road rage creeping over me as I wanted to wail and thrash about and climb onto Papi’s lap. I wanted to put the pedal to the medal and shift into high gear. Fuck me right now. I need you to fuck me. Those words were forming on my lips when Papi abruptly yanked his hand away and asked casually “what’s for breakfast, Pussy?”

Bathroom Delight

In my fantasies it was always more spontaneous and oddly romantic. But real life is always more crude, isn't it?

When he stepped off the escalator the first words out of his mouth were "where's the bathroom?" No hello-darling-I'm-so-happy-to-see-you. Or look-how-delicious-you-look-I-must-taste-your-juices-immediately. Nope. Just "where's the bathroom" as though he was asking where I had parked the car. I said this way and started to walk in the direction of the family restroom I had scoped out over a year ago. The one I always imagined myself in every time I rehearsed this fantasy in my head. The thing is, I had never actually been inside this particular bathroom so I hadn't really thought out all the technicalities.

We got to the baggage claim area and there were your usual men's and women's rooms and then the one family room to the side. You know, the kind where you can lock the door behind you. As we approached the entrance a man stepped up to the door and went inside. I found it kind of humorous but Papi seemed exceedingly irritated at the lout for interfering with our Bathroom Delight, as he had dubbed our covert operation. He huffed and gave me a look, one of those looks that makes me kind of jittery and feel like I have to make everything OK, so I suggested we have a seat and just wait our turn.

We made our way over to the Eames bench seats just like the ones you find in every other baggage claim area at thousands of airports around the world. There was an older couple next to us who were too tired to stand with the baggage vultures at the carousel. We anxiously watched the door waiting for our gentleman friend to exit. Didn't he know that was our airport love nest? Papi seemed more agitated than excited. He grumbled something about what would happen if people saw us enter together. I had never noticed that there was a very busy baggage claim office immediately adjacent to the bathroom that shared a flimsy sheet rock wall. Sure, he was right to think of the possible consequences, which, were we to be discovered, would have impacted him more severely than I. I don't doubt the Transportation Security Administration would find a big old black trans man caught fucking a pasty white genetic girl in a public facility to be a great threat to national security. But right now his fretting and crankiness was bringing me down and what had started as a sense of thrill and adventure and arousal was fast turning into an ordeal.

Our friend was taking a long time, perhaps having his own personal Bathroom Delight, and we were now both equally impatient. I was nearly about to go knock on the door so I could just get the whole thing over with when a well dressed white couple with matching baggage walked up to the door and started their own line. Papi and I looked at each other wryly, both pissed that our turn in line had just been bumped by two yuppies and amused that apparently we weren't the only couple who wanted to use the family bathroom. Unfortunately for us, Bathroom Delight etiquette dictated that we wait our new turn in line or move on.

Before giving up altogether we decided to go check out the bathroom situation on the new wing of the airport. We followed the restroom signs until we got to what appeared to be just the usual men's and women's facilities. I really had to pee by now so I said I was going in. As I got closer I saw that there was indeed a family room but it was tucked away in the entrance to the men's room. Go figure. So I quickly darted in, the only thing on my mind being that I had to pee. A second later I realized that Papi may not have noticed that it was the Bathroom Delight door so I stuck my head back out to tell him. He scowled at me and snapped "I know!" I felt really stupid and awkward like a high school freshman trying to act smooth before losing her virginity to her senior boyfriend.

I went back in and locked the door while I peed and pondered whether I should unlock the door and risk some stranger walking in, or lock it and hope Papi would knock. I decided what the fuck, who cares if someone walks in and unlocked the door. There was a little metal bench kinda thing so I sat on there and fumbled around in my bag for some gum. A second later Papi walked in and I felt very relieved to finally be alone with him without all the airport people looking at us thinking "those two are looking for a bathroom to fuck in, I just know it."

Now at this point in the fantasy I had always imagined my lover overwhelming me passionately with kisses while backing me up to the sink. He would hoist me up effortlessly (well, it is a fantasy after all!) and my ass would rest comfortably in the cold porcelain bowl while he fucked me. But the thing about fantasies is they don't have to take into account the reality of lost baggage offices, disgruntled lovers and the physics of hefty fuckees. Not to mention automatic eye sink faucets and self flushing toilets.

Papi hung his jacket on the hook conveniently placed on the back of the door and stood in the middle of the room taking in the situation. He said "the one at the Philly airport would be better... it has lots of wall space." I guess in his mind the fantasy had involved wall space, something that had never occurred to me. Here we had a door, a sink with a large mirror mounted above it, a toilet with a long handrail running next to it, a changing table that popped down on the wall, a large used sharps container for needles, a paper towel dispenser, and that metal seat. But no free wall space. We spent a good two or three minutes just looking around and wondering what to do next.

I smiled up at him from the funny seat shelf thing, trying to convey my appreciation for the fact that he was doing something that made him anxious and uncomfortable in order to fulfill my fantasy, but I think what came across was probably more an appearance of naivete and thoughtlessness. I wanted so bad just to wrap my arms around him and kiss him and tell him thank you and I love you and let's just hold each other for a while right here in the middle of this airport family bathroom. But right about then he said brusquely "stand up."

I did so. I wasn't really sure where to put my body in the tight space. I saw myself in the mirror and quickly looked away. I felt awkward and was beginning to regret ever telling him about this fantasy. Suddenly it felt like a lot of pressure to try to live up to the expectations of my own dream.

"Turn around," he said matter of factly and motioned with a twirling pointer finger for me to rotate toward the changing table. His directions confused me, not knowing what would happen next, but were reassuring as well. He was in control. I could relinquish the responsibility to make sure everything turned out ok. As long as I did what I was told it would all be fine.

As I faced the wall he reached around me and grabbed both my wrists in one hand while he leaned into me. I relaxed face first into the changing table, which felt kind of silly and kind of sexy at the same time. The top edge made a nice ledge to rest my arms on. He slopped kisses and rough nips on my neck while his free hand slid up under my skirt. He kneaded my ass like play dough once or twice and then he was grabbing at me through my panties. I could feel the lacey thin fabric slide between his fingers and my pussy, already slippery and wet from my juices. A second later I felt a quick yank and heard a rip as he tore my panties off my body. I could hear male voices as they exited the men's room, and I knew I had to stifle my sounds as a loud gasp escaped me. I bit down on my own wrist, sounding like a snuffling horse as I began to breath through my nose.

Without any fanfare he stuck two fingers inside my cunt and began to fuck me briskly. I could still feel his breath on my neck and his chest heaving against my back. I arched my lower back and ground my ass into his groin. His hips automatically began to rock against me in a rough thrusting motion that pushed me up against the changing table with a slight thumping noise that we both knew would grow louder if we kept at it.

Suddenly he pulled his fingers out of me as quickly as he had shoved them in. He told me to turn around and I did. "Lean over" he said, nodding his head toward the bench. I bent over with my elbows on the hard metal and my ass sticking up in the air behind me. I felt self conscious since I had on a short skirt that certainly must have revealed every tiny freckle under those bright bathroom lights. And even though my Papi is most definitely an ass man I'm self conscious about that particular view nonetheless.

He placed one hand on my hip and the other he forcefully shoved inside both holes as my face was pushed down onto the cold stainless steal. He fucked me hard and fast and deep, and it hurt. It hurt and I didn't want him to stop. To the contrary, I wanted him to fuck me harder. But since I was restricted from saying so by the surroundings, I tried to convey this by pressing myself deeper onto his hand. He began to fuck me like a piston so fast and hard that I was forced to crawl up onto the shelf as I tried to get away from the very thing I craved. My arms were wrapped around my head now and my neck bent forward into the corner of the wall. I felt like I did as a small child hiding under my desk in an air raid drill: trying to protect myself from an unpredictable force that I knew I was powerless against.

The angle of his wrist that this position necessitated made each thrust sting as it pulled and stretched the sensitive skin around my asshole and cunt. My hands somehow found the wall mounted sharps container and then I was crawling up the wall until I was standing on the seat, face and hands pressed flat against the plaster. He continued to fuck me, pausing to gently kiss my bare ass. His lips felt soft and warm in contrast to the cold, hard surfaces touching my skin. I wanted them all over me, hot and sweet and sucking.

"Turn around," he commanded. This sounded simple enough until I realized neither one of us intended for him to take his fingers out of me. Slowly I twisted my body around counterclockwise until I could feel his scruffy beard pressing against the outside of my left thigh. Then I lifted my leg over his head while he ducked and then I brought my foot down on the handrail. Once again the ADA proved equally useful for the able-bodied. Hunching down slightly he began to suck on my clit as he continued to treat me like his own personal puppet. I leaned my shoulders into the wall and pressed my pussy into his face. I wanted to cum for him so badly. It was so nice to see him, to finally be with him, to finally be here, I didn't want him to stop. I entwined my fingers in his twisties feeling the soft lamby hair at the base of his scalp and held his head against me as I thrust my hips back and forth. I was feeling woozy and dreamy and light headed when suddenly he turned to the right and bit down on the soft skin of my inner thigh. He sucked in my flesh and I gripped his hair; I wanted to scream and pummel him but I could only whisper "ouch Papi, you're hurting me."

"You like it when I hurt you," he replied with an a priori understanding I would nod my head in agreement.

I looked down into his eyes for a long while. He looked back at me dispassionately. And as long as he kept his fingers inside me I felt anchored and immobilized; tethered to this man who I was powerless against.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he pulled his fingers out of me. The blood rushed from my head and I swooned. "Let's go home," he said.

"OK," I said and stepped down onto the floor. That must be what it feels like for a bird to land on the earth after soaring in the sky I thought. Everything looked so close and grounded.

As he washed his hands I thought about how handy it was to have a sink right there. We gathered our belongings and I picked up my panties, torn asunder and smelling like my pussy, and wrapped the lacey pink fabric around his neck.

"Nice ascot," I said.

"Why thank you Miss Pussy," he sassed back.

Then we walked out into the stream of men exiting the men's room and headed home.

I Do Also Still Butterflies

I found a short note in my in box this morning (doesn't that sound so sexy?) "congratulating" me on my great blog and inviting me to exchange links. When I clicked on the link I found a blog called Dark Obsession... in German. Which I don't read. Then I noticed a little clickable bullet where you could select English. So I did. What then appeared were these wonderfully odd little stories that are poetic and lovely and creepy and sexy all together. There are untranslatable German words scattered throughout that make the whole thing darkly mysterious and humorous at the same time. I Blog Rolled it even though I have no idea what it means. I just liked the sound of the words.

"there are moments on which I is pleased moments probably in everyone lives particularly is, not only in mine. I be pleased drauf to say to you sometime perhaps times that I am more schwanger I now already gladly would know, how you then kuckst. and whether you are then pleased. God - actually the straight is unbelievably a little embarrassingly also however probably knows you eh that I am a small kitschmaus I hope times, you find not further badly. and me each day auf's new fall in love -, whom I do also still butterflies still completely large cinema believe not yet completely can, which is actual you with me which you me to have wanted me small, pinpointed, I. madly, greatly, you. I love it you to look at. believe to :)"

Isn't that beautiful?

Something More

Seems the stars are telling me that there is something about lovers and availability I need to work out. There's Doc, the married guy I went out with the other night. Who, by the way, wrote me when he got home that he told his wife "how cool I was" and she is "really looking forward to meeting me." Then the next morning there was this really hot guy at my gym who flirted shamelessly with me, something that rarely happens since I am quite shy and not most guy's cuppa tea. We established quickly that I am single, childless and bi and then that he was partnered with three children ranging from 2 1/2 months to 12. And then he continued to flirt. So go figure. Then there is this guy who sent me a reply to my ad just saying hang in there, good luck, not all guys want a skinny Barbie type. So we've been having fun emailing but then he tells me he has a girlfriend. Erg. What is it with the world? I'm fine dating poly people... but when do I get to be with someone who thinks I'm so swell that they want to wake up next to me every morning?

I've been meaning to apologize to all you fabulous bloggers out there. I confess that I haven't been reading your blogs recently. The thing is, it has just been too painful. I started to read Twiddly's account* of having Monk over, or Sanyu's story of being tied up for shopping. And, well, it just made me feel so lonely and sad that there is no one in my life to play with. Sure, I have papi, but he lives far away and our visits are few and far between. And even though he is really special to me and I like what we have together, I really crave something more... well... more. But I do promise to catch up with all your blogs as soon as I get my sea legs back. Cuz it looks like you all have been having too much fun lately!

The exciting news in my life is that I'm buying my very first home. It is small and funky and in an "undesirable" area... but it will be mine and I like it! No more upstairs neighbor to hear me scream fuck me harder baby, harder! Sure, there's no basement for a dungeon or beams for suspension rig... but there is one large living room space where maybe I could put a St. Andrew's Cross disguised as a plant hanger or something. Any decorating suggestions? Oh, and there is absolutely no storage area so I need advice about where to stash any sex toys. Where do you all put em?

*Sorry T-Bits and Dangly, I couldn't get the linker to work here. I'll try again later.

Pet My Bunny

I believe I mentioned a few posts back that I recently placed an ad on Craigslist. The subject line was simply "How about a sweet, subby, chubby, femmy, silly, smart nice girl?" The body of the ad just said "Well, how 'bout it?" I know you all must think I am painfully verbose, but really I hold to the adage that less is more when it comes to personal ads.

After deleting all the respondents who could not construct a sentence, bother to use spell check, or think their way outside a box I had about three people worth talking to. One turned out to be 19. Another turned out to be a fatphobic dom just looking for a fuck. And the third, well...

His response was odd right off the bat because he sent me a copy of an ad he had recently placed. He said it was written by his wife. I gathered he was in an open relationship but it was sort of unclear, as internet communiques often are. The post did appeal to me because it was real and frank and friendly. There was a line that sounded sweet and silly and slight kinky, which of course reeled me in. Something about if I had bunny or a kitty for him to pet that would make him very happy. Then he inserted something about especially a black bunny or a stripy kitty and his wife chided beggars can't be choosers. Anyway, I wrote back and just said hello and such. His next response said something about an ex wife so I was confused and asked for clarification, was he currently married or divorced? Turns out he has both an ex wife and a current wife, and is indeed currently in an open marriage with a kinky bi woman.

So. What to do? The one interesting prospect and he's married. But you know, I'm lonely and horny and he's lonely and horny and we seemed so like minded. So I told him that I was open to meeting and just seeing what happened. He seemed somewhat ambivalent at first. I guess he hasn't really taken his wife up on this open thing much, or at all, because he hasn't really clicked with anyone. That was reassuring that he wasn't simply looking for an easy fuck. Or was it? Maybe I would be better off with easy fucks since I always seem to get sprung on people that don't want the same things I want from a relationship. Still, it seemed a shame to not even meet the fellow.

So, I went on a date with a married man, something I never really pictured myself doing. We arranged to meet tonight after work. He suggested dinner and a video at his place (with a subtle insinuation of the possibility of having sex), but I declined mostly because I really don't have that much free time right now but also because I really didn't want to jump into bed with a stranger. I'm horny, but I'm not desperate.

Anyhow, long story short, he was really sweet and quite a nice guy. We had dinner and went for a walk and then sat in front of the lake and chatted. We talked about health stuff and the merits of the city we live in and his family. As we got more comfortable we talked about poly relationships and kink and dating. I ended up telling him how I'm trying to get pregnant (which, by the way, I'm not at the moment... in case you've been following this blog) despite the fact I try not to tell people that on the first date. By the time we parted he said he didn't want to be presumptuous or tacky or anything but that he would be willing to consider being a donor. He added I could use a doctor for insemination and he wasn't just trying to get laid. Now, I know it may sound odd to some of you who aren't in my shoes, but I thought that was just the sweetest gesture ever. I mean I've asked two close friends who both said no and here's this guy who doesn't know me from Job and he makes such a generous offer. Geez. I just may let him pet my bunny for that!

Anyway. I gave him a hug and told him I would be up for getting together again in the future. And that was it.

Girl for Girl Revealed

Trax and I drove over to a fairly industrial part of town and headed down a dark, clean alley. There wasn't anyone else around so we knocked on what was supposedly the entrance to the party. It was a large stainless steel door fronting a totally nondescript edifice. It looked as if we were about to enter someone's basement garage, which turned out to be true.

Inside we were greeted by two women, both of whom Trax seemed to know from previous parties. I was relieved to have her as my Virgil for the evening since she knew her away around this scene. I should say here that I met Trax about the time I met Mr. D when she responded to a personal ad that I placed. We've been hanging out for a while but have never really delved into anything sexual. I was curious to see if that would change tonight. Although, admittedly, one of the reasons I had come was because she made it clear when she invited me that she was just going to watch tonight.

We paid our entrance fees and chit chatted with the two leather dykes at the door for a bit. They were both very friendly and welcoming. I was glad I had femmed up a bit rather than wear jeans and a t-shirt as Trax had suggested. I should know better than to ask a butch dyke for fashion advice. Granted, I'm not a high femme or lipstick lesbian by any stretch of the imagination, but I like to think I have my own thing going on as a middle aged chubby woman in teenage girl hand-me-ups I get at the Goodwill. I had on a short denim skirt all frazzled at the edges, a black hoodie a size too small for me with glittery monkeys on the chest, and my favorite black heels that I stole from Princess. And, of course, shiny pink lip gloss and sparkly eye shadow.

We made our way deeper into the dungeon which turned out to be much smaller than I had expected. As we entered there was a handsome woman about my age sitting on a small love seat. She was dressed casually in a t-shirt and shorts. One of the leather dykes who had greeted us at the door was rubbing some sort of ointment onto her calf while they bantered on about the merits of the salve. The room was pretty small and empty save for a large old fashioned gynecological table with leather padding and shiny metal foot stirrups. I should say this was the first time that a gyne table looked alluring. Especially lately since these inseminations have been about as sexy as a pap smear by your family doctor.

At the other end of the room two doors were flung open that led to a larger area maybe 20 x 40 feet or so. Inside I could see a very pale skinned chubby lady with flowy red hair tied to another medical table. Her arms were bound to her sides and her wrists were bound together and resting in a sort of prayer position on her abdomen. Her breasts were bound and her nipples were taped, maybe even pinned (I couldn't see all that well). Two plain looking butch dykes were attending to her. One at her side was rubbing and twisting her nipples and whispering menacing things close to her ear that I couldn't make out. The other woman was gloved up and fingering her.

As the scene started heating up Trax and I got up and went into the room to watch. The two tops seemed pleased with the attention and started to ratchet things up a bit. The powder white subby girl started whining and moaning quite a bit as her tops got nastier and nastier.

To their left was a nice brushed stainless steal cross about eight feet tall. A tall athletic bodied woman stood holding onto it, leaning in face first, naked save for her sports socks. I, of course, giggled at the socks, which I found incredibly charming. A shorter woman who was very femmed up in a skin tight slinky dress with a low back and a high slit up the side was gently flogging her. She seemed like she knew what she was doing, switching from floggers to canes to bats in a seemless premeditated fashion. But compared to the scene going on right next to them they seemed very tame and casual, like they were just goofing around on a Sunday afternoon. Maybe because the bottom was so stoic and never once made a peep or flinched a muscle.

Meanwhile the threesome had escalated into some rough finger fucking and the pretty redhead was cumming over and over. The top at her side ripped the duct tape off her mouth and ordered her not to scream. She tried her best but eventually started screaming these high pitched girly screams that seemed all too familiar to me and irritated the fuck out of me. The top pressed down on either side of a layer of rope that ran across her neck and started to cut off her wind supply. That stopped the screaming, as did the hand that was then quickly clasped over her mouth.

Two tall, slender women came in and checked out the eye hook on the ceiling above where Trax and I were seated. So we got up and let them set up their stuff. The top was a woman in a black bra and panties under one of those mesh one piece body suits without a crotch. She looked like she stepped out of a leather dyke calendar and it did absolutely nothing for me. Her bottom was clad in a simple leather halter and panties which showed off her perfectly toned and fake bronzed figure. I'm sure everyone would concede she had a nice body... but she did absolutely nothing for me niether. I was much more taken with the chubby sub on the table who was now starting to hyperventilate in between high pitched giggles.

When I say taken I should clarify that none of this turned me on in the way you might think. Rather I felt kind of flustered. The sub on the table was getting on my nerves in her demeanor, and yet I recognized myself most strongly in her. The closest I came to being turned on was more a feeling of envy in wanting to take her place. Not because I was attracted to the women fucking with her. Rather, I was attracted to what they were doing to her. And I knew I would respond just like her, even though it grated on my nerves so. Thankfully, it didn't seem to bother the tops one iota.

Trax and I stayed for a while more while all the scenes climaxed and everyone started cooing and snuggling and doing all that fun after care stuff. It was sweet to see all those mean tops get all mushy and gooey, but I still felt slightly irritated with everyone there. Jealous? Bored? Ashamed? I dunno. All I know is I think I learned I'm really not a voyeur at heart. And I would be one hell of a mean top if I had to listen to all that high pitched subby screaming myself.

Girl for Girl

Well, it appears I am going to go to a girl for girl sex party tonight. Hmmm. We'll see. I'm really not into the whole public sex scene. And there ain't much voyeur in me. I'm the kinda person who gets nervous sitting in the first few rows at the theater. Mr. D says watching fun. I guess I'll have to see for myself.

Why Is That?

A couple of weeks ago I got a nasty nasty spider bite on my ankle. I can go for a day or two not itching it, but every time I scratch it just a smidge it flares up into this raging horrid thing that itches like a mutherfuckingbitch. Why is that?

I've gone for years... yes, YEARS... without any sexual contact other than my hand (this was before Wanda came into my life) and I swear I didn't miss sex one iota. Now... well, you've seen me. I'm climbing the walls here people. Tell me, why is that?

So last night I posted an ad on Craiglist. Two ads actually. You gotta get creative when you're bi. I usually scan the ads on occasion but I think I'm gonna give up on that. Honestly, they depress me no end. It seems 99.9% of the ads are looking for the same thing: a thin woman. Petite. Fit. HWP. Slender. Thin. Svelt. Athletic. Inevitably there's some code for not fat. I might be everything else they want - smart, submissive, employed, childless, disease free, fun loving, poly, ethical... you name it - but the bottom line is am I thin?

It drives me nuts because I'm not even all that fat anymore. At a size 16 I feel pretty average really (I used to be a 28 or something... I stopped counting because they stopped making clothes in my size even at the plus size store), which makes it crazy because then all the people who want the fat girls don't want me either because I'm not fat enough.

Really, I don't want to fuck anyone who wants to fuck me simply because of my body type. I don't want to be someone's fetish. I know this girl who is a quadriplegic and guys are always hitting on her. She and I have talked about this conundrum - where is the line between disturbing fetish that doesn't see the whole person and just some bloke who happens to like a girl who has no arms or legs? She met a guy recently and when she asked him straight up "are you a perv for cripples like me?" his response seemed pretty much as honest as you can get. "I like you, and you don't have any arms or legs." So, what's a girl to do?

So, my ad just put it out there that I'm chubby and subby and all that. Actually, I almost always try and put it out there just to head things off at the pass. The problem is, then I get all the chubby chasers... and I've already told you the inherent problems there. One guy replied to my ad that he thought I sounded great and then sent another post moments late that said "just how fat are you?" Well, my mama taught me to return all correspondences so I wrote back "If you have to ask, I'm probably too fat or not fat enough for you."

Anyway. Some of the people who responded seem decent enough. The thing is I'm just so tired of the dating thing. Granted, I don't have years and years of dating behind me, so I shouldn't be burning out just yet, but it is just so exhausting. Don't get me wrong. I like meeting new folks and I've met some great people through on-line dating. Afterall, I met Mr. D, Prince(ss), Rob and Spanky through the internet. But in my heart of hearts I'm ready to snuggle in, you know?

On Waking Up Alone

Gosh, it sure would be nice to wake up next to someone wanting to fuck me. Geez, at this point it would even be nice to wake up next to someone who didn't want to fuck me. I really wasn't meant for a solitary life.

My bruises from papi have all faded now. The frequency and duration of our time together is so miniscule and paltry compared to the enormity of my craving. The sight of my pale unmarked skin just leaves me feeling empty and alone. Ghostly.

Thanks for all your thoughtful comments yesterday. I'll leave the anonymous feature on for now. So have at it!

Anonymous or Not?

I've noticed that, for the most part, when people post anonymously to this blog their posts leave me scratching my head. Why did they say that? Who is that? Have they read all my posts or do they have no idea what I'm talking about? A few times anonymous posts have nagged at me and caused me consternation. I've been contemplating resetting the site so it doesn't take anonymous comments. I haven't done so though because I want to allow folks the option to remain anonymous, if that's what they need, to speak their truth. But so far seems like the folks who go out on the limb and identify themselves somehow are the ones who have something more interesting and relevant to say.

What do other bloggers think? I'm curious if others have had experiences similar to mine.

I Am An Island

Anyone else ever terrified by their own longings? I used to think of myself as a completely self sufficient person... I never allowed myself the luxury of needing anyone or anything. That old Dylan song with the "I am a rock" refrain described me to a T. But these days I just feel so lost and lonely and in need of companionship. Maybe it stems from the prospect of having and raising a child by myself. Maybe it stems from the reality that I am nearing 40 and I'm still basically single. Maybe it stems from being flooded by years and years of repressed desires and longings. Whatever it is, it sucks. I feel so lonely and fragile and afraid.

Maplewood Spoon from Crate and Barrel 

Bare Assed and Happy

This weekend I went to the mall with Mirva. We took a short cut through Crate and Barrel and I fell in love with this spoon. It was so sexy: thick and smooth and solid. It seemed more like a paddle than a spoon. Just touching it made me want to make a big batch of something or other and then bend over bare assed and happy. It was the only thing I coveted in the entire mall. And even though it was under ten bucks I couldn't bring myself to splurge for it.

By the way, I inseminated again on Saturday. Cross your fingers and your toes I get knocked up good.

When the Bruises Ache

This morning as I bent over backwards trying to approximate a back bend on my balance ball my t-shirt rose up and Mirva got a glimpse of the bruises scattered across my belly. Her eyes got big and she blurted out with great concern in her voice what happened to you?!

Oh, those are, uh, hickeys. Papi likes to bite.

She looked at me like I was a battered wife making excuses for my abusive husband. They look like they hurt, she said.

No, they don't hurt, I replied.

And I thought to myself no, sadly, I can't feel them at all now.

For me the bruises are mementos of our time together. They help me remember the feeling of his mouth greedily sucking on my breast, his fingers grabbing and twisting my belly, his teeth clamping down on my inner thigh as they work their way over to my pussy. And when the bruises ache deep down in the muscle, making my flesh feel raw and tender, I am reminded of our passion and in those moments the distance between us doesn't feel quite so far.

What's In a Name?

Twiddly asked a while ago my thoughts on the difference between gay and queer? Well, in a nutshell, I think people who self identify as "gay" or "lesbian" are more likely to want to assimilate into mainstream society. And people who self identify as "queer" are more likely to want to change the rest of the world. Yes, a sweeping generalization I know, but still just my take on things. Keep in mind this is also a generational thing as self identifying as "gay" 20 years ago was very different then it is in today's context.

Bye Bye Spanky?

There are only two people close to me who know I write this blog, Papi and my little sister Peaches. But now there may be three. You may have noticed a few days back that I commented that Spanky recently called me Spanky... giving me pause to wonder if he had stumbled across this blog. And, if you were really on your toes, you might have noticed that last week I posted about an encounter Spanky and I had the night before... then, when I received an anonymous comment saying "bye bye Spanky," I immediately deleted it. I was sick to my stomach over the whole thing. Not that Spanky would know about my blog or the details of my sexual encounters with others. No, that's fair game. Rather I was devastated that I would have inadvertently hurt him in my accounts of our sexual encounters. I guess I'm still struggling with the question of how to balance my right to tell my own story with my responsibility to do no harm to others.

The Real Queer Eye

I haven't forgotten about Twiddly's question. Honestly, I was hoping no one would press me to talk about the difference between queer and gay/lesbian. I was gonna just ignore the question. But then I read today's word-of-the-day* and understood it was my fate to struggle with that question right here for all you all to see.

In case you didn't know Merriam-Webster's Word of the Day for June 7 was:

homonym \HAH-muh-nim\ noun
1 : homophone
2 : homograph
3 : one of two or more words spelled and pronounced alike but different in meaning

Did you ever notice that "homo" was in the word homonym?

And you may ask, what homonym praytell could compell me to the discussion at hand? And I say to you, the word is "queer."

Now, for much of America the word queer has one and only one meaning. Odd. And not odd as in unique or special. At its' most benign the meaning is akin to Webster's definition: differing in some odd way from what is usual or normal. But walk onto any third grade playground and you'll get the real meaning we all grow up with. Odd as in you-can't-play-with-us-you-sissy. Odd as in I'm-gonna-shove-your-head-into-this-toilet-where-it-belongs-you-faggot. Odd as in you-fucking-dyke-I'll-show-you-how-a-real-woman-takes-it-up-the-cunt. In other words, any person in their right mind would think twice before proclaiming "Hello world. I'm a big fabulous queer!" This is often true of folks in the lesbian and gay community as well, particularly folks of my generation or older. Lots of gays and lesbians want nothing to do with the word queer since it has generally been used to oppress us and harassss us and brand us as societal outcasts.

But there are those among us who wear our queerness on our sleeves nonetheless.

Some of you may not know that this month of June is the month that gay, lesbian, bi, trans and allied folks celebrate our pride and commemorate our struggles in parades and celebrations all around the world. The 1969 rebellion at the Stonewall Inn in New York City is commonly attributed to be the moment the tide turned and the queers fought back en masse. Often thought to be just a skirmish between a bunch of nelly queens and some good old boy cops, iactualityty the riots spanned over three sperate nights and at one point involved up to 2000 angry queers and over 400 police officers. And when I say queers, I mean queers. Bull dykes. Drag queens. Flaming fags. Transgender folk(before the word transgender was in the popular lexicon). Queers.

Eventually the police sent in a riot-control squad that had originally been trained to counter Vietnam War protesters. So, what do the queers do when faced with a row of armed cops in full riot gear? They start throwing rocks and bottles and flipping over patrol cars. Then they got really serious: they faced off the cops with a chorus line and started to sing:

We are the Stonewall girls
We wear our hair in curls
We wear no underwear
We show our pubic hair
We wear our dungarees
Above our nelly knees!

Now if that isn't fabulously queer I don't know what is.

*I started drafting this post on June 7th, when homonym really was the word of the day.

I Touch Myself

I'm not really missing in action. More like missing in inaction. I've been sad and lonely and filled with anxiety. Hibernating. Hiding. Pretending to hold my head up all day leaves me exhausted each night. I come home and crash. But I promise to return when I can muster up a little umph and maybe a story to tell.

Not much going on in my world sex wise. The most action I've had lately was my unsuccessful insemination a few weeks back. I haven't even felt the need to make a date with Wanda. Pretty sad, huh? Even my phone sex trysts with papi have been few and far between. I used to call him up all most every night and cum for him over and over. These days we talk and I touch myself but my pussy is like a shivering kitty curled into a tight little ball too tired to wake up.

Feeling lonely and horny I called Spanky today and invited him to come over for dinner. I told him I was gonna be out of town this weekend and suggested he might want to punish me in advance. Of course he readily agreed, which made me feel good. He's a pretty sweet guy that Spanky. And his stoner ways are kinda working for us since we can be outa sight, outa mind for weeks and then be all happy to see each other once we remember the other one exists. Anyway, he's on his way over so I can't stay long. Just wanted to let you all know I'm still alive. And curious.

Oh, by the way, Spanky called me Spanky today. Do you think he found my blog? Or just coincidence? Curious.

The Word of the Day for June 17 is:

Brobdingnagian•\brob-ding-NAG-ee-un\• adj:
marked by tremendous size

(thought you all might have fun with that one)

La Cuchara

My friend Pez was returning home to the states after spending quite some time abroad. She had asked me what I wanted as a gift and I told her I was sure to be happy with anything she chose. Our mutual friend Mirva, on the other hand, said she specifically wanted some culinary something or others, neglecting to take into account that Pez knows absolutely zip about cooking. Afterall, the girl lives off of water and string cheese. Although after a year in South America she now seems to subsist on wine, chips and salsa. Anyway, Pez brought me a very nice bottle of wine and a beautiful print and I was tickled pink. After presenting me with my gift she asked me if I would take a look at what she had brought for Mirva and see if I thought it would be to her liking. You see, Pez knew that Mirva is impossible to satisfy and a very snobbish foody... and she knew that I understand both Mirva and foody accoutrements pretty well.

So she pulls out a sweet little handmade hardwood cutting block and I tell her Mirva will love it. She already owns at least 10 cutting boards, none like this one, and I'm certain she will be thrilled to ad it to her collection. Then she pulls out this cool looking wooden citrus pulper thing. I've seen ones like it in Cost Plus but this one was much nicer. Almost a piece of art really. I say, Oh yes, she'll love this. Sure, she probably already has three... but none will be as nice as this one. Finally she says I'm not sure about this one. It is pretty plain but all my friends who like to cook tell me it is their favorite thing ever that they got in Chile. And she pulls out a simple wooden spoon. And God only knows why but I knew I had to have that spoon!

Maybe it was because I had read one too many of Kasey's posts. Or maybe it was because I was going on my third day of no orgasms after being firmly instructed by my papi that I was not allowed to cum until he granted me permission (a whole nother story in itself). Whatever the reason I told Pez the mostly truth which was that I thought Mirva would find the spoon to be banal and perhaps be a bit miffed that her friend went all the way to Chile and all she brought back was this stupid wooden kitchen spoon. I offered as an aside that I really liked the spoon and would love to have it. I may have mentioned something about my appreciation for its' Shaker like simplicity or my desire to support locally made goods over mass produced child slave labor spoons. And while everything I said was indeed true... what was really seared into my mind's eye was the image of me bent over my papi's knee as he beat red stripes across my ass with la cuchara. I was certain my cheeks were bright red (on my face silly reader!) and my breath was labored as I cautioned Pez that she might seriously offend Mirva if she threw the spoon into the mix.

In the end, Pez gave me the spoon. I felt a tiny bit of remorse until Mirva asked me the next day what Pez had gotten me. When I told her she said Oh, well that must have cost a lot. I said I thought her lemon squeezer thing looked pretty nifty; that I had never seen one quite like that. She replied off handedly Oh, I have one already. You can have it if you like. I asked if hers was as nice or just some cheap mass produced China knock off and she said Whatever, a lemon squeezer is a lemon squeezer. Who cares? I knew then that the spoon had indeed made its' way to its' rightful owner.

But then karmic retribution came into play...

The next morning I called my papi on my cell from Mirva's guest room (I was staying with her as I had traveled to her city to greet Pez on her return home to the states). In soto voce I told him about the spoon and how I had wrangled it into my possession. I told him how sexy I thought the spoon was and how I wanted him to spank me with it when I saw him next. He asked me where the spoon was then and I told him in the bottom of my bag where Mirva wouldn't see it. He instructed me to get it out. I did so with equal amounts of excitement and anxiety.

He asked me what I was wearing and I told him I was still in my pj's: a t-shirt and some panties.

Good, he said. Where are you?

I'm in the downstairs guest room.

Where's Mirva?

Upstairs, in her bedroom. Still sleeping, I think.

I want you to rub the spoon between your legs.

That's so silly. I would rather you were here to...

Do what I tell you!

OK. I'm doing it.

How does it feel?

Silly. Smooth. Hard.

OK. Now rub your pussy over your panties.

Papi...

Do it!

OK. I'm doing it.

Good girl. Now how does it feel?

Silly. But nice. It's making me a little wet.

At this point I think I started to moan a little. And squirm.

Now, I want you to slap your pussy ten times with the spoon. And don't you dare cum!

Papi... that will be too loud and Mirva might...

Do it!

Yes sir. I'm doing it.

I started to make soft hesitant pats, first to the outside of my thigh and then working my way inward till I was slapping the outer lips of my pussy. Then I swatted and counted aloud ten times in rapid succession, rushing to get it over with.

The feeling was odd. Not particularly nice, put not altogether unpleasant. More striking was the powerful sensation of embarrassment and mortification, even though there were no witnesses to my act of submission.

Describe the room to me, Pussy.

Well, I'm lying on my back on the futon. There are two french doors that open out onto the deck and the backyard. There are some gauzy curtains to keep the nextdoor neighbors from getting a good look inside.

Will people see you if you go out on the deck?

Here I started to get very anxious. You know of my aversion to role plays? Well, multiply that by a zillion and that is how much I dread the idea of anyone watching me do anything that remotely resembles exhibitionism. Multiply that by ten zillion and that is how much I abhor the thought of anyone watching me do anything foolish.

Yes, the neighbors could look out their windows and see me. And should a car drive past the house they could see me too.

Is there anyone looking or driving by now?

No, but...

Go out on the deck then.

But...

Do it!

OK. I'm standing on the deck.

Did you bring the spoon?

I looked down... and for better or for worse the damn spoon was in my hand.

Yes sir.

I want you to slap your pussy six times with the spoon. And remember, no cumming!

Papi, I can't. Someone might see me.

Yes, you can. And you will. Now do it for your papi.

I swallowed hard. I knew I could tell him to back off. That was my safe word. My out. But I also knew he was testing me... and if there is anything I hate, it is failing tests!

One. There, I did it.

OK. Now four more times.

Two.... Three.

So far, so good. No one had driven by or peeked out their window. My heart was racing and I felt panicky.

Four. Five. Six. There, I did it! Can I go back inside now?

Yes, papi's good girl may go back inside.

I rushed back through the french doors and collapsed on the bed, spoon still in hand. I felt giddy and proud and triumphant. I passed the test!

That First Crimson Drop of Blood

Damn. I just started bleeding. Ah well. It just wasn't meant to be right now, right? The consolation prize? I get to see my papi next weekend for one precious night. And, knowing that I'm not pregnant means he can do dern near pretty much whatever the fuck he wants with me and I won't mind one tiny bit. He's quite the sadist when free reign is given.

Damn. I knew deep down I wasn't pregnant. But when I saw that first crimson drop of blood I still burst into tears. I guess that's what floods out when you release the dam that was stubbornly harboring hope.

The Word of the Day for June 14 is:

woebegone•\WOH-bih-gahn\•adj.
1: strongly afflicted with woe: woeful
2: exhibiting great woe, sorrow, or misery
3: being in a sorry state

The Night I Almost Lost My Two Best Friends: My Dog and Wanda

One night I stumbled home in the wee hours of the morning as I am sometimes wont to do. As I groped my way across the dark apartment my dog followed close at my heels. I admit she is normally neurotic and clingy but this seemed a bit much even for her... usually in the middle of the night she wouldn't bother getting outa bed to greet me since she knows I'll just be under the covers myself in a minute. She's been through the routine enough to know.

Anyway, as I approached my bedroom I heard a weird humming noise. I thought it sounded like my upstairs neighbor was vacuuming, which seemed odd. I haven't known him to vacuum in the middle of the night. Actually, he has hardwood floors and I haven't known him to vacuum ever. As I got closer to my bed the noise got louder and I realized it was coming from under my covers. Meanwhile my pooch is standing in the bedroom doorway quivering, her tail between her legs, like Gromet looking into the eyes of the Evil Penguin.

When I reached down to see what it was I discovered my comforter was vibrating madly and hot to the touch! I pulled back the covers and the humming turned into a roar. There before my eyes was Wanda, my Hitachi Magic Wand, brrr-ing away like a desperate housewife trying to cum all alone after hubby has gone to sleep... she must have been going all night. The freaky thing is that it looked like she was about to explode. The casing was all warped and melted and the mattress and covers were red hot for like a two foot radius!

I guess I had left her plugged in and somehow my dog must have managed to turn her on while climbing into bed. So, fate intervened on my behalf that evening when my triste with Mr. D had ended with him falling asleep in front of the tele. Else I am certain I would have come home to a four alarm fire and my two favorite companions burnt to a crisp.

These days Wanda ain't half the girl she used to be. She groans and shakes when I turn her on, and she heats up rather quickly in my hand. I don't want her to burst into flames and catch mi cosita on fire or anything. But damn, that girl was hella expensive and she's the only one who can make me cum like she does.

Typical Awkward Abandon

Until 2003, at the age of 37, I had only had sex with three people. Well, six if you count a drunken orgy with three friends as a freshman in college. But I don’t really count that as we all just got more frustrated than anything else. Poor communication, particularly as it relates to feelings and carnal desires, had to do with the demise of all of these relationships. I’ll own the bit that was mine: I have an incredibly difficult time knowing my own needs and desires after years and years of refining the state of simply not having any to begin with. It was my experience that allowing myself the luxury of desire only led to pain and disappointment down the line. Better to want nothing of life. Of course, I didn’t understand until it was much too late the toll that takes.

When I fell in love with Elle, the third or the sixth of those people depending on how you choose to ad it up, it was quite literally love at first sight. I looked up and saw her enter the room and I was sprung. She had a sort of chubby, well, fat really, soft butch bjork thing going on. I remember she wore a green hoody and shaggy baggy jeans, looking like a scrappy tomboy in a roomful of preppy baristas all trying to appease the corporate wigs at Starbucks. We would be sequestered away all weekend in a stuffy windowless office for a fucking “sanitation” class. It was required to rise from barista to lead clerk and thus merit your lousy fifty cent raise. As the city health inspector droned on and on about the appropriate handling of dairy products and the numerous varieties of cockroaches found in Chicago sewers I gazed at her and imagined she and I and Upton Sinclair were drinking our double tall americanos and laughing as all the grande nonfat latte ladies were dropping like flies on the streets of Chicago.

I wooed her with my typical awkward abandon and it took me for fucking ever to figure out if she was queer. Every rainbow flag and Queer Nation sticker I spotted in her apartment belonged to her roommate, a flaming fairy if ever there was one. And of course, all her queer friends were his friends too. So no dish there. And for every move I made to indicate my adoration I was simply confused more by her sweet smile and seductive silence.

During a particularly treacherous Chicago snow storm that fortuitously prevented me from driving back home to the south side of the city, we went for a midnight walk and I confessed my love. Under a heavy blanket of silence – only three feet of snow and Elle could hush the cacophony of the EL trains and the sirens and the steady stream of traffic off of Lake Shore Drive - I told her “I think I’m falling in love with you.” Her only response was “me?”

Later that night, as we lay side by side on her small futon, afraid to let our bodies touch as we shivered to death trying to stay warm under two thin blankets in a room with a broken radiator and the chilly winter air hissing through cracks in her tenement windows, I finally managed to ask her “Can I kiss you.” “I don’t know” she said. And then I kissed her.

We were together for just about five years, but in my heart it was a lifetime. Of course, being queer, we were never married. But we often spoke of looking forward to growing old together. We talked about having children and creating our own family since our families of origin were not our real families. She would often say “I can’t imagine I would ever fall out of love with you.” And then she would ask me “Will you always love me?” And I would tell her the only truth I knew for sure “I don’t know the answer to that. But I love you very much right now and I can’t imagine it ever being otherwise.” My heart wanted to believe her, that she would always be true to me. But my head already knew that love is fickle.

Eventually, my heart was indeed proven wrong. It started when I bought her the computer. And she got on-line. And she became addicted to the internet. She would stay up late, leaving me to fall asleep by myself to the sound of her clicking away on the keyboard right outside our bedroom door connecting with people in chatrooms on the other side of the world. It got to the point where she was forgetting to eat and not sleeping at all and looking all disheveled and missing work and doctor’s appointments just to be on the internet. I had seen this behavior before with roommates who were addicted to heroin. It scared me, but I knew, as with other addictions, I was powerless to stop it from running its’ course.

One night I came home and she had made a beautiful dinner. Homemade soup. A hand picked salad with fresh herbs. Some fancy entrée which I can’t for the life of me recall. Candles. Wine. She had loved to cook for me in the earlier part of our courting but it had been some time since she had even so much as joined me for a meal. As we sat down I looked at her and told her how beautiful everything was and asked what the special occasion was. She looked at me with her empty, mysterious eyes and nothing came out of her mouth. And in that moment I knew what I had not known the moment before, and, of course, had always known. I asked her “are you breaking up with me?” and she burst into tears. She never said the words though. She never said the fucking words.

Of course, there is more to the story. You have surely guessed it involved secret internet affairs. Which it did. And, I don’t mind admitting, even though I am not proud of it, I learned about these relationships by entering the password she had posted for weeks on a sticky-note to the monitor and reading the incredibly passionate and erotic exchanges between her and some baby dyke in Switzerland.

And months and months of not having been intimate, in any way, with each other.

And not even having the energy to argue anymore.

Eventually a few painful sessions spent with a couple’s counselor brought us no closer to a solution. I believed we could work things out if only we could just tell one another the truth. And she could never say anything more than “I don’t know.” Finally, I told her “I don’t know” was not enough for me and I left. To this day I resent that she never had the courage to say that she did know what she wanted. And just tell me the truth.

So, the part I hadn’t guessed, as I doubt you have, is this: I found out much, much later that Elle had told a close friend of ours that one of her reasons for being unhappy in our relationship was that she wanted to explore more kinky sex. And I thought Jesus fucking Christ, couldn’t she just have fucking asked for what she wanted just that once?

Flash forward five years. I have been celibate and depressed and closed off from people the entire time. Licking my wounds. Thinking if I don’t let anyone close I won’t get hurt again. Then, by some twist of fate, I got sent to a meeting some states away where I met a young man from Africa. Nothing happened but some smiles and a few passing words, and yet my life would never be the same.

A month later fate intervenes again and I get sent as part of a work delegation to Africa. And once again there is one of those moments where I am sitting in a crowded room and I look up and I’m instantly in love. I see his face from across the room and a secret smile passes between us. For the short week we were together in Africa nothing much more then meaningful glances and quiet conversations were exchanged between us. But as soon as I left Africa behind I knew I had made a mistake. I had missed my opportunity to tell the truth and make my desires be known.

Once I returned home to the states we started to email one another and the truth telling began. Our affection was confessed, as was the reality of his situation. In short, he had left the priesthood to be with a woman named Anabelle and he had made a vow to remain true to her. He believed that since he had left God to be with her that leaving her would be betraying God once again. In the end, his love proved fickle as well and he left her too. But not to be with me. Instead he began to wonder the world searching for himself yet again.

But it was too late. I was already transformed. I will never again pass by love, or the chance for it. And I now know it takes more risk, and courage, and humility, and honesty, and did I say risk, then I ever imagined. And it may be fleeting or it may endure a life time, but we will never know unless we dare to say, out loud and to the ones we love, what we want. And to the ones we want, what we love.

The Queer World

TwiddlyBits asked...

"Was this your first time with a man in a skirt (or any feminine attire)? Do tell us more!"

So I figured I might as well share the response with the rest of you since T. Bits probably isn't the only one wondering.

Yes, Prince was the first male bodied person in a skirt that I've slept with. And even though I've used male pronouns to refer to Prince, it was only due to the limitations of the english language and a desire to have you be able to track the story. In truth Prince identifies as genderqueer and had told me so on our first date. But I never pushed Prince to define what that meant. I knew s/he would tell me when s/he was ready.

While Prince was my first genderqueer lover - remember, up until Rob I had only had 3.5 lovers in my life - the reality is I have lots of qenderqueer and transgender people in my life. I am queer identified myself and I live and work in the queer world. Not the gay world. Not the lesbian world. The queer world. And for those of you who don't know the difference, well, that's why I hadn't bothered to mention it before now.

But one of the things that endeared Prince to me is that s/he lived entirely in the straight world, even though s/he identified as bi and genderqueer. And I don't mean straight only in the sexual sense. Sure, s/he knew enough about my world to use the term genderqueer... but the reality was that in 44 years no one had ever loved zer for who s/he was, not in spite of it.

Honestly, these days when I talk to Prince or mention zer to someone else I use male and female pronouns interchangeably (as well as gender neutral terms like "zer" and "ze"). Although I tend to lean towards the feminine ones. I know she is thirsty for them. And I want her to know she truly is my princess. So, from here on out I will use he and she interchangeably for her.

So, that's that. Now. To explain the bit about how I became the frog is much more complicated.

Beautiful Princess

I know that in the fairytales the girl kisses the frog and he becomes a prince, or something like that. But in my fairytale I kissed the prince and he became the princess... and before I knew what had happened to me, I became the frog.

I kept sneaking home in the wee hours of the morning while prince slept soundly in his bed, praying that my fragile glass slipper fantasy would not turn into a rotting hallowed out pumpkin shell before the sun came up. And every night I would return hoping to spend just one more evening with my prince.

The day after the homeopathic nurse routine I popped over to Prince's rickety old shack in the early afternoon. He had done some work that day at one of his a construction sites, but since he still wasn't feeling well he had gone home early. When I got there he was still in the tub cleaning up so I made myself comfortable. I rinsed out a coffee cup and poured myself a glass of his cheap port. It was sweet and syrupy as it slid down my throat. I put on a CD I had burned for him... I think it was Jane Siberry. Yes, I am certain it was. It was that album with "When I was a Boy." I was browsing through the rest of his CD's when he stepped out of the bathroom.

His long hair was wrapped in a towel and twisted about his head. He smelled fruity, like some kind of pink fruit. Cherries maybe. His chest was smooth and bare. There was no sign of the sweat, grease and debris that usually covered his body after a long day of work. The only reminder of his day time persona were a few small scratches on his forearm where he had been a bit too hasty with a two by four.

He smiled and casually said hey you. But the moment was anything but casual. It was a test. One that he fully expected me to fail. Because what I haven't told you yet is that the only thing he wore, besides the towel, as he sashayed toward me with a tentatively confident stride, was a long flowing skirt that stopped just above his ankles.

I like your skirt, I said as he walked passed.

This old thing? Gosh, I've had this for years, he said.

Mmm. It looks comfortable, I said. All the best clothes are old and comfortable, aren't they?

I followed him into the bedroom and leaned back on the pile of pillows in the corner of his bed. I watched as he dried his hair, flipping it back and forth, whipping the towel about like a teenage girl at the beach. Behind him I noticed that the shroud which normally sectioned off the end of his open closet had been removed. And hanging there on the dowel in plain view were a dozen or so skirts and girly frocks. Some velvety, some cottony, some satiny. Mostly purples and blues and greens. Lots of floral patterns. And all of them a size 16 or bigger. Funny, I hadn't realized that we were the same size. Our bodies were shaped so differently.

I smiled up at him and said, you look beautiful princess.

He smiled back and said simply, thank you.

He crawled over, climbed on top of me and kissed me. I had on a short linen house dress which he pushed above my waist while he pulled my panties down to my ankles. He hoisted his skirt up to his hips where it draped across his hard cock. Without a word he entered me. As he fucked me I could feel the folds of cotton, soft and comforting, brushing against my skin. There was no foreplay or lead up... just pure desire and a sweet fast fuck on a warm summer evening.

Golden Haired Wild Child

Lately I've taken to looking up Webster's online word-of-the-day with the same relish and anticipation you would reserve for breaking open the fortune cookie at the end of a good meal at your favorite Chinese restaurant. And, as with the fortune cookie, I can't help but find meaning and portent in the message.

Today's word is:

cat's-paw\KATS-PAW\noun
1: light air that ruffles the surface of the water in irregular patches during a calm
2: one used by another as a tool: dupe
3: a hitch knot formed with two eyes for attaching a line to a hook

Isn't that wonderful? And apropos. You see I can't help but feel bad about this whole Spanky thing. As if I had unwittingly made him my cat's-paw. But I've been nothing but honest with him from jump street about everything. The thing is we just want different things and no matter what I tell him, he wants something from me that I can't give him. And vice versa.

Actually, the truth of the matter is we want many of the same things. That's what makes this so crappy. I just don't want them with him. Though I've tried to convince myself otherwise. If only I could fall for him. He's such a sweet heart. He's freaky weird the way I like. Laid back and open to life. He's alternative and can roll with my odd girl ways. All in all he's a total honey. But he just don't make me purr.

Here's the thing. I'm 39 years old, childless and single for the most part. I may be a late bloomer, but I finally know what I want. I want a family. I want a home. I want the domestic life that comes with all that. As kinky and care free as I am, what I really crave is the sweetness of falling asleep in the arms of my lover each night and waking up to his (or her) bad breath, bed head and stupid sleepy self each morning. The delusions of my younger days are gone. I no longer imagine that my Prince or Princess will be charming at all times. I expect a few warts here and there. An evil step sister or two. But the bottom line is my hero(ine) will have to satisfy my curious pussy as well as my heart and mind.

So, there you have it.

So, you all are probably wondering if I let him fuck me last night. And the answer is, of course I did. But I'll spare you the details. The only bit worth mentioning is that our fucking took place under a black light. He looked like a crazed chief from some psychotropic worshipping African tribe. And apparently I looked like some golden haired wild child with iridescent skin. The rest was just business as usual.

Oh, by the way, my challenge of the day is this: use all three definitions of cat's-paw in one sentence. Like this:

Her eyes squinched shut as he wove her braids into a cat's-paw and, ever so carefully, attached her, his very own cat's-paw, to the wench and slowly hoisted her above the water where she dangled in the cat's-paw until her tears summoned the hungry sharks.

Ne Plus Ultra... NOT!

So, tonight is the make up date with Spanky. I don't have high hopes. He worked a long day and my mind is elsewhere. I doubt it will rise to be the ne plus ultra.

Ha! Look at me working in Webster's word of the day!

ne plus ultra • \nay-plus-UL-truh\ • noun
1 : the highest point capable of being attained: acme
2 : the most profound degree of a quality or state

As for me, well, I got inseminated this morning. I've been meaning to tell you all about it but the time just never seemed right. I still need to catch you all up on the other loose ends... but this one just seemed too much to keep quiet about about.

Spanky must have some kinda cosmic connection to my inseminations since my first (and only) one occurred the morning after the first night we slept together. I'll tell you all about it but right now I need to go find a clean pair of thongs.

Word of the Day

Figleaf had the great idea to make "tribidism" the word of the day. But in the interest of fair play Webster's says "marplot" is the word of the day. Who to believe? I guess there can be two words of the day! The challenge is to use them both in one sentence. Anyone want to try?

And, if you can use them during the day, say, like in your staff meeting or with the check out clerk at the grocery store, then you get to pick tomorrow's word of the day!

Word Whore

What the fuck is wrong with Blogger's formatting and spacing? It is seriously sadistic and is harshing my buzz! If you can help me straighten this mess out I will write a list for you. You name the theme. How's that for bartering?

Top 50 TTTMO

(things that turn me on)

1. A firm ass in sweat pants.

Go figure! And it really is on the top of my list.

2. Attentiveness.

As in "I see by the way your ass is quivering I'll have to spank you harder."

3. Being read aloud to in bed.

Smut. Poetry. Reader's Digest. You name it. I'm just a whore for words.

4. Spontaneity.

As in pull me by the wrist into the family restroom during intermission at the theater. You figure out the rest.

5. Chubby girls in tight clothes who know they're hot.

6. Silliness.

Make me call you Lord Master of the Supercilious Sirens of Suburbia. Macrame my bondage gear. Sing showtunes while you whip me. Lavish butterfly kisses on my nipples after you remove the electrical tape and clothespins.

7. Lavishing attention on freshly washed feet. Mine and yours.

8. Truthfulness, especially when it's risky.

For example, "I wanted you so bad today I humped the refrigerator." Yes, I did do and confess that one recently. Stuttering "Christ I want to fuck you" on the first date. Or spitting out "I think I love you" on the third.

9. The backs and insides of body parts.

The backs of your knees, inside of your wrists, instep of your foot, the crease where your thigh meets your crotch. You get the idea.

10. When someone you like smiles at you for no reason.

11. Tribidism.

12. Generosity of self.

This may be my number two number one. If you giveme your heart without reserve, your fears, your trust, your lust... I am yours to do with as you please.
13. Tenderness, especially when following roughness.
Think burlap followed by silk. Think a smack followed by a caress. Think a shove followed by an embrace.
14. The smell of the desert after it rains.

15. The quiet rockers in good bands (often the drummers and the bassists).
16. Sleeping naked under the stars... in one sleeping bag.
17. Unconditional compassion, for all sentient beings.
18. Ardent approval.

A la "Good girl!" Or "Yeah. Just like that baby..."

19. Having my face pressed between your palms while you kiss me.

20. Having my wrists pinned down by someone stronger then me.

21. Having my body physically manipulated - pushed, rolled, pulled, bent - by my partner for his/her pleasure, and mine.
22. Dancing with you in the shower to funky baselines.

23. Taught, straining muscles.

24. Bruises that hide under your clothes like secrets.
25. Silent sex.

26. Noisy sex.

27. Saying no, no, no and meaning yes - not to be confused with saying no and meaning no.

28. Sissies.

Men who cry. Men who wear pink. Men who flinch at violence.
29. Curiosity and inquisitiveness.
Especially with my body.
30. Patience and diligence.

Especially with my body.

31. Fingers gripping my hair, tightly, at the base of my skull.

32. Construction workers in orange vests and hard hats who smile as you drive by.

33. Asking uncomfortable questions, and answering same.

34. My lover asking for what s/he wants... with a slight edge of desperation in his/her voice.

35. The smell, and taste, of someone who has worked hard with their body all day in the sun.

36. Being held tightly with the sound of rain singing me to sleep.

37. Fucking in complete darkness, when sight is obliterated and all other senses are utterly alive.

38. Fucking in broad day light, when nothing can be hidden.

39. Long, slow fucks.

40. Fast, hard fucks.

41. Sexy ugly, like Mick Jagger and Sandra Bernhardt.
42. Softness, like smooth cotton sheets or silky underwear or whispery kisses.

Especially when contrasted by something hard and stingy and bitey.

43. Things that make my skin turn hot and pink.

See number 42.
44. Waking up next to a man with a hard cock.
Or a girl with a hard cock.
45. Anticipation.
46. The thin line between pain and pleasure.
47. Sucking and being sucked on.

Ears. Lips. Nipples. Fingers. Toes. It's all good.

48. My lover's moist breath against my skin... my neck, my ears, my cunt.
49. Vulnerability.

50. Did I say men in sweatpants?

Top 5 TTTMO EWISKB

(things that turn me on even when I should know better)

1. Uncommunicative types.

Quiet, sulky, brooding, and awkward... and god forbid they tell you what they want in bed!
2. Unavailable flirts.
People who flirt with you but really are unavailable or unable to have any follow through.
3. Emotionally volatile and impulsive types.
Hence all my wacko friends and exes who I absolutely adore and who continually drive me completely nuts.
4. Narcotics.

5. Woundedness.

Like Cuffs to the Bedpost

So, of course Spanky had a "gardening accident" yesterday and had to cancel our date. Apparently a weed whacker sent a solid unidentified flying object hurling into his chest leaving him with a bruise or something. Now see, if Spanky were a good masochist like me he wouldn't be able to wait to come on over and show off his bruise. But this is where we differ... and there's the rub.

You see Spanky is a real sweet guy. He's from Memphis and comes complete with a lovely southern accent and the most charming manners. He's odd and quirky and goofy, just how I like 'em. He's creative (a musician and a painter) and open minded and hard working. We share like values (he's a Buddhist... I'm Buddhist like) and we want the same sorts of things out of life. And he seems to like me quite a bit and, praise the lord, isn't afraid of saying so. Sounds like the perfect match, no?

No. I'm afraid not.

The poor man has three strikes against him. And try as I might I just can't move beyond them.

#1 He's a stoner.

It isn't a question of morality for me. Lots of my friends smoke pot. But truth be told people who are stoned get on my nerves quicker than a drunk uncle at a wedding reception.

#2 He's skinny.

Actually, he would probably be described as "fit" by most. He has firm muscles. A tight little ass. He's of average stature in all respects But what it comes down to is this: when we fuck I feel like I might break him. Or smother him. And unfortunately that does not turn me on.

#3 He fucks too nice.

Don't get me wrong. I like me some sweetness in bed. But I need a little sour too if you know what I mean.

At first I thought I could rebuild him. Like the Bionic Man. I sought advice from the two most dommy doms I know, Prince and Papi.

Prince told me I needed to try to nurture and coax the dom out of him... being careful not to top him from the bottom. He suggested I get some kinky porn, anything by Andrew Blake, and comment during the viewing of said porn on acts that looked like enticing. He suggested I talk about my fantasies, being careful not to do so in bed lest I cross over into bossy bottom territory. He went on to say:

Perhaps instead of saying something like, "I like it rough," say something about how girly you are and how much you like... mm, something sensual, like the feel of rope around your ankles or wrists. Make it confessional, a true confidence. Or steer him cleverly into a conversation about the difference between making love with girls and boys, and how much you like penetration and why. The thing is, it's unappealing I think, to the true dom, or the dom archetype in the mind if you will, to be told what to do. Whereas letting a dom know that the opportunity is there for him to express his inner fantasies is sexy for him.

All good advice, or so I thought. And then there was my papi. Remember, this is the man who sat me down and asked me my hard limits before even a tiny kiss was ever exchanged. He's all up front and by the rules. To put it simply, his advice was tell him what I wanted point blank. Say "I want you to tie me up and fuck me up the ass" or whatever. His theory is that most men are more than happy to oblige but they just don't know what the ladies want unless they're told.

Ultimately I think both doms were right. But Prince captured the underlying truth when he said When it comes down to it, you just can't make a dom. That part of his mind has to be there already, however latent.

For example, you know I have this thing about having my wrists gripped, right? I have this theory (have I told you this already?) that you can tell a sub from a vanilla by whether she offers you her hand to hold or her wrist to grab. When fucking Spanky I would sometimes rest my wrist in his open hand and press ever so slightly. That is usually enough to trigger any dominant tendencies and usually those fingers snap around my wrist like cuffs to the bedpost. But Spanky would wiggle his hand around till he was holding mine ever so sweetly. Every time.

So I told him I like it rough (this was before I sought the professional advice noted above). I thought that might be enough to get his own fantasies flowing. And I get a bigger thrill out of being the object of someone else's fantasies then I do having them act out mine. But apparently he thought I meant just thrust a little faster, a little harder. So bless his sweet soul the next time we fucked he was pumping away like a construction worker on speed... which was nice, but kinda funny too. I think the thing is I really need a pile driver more than a jackhammer, if you know what I mean.

The next time we fucked I just pushed him over and climbed on top of him. Throwing aside my fear of crushing him I rode him hard and fast like a drunken cowgirl on an electronic bullride, grabbing the headboard behind him and smothering his face with my tits. His eyes got wide and he came quickly and hard. Afterwards he rolled over and said you really do like it rough! Then he fell asleep.

Eventually I told him straight up he could pull my hair and spank me and push me around if he liked. I even sent him my list of the top 50 things that turn me on. But try as I might I just couldn't channel his inner dom.

Until...

I happened to go out of town for a week and when I came back I emailed him to tell him I had returned. He wrote back something to the effect that he should spank me for leaving him for so long... and then he apologized profusely for saying so. Of course I wrote back immediately (which would be a sure fire sign to any dom what makes this girl jump) that had I known he would respond like that I would have left town sooner. So we made a date. And in preparation for our date I went out and bought this sweet little leather slapper, finely crafted, that had a nice bite and made a delicious snapping sound when smacked on the flesh just right.

That night we ended up in bed watching a movie and snuggling. Before he had come over I had laid the slapper out in plain sight on my bedside table. I had hoped he would see the thing and instigate some spanky spanky on his own good time. No such luck.

As the snuggling got a little friskier I finally said looky here, I bought this for you to spank me with. He seemed genuinly touched.

Really? For me? he said as he picked up the slapper and admired it. He swatted his palms a few times and thoughtfully absorbed the sensations.

Then out of no where came this very authoritarian voice and he commanded me Stand up!

I jumped up quicker than a cat off a hot tin roof.

Turn around! he barked and again I instantly did as I was told.

(I should insert here that Spanky had been in the military as a young man and until that night I had always been confounded that he wasn't more in touch with his I'm-gonna-kick-your-ass-and-you-re-gonna-like-it side).

Then he said drop trou!

Huh? I said.

Drop trou! he said louder.

No, I heard you, I just don't know what that means, I stammered, truly confused.

Oh, it's Canadian for drop your pants, he explained in normal Spanky voice.

Ah. Apparently his previous girlfriend, a canook, had a bit of a kinky side herself. So down went my panties. Then he ordered me to be bend over onto the bed. As I did this I thanked the gods I had finally bought a frame for my bed that lifted the mattress up to a perfect spanking height.

Then, to my complete surprise, I felt the smooth cold leather against my skin as Spanky rubbed small gentle circles on the outside of my ass. I was starting to breath heavy. I began to wonder if he was ever gonna smack me with the damn thing when suddenly he lifted it up and brought it down on my cheek with a sweet thud. And then again, the gentle little circles on the other side, warming me up and preparing me for another whap.

He had this sort of rhythmical routine that went side to side, circle circle, smack smack. He never smacked me very hard... but it was just hard enough to make me squirm and moan and writhe about. Fuck but it was nice. Then he rolled me over, fucked me missionary style, and turned over and fell asleep. Meanwhile, I lay there staring at the ceiling with my ass all warm and glowing like sleeping embers ready to burst into flame if only someone would pour on some gasoline and light a match.

The Problem with Fucking

So sweet of Unfurling to ask about me. Really I haven't been anywhere. That's the fucking problem. Or the problem with fucking. You see, my papi lives far away and we only get to see each other on occasion. It usually involves vacation time and money for planes and hotels. All of which are in short supply sadly.

And Mr. D is fickle. He lives here, but once he and I started "partying" with Papi he seemed to lose interest in me as far as sex. Too bad too because he's a fucking great fuck. But ya know, he's also a sweet friend and if I had to choose I really would choose friend over fuck. Although it's best when you get both together.

And Prince moved away a long time ago. But I haven't gotten there yet in the story.

I do have a date tonight with Spanky. I'll let you know how it goes. It has been some time since Spanky and I have seen each other. I keep canceling our dates. I get headaches. A lot. But honestly, that old not-tonight-I-have-a-headache line is whack. Cuz when I have a headache what I really want is to be fucked into oblivion so the pain in my head is the last thing I feel. But with Spanky, well, I usually just take some Tylenol and cancel the date.

Five Untagged Sex Fiends... and One Curious Pussy

Flash backs of childhood - being tagged when I didn't even know the game had started! Then frantically trying to figure out the rules. OK. So, now that J has tagged me I guess I'm supposed to answer these four questions and then tag five more bloggers. I must say I'm a bit shy about tagging folks when they haven't even volunteered for the game. But then again, I guess all the kids are doing it so I might as well play along.

So, here for your reading pleasure, are my answers:

1. Total number of books I've owned? I have absolutely no idea. Hundreds. Probably thousands. Generally once I've read a book I pass it on or simply leave it somewhere for someone else to pick up and enjoy. Besides, I tend to move frequently and boxes of books are a pain in the ass to move.

2. What is the last book I bought? I prefer to get my books from the library (see above). But recently I was boarding a cross country flight when I realized I packed my reading material in my checked bag. DOH! So I shelled out the big bucks for a paperback edition of Best American Erotica of 2005 edited by Susie Bright. Go figure, right there facing forward on the shelves at JFK! I expected to be bored by it as I often find erotica dull and tiresome. But what I read of this was pretty good. But I seem to have misplaced the book so I don't know how it held up in the end. Some lucky flight attendant could probably answer better than I.

3. Last book I read? Well, I suppose the above one, although does it count if I didn't finish it?

4. 5 books that mean something to me? Gosh, I hate these questions where you have to narrow it down. I have a friend who always asks silly questions like "If you were stranded on a desert island and you could only have one book what would it be?" Those questions always make my lungs freeze and my palms sweat.

Let's see, I often think of Thich Nhat Hanh's Being Peace. That one has a lot of good common sense suggestions for living.

I enjoyed Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides. That was a well crafted book and a darn good story. And I thought the main character was someone I would like in real life.

I like that book Cunt by Inga Muscio. It's all grrrl power. Silly. Smart. Original. Charming book design and an easy read.

An older one would be Beloved by Toni Morrison. Timeless.

And Dandylion Wine by Ray Bradbury. Primarily because it was my mother's favorite book. The meaning it holds for me goes beyond the book itself.

5. Tag 5 people and request they fill this out on their journals.

Hmmm. Seems all the sex blog bloggers have been tagged. Let's see, maybe I'll just try tagging five random people. That could be interesting. Good use of that "Next Blog" button. Here goes:

OK. Call me a sissy, but the first "Next Blog" I was sent to was a teenage Christian choir girl. I didn't have the heart to tempt her. You know she would have to read my blog and then surely I would go straight to hell!

So, the next one was in Chinese and the third was a dad posting pictures of his toddlers. So let's skip that idea.

Here, I offer you five untagged sex fiends:

Unfurling

Twiddly

Evan

Him and Her (Two in one, is this cheating? If you read my post of May 18th then you know I'm all about the twofers!)

The Yang to My Yin; or The Answer to Question #5

Finally, the answer to Kasey's final question (When was the first time you truly felt totally submissive and dominated, when it slipped into reality rather than play?).

When I was born and the doctor smacked my ass.

But seriously, I've never really had the experience of pretending to be submissive. It is just who I am.

And sex is the one time I really, really get to be myself fully and express the part of me that so desperately wants to give myself over entirely to someone else. It is just that it was relatively recently (starting with Prince about a year ago now) that I found lovers who were the dom to my sub, the yang to my yin, the head to my tail... so to speak.

Don't get me wrong. No one would mistake me for a push over or a wuss. I'm very strong willed and stubborn, opinionated and incredibly independent. I can be very bossy and I'm generally quite forthright. It is just that, when it comes to sex, I like to let someone else drive so I can enjoy the view. Or better yet, tie me up, throw me in the backseat and surprise me!

Thanks for all the great questions Kasey. I hope I didn't disappoint you. Anyone else up for playing?

Text Texts

Text messages are the best thing to happen to flirting since puberty. I swear I get wet just at the sound of a text message coming in. Here are some of my recent favorites (both sent and received):

#1 I need u 2 fuck me until i am reborn like Christ. Make me cum like Mary Magdalene. Make me fertile like the immaculate conception. Make my orgasms multiply like the parable of the loaves n fishes. Happy almost easter!

#2 You R 1 fine BBB.* U make this cracker so fuckin wet it's like u dunked my Saltine in warm milk and slurped it down. Got milk?

#3 Why is it that sticking my own finger up my ass just feels like I have my finger up my ass? But your finger up my ass feels like heaven?

#4 A girl is beyond wet when she feels the juices sploosh out her cunt even when she's in the bathtub. Fuk but u turn me on like a match 2 gasoline!

#5 I still smell you on my fingers!

* = big black brotha

The Ever Scheming Workings of Mr. D's Dirty Mind; or The Answer to Question #2

As per your second question, my Prince and my Papi are two very different people.

I met Papi many years ago. I had a big fat crush on him for ages, but I didn't have the nerve to tell him then. He makes no qualms about letting me know he holds those wasted years against me. Isn't that sweet? We were recently, uh, reintroduced through a mutual friend, Mr. D. The meeting was, shall we say, memorable. Actually, it may have been "the best thing that has happened to (my) pussy since meeting Prince."

It was one of those times when happenstance seems to exist just to prove the presence of fate. And Mr. D was the a priori proof.

It was only a few weeks after Mr. D and I had started dating, if that's what you would call it, when Papi came through town for business. I knew they were acquainted but I didn't realize yet that they were friends of sorts. So when Mr. D told me in passing that he would be seeing Papi that weekend I confessed my crush and jokingly said he should bring him along on our date. Right then the ever scheming workings of Mr. D's dirty mind silently kicked into gear.

Mr. D was supposed to join Rob and his new girlfriend and me for a movie. But he bailed right beforehand. I was disappointed because I'd been looking forward to groping his crotch in the dark theater while sitting next to my very vanilla ex and the woman he left me for.

(As an aside, the last time we had joined them for a movie there was a moment my worlds collided and even I had to wonder at my seemingly inexplicable sexual transformation. During the film, a dorkie romance kinda thing that had me all mushy and starry eyed, I turned to my right and saw Rob resting his hand on new girlfriend's knee. Ah, how sweet, I thought. I recalled how that had made my own heart sing when it was my knee with his hand on it just a few weeks earlier. Then I turned to my left and smiled like a smitten school girl at Mr. D with his leather jacket, his Harley t-shirt, and his beautiful black buff biceps covered in old faded tattoos. Purrrrrrrr. He shot me a sly smile and his eyes twinkled trouble the way they do. Then he reached out his hand and pinched my nipple really hard. Ouch!... how sweet, I thought.)

When I got out of the movie there were three messages on my cell phone. The first was from Mr. D saying I should give him a call after the movie and maybe we could get together. The second was from Mr. D saying I should give him a call after the movie and that he was hanging out with his friend Papi. The third was from Mr. D saying I should give him a call after the movie, that he was hanging out with his friend Papi at his hotel, and maybe the three of us could hang out and party. It occured to me that party was a curious word to use since Mr. D is in recovery, and Papi never touched drugs or alcohol a day in his life. Not to mention that both men are old enough to be grandpas.

Naturally Mr. D , ever the handy man, had already greased the wheels. He swore up and down he didn't tell Papi about my long held attraction to him. But I knew he was lying. Apparently when Mr. D suggested to Papi that they "party" with me he (Papi) insisted that they should ask me first if I was even interested in fucking the two of them. Apparently Mr. D, being the non-scenester dom that he is, said I'll just tell her. I guess Papi was able to convince him that was not the way to approach these things and later that night gave him a little first hand coaching which I will describe shortly.

As I parked my car I saw Mr. D walking from his van to the hotel. He had a brown paper bag in one hand and his "overnight bag" in the other. My pussy started purring like one of Pavlov's dogs. I caught up with him and we rode up in the elevator together. He asked me if I was ready to party and I hesitated to answer, mostly because I was so taken with Papi and kinda intimidated by him at the same time. I told Mr. D that I felt shy and he coaxed me along like he does, not pushing too hard but not letting up either. He gets this sorta Wile E. Coyote kinda sneaky bouncy devilishness about him then that can charm me into anything, like grabbing hold of a falling anvil or dancing naked on a feather bed with a crate marked ACME EXPLOSIVES for a boxspring and a mattress filled with Elmer's glue.

Once inside the hotel room Mr. D reintroduced me to Papi. He was leaning back all regal like on the bed with his back against a large padded headboard. He's a stately man, but he looked smaller then I remembered him being engulfed by that gigantic king size bed. I could tell by the sharp look in his eye and the sugar in his voice, like the powerful sweetness of ice tea in Memphis, that he knew precisely how much I wanted him. Mr. D opened the paper bag and handed Papi a root beer, me a single serving thing of wine, and took a long-neck bottle of non-alcoholic beer for himself. Clearly they each knew exactly what they wanted as well.

Mr. D began telling a lewd joke that involved his crotch in my face and an attempt to get me to undo his trousers. I laughed nervously and shoved him off me. I made a mental note: if I was gonna fuck them then they were gonna make nice nice with me first. Mr. D sulked off to the arm chair on the other side of the bed and watched me impatiently while I tried to get to know Papi a bit more. Finally, I got up, walked around the foot of the bed to Mr. D, and sat myself on the floor at his feet. I love to sit at his feet. I let my hand rest high up on his inner thigh, right against his cock, and laid my head in his lap as I looked Papi in the eye and continued with our conversation.

As it turned out they hadn't eaten so I suggested we go out for a bite. I wanted them to really want me, and to have the energy to give me what I wanted in return. At the sports bar I flirted some with Papi while Mr. D stared over our heads at the game on the tele and the young co-eds with their pert plump breasts spilling out their tank tops at the table behind ours. Such poor social skills, that boy! After dinner, once Papi had convenietly gone to the bathroom, Mr. D said well, you wanna party with me and my friend Papi? I told Mr. D that I was still feeling shy. But I didn't say no. And knowing Mr. D that was probably one hair short of a green light. Which is what I think I meant anyways. I guess I wanted to be led by the whiskers a bit.

Back at the hotel lobby Papi checked his email while Mr. D and I made ourselves comfortable on a trendy chaise lounge. Mr. D leaned in close and whispered in my ear are you wet? I readily confessed I was. With Papi's back still to us and the two desk clerks momentarily absorbed with checking in a late night guest he said let me see as he reached his hand under my skirt and rubbed my pussy outside my tights. I loved how he hummed mmm hmmm as he did it. Then he took me by the wrist and led me over to Papi. Mr. D. went up to the room first under some silly pretense and I went up a minute later with Papi. We were awkward and quiet with each other in the elevator. I think I made small talk about something or other the way I do when I'm nervous.

When we got inside the room Mr. D was waiting for us, sitting at the desk chair and sipping his beer. There weren't many seating options as the huge bed took up most of the room. Papi laid down, again with his head against that weird padded headboard thing. I crawled across the expanse and laid myself next to him, pulling his arm around my waste and interlacing my fingers in his.

He leaned in close to me and said OK, if we're gonna do this, what are your limits?

I looked blankly at Mr. D. No one had ever asked me this so frankly. I was momentarily stumped. What were my limits? Mr. D was watching me intently, taking in our interaction.

It's all good, right Mr. D? I said.

He looked at me, grinned at Papi, and said yeah, she's good.

Papi insisted I explicate. So, to appease him, I said One, no rudeness. You two be nice to each other. And two, no bruises my clothes won't cover.

Papi seemed satisfied enough by my response and he got up and went into the bathroom.

As he shut the door behind him Mr. D stood up, walked over to the edge of the bed, grabbed my ankles and yanked me to him with one swift motion. His knee pushed up my denim skirt as he climbed on top of me. While Papi brushed his teeth Mr. D pulled my tights down to my calves and started grinding his hips against mine. I could feel his cock grow hard between us. He leaned in toward my face and growled into my ear I'm gonna leave this for my buddy as he fondled my pussy through my damp underwear.

When Papi came out of the bathroom Mr. D said in this frat boy voice why don't you take this girl's panties off? And then, bless my soul, my Papi did exactly that without a moment's pause... with his teeth!

The rest is sort of an all night blur of fucking. What stands out mostly sharply was how sincere my Papi was; how somehow his presence brought out a sweeter side of Mr. D that I deeply craved. He kissed me. He held me. He looked into my eyes; really looked into my eyes. And there was also so much really hard fucking that at times I didn't know if I could take it. Hard up the ass. Deep vaginal thrusting. Slapping. Choking. Hair pulling. Biting. Hard words like suck his cock, you cunt and open your legs wider bitch.

Papi went down on me with loud slurping sounds while his hands kneaded bruises into the inside of my thighs and Mr. D watched quietly in the dark from the arm chair.

Mr. D held my face and chided you're going to remember my boy each time you sit down tomorrow as Papi fucked me up the ass. Papi used my shoulders to brace himself and each time he thrust into me my head would smash into that whacky padded headboard. I was glad it was soft and I thought surely it was designed by someone who had once been in this very same position.

Papi pinned my arms to my sides, pried my legs apart by wrapping his own around mine, and kissed my neck, watching my face intently while Mr. D fucked me hard and made me cry out and thrash about.

In general I hate to be the center of attention under any circumstance. But something about being in the eye of the tornado, at the mercy of their combined desire, was different. It made me feel like it was ok to be the naked girl dancing on top of the bar with a lampshade on her head.

All the laughter and screaming and moaning and hair pulling and nipple tweaking and kissing and sucking and everything was just so surprisingly easy and uncomplicated and right. Well, except for just once.

It was about 4 a.m. in the morning and they both wanted to be inside me at the same time. So I sat myself astride Mr. D's cock and rode his bucking hips while Papi tried to fuck me up the ass. That was just too technical in our exhausted state and a bit too sensory overload and I eventually toppled over in a fit of giggles gasping oh my gosh, you guys are just too much!

Little did I know then that Papi would take that as a challenge to recreate those oh my gosh moments for a long time to come.

Each time we'd all collapse in a sort of sweet spent pile of sweat and lust and flesh someone would start to rub or suck me again and then we'd all be off once more like greyhounds at the track chasing the elusive bunny. That pretty much went on until 6 a.m. until Mr. D's wake up call came and I stumbled around in the dark trying to find my clothes. Papi invited me to stay and I seriously considered it... but then thought better of it just because (silly me) I didn't want to risk ruining what was a perfectly wonderful evening.

In the tiny bit of morning light that filtered through the heavy hotel drapes I climbed on top of Papi's big tummy and kissed him lightly on the forehead. He looked at me sleepily and said you're so beautiful. I mumbled something incoherent and looked away. But when I turned to him once more his gaze was still fixed on me and we smiled at each other. Thank you, I said. And there was a new feeling welling up inside me, so new it almost made me cry. It was the feeling of believing him.

In the elevator down I thought about our little party. There was something about the proximity of all of us together - naked, skin touching, watching fucking, smelling fucking, hearing fucking - that was way more powerful then any combination of two.

Like how when Mr. D would thrust his cock deep inside me and then I would grab Papi's hand and squeeze it really tight while I looked into his eyes that were locked onto the expression of raw desire on Mr. D's face which was taking us both in. It was like some wild variation of the telephone game that was nothing short of transcendental.

As Mr. D walked me to my car I swear to god he had a skip in his step and a smile on his face like the kid who just shared his most best plaything at show n tell. Right before we parted ways he said Miss Pussy, I know how much you like to be fucked. Are you happy now? I laughed and said I'm very happy Mr. D. Thank You!

This So Called Awakening; or The Answer to Question #4

A while back I asked my papi how he defined kinky sex. He said simply "sex I enjoy." I laughed, thinking he was being his goof ball self, but actually he was being serious. I thought about it some more and realized that I had always thought of kinky sex as being something that other people did. Not me. I think of kinky as being anything outside "the norm." Therefore, if I do it, it is norm, at least in my world, and therefore decidedly not kinky. Ergo, I always have been and always will be vanilla!

Of course, most of my life someone or other would have considered one thing or another about my sexual proclivities kinky. Oral sex. Check. Homosexual sex. Check. Anal sex. Check. Afterall, it is all relative isn't it? But I really don't feel kinky at all. Sure, I like to be pinned down, tied up, gagged, spanked and have my hair pulled hard... but really when it comes right down to it I just want to be loved and touched and adored. What is so kinky about that?

But, to more accurately answer the question I think you are posing, it was only in the past year or so that I began to understand the depth of my need to be dominated. At its' heart I think it stems from my longing to give over my control and to trust someone else to take care of me. This, of course, harks back to my fucked up childhood where I never really had the experience of being cared for to begin with. I always had to be very much in control and look out for my own well being since no one else was gonna do it. Now, as an adult, I find it very liberating to relinquish that responsibility even if only for a brief moment. Of course I understand that ultimately I alone am responsible for myself. But, when I am surrendering fully, the weight of that huge burden is shared by another and then, just for a moment, I am not crushed by it.

As far as what made me "change my sexual behavior" well, I suppose it was a gradual awakening that was the result of lessons learned from each previous experience.

It was the need for clearer communication about sexual needs and desires that I learned when Elle left me after five years without ever confessing her sexual longings until it was long past too late.

It was the need for being "steered" that I learned when Rob would fuck me like he was driving the fuck.

It was the need to allow myself to feel completely vulnerable that I learned the minute Prince wrapped those ropes around me.

It was the need to be wanted for my fuckableness that I learned from Mr. B.

And of course the need to have every last cell of my body explode from the intensity of sensation that my papi has taught me.

Actually, I feel like I'm still in the midst of this so called awakening and I have no idea what my sexual desires will be in a month, a year, or ten years. Hence, the moniker: curious pussy.

Skinny, Bendy, Pretty Yoga Girls

This morning in my yoga class I was teary and emotional. It is so hard to be in this body sometimes, especially lately. I know someone else would be happy to have it but I can find only reasons to hate it. And sometimes, like this morning, it just feels like more then I can handle.

At the end of class I was feeling utterly defeated because there were poses I couldn't even pretend to do, and others that were possible but challenging. All the skinny, bendy, pretty yoga girls made it look so easy. But tack on 80 more pounds, twenty years and some bodily pain and then those poses are near impossible.

Anyway, we laid down to rest at the end of class and I was struggling not to cry. As I laid there with my eyes closed the instructor came over, wrapped his hands tightly around my skull and pulled it away from my body. Next he placed an eye pillow on my eyes and gently rubbed my sweaty forehead with his index finger. Then he placed a palm on the top of each shoulder blade, leaned in with much of his weight, and pressed my shoulders very firmly into the floor.

Is it normal to be so incredibly grateful for such small things?

So, What About Last Night?

Please forgive my absence. I'll finish answering Kasey's questions and fill you all in post haste. But, first things first - here are the five questions I promised Evan.

#1 In My Blue Heaven you lamented that "Old blue dong isn't quite as satisfying as it used to be." So, what pray tell, are you thinking of adding to your collection for solo romp purposes? Feel free to expand on the scenarios you envision.

#2 In your About Me section you reveal quite forthrightly that you are "somewhat obsessive compulsive and very addictive." I'm curious to know how these two traits play out in your sex life (other than measuring the amount of your ejaculate).

#3 In Feast of You you have a line that really made my pulse surge:

"...With delicate violence, I will pry you open..."

I want you to use this line as the opening and/or closing of another poem that uses this fragment as its' jumping off point.

#4 In Squeak you said your grandmother found your other blog and, discovering that you're bi, wonders how you are gonna tell your kids about your sexuality. You said you thought being "open, approachable and honest" should do the trick. So, my question to you then is, will you tell your kids about your nonmonogamy? What will you say?

#5 In The Anal Adventures you talk about your Full Disclosure posts and how you tell us the actual first and last names of partners you've had so that you can "completely air out" your closet. You go on to say "if they should find themselves googled perhaps these posts will help their current or future partners."

This tactic is so different from mine where, in order to air out my laundry, I work really hard to keep my lover's identity a secret. Even disguising my own identity is more about keeping their's concealed since I really wouldn't mind so much if people knew who I was.

There are two embedded questions here. One is how do you reconcile the ethics of disclosing other people's personal details without their consent? I know you've thought about the morality of other issues so I wonder how you've dealt with this one. Two is have you ever had anyone discover themselves in your blog and what was the result? Did it indeed help with their current or future partners?

10 Ways I Want You to Tie Me Papi; or The Answer to Question #1

#10 Just tie me up good and tight, with lots and lots and lots of soft and supple rope. Like I’m in a rope cocoon. Then hold me. And squeeze me. And touch and tease and lick and kiss and pinch the bits that are sticking out or exposed.

#9 I can’t really figure out the logistic of this one but somehow you tie my knees to something that spreads them apart and up… maybe prop them over the arms of a big strong wooden desk chair or something like that. Yeah, the kind with the soft red leather padding and the little round brass tacks. You know, like a fancy executive would sit in. My arms can be tied behind me as long as I’m not resting on them. You should probably gag me too, just to be on the safe side. And I’m thinking this chair would have wheels, which will make things more interesting. I wouldn't mind if you wore a suit and tie and really fancy dress shoes.

#8 Tie me to a beautiful big hard wood beam in the middle of an old barn. I want to smell hay and hear the goats bleat. I want warm rays of sun sneaking through the cracks and warming my bare ass. Suspend me, swing me, fuck me.

#7 Tie me however you want, as long as I’m completely immobilized. Blindfold me and do whatever is necessary to mute all my senses. Then make me want you. Then make me need you. Then give yourself to me.

#6 We wake up in the morning and you touch me and caress me until I have to have you inside me. Then you take a smallish softish rope, maybe a laundry line softened by the rain and sun, and you wind it across my shoulders, over my breasts, around my pussy, back up my ass, until it meets at my shoulders again. You tie it so that it’s comfortable, but tight enough so that with each step the rope tugs against my clit. Then you tell me to get dressed. We’re going out to breakfast. During breakfast you place your hand on the small of my back and gently pull the rope taught to remind me of how much I ache for you.

#5 We’re some place warm and tropical. I’m laying in a big wide hammock. You pull the sides up around me and rock me in sexy wavy motions. You lace your fingers through the mesh and stick ‘em in my mouth, in my pussy, in my cunt, all the while rocking me too and fro to the sound of the waves cresting nearby.

#4 We meet at some hotel in a big city neither one of us lives in. You take me to dinner in the hotel restarant… a nice one. You tell me how beautiful I look at dinner, how you like my dress, my stockings, my hair. You talk sweet and romantic and smooth to me until we get inside the hotel room… then you grab my hair at the base of my skull and force me down onto the bed. You take off my panty hose, cut them down the middle and tie my legs together with one half and my hands together with the other. The rest is up to you... but in the morning you order room service.

#3 Tie me up with something that ultimately locks with a key. Put the key where I can see it, but can’t get to it.

#2 Tie me spread eagle, arms likewise, and then lick me from ass to clit and drive me wild like you do. Then make me suck your cock. I won't be able to use my hands or move my neck much so you will need to rock your groin into my face and onto my tongue in whatever manner pleases you.

#1 Take me to a fancy hotel with a four poster bed and linen sheets. Have flowers waiting for me on the dresser and a card on the pillow. As I reach for the envelope push me face down into the fluffy comforter. Tell me “don’t you dare move a pretty little muscle.” Slowly tie my ankles and then my hands to the edge of the bed frame. Read me the card.

Tell Us Twiddly!

T. Bits – Please forgive me if my questions aren’t especially hot. As you may have surmised my idea of hot ain’t necessarily that of the average girl. If needed feel free to ad “under the sheets” after each question to spice it up. But then again, I suspect you won’t need such contrivances to make your words hot and sticky.

1) In “Smorgasbord” you described the outfit you wanted to wear to the New Year’s Eve Fetish Ball. You casually threw in that money kept you from buying the “spectacular and outrageous outfit” of your dreams… a “velvet cloak with green satin lining.” And, as an aside can I just say how charming the image of you in such finery is?

And in “Tired and Cranky…” D. Bits tells us how you delightedly exclaim “Oh, good, you’re gonna dress!” when s/he pulls out hisher tits and proceeds to put on hisher finest feminine regalia.

So, say I wave my magic wand and give you a $100,000 shopping spree and the probably extremely rare occasion where you get to dress D. Bits precisely as you desire. And then I say a spell and the world is the kinda place where you and Dangly could wear whateverthefuck you want to whereverthefuck you want. What would it be? What would you each wear? And to where? And if you are so inclined to elaborate, what would you do once you got there?

2) Also in "Tired and Cranky…" Dangly tells us "It's amazing the transformation that comes over me when I'm ‘dressed’. I become calmer, softer spoken, less hurried - more feminine, really."

My question for you is, how are you transformed when D. Bits is dressed and is fully himherself? If you don’t find yourself thinking/acting/feeling/relating differently, well, is there some remote tiny itty bitty part of you that wants to think/act/feel/relate in some entirely new way? If so, what would that be?

3) In “When Dangly Got Home…” you wrote about a particularly hot encounter when Dangly suddenly:

“got a cramp in his hip - a painful one & so we had to stop! I had him roll over onto his back & I lubed my hands up intending to fondle him to orgasm, but he said that the cramp had "taken the shine off".

I thought that was so sexy for its honesty and realness. We’ve all been there. You know, the fart when you’re being fucked or the time your piercing gets stuck to your lover’s pubes. Can you share with us one of the more ludicrous, farcical or embarrassing sexual encounters you have had? Or, if you are really feeling it, one of each!

4) In “Internet Cafes…” you shared with us:

“But it still surprised me when this lover .... grabbed my hair while I was going down on him. He grabbed it forcefully, yet gently. It's hard to explain. When Dangly is 'rough' with me, it's because I want it - there's his underlying gentleness right there. When this lover was 'rough' with me, it's because *he* likes it that way - but is sensitive enough to realize that there's a limit to roughness & stops short of hurting. I found it really really hot and stimulating, actually.”

So, in the safety of what-if and imagine-this, what is one of the darker, rougher, meaner fantasies you have that gets you off but maybe isn’t something you would really want to try in real time? And can you put your finger on why it is exactly that it gets you off?

5) I couldn’t help noticing that your blog was started shortly after you started the Atkins diet. Now, myself I have lost about 100 pounds in the past 5 or so years and let’s just say that my entire relationship to my body, to sex, and to the whole world is radically different now then what it was 100 pounds ago.

If you had to describe to someone who had never been “fat” (a relative term if ever there was one) how your relationship to your own body and your sexuality has changed since your body’s transformation how would you put it into words? Any additional comments as to the transformation, if any, of those around you and their response to you?

A Billion Distant Stars; or The Answer to Question #3

You might not have guessed this about me yet – or maybe you have – but I’m incredibly self conscious. Not just where sex is concerned, but certainly there as well. For example, when I step into a crosswalk I am painfully aware of all the eyes watching me behind the windshields. Or when I meet someone for the first time and shake their hand all my senses telescope to the strength of my grip, the sweatiness of my palm, and the duration of my hand shake. I worry they might find it uncomfortably long or too tight or grossly moist. This stems not so much from shame (although, if I were to be fully honest with you, I would confess that is indeed one facet too) but, more profoundly, from a very, very deep desire to please. My Prince understood this about me.

We had only known each other a short time before he became very ill. I wanted to be with him but he insisted he was too sick. I didn't realize then that this was not the exception but the norm in his life. He was a profoundly ill man. His body, mind and spirit were an ever present trinity of torment. Anyway, not knowing this yet, I begged him to let me come over and I even bribed him by promising to be his homeopathic nurse.

Now, as a rule, I don't do role plays or scenes. Given my hyper self awareness it is just a bad idea. The few times in my life I have done them (not even in any sexual context) have left me ridden with humiliation and a deep sense of unworthiness. I’m a lousy actress. But what I can do is to get in touch with the innate parts of me that are waiting to be realized by my lover. And this Prince astutely surmised.

I came prepared with three bags of supplies and an instinctual understanding of what he needed. He was conked out cold and didn’t move a muscle when I walked through his back door. It was thrown wide open and the last rays of a June sunset and the summer flies were streaming in. His kitchen was covered with the filth of a bachelor who had long been sick and poor. I set to work scrubbing stacks of dishes coated with a thick moldy film and salvaged pots from burnt on crud. I threw out rotting trash and took out the recycling. I poured sour milk and half empty cans of beer down the drain and scoured the sink with Comet. Once everything was clean enough to work in then I got down to business.

The first bag was for the kitchen. I pulled out a pile of groceries from the Asian market down the street and began preparations for a pot of spicy tom kha Thai soup. First I boiled the chicken to make the stock. I chopped fresh garlic, lemon grass, galanga root, and Thai basil. I added these to the stock and diced the chicken. I soaked some dried red chilies and mushrooms and threw those in once they had softened sufficiently in a bowel of boiling water. I placed a knit bag of fresh lychee nuts in the fridge to cool for later and poured myself a glass of warm sake.

The second bag was for the bathroom. I ran a hot bath seasoned with rejuvenating sea salts. I lit a few small tea lights and placed them around the room. I set a clean towel and a wash cloth on the sink. Then I went to Prince’s bedroom and woke him up. He followed me groggy and naked back to the tub. While the soup simmered I bathed him, rubbing his back with a soapy scrubby and wiping his forehead with a cool washcloth. I sat on the edge of the tub and gave him sips of peppermint tea. While he finished soaking away the dirt and grime from his aching body I added lime juice, coconut milk, bamboo shoots and cilantro to the soup.

After I pulled him from the tub and toweled him off I served him soup in the “family room” (that’s what he called the room that wasn’t the bedroom, the kitchen or the bathroom). We mostly ate in silence except for his loud slurping sounds.

The third bag was for the bedroom. While he finished eating I placed the bag next to his bed and set about changing his sheets. I lit a candle scented with lavender and placed it atop his footlocker. When he wondered in after me I suggested he take off his towel and lie down on the bed so I could give him a massage.

I started on his back, rubbing arnica oil along each vertebra of his spine and over his bruised ribs. I used my whole body and rubbed deeply as he needed that kind of attention. I massaged his shoulders and arms. I licked his wrists. I sucked on his fingers. I ran my thumbs inside the folds of his ears and massaged his scalp. I squeezed the muscles in his butt, his hips, his thighs, his calves until the tension released. I rubbed his rough and calloused feet, pulling gently on his toes and kissing his insteps. Then I rolled him over and began again, starting with his face, gently stroking his cheek bones, his temples and the bridge of his nose. I kissed his eyelids and his neck and that lovely space right above his collar bone. I pressed down on his biceps and pulled his arms alongside his body to adjust his shoulders. I ran my hands lightly over his rib cage and sucked on his nipples like a nursing babe. Later I would learn that he had never in his 40 some odd years had a woman suck on his nipples.

I was naked, so as I moved around his body my breasts and cunt would brush up against him. But he remained completely relaxed. I reached in my bag and pulled out the final remedy. I warmed the Astroglide in my palms and very slowly (because he was skittish about having his genitals touched) I began to caress his cock. He was surprised at the noticeable difference between the Astroglide and his regular Wal-Lube (yes, Walmart's lube is actually called Wal-Lube). He mumbled oh, that’s nice and instantly became incredibly hard in my hands. I asked him to show me how he liked to be touched, and he did.

He took my hand in his and placed my fingers at the base of his cock right above his scrotum and told me right here, this is where my clit is. I fingered his clit as I stroked the head of his cock tight and fast like he showed me. I lay my body down along the length of his and whispered in his ear my beautiful princess, cum for me until he came in my hand with the now familiar weeping and crying that turned me on so.

I was moved that he had accepted what I had to offer, and yet it seemed that I had received the greater gift. Alas, if only that were enough for us. It tore me up inside that he never once touched me or kissed me or looked into my eyes that night. It was as though he had buried the part of himself that beat my thighs and made me cry out in order to allow himself to submit to me, to give himself over to me.

I would have been content if only he would have fallen asleep in my arms, my stomach pressing into the curve of his back, his warm ass against my groin. But, as was now the routine, he instantly passed out snoring inc