Saya sangat prihatin dengan berita yang beredar di banyak media di Indonesia yang simpang siur terkait kedatangan saya kesana dan akan main pelem-nya saya disana.Kabarnya banyak orang Indonesia yang tidak suka. Ini kan tidak masuk akal ..!!! Lha wong saya sendiri belum berangkat ke Indonesia apalagi menginjakkan kaki disana, kok bisa orang Indonesia memusuhi saya ?!
Apa karena saya bintang porno ?! kok bisa saya dimusuhi ?! padahal saya tahu loh… anda-anda di sana, diam-diam ataupun nyata-nyata, sendiri-sendiri maupun keroyokan, rame-rame ‘browsing’ internet, ’searching’, donlot poto2 dan video saya secara ilegal. harusnya saya donk yang memusuhi anda. Saya yang bekerja keras, keringatan….., anda “menikmati” tubuh dan hasil kerja keras saya dengan gratis..tis…
Lagipula, saya tuh sebenarnya turunan Indonesia loh !. Nama saya Maria Ozawa, dari Mariem Orang Jawa. Miyabi itu gabungan nama Mama Papa saya. Mama saya Miyanti Kusumah, aseli sunda dari garis nenek, Kakek saya orang Prancis. Papa saya Binsar Si Raja Guk Guk aseli Siantar, Batak dari garis kakek, nenek dari Jepang. Lalu kenapa saya tidak boleh mengunjungi tanah leluhur saya ?
Soal main pelem di Indonesia, masih menunggu konfirmasi, karena secara kebetulan saya juga main mendapat tawaran main pelem/sinetron di Malaysia. Kata Manajer saya, saya akan dikontrak untuk 999 episode sinetron kejar tayang “Manohara” versi Malaysia, berperan sebagai Manohara. Mengapa saya yang dipilih? Menurut sumber yang tidak bisa dipercaya, karena saya mirip-mirip Manohara, turunan Indo, dan yang lebih penting karena saya tahan “disuntik” dengan berbagai jenis dan ukuran “jarum”. Saya tidak takut, demi penghayatan peran, saya rela di “suntik” Pangeran Kelantan, karena konon kabarnya, “jarum” Pangeran Kelantan ukurannya memang ga gede, seukuran pensil. Buat geli-geli bolehlah.. he he.
Di Indonesia saya bukan akan membintangi pelem “Menculik Miyabi” tapi saya akan main di pelem “Janji Joko”. Bukan saya yang akan “buka-bukaan” di pelem itu, tapi sutradara nya sendiri yang merangkap pemeran utama pria, Pak Joko Anwar. Twitter nya Pak Joko jadi banyak followernya juga karena jasa saya. Saya menjanjikan 1 buah photo eksklusif saya kepada siapa saja yang mau “following” Pak Joko Anwar, plus ini …
Soal Pilihan antara ke Malaysia atau Indonesia. Saya lebih condong kerja di Indonesia kayaknya. Saya takut kalau ke Malaysia nanti disangka TKI (Tenaga Kerja Internasional=red) ilegal pula. nanti diusir, digebukin ..iih.. ngeri deh…katanya lebih enak di Indonesia. Wajah-wajah indo seperti saya sangat laku untuk iklan, sinetron, pelem disana. bagaimanapun Indonesia adalah tanah leluhur saya.
So please masyarakat Indonesia ijinkanlah saya datang ke sana. Daripada keduluan dan diklaim negara tetangga anda Malaysia ?!
Semoga surat terbuka saya ini makin menambah simpang siur berita mengenai saya. Nantikan akting saya di pelem Janji Joko yaa….
I’m sat in my friends bedroom writing this – I should probably credit her as a co-writer! – and we’re having a discussion about our extra source of income. We’ve come to some conclusions.
We’re at different stages of this, I’m an old hand having worked in the business for so long, she’s new to the industry. I can see what she’s doing – becoming obsessed with the lifestyle, the kicks and the buzz. It’s like a the first flush of love: infatuation. You become besotted with the attention, and if you’re lucky (like us) you see great guys; meeting handsome, intelligent and wealthy men. It’s important to remember it’s all a lie. You’re the fantasy, they’re the client. It’s about giving yourself emotional boundaries.
It’s important to not let the fantasy overtake the real you. We come home, pull on comfortable PJs and curl up in bed with a cup of tea. No man paying for our time wants to know about that side of us. We’re a luxury for them, but at the end of the day we come home to our student lives and we’re a full person – not just a sexy evening’s entertainment.
It’s like having a split personality – what they experience is me, but a client is only ever privy to what I want them to see and know.
I have to admit though, I do get a kick out of playing the movie version of me. Immaculately dressed, always groomed and happy, me on a good day. No wonder they pay me so much!
Finally showed master this blog last night. Yes, there are only 2 measly posts, but it felt like absolutely ages having to keep it from him. I wanted his approval so badly, and wanted him to set me tasks to complete on here. His reaction was far from what I expected. He ended up questioning my motives for wanting a master/slave relationship, after reading my first post declaring that I’ve finally found the ‘fix’ to my long-time dark periods and unhappiness.
I was so upset to hear him ask whether any ‘master’ would be enough for me, as long as I had a master to serve. He also asked me whether I felt our love and our relationship could be sustainable without the master/slave aspect, which I thought was so incredibly silly because I just want him, and he was the one who really introduced me to this D/s stuff. It really made me think though; I knew in my head and in my heart that of course we could be happy, happier than I’ll ever be with anyone, without any D/s stuff. If it came down to it, if something happened which would mean we could no longer have sex, nothing would change and I would stay by his side forever. But I found it really hard to put into words why and how exactly I want so so so badly to be master’s slave, and why I want to serve and obey him, forever.
I finally managed to put how I feel into exactly one sentent that sums up how and why he is my master. “I want you to own me because I want to be yours forever, not because i want to be owned.”
If you take all the sex and kink away, and strip it down to my mentality of me wanting to be owned by my master, it’s fundamentally because I want to show master that he is my world, my everything, I worship him, and I am his forever to do with as he wishes. I want him to know that I would never leave him, could never leave him, even if I tried. I want to express that to be with him and to be his is inherently in my nature. I can’t think of a better way to show my commitment to him, not even through marriage. If master trains me to be the best slave I can be for him, I want him to eventually brand me, not with a tattoo or a piercing but with a brand, to mark me as his. What’s a silly piece of paper declaring your legal status as together, compared to a permanent mark on your body sealing his ownership of me forever?
Started this place as somewhere to anonymously share some things I find hot, some aspects of my sex life, and for my boyfriend to enjoy! Seems the world is inundated with anonymous erotic blogs, but it seems fun so here I am adding to the pile. Recently my awesome boyfriend and I have started exploring some other aspects of sex, and on top of our already amazing sex life I am feeling pretty lucky.
So this is a place for me to gloat about how much fun I am having I guess
The War never ends, each day we fight, we are warriors for life.
If you traveled to 2010 from 1910, you would not be able to recognize the world today. With its Nuvaring commercials, mood altering pills, LG Smart phones with projector, a half-black president, women in power, internets, blue-ray disc, not to mention the fashion, or the alter rations we’ve made to the earth. GoatFucker.Com is dedicated to unveiling the sinister side of life, and expanding upon the destruction of modern society, the end of culture, reveling in the vile and perverse daily. We are celebrating the music, films, art, and people who are the frontlines of the culture wars. We have dubbed this new movement as Disaster Culture. We are anglers in the lake of darkness…
In future months we will be bringing to you;
Apocalyptic Sciences- presents medical discoveries, designer drugs, and cutting edge technologies, which may bring us closer to the brink.
Signs of the Apocalypse- reporting the news, and current events, which shows the end is here!
Doomsayer Tunes-showcasing the latest and greatest music, which will provide a soundtrack to the end times
Gods of the Armageddon –exonerating those on the vanguard of Disaster Culture
Words of Wisdom- offering thoughts, and opinions, on the end of days
Visions of Destruction-the GF alums favorite movies, both old and new, that represent the coming storm, along with reviews of current cinema that pave the way for the end and present Disaster Culture at its finest.
And last but not least…
Deviant Desires-which chronicles the depraved aberrations of our hyper-sexual society
—————-
Now playing: I Wrestled A Bear Once – You Ain’t No Family via FoxyTunes
When they say printed matter is dead, this is a prime example of how sad but true that is. I love these vintage skin mags. There is something so much more sleazy about going to the local magazine shop to score your daily dose of inspiration. I really wish I could get my hands on some of these in mint condition.
My lord, citeam despre experienta domniei dvs. Aia mai putin reusita.
Acuma sa o prezint si eu pe a mea. Ma bufneste rasul si acuma. Nu e frumos, dar ce sa facem. Face parte din viata. Si femeile sunt rele.
Personajul, prin ceea ce face ca job e destul de bine vazut. Si i-au trecut prin pat destule femei. Are chiar si o faima de cuceritor. Eu sincer chiar nu stiu cum si-a capatat-o. Nu sunt eu vreun guru al sexului dar, sa ma ierte dumnezeu, sa mor daca inteleg.
Ca om e destul de finished. Tot datorita jobului. Obosit si grandoman. Si prea mult alcool. Ma rog nu ma interesa omul din el. Cand e treaz e destul de placut. Galant, atent etc. Ca dotari nu sta stralucit. Nici slabut, dar nici nu iti da ochii peste cap. Dupa o cina in care nu a vorbit decat despre cine e, ce face si cine il cunoaste, am plecat spre casa. A fost un pic derutat de faptul ca l-am refuzat cateva seri la rand. Asa ca telefonul meu l-a luat prin surprindere. Si i-a umflat orgoliul. Eh, well, whatever works for you baby. I just need to get laid ca sa scap de siropurile gen: sarbatori fericite, fie ca iubirea si pacea bla bla bleah.
Puiul meu de ardelean saruta de un million de ori mai bine ca el. Omul probabil crede ca limba se foloseste pe post de ancora. O lasi infipta si work your lips around it. No, no, no. NO. Ar fi trebuit sa stiu Lamaze sa imi controlez respiratia ca sa ne sarutam pasional in stilul lui. Ma rog, trecem peste sarut. Buun.
Domnul e genul vorbaret. Mai mult cu el insusi. Nu ma deranjeaza vorbaria atat timp cat e facuta sexy si te face sa te arunci pe el si mai tare. Dar nici la seminar nu vreau sa particip. Avea tata o culegere de probleme cu intrebari si raspunsuri. Demult nu ma mai gandisem la ea. Si chiar nu imi imaginam ca o sa o fac in timpul unei partie de sex.
Dar cel mai tare moment a fost cand l-am auzit: te f… mai tarziu, acum ma obisnuiesc cu tine. No shit. Mai tarziu? Da acuma ce are? Si fix cand am crezut ca totusi incep lucrurile sa se miste, s-a terminat.
In timp ce era la dus ma gandeam la jucaria mea mov din dulap. De care m-am bucurat a doua zi din tot sufletul. Multumesc gipsy kiss. Sa-ti dea dumnezeu sanatate.
Asa imi trebuie daca am vrut sa sar peste Craciun. La anul o sa imi impodobesc casa cu 10 mii de beculete si o sa cant colinde de la 1 decembrie.
Baieti, mai usor cu alcoolul pe termen lung. Stiti déjà: don’t drink and drive. Dar eu as zice: don’t drink too much along the years. You might wanna fuck again someday.
I am now going to relate to you the amazing, heartbreaking dream I had while napping today (I gotta stop napping- my dreams during them always fuck with me). I am oscillating between making this private or just leaving it here for all to see… don’t know exactly how I feel about putting this out there for the world. I’ll finish writing it and decide, I guess.
It all begins in a modified version of Bambi’s basement, where a bunch of us are sitting around, talking and joking and throwing this paper airplane around. I know only about half of the people there (in the dream- in reality, the only two people I can recognize are Bambi and Paul). I’m sitting across the room from Paul, wearing my black buckled skirt. Somebody tosses an M&M, trying to get it in my cleavage. I laugh as it bounces off my collarbone and dive to grab it and throw it back. As I do, I fall, flashing my ass and my panties to the other side of the room. Paul grins and says something. Then, he gestures for me to come sit in front of him. So I do.
Before I know it, his arm is around me. We’re all still talking and such, when one girl squeals and laughs and points. I realize Paul has stealthily moved one hand to my breast. I laugh and glare at him playfully. He just gives this lascivious grin and squeezes. I shrug and let him leave his hand there. Eventually, he pulls away completely.
I’m worried I’ve done something wrong, but then I feel him grab me under my arms and lift me up to sit by him on the couch. Again, his arm is instantly around me, pulling me so tight against him it hurts. I squirm around a bit till he loosens up, then playfully swat him.
Might I add that, in the dream, we’ve all been drinking for some time and are all pretty drunk.
Paul eventually ends up lying across the couch (which is really Bambi’s infamous futon from September). I lie beside him, hovering above him a bit to look into his face. He’s beardless here, and looks so childish, so I smile and gently tease him for being younger than me. He says he’s 21 now- that makes him a man (this is a joke from reality we made on his birthday). I’m right above his face, close enough to kiss him.
But I don’t. Because I always bitch out like that. Even in my dreams.
Don’t worry, though. That doesn’t seem to phase him. As I lie beside him on the couch, he reaches over to play with my hair. I look over at him. He starts to muse that he could get me to do anything right now. I very honestly tell him he could get me to do said anything anytime, even when I’m sober. He says he knows this, that he’s known of my feelings for a long time, and that he’s treated me poorly. He apologizes and promises to do better. I tell him it’s okay, that he’s been busy. But he looks at me with this piercing gaze and says, “No. That’s no excuse. I promise you, I’m going to make up for it.” And I feel my heart flutter in my chest.
He gets up to get another drink. I am surrounded by a few chattering girls, all asking me what my plans for the night are and if I want to go out with them. I turn them down, tell them to have fun, then look around trying to find Paul. In the process, I lock eyes with Sean (who’s appeared out of nowhere). In his eyes, I read that he’s been observing me and Paul all night. And there’s this terrible sadness there, that I know is him watching something happen for two of his friends so soon after his breakup with Amanda, but he still gives me the slightest nod. The nod that tells me he approves and that I should go for it. I smile at him, then go back to searching for Paul.
I see him on this porch, sitting in the far corner at a table with another guy. There’s an empty chair there and a drink at it. He sees me and gestures me over, smiling all the while. When I get close to the table, I see that the other man is Tyler, John’s old roommate. I hug him and ask him how he’s been. We’re chatting for a few minutes when Tyler asks me why I’m not “fucking around with my friends” tonight. He gestures vaguely toward the rest of the party. I reply with, “I don’t always fuck around with my friends.” To which Paul says, “That’s too bad.” I look over at him, and he’s still just grinning, and I realize what he means. So, in a very out-of-character move for me, I practically purr at him, “I tend to fuck around with acquaintances, though.” He asks if he’s an acquaintance, and I say, “I’d definitely say so, yes.”
He then says we’re going to have sex that night, and I can feel myself getting wet (okay, yeah, this is totally going to be a private post). Tyler leaves, and I look over to see a naked couple. I comment on the man, then see the woman. She bends over, exposing herself to us, and Paul raises his eyebrows appreciatively, then looks back at me and grins again and slips his hand on my thigh.
On the ground, I spot a folded up $1 bill, as well as a $5 bill. I grab them both, showing the dollar to Paul. I tell him I know it’s his (as he’d been folding paper earlier in the evening- this was established via a flashback to a part of the dream I hadn’t actually experienced), and he exclaims it was from him and Bambi the other night. They had been writing on these bills and folding them up and leaving them for people. The instructions on the bill were to leave it, along with their answers to the questions written on them, where they found them. Sure enough, people had done it.
Except, as I handed him the $5, they weren’t money at all, but pieces of paper. And they had drawings and personal secrets and jokes on them. Paul pulled more out of his pocket, and I marveled over the variety of styles and thoughts and voices coming through on the pages. When he saw my reaction, he grabbed my hand and pulled me after him, the papers flying through the air in a blizzard around us.
We end up in his car, where he shows me a book he keeps in the glove compartment. It’s a homemade compilation of the best of the messages him and Bambi have received. He tells me he plans to take it back to Wal-Mart, where he got all the materials from, because they would sell it. We happen to be in the parking lot, so I say I’ll run it inside. But, as I wander through the store, holding this book in my hands, I can’t bring myself to let it go. I set it down for a second, but pick it back up, hurrying back outside with it. Their stories, their messages- they’re mine now.
Back in the parking lot, I’m scared for a moment that I won’t be able to find Paul’s car, since I can’t ever remember what cars people drive. I panic, realizing my phone isn’t on me. When suddenly, I glance up, and he’s sitting in this battered gold car, smiling at me and waving me over. I get in the car, explaining about the book, when I realize my skirt is riding high on my thighs. Paul just stares down at my legs for a moment, then looks up at me.
The tension is killing me, but I can’t make the first move. Finally, after what feels like ages, he leans across the car. His left hand moves up my thigh, starting at my knee and sliding up under the hem of my skirt. His right is behind my head and pulling me into this surprisingly gentle kiss. I don’t want it to end.
When we pull apart, he leans close to my ear, his breath tickling the tiny strands of hair, and says we have to go back to Bambi’s. At least, until the party starts to wind down. I nod, and he slides back over to his seat, hand trailing across my lap, and we drive back.
On the way, Paul is singing loudly to a song on the radio. When, out of the blue, a Slingshot Dakota song starts playing. I’m surprised, then I remember that Bambi gave them to Paul (this is real, not just part of the dream). I start singing softly to the music, and Paul urges me to sing louder. At first I can’t, but eventually, I start belting along with Tom and Carly. It’s this beautiful, freeing moment. I felt inspired by the man sitting on my left. I felt like he believed in me and that I could do anything. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt like that before.
We park along Albert Street, but a more urban Albert. Like a cross between Chicago and EL. We get out of the car and start walking toward the party. On the way, we pass Sean. As soon as we see him, Paul casually throws his arm around my shoulders, pulling me against his side. For a moment, I’m awkward as shit, then I slowly slip my arm around his waist. Sean and Paul stare at each other for a moment as we pass, and I see the challenge rising in Paul’s eyes. But again, Sean gives that small, sad/happy nod, and continues on his way. And we cross the street, heading back to the party.
And then I woke up. And realized that, despite how much Paul and I have been talking, that was just a dream. A lovely lie. God, I hate when this happens.
You know what? I’m going to make this public. To hell with it.
I trust him with everything. He trusts me with everything.
A few weeks ago, I finally told him that I had a summer fling with one of his best friends. I held off on telling him because I was afraid of what his reaction would be. I didn’t know if he would feel hurt or feel disappointed. So, when I told him, I felt like I was going to confession. I was racked with guilt.
I told him all about it. Every little detail.
“Way to go, Maddie!” As if I had scored big time (I had). He was supportive, and kind of impressed of what I had done. After a while, I realized that I could tell him that anything and he would be supportive. This is why I trust him. He doesn’t judge me.
He trusts me with that kind of stuff, too. He slept with my best friend. Scratch that, he had sex with three of my best friends. I know this may seem like a really man-whore thing to do, but my friends are horny. Every single one of them. He wouldn’t have done it if he wasn’t asked. He tells me every time he has a story; whether or not I want to hear. Apparently, he can’t tell his guy friends what he likes in bed. Weird, right? I joke.
From foreplay, to the mechanics, Robby tells me all of it. Every last thought he has, he shares. I’m a little like that, too, except I shut my mouth when I don’t know what to think.
“I like it when we hang out, Maddie, because I can be my complete weird self when I’m with you. You don’t judge.”
Is it sad I’m home alone, shirtless with two humping dogs watching French movies I can’t understand?
Yes. Yes it is.
Welcome to my life. The BF’s gone to Canadia, I have two puppies with gender identification problems (the girl, Soleil, humps the fuck out of Renault, the boy) and bottles of wine for “tasting” for the new job.
Chardonnay it is.
Seriously though. Happy Holidays, everyone. Make good choices.
So Vimal Weerawansha (who has president’s something in his mouth) has accused General Sarath Fonseka of being homosexual. Sarath had sex with many young soldiers, he says. It seems that these days, everybody’s accusing everybody of being gay. Ranil and Mangala are traditional victims of this. I heard somebody saying Mahinda was raped the one time he was incarcerated. Besides, homosexuality and masturbation seems to be the favourite topics on Sri Lankan political stage (I wonder what must be the ladies thinking). Frankly, I don’t give a rat’s fart about who’s gay and who’s not (I care a lot about who’s lesbian and who’s not though). But people must know who they are attacking before attackin. We all know that the only problem the goverment has with Sarath, is his entering into politics. So they should be careful. A lot of soldier families still loves him and I don’t think they would love to hear that he had sex with young soldiers.
“Sex. Disposable sex, sex as leisure, sex for pleasure, sex you sordid little treasure, drag me from monotomy and give me kicks too hot to measure.”
- – Russell Brand
Clearly someone who likes sex, a lot.
Two lovers entangled in a sweaty embrace. An embrace, that’s entwined within our genes as well as our lives and a necessity to procreation. But are they in love?
Sex no longer equals love, it doesn’t even necessarily equal a relationship anymore, with more and more new terms cropping up for how everyday people like to shag each other senseless. Casual fumbles, fuck buddies, one night stands etc.
Men have been doing it for years, and it is only of recent that women are claiming some care-free banging for themselves.
But where do you draw the line at sex for fun and sex just for sex-sake?
Let me set the scene…
It’s been sometime since your last encounter with something human and you, are absolutely so horny even your cucumbers at risk.
Every woman has her standards, and along with those her requirements that would allow her to take her clothes off and do the nasty.
Are you the relationship girl? Would you save yourself until the next guy that wanted to make you his girlfriend? That could be a long time…I just hope you don’t run out of batteries…
The fuck buddy, his useful, didn’t quite make it to boyfriend status, but certainly gets the job done.
Alcohol, this could play a huge part in finally relieving yourself, but also could have horrific consequences…beer goggles…eek.
The one nighter, usually after a) a night out b) a lot of drinking, could prove lethal, could also be very satisfying.
Here comes the line…
Was he attractive? Did you fancy him?
For sex to be mildly fulfilling, it must have one key ingredient…lust.
And that is what separates us from our male counterparts. Men will literally fuck anything.
Not only do we remain classier, let’s face it, if there was no lust it’s just two people bumping around like bunnies trying to avoid one another’s sex face.
I’m not sure that’s sexy.
But I do have a suggestion…Doggy? At least you don’t have to look.
So over the last few days I’ve been reading other peoples blogs. There are millions, and the topics are diverse to say the least. You can read about any topic and any kind of interesting facts. There are a huge amount of top tens, there’s even some top elevens. These are geared towards the people who like to read in bite sized chunks. That got me thinking.
Just how long do you have to catch someone’s attention on the Internet? There are some sketchy articles on this subject hanging about the web, but no real study has been done in recent months. When you think about it we all like bite sized info, think of what probably is the best of these; Twitter. 140 characters, and most people don’t go over that much and those that do begin by apologising for having to use two tweets to get their message across. So if our attention span is dropping where does that leave the honest blogger? Does this mean we all have to blog in bullet point form, getting our message over quickly?
Well yes and no, I know that’s a little oblique but there are people out there who actually read an entire post if it’s good enough. To put this to the test I started to time myself. Using a stopwatch and Stumbleupon I started to work out how long my own span was going to be. I chose Stumbleupon because it is truly random, there was no chance of me picking something I like. In that way there was no way I could upset the test. So what happened? Well I stumbled hundreds of sites and spent no time on any of them. In fact I spent on average 3.2 seconds looking at things that didn’t interest me, and 9.4 seconds looking at web sites that caught me eye, but more interestingly I spent up to 5 minutes reading good blogs. The thing I found with the blogs, or rather what kept me on the site was a good title, the more obscure or the lack of a title and I was very quick to stumble on.
What have I learned from this? Well my attention span is very short, but more importantly the Internet is really full of crap. Most of the web sites I looked at were nonsense, but there are some good and genuine bloggers out there. I also found out that you have 3.2 seconds or so to get someone attention, so that’s why I’ve called this post sex on a deserted island, I hope I got your attention?
I worked last night, and came home tired. I had a new Heineken Dark. It’s OK, just upper middle quality dark beer. Nothing to go on about one way or the other. I read my daughter a story. I slept. I slept for 12 hours. I got up at 2330. Wife is asleep. Daughter is asleep. In fact, the good people of the world are all asleep. If I want company, I need to go to a bar. And I can sit at the bar alone because everything that makes me cool to me makes me lame to others. Materialism is the idea that you are what you buy. Post modern responsibility means you accept your place in the global village and that your actions affect people you will never meet. I do both, and I call it narrative materialism, because I accept the full story of materials, both in how people perceive me and the effect my materials have on my own life and the life of others.
You are what value. You buy what you value so are what you find valuable enough to buy. You can’t escape materialism, but narrative materialism means you chose the story you are going to tell, intend of letting the brand that produces the material tell it for you. If you walked into the bar and I was there, this is what you would see…
A man, with a shaved head. If you look carefully you could tell he is not so bald as his razor would have you believe. He clearly does not shave his head to hide baldness, and you might guess he does so for the utility of never having hair to worry about or a hair style to maintain. He’s wearing a plain T-shirt, perhaps white or grey, but most likely black, because he has to have black tees for work, and so he wears them out. You might reflect on this that he doesn’t believe in waste, and he isn’t here to impress people. You would notice his jeans. They are cut very well, almost tailored, but not tight. From head to toe he is startling plain. There is no mark on his shirt, his clothes, his watch. His clothing is remarkable only for being so unremarkable. His shoes alone have brand, NB. They aren’t flashy, nor are they conservative as the rest of his clothes. If you looked carefully, you would see they are running shoes, and you might given everything else, guess that its not that he is against brands, he simply buys exactly what he wants. These were the best running shoes money can buy, and he wears them when ever he is not at work because he refuses to won multiple pairs of shoes. His body is fine. He doesn’t have the bulk of weightlifter nor the delicateness of a runner. Clearly he takes care of his body for health sake, and not to build a sculpture that impresses others or achieve arbitrary goals. His glasses are thin and classy, but plain and simple. What is he drinking? Either a rich dark brown beer, or a single shot of high grade bourbon or single malt scotch. He’s not drinking to get drunk, he’s drinking because he likes it, and he will stop before he drinks too much.
He’s not looking around the room for anyone, he’s not hitting on anyone, he’s chosen a quiet corner of the room or bar and he content alone. He would be equally content with company.
That is me. And everything that makes me who I am makes me the sort of person that people don’t want to talk to. It’s true I am content alone when I am in public because desperation disgusts me and I don’t wish to disgust myself. But I could just as easily drink alone at home. I am at the bar because I want meet someone, converse, enjoy some friendly chatter. But it won’t happen.
And so I sit alone, sipping tea in front of my computer. Writing this shit, and the temptation to look at porn as healthy substitute for getting drunk (the other way to achieve numbness when you are lonely). But I don’t want to look at the images cast out to all to entice me to spend money. I don’t want the company of a whore tonight, if I am going to see a woman naked I want it to be a friend. I want a friend to say…
My dear, you are lonely and cold. Let me make you not alone and warm. That is what I would want from a bar tonight, and that is what I would want the great singles bar that is the internet tonight. Instead, I will sit here, writing to no one.
Piece after of piece I have savored each bite with no regret. I’ve tasted all kinds of cake throughout my life, each being unique in its own way. Though some too sweet at times and others just right, I share a common bond with most people when it comes to delicious cake and that bond is simple, you love to hate each piece you get. Cause for every bite you take of that tasty cake, that cake takes a bite out of you. No matter the flavor, cake will having you feeling sick to your stomach if you have too much. I’ve finally realized that you have to indulge in portions instead of eating too much at once.
Back in college, I had too much cake and it showed. I was lethargic when it came to going to class, I never wanted to get out of bed and I simply wasn’t myself on the basketball court. I found myself being indoors constantly wanting cake all the time. Back then though, the only cakes I enjoyed were ones with chocolate and vanilla icing. There was a limited selection of flavors at the University of Southern Indiana, but once I was able to move out west, I found so many varieties of cake flavors at my disposal.
Out west, I was surprised to see how many different selections of cakes there were. For awhile I got hooked on Pound Cake. It surprised me how good this type of cake was, being that she was so thick in taste. I guess with all the butter that Pound Cake had, I was a sucker for her and I easily got wrapped around her little cake fingers the first time I had a piece. After a few months, I eventually got tired of Pound Cake and her thickness, so I switched to Red Velvet cake which was a big mistake.
Red Velvet was evil in a good way with her beet and cocoa ingredients. I mean from the instant I took a bite of Red Velvet, I was sprung literally and saw myself hooked for life. Red Velvet was classy in every way, she had a beautiful look, wonderful inside and a dynamic personality. Every person I spoke to had something good to say about Red Velvet and her reputation remained flawless. The major problem with Red Velvet, was that she was always all over the place and I had a hard time concentrating and she wouldn’t let me be myself, so like the other cakes, I eventually got tired of Red Velvet and had to let her go. Red Velvet was stressing me and causing me to gain weight, plus my metabolism became horrible, so I stopped and tried to find a healthier choice of cake.
I found a lighter choice in Lemon cake. I loved Lemon Cake the first time I had her and always wanted some. I would have Lemon Cake in morning, afternoons and even after a hard day at work. Lemon cake was so good to that I even had some of her after my workouts at the gym. I was happy with my choice in lemon cake because I was able to take breaks. I didn’t lust for Lemon Cake all the time and she would even let me go weeks without having her. Unlike Pound and Red Velvet, I was able to withhold my cravings for Lemon cake, because her taste and ingredients weren’t so strong to me. I had always had a thing for strong, rich cakes with lots of ingredients, but Lemon Cake didn’t possess any of those qualities and still I lusted for her all the time.
After a surprisingly two year obsession with Lemon Cake, I decided that it was best for me to try other cakes to see what was out there while I was still young. I ended up trying a few other kinds of cakes that had origins from other countries such as, Butter Cake from the UK, Coffee Cake from Germany, Lamington Cake from Australia, Tres Leches Cake from Costa Rica and Tiramisu from Italy. All were unique in there own way, but something justwasn’t quite right about these cakes and I eventually wanted something different.
As I got older , I got more stubborn in my own ways, I began to lust for my final piece of cake which I thought I would never fine. I had tried every type of cake you could want and still my stomach hungered for something original. That perfect slice of heavenly cake. I could picture it clearly in my mind how good it would taste and how no one had ever thought of its key ingredients. I saw in my mind a mixture of the best cake ingredients that would make up my final piece of cake. Knowing that I love apricot’s and cream, I looked at Sachertorte that had origins from Austria as a good choice, but I wasn’t so sure because I hadn’t tried her yet. I loved the thickness of Pound, the sweetness of Red Velvet and the look of Caramel and definitely wanted my final ingredients to possess some of them in it. I always thought cheesecake ingredients would make such a delicious cake, but cheese didnt matter that much anymore, so she didn’t make the cut. Lemon Cake’s ingredients were the best that I ever had, so of course I included her in my final batch.
So with the ingredients set and my cake recipe finished, I am looking for the best cake maker to give my recipe to. Someone who has the right touch and the best heart to make this perfect cake. Someone who has the experience and knowledge about bakery to make the finest cake ever created in my eyes and I have a name for her and it’s beautiful…..
Catherine Cartwright is a woman that enjoys the finer qualities of carnal pleasure. Unfortunately for the 48-year-old, her neighbors are not so open-minded.
Cartwright was previously ordered in court to gain control over the raucous love making after neighbors complained of the sounds emanating from her home. Now the habitual sexer is back in court, for the same reason, and is facing more severe penalties for her very personal yet impersonal transgressions.
“I did not understand why people asked me to be quiet because to me it was normal,” remarked Cartwright of her love making…I have tried to minimize the situation by having sex in the morning and not at night so the noise was not waking anybody.”
Neighbors, including a woman that walks her child to school in the morning, have described the sex session as “unnatural,” “murder,” and capable of drowning out nearby televisions, a feat given scientific baking after an experiment conducted by city council found that the high pitched sessions were measured at a whopping 47 decibels when recorded through several layers of sheet rock, brick, and other building material.
Cartwright is scheduled to receive sentencing on January 18th.
Goddess Ophelia was a great host this evening. I met her at her comfortable loft, candles burning, jazz playing – she hit the bull’s eye by wearing sheer nude pantyhose, just as I had asked.
Her massage was rough, her hands gliding everywhere on me. I liked it – I was feeling sleepy before meeting her but felt a rush of energy as the massage went forth.
She talked – a lot. But she knew just when to keep quiet. Her personality was bubbly, funny and smart. Great company…but then of course, having a naked woman in pantyhose rubbing herself on me while spreading oil on my body makes for great company anytime…
It was a Wednesday evening, and my primary gentleman Peter (Boy #1) was away on business in Boston. Time with Peter was always stimulating: whether fooling around or talking about any topic, he never ceased to entertain me. Of course Peter and I had enjoyed AMAZING sex the night before (late Tuesday), knowing that we weren’t going to see each other for a few days… he roughly tackled me onto the bed, and didn’t let me up until I had orgasmed multiple times, climaxing with him cuming inside of me.
Still reeling from Peter’s goodbye, I decided to call Mark (Boy #2) after work on Wednesday. Mark was a hottie baseball player with a body to die for. Of course he jumped at the chance to get together, and was over to my place within half an hour. We started on the couch where I discovered that he had a foot fetish as he sucked on my toes and used my feet to stimulate himself through his pants. Never having been with someone with a foot fetish, I was of course excited to explore the possibilities. We moved to the bedroom where I proceeded to give him an amazing blowjob. (Amusing side note: Kay called during our “session,” so I picked up the phone to let her know that I was currently occupied with a dick in my mouth. She hung up on me.). After working him to climax, Mark specifically asked for a facial, and I was happy to oblige. Afterwards, he took me out to dinner at my favorite restaurant, and then retired for the evening on my request.
Shortly after Mark had left, Jason (Boy #3) sent me a text message wondering if I was available for some “punishment.” The thought of showering had crossed my mind… after all, I had brought both Peter and Mark to climax very recently, however something about the dirtiness of the situation actually turned me on. Because it was late and I was a bit tired from the last day’s activities, it took me a minute to get into the action with Jason. He was insistent, however, and did an amazing job French kissing me and working his way down my neck to play my breasts. He requested a blowjob. This time, it was a half-hearted effort (that he appreciated nonetheless). Jason finished in my mouth, and I swallowed every last drop, as he requested.
It was one of the better Wednesdays of my life: three hot men, an overflow of fun and satisfaction. Knowing that I had control over all three situations was empowering, and the filthiness of sharing that many men was an extreme turn-on (especially knowing that they didn’t know the full extent of my activities). After that night, I came to the conclusion that dating (at least?) three men simultaneously is ideal: one conversationalist, one sweetheart, and one totally amazing fuck.
PROS: On the upside, dating three men means that you will never get too clingy for one of them. Having three men means that you will ALWAYS be satisfied, and if not, you have a built-in backup plan. Having three men means your calendar will be filled almost every night of the week, and you’ll never have a dull moment. Having three men means you’ll always be the center of someone’s attention. Most of all, having three men means more orgasms than you can probably stand.
CONS: On the downside, when dating three men simultaneously it starts to become difficult to keep them all strait, happy, and occupied (especially coordinating plans without double-booking). Having three men means little or no alone time. Having three men means looking at the clock and rushing goodbyes. Having three men means screen phone calls and deleting lots of dirty text messages from your phone. Most of all, having three men is EXHAUSTING, in the best possible sense of the word!
I think the next step is to have all three boys simultaneously. New Year’s resolution, perhaps?
Well, this is my very first post so I’m gonna make it good
The name’s Mallory, I’m 22 years old and I keep myself busy by juggling school, work, my boyfriend, my little sister, and ME time. I’ve gone through a lot the last couple of years and dealt with a lot of drama as far as Love, Sex, and Relationships go; so I thought why not write a blog about it and at least keep it entertaining!
This blog will be my venting station, my therapy, and a friend.
Some things that I’m going through I prefer not to talk to immediate family or friends. It’s just not necessary.
So this is my outlet.
I indeed got to spend time with L [and his buddies, plus two extra] on his birthday. Thank goodness this means we’re only 1.5 years apart, so I feel less like a pedobear.
Before the party, we lounged together on the couch. He has a typical Asian boy build, but a bit more solid than previous amorous acquaintances. I enjoyed feeling his shoulder muscles shift every time he moved, and he had his hand on my thigh, creeping ever upward. It made me hot. I think I really would’ve fucked him that night if I didn’t have any moral reservations. And by moral, I actually mean social — the v-card is already gone; I just can’t have anybody finding out. Also, despite our clear physical connection, we’re still not completely comfortable around each other. [Say no to awkward sex!]
At the party, we ended on a roomy one-seat couch, with me in his lap. The noise level forced us to speak very intimately, and at one pint I asked how close he was to each of the three friends he had brought.
“Buddy #1 and I are this close,” he said, and kissed me on the cheek — a first.
“Buddy #2 and #3 are like this,” he continued, leaning in. I expected a kiss on the other cheek, but he went for the lips. Bold and unforeseen! I really didn’t anticipate enjoying it that much. I also felt iffy about kissing a half-drunk person, but at least I couldn’t smell or taste the beer he had been guzzling.
Before all that happened, I asked him, “What is it that you want from me?”
“I really don’t know,” he answered. This is a strange path to navigate.
This is what his Facebook status said after we parted ways at night:
Well, maybe he should make up his mind so we can figure out what to do about this situation. It seems that neither of us wants a relationship, but there’s more potential than just a one-night stand. Do I really have enough shamelessness to become fuck buddies with a freshman? Frankly, I don’t trust him or his friends enough to keep that kind of thing under wraps. That kind of scandal would immediately oust me from any leadership position in my fellowship, which is unacceptable.
Either way, anything we do would have to wait until I return from studying abroad. Hopefully he will have matured greatly by then. I also need to prepare my inflated pride in case the boy decides to move on.
Did you know that women are more receptive to sex when their feet are warm?
Lets talk about sex. After all, who doesn’t like to talk about sex? Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot about you – with the red face, looking around to be sure that no one can see you reading this. Luckily for you I will avoid spelling the word in its natural form – because when these three little letters are side-by-side, uninterrupted, they tend to invite the spam police.
This topic is so involved that I am going to commit my next two newsletters to SEX: Part II and Part III. Today I will address our Drive, Partner Compatibility, and the role of Chemicals and Mother Nature. In Part II I will discuss why sex is important in long-term relationships and in Part III I will cover strategies and ideas for how to improve your Sex life.
The Basics
Our libido, the drive or want for sex, is determined in large part by our levels of testosterone, and generally most people fall into one of three categories.
High Testosterone: For High-T folks, the only requirement for sex is, “Is my heart beating?” Thoughts about sex are constant and there is no such thing as “not in the mood.”
Moderate Testosterone (Mid-T): Sex is of interest on a fairly regular basis, but does not dominate all thoughts. Desire is present and when the circumstances and timing allow, Mid-T’s are open and ready.
Low Testosterone (Low-T) : Low T’s have sex when the guilt builds up. There is no tension or anticipation building within – sex is not on the radar screen. Until he or she is actually having it, s e x is not of much interest. In fact, for Low-T women in particular, it is necessary to get her motor going BEFORE she is actually motivated to have sex at all. If you are a mid to high-T partner then you’ll want to reconsider your insistence that she WANT to have s-x or worse yet, that she initiate. If it’s up to her, you might be waiting quite a while, and it has nothing to do with whether or not she loves you!
Partner Compatibility
Sadly, the High T’s don’t always attract each other and at times end up with the Low T’s, which can make for a frustrating experience for both partners. Furthermore, it’s nearly impossible for a Low-T to comprehend why a High-T is so “obsessed” with sex, and the High-T partner can’t fathom why anyone would want to go “that long” without s-x, therefore, there “must be something wrong with you, or something wrong with me because of your lack of interest.” This is an unfortunate trap that keeps many couples hanging by their toes until they learn the truth about hormones and chemistry.”But,” the High-T protests, saying to the Low-T, “you wanted it all of the time when we first met.” And it’s probably true. How does that happen? In a nutshell, she’s on drugs!
The Chemical Connection
Research* has proven that when we are infatuated we experience an altered chemical state. Essentially, all infatuated people are on drugs. Self-produced drugs, that is. The only ingredient necessary for production of this mighty powerful substance is thoughts about our new found object of our affection. This Love Cocktail involves a combination of chemicals, and dopamine in particular.
Dopamine is a chemical messenger in our brain that is similar to adrenalin and when we get a rush of dopamine everything feels better, tastes better, looks better, sounds better, and we are on top of the world. When we think about the source of our desire we get a rush of dopamine that creates a high which we often associate with feelings of love.
Because of the fantastic side-effects of this love cocktail, infatuation is the drug of choice for sex addicts, love addicts, serial monogamists who enjoy many back-to-back short-term relationships, and those who struggle with fidelity within committed relationships. The side effects of this love cocktail include:
1. Increased interest
2. Increased libido
3. Increased euphoria
4. Pleasure seeking
5. Pleasure Receptivity
6. Decreased appetite
7. Decreased defenses (see no issues with the other person)
8. Positive Outlook
Mother Nature
As it turns out, Mother Nature is quite cunning and maybe even a little bit manipulative. When these feel-good chemicals rush through our system, our pleasure and reward center in our brain takes charge of our decision making. Having your pleasure/reward center in command is sort of like taking your child to a candy store and asking him what he wants for dinner, and encouraging him to make “good choices.” With the pleasure/reward center in charge of our decisions, it is natural to want to secure a commitment with this newfound love so that we can insure that we will always feel the rush we feel with all of this dopamine in our system. Just as given the choice, I’m sure my son would prefer I buy him the whole candy store, rather than just a candy bar.
The cold reality, however, is that once a commitment is secured, this chemical process (love cocktail of sorts) starts to slowly diminish and eventually (anywhere from 3 months to a year, typically) we return to our original base-line emotion, energy, outlook and libido. This, by the way, is how high-T partners often end up with low-T partners because for a while the low-T partner, who normally has a very limited drive is little-miss-can’t-keep-my-hands-off-of-you! I’m going to leave you hanging here, longing for more. Isn’t that fitting given the topic? In Part II I will cover the importance of sex in our relationships and in Part III I will address what to do if things aren’t the way you’d like for them to be. So stay tuned… and if you are a high-T, you might want to get your sweetie some nice warm footie’s – can’t hurt, right?
1. In Hong Kong, adulterous husbands get more than a steep monthly alimony payment – a betrayed wife is legally allowed to kill her husband if he cheats on her – but she may only do so with her bare hands.
2. There are approximately 100 million acts of sexual intercourse each day.
3. During World War II, condoms were used to cover rifle barrels from being damaged by salt water as the soldiers swam to shore.
4. The smallest erect penis on record was just 1cm long.
5. Average speed of ejaculation: 28 miles per hour; Time it takes the sperm to travel the distance: 2.5 seconds.
6. Australian women have sex on the first date more than women the same age in the USA and Canada.
7. While nudity was considered commonplace to the ancient Greeks, a man was considered indecent if he had an exposed erection.
8. According to the Museum of Sex, the vibrator was originally used as a medicinal treatment for female “hysteria” during the 19th century. The vibrator-induced orgasms helped doctors dissipate hysteria’s anxiety-related symptoms.
9. The male fetus is capable of attaining an erection during the last trimester.
10. About one per cent of women can orgasm solely through breast stimulation.
I woke up with the worst sore throat, I actually called in to work. It’s still that swollen after a day of relative rest. I did get a haircut and some groceries, then went back home. I was only gone and hour and a half. Instead of napping my mind kept going; I just recently learned the term Satori, which basically means spiritual enlightenment. It hit me-this is exactly what has been happening to me for the past 6 months or so.
It’s like someone has flipped a switch-my new found happiness, pseudo relationship, having real feelings about everything with my ex. It makes sense. They come out of nowhere and are usually about what I’m thinking about right then. It’s really kind of cool. Something all of a sudden becomes crystal clear and makes sense. I wouldn’t have thought it possible before it happened. This is the source of some of my real healing.
Here’s a fun fact for everyone-Spontaneous Orgasm is real. I had never heard of them before this week. They are they most incredible thing you can imagine. I didn’t realize it was a side of effect of certain meds. They been happening since I met him. Thank God they happen when I’m at a stoplight or I might have a real problem. :0
If anyone has anything to share about Satori, I’d like to hear about. It’s a pretty fascinating concept.
read write prompt #104, The Sex Poem by Nick Carbo
Well, you can read for yourself, the intent or desire of this prompt. Try not to be too mundane or too obvious, is part my take on the challenge here (right or wrong). So this response – an old old poem, here rewritten to a major extent. Perhaps more what might be “foreplay” than literal sex in that literal way, and taken as but in a moment or two, a particular sort of “greeting”, if you will (or won’t). But, so be it, as it is.
Read the responses of others here. Enjoy!
Simple fruit
Simple fruit hangs from the tree, yearning
along with gravity toward surrender’s palm.
In the kitchen warm summer dims
as evening chimes the day; I come
barefoot behind you there.
Last heat softens, glistens on your bare arms,
pale brown as you lean into shaping the meal.
Shallow lime scent arrives sweet, mixes
with the flavor your hands caress.
Cheek then lips find the moist back of your
neck, gossamer hairs receive the breeze,
your barest breath receives an autumn blush.
That aroma, yours alone, climbs on cat paw
feet above lime and orange, lingers to be found
among the leaves. Waits for a basket
in which to slowly fall.
Symmetry takes my shape as I fall into yours.
The bowl on the counter fills wordlessly.
Wet fruit skins lay drying on the counter top.
A cup with sugar and a spoon rests nearby.
Our curve becomes a single weight.
You move hands diligent to your task,
yet move where movement cannot be,
closer by mutual intent.
My hands find the fabric weave of cloth,
reach forward into limbs. More fruit yet
remains to pluck, to fall, to ripen in one
simple touch.
You turn, arms swaying within this current,
making lips cousin close. Breath passes by.
I whisper your name, beneath that breath.
OK, it turns out the guy slept with a few other women besides his wife.
My first question about revelations like this (other than the way they frequently undo hypocritical conservative lawmakers) is always “who cares?”
My second question is, “with non-politicians, why does the public feel it has a right to know?” I’ve never heard a good answer to this, but today, my local sports columnist Mark Purdy gave the silliest, most disingenuous answer I’ve ever heard: because it possibly affected Tiger’s game.
Yeah, right—it has nothing to do with America’s insatiable appetite for excuses to leer about sex. C’mon, everything in an athlete’s life potentially affects their performance: their kids’ school problems, their husband’s temper, their bad investments, the barking dog that keeps them awake, their maid’s hysterectomy.
But who cares about those things? Virtually no one.
People love revelations about celebrities’ sex lives because:
1) People love the excuse to talk about sex; and
2) People love when the rich and famous are taken down a notch, especially if it’s by their own er, hand.
But it takes the American media to sanctimoniously pretend that the public isn’t just frothing about the sex. Right—we’re just calmly interested in our athletes’ performance, and so we care, really care, about the vicissitudes of Tiger’s or Kobe’s or Tonya’s life.
Americans are so uptight we can’t even admit we enjoy drooling about other people’s sex lives. In addition to demanding our celebrities be sexually pure—and claiming outrage when they aren’t—we feel the need to pretend we are, too. Yeah, unlike people around the globe, we never look down a woman’s blouse or notice when a guy’s pants are too tight.
Another common narrative invariably hauled out at times like this is ‘rich and famous men cheat with beautiful young women.’
Oh, please. Let’s say there are 1 million extra-marital affairs in America per year (1% of today’s 100,000,000 marriages, a pretty conservative estimate). Most of these are not between rich, famous men and drop-dead gorgeous young women. They involve people at all income levels, at every level of attractiveness. The idea that affairs are the playground of greedy rich men who feel too entitled is a way of justifying moral outrage or personal envy or simply resentment that someone somewhere is having better sex than you are. Get over it.
Tiger’s an entertainer, and entertainers are people. They sell us their performance—if we buy. It’s the same with our doctor and our dry cleaner. They owe us nothing else—not even an honest public persona.
Americans maintain a cult of celebrity, then complain when celebrities play us. The game involves creating a public persona (innocent virgin, bad boy, mad genius), which the public accepts. Once we’ve bought the persona, we don’t want to see who the person really is if it conflicts with their image. We feel foolish, and then we feel angry.
Well, Virginia, there is no Santa Claus. If the way Tiger or Kobe play ball gives you value for your time, money, and allegiance, watch and enjoy. If their performance isn’t entertaining enough—whether because they’ve gotten fat, or old, or distracted by a lawsuit or a son’s kidney transplant, change the channel. There are plenty other celebrities to put on a pedestal—from which to eventually knock them down.
And if you enjoy the opportunity Tiger’s given you to talk about sex at work for the next few days, grow up and admit it—instead of criticizing him.
I picked up Hilarious [friend] to go to the city – dropped her at VisiblePantyline and met my gf at The Museum. She dragged me speedily upstairs into the wheelhouse of a tug for a cuddle. So I fucked her. Twice. Then we went to her shrink, made small talk for a few minutes and I went back to VP to meet H again and proceed to have an ok day.
Had to pick up Sting’s If on a Winter’s Night [barf!] [leave the novel alone!] for the old lady, a pair of flip-flops for Mbiza for Xmas from Patchy and blah blah blah stuff. Cool to hang out with someone who’s as shite at handling civilisation as I am anyway.
This is day I-dunno-what of me stopping meds … Seroquel, you understand, not being meds – sleeping pills are a breed apart. I’m keeping the whole fact quiet for now, if it goes horribly wrong, I’ll climb back on to Citalopram fast, plead the festering season as mitigating circs and nobody will be able to say they told me so …
I FINALLY found the makings of a gift for the gf too – I’ve been looking for fig 8’s – got one that you’re supposed to mosaic upon. I have no intentions of doing so, I think I’m going to paint it sky blue and then draw cartoon flying hearts on it. It’s our 8 month anniv and 8 has been a shorthand thingy for the infinity symbol for us for ages now.
i’m such a cheap date. i don’t know if that’s something to be proud or ashamed of. on the one hand, it proves i’m not a gold digger or care about material things and a life of luxury, but on the other hand, i could be being taken for granted and it could continue to ingrain in my head this self-image of utter worthlessness.
i’m running out of clean sheets. i really gotta start doing that shit at their place or start swallowing more. or maybe i should just stop having casual sex so often. or just have it with the same guy who won’t care if the sheets are dirty cuz it’s his stuff. i wish doing laundry was more convenient for me. in my apartment next year, we have our own laundry room with a washer and dryer. that’ll be so sweet.
i think i’m starting to see the light. i had a vision of the future in which my mother and i were on good terms for once. it was a glimpse of my wedding day and both my parents were beaming with joy. and everything was in its right place. it’s a long way off, but at least i’m on my way. i’m reminded of something i read in a neil peart book about how adventures suck when you’re having them. before you go, you’re excited and daydreaming about all the great fun you’ll have, and afterward, you can be content with the new experience you have under your belt. but they suck when you’re going through it. that’s sorta where i’m at right now.
i’m such a heartbreaker. i try to be gentle at first, but sometimes i’m pushed to the point of sheer assholedom. this one guy i met once and had an awful experience with kept texting me and i made it blunter and blunter how i didn’t want to see him anymore. so finally he stopped for a couple days, and then on thanksgiving he texted me something like i know you don’t want to talk to me anymore, but i just thought i’d wish you a happy thanksgiving with whoever you’re with now. and alright, so that was nicely and maturely put (unlike 90% of his other texts) but i was so annoyed that he kept bothering me that i wrote back “thank you but i don’t want to hear from you again ever so save your holiday greetings for those who do.” yeaa. that was kind of mean. but do you think that stopped him? maybe for a couple days. i still get random “hi”s from him but i’ve stopped replying altogether. with other guys, though, it’s not so easy for me to let them down. sometimes i feel like i can see myself being happy with just about any guy that comes my way. but there’s way too much drama trying to juggle multiple guys, so i’ve gotta cut some of them out, which sucks cuz each of them reflect one side of me and when i cut one out, i feel like that side of me is now going unfulfilled. maybe that’s why i jump from guy to guy, to keep all the sides of me alive.
When I was a young boy, just past puberty, my family moved to Del Mar, a small beach town just north of San Diego. I fell in love with the beach. My teenage eyes drank in all those young, tanned women on the sand wearing what would today be considered rather modest attire but to me seemed delightfully revealing. The sight of all that smooth, wet and curvy flesh drove my hormones (and my dick) to new heights.
Sadly, just before I started high school we move back to east Tennessee. No more sand. No more sea. No more near naked girls gleaming in the summer sunlight striding along the beach…
Here’s the newest of the Magic of Women Flickr Galleries inspired by those now distant days spent at the intersection of my new found lust and the hot California sand…
On the Beach
Here, for those with safe search off are some images which were to hot to put in the gallery: sunscreen, umbrella, beach towel, flip flops, snorkel, sun glasses, sun hat, and fan.
Some Flickr groups you might enjoy: Beach Girl, Bikini Girls, Girls in the Sea, Surf and Waves.
Links to all of the Magic of Women Flickr galleries.
And here’s as close as I can get. A pool, not a beach, but the girls are nice:
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HP/Cynthis Nixon—My girlfriend and I want to get married. Only thing is: it’s not legal in NY State, where we live. So we started doing everything we could think of to reverse that. Including going up to Albany this past spring with two of our politico friends to speak to some Senators — Democratic and Republican — who were on the fence on the issue.
Wednesday’s No vote on same sex marriage was supremely disappointing on a personal as well as a political level. Guess Christine and I can kiss that Waldorf Astoria wedding… Brooklyn Botanical Gardens wedding… Montauk Beach wedding — you fill in the blank — goodbye. But we have two things today we didn’t have yesterday.
The first thing we have is clarity about who’s with us and who’s against us. And we’ll remember those yays and nays for next November and for Novembers to come. And there will be consequences.
The second thing is a new ally. Her name is Ruth Hassell-Thompson. She is a Senator from the Bronx and Mt Vernon and she is fierce.
State Senator Ruth Hassell-Thompson (D-NY)
Our gang of four met with her last spring and she explained to us in depth, over a long and respectful meeting why she thought she was going to vote no on gay marriage. Senator Hassell-Thompson is deeply religious. She felt strongly that marriage always has been and always should be the union between a man and a woman.
But she is a careful, thoughtful person and you could see her weighing the issue again and again in her mind. And in her considering she stumbled across something in her personal experience that began to change her perspective.
She spoke about how her mother had been a deacon in their church at a time when previously only men had been deacons. And how controversial that had been. And how vehemently many people opposed her mother’s appointment. And how none of those opposed could give any explanation for why her mother becoming a deacon was wrong, just that it was. Because it was new. Because it was shocking. Because it was an idea that took people a little time to get used to.
What’s the best thing you can say to a man after he gives a poor performance in bed?
Far: Get out…
Jen: Run..but of course, the guy could always think he did a great performance and be gloating – in this case..say this “I’m so happy we are going to be just friends and not have sex”. May sound mean to not even acknowledge the bit of encounter you two spent, but it’ll wipe the pompous smirk from his clueless face that screams “I just fucked the shit out her”. I call these kinds of situations – icky. It’s like running into an uncircumcised penis that doesn’t know how to stay afloat…ick!
TechBabe: “Awww, he’s as cute as a button.” (True story, by the way. I never saw him again. Then again, it’s not like I saw “him” the first time.)
Well today was interesting, nothing new I slept in and didn’t get into work until 11am ish lol also go two cold calls which ended in bookings (yeah).
The interesting part comes from the skype chat that I had with an old school friend. One that I just happened to have a crush on for awhile when I was about 11 years old. No the crush is long gone but it is great chatting to someone from so long again. I have caught up with a lot of old school friends online in the past month. Some haven’t changed a bit but others I just would not even know if they past me by in the street! Odd really as when I look at the old photos every one is posting I can’t see that much change in myself other than I am older and wider LoL.
So I chatted to my old friend and was very shocked to hear that this guy had no idea that I indeed had a crush on him, when I thought all this time that he didn’t even know that I was there; funny how people see the world differently!
Then to top the evening off one of my all time favorite TV programs came on “Sex in the City”. I like it because it shows females as we are, very sexual and that we do talk about sex with our girl friends and that it is not just a guy thing. Gee I think that my girlfriends and I talk more sex than our hubby’s and if we are talking the truth we are dam right dirty as well lol.
I’m glad that so far in my life I have tried what I have attempted even if I have failed, done what I did, felt, tasted, and enjoyed what I have so far lived! I do not plan on looking back or having any regrets and doing even more than I have done or seen before.
I am only half way there, there is so much more to see, do, feel, taste, touch and BE!!
Last night I had a horrific confrontation with my ex-husband. Or soon-to-be ex-husband, I should say. The marriage has been doner-than-done for a long time, but the legal technicalities haven’t been completely finalized.
And, apparently, the ex wants to stand in the way of that happening.
I had this utopian vision of our divorce. I thought we could interact rationally and treat one another with care and respect. I thought we could leave the anger and bitterness to the past and work together to be the best parents we could be for our two children.
He, however, didn’t share my vision.
Our conversation last night started with him unleashing his hatred on me. Hatred is not an exaggeration. He used words like hate, loathe, and despise to describe how he felt about me. He threw every wrong, every slight, every inadvertent sin I’d committed in our marriage in my face. With viciousness.
“Why is it that you flat-out refused to have sex with me the entire time we were married?” he angrily growled.
Me: Blink. Blink. What?
Sex was always at issue for us, as I’ve mentioned before. I spent the entire marriage feeling sexually rejected . . . and he spent the entire marriage feeling sexually rejected. Now I can see it was because our love styles and communication styles never meshed. His Asperger’s complicated that, a lot. He doesn’t know how to read social cues, and thus missed out on every “I’d really love for you to screw me now” message that I ever sent. And he doesn’t know how to communicate at all, so his attempts to initiate sex were reminiscent of an awkward 12-year-old boy who doesn’t know how to tell a girl he likes her.
But, in his version of the events, it was ALL me, completely my fault.
As was everything else. As he ranted, I was struck by how odd it was that he was dwelling on every finite detail, bitterly angry about each one. I’d long ago left all the ways he’d hurt me and betrayed me to the past, long ago let the anger go. I couldn’t fathom how he could possibly still be clinging to it.
He reamed me for wasting the best years of his life, and then he said the oddest thing:
“But then I think about those two incredible little boys, and they deserve to have their mother and father be together.”
Me: Blink. Blink. Huh?
In summary–he hates me, loathes me . . . but doesn’t want to divorce me because he thinks a divorce would be bad for our kids.
I’m still sitting here blinking in shocked astoundment.
I believe that there are a number of family compositions that can be nurturing for children. I DON’T believe that having married parents necessarily leads to happy, healthy children. You know, especially when one of those parents despises the other. That really can’t be a healthy environment for kids.
I guess it’s just another indication of why we shouldn’t be together–we see the world SO very differently.
And so he’s decided to stand in the way of the divorce. And so I need to drag in lawyers and get my fight on . . . a dirtiness that never figured into my utopian vision.
I’m a broke graduate student, and the idea of mounting a legal battle feels so unbelievably daunting. I dread the thought of having to borrow money from my parents to pay legal fees. The irony is that Mr. Nico is the best person to help me with the legal messiness, being a lawyer and all. It’s not his specialty, but he recently handled a divorce for a friend of ours. And yet I feel so uncomfortable about asking him to help me . . . there’s something that feels not right about asking my new boyfriend to help me get my divorced finalized.
So tonight I’m feeling a bit like I’m floundering, not sure how to get myself out of this fucked-up situation with my ex. I know that I’m a strong, tough woman who will fight her way out of this mess soon . . . but my fighting spirit seems elusive right now, in this overwhelming moment.
Author Jonathan Littell has won the 17th annual Bad Sex In Fiction Award, for his novel The Kindly Ones.
The book, which was originally published in French, won the Prix Goncourt in 2006 and has sold over a million copies in Europe.
excerpt: ”Una had stretched out on the bed of the guillotine; I lifted the lunette, made her put her head through it, and closed it on her long neck, after carefully lifting her heavy hair. She was panting… Leaning over the lunette, my own neck beneath the blade, I whispered to her: ‘I’m going to pull the lever, I’m going to let the blade drop.’ She begged me: ‘Please, f*** my pussy.’ – ‘No.’ I came suddenly, a jolt that emptied my head like a spoon scraping the inside of a soft-boiled egg.”
more http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/entertainment/8387234.stm
I would spy on my husband and throw fits when I caught him through his internet history.
I was so jealous and out of control I threw him out of the house, twice. The second time I insisted he’d move at least 1000 miles away, so I wouldn’t have to witness him destroying some other poor woman’s life.
I was convinced he was addicted to it. I went to COSA meetings and begged him to go to SAA meetings.
He resisted and naturally he would. No one wants to be controlled by another person.
He looked at more internet porn, more and more… The louder and more freaked out I got, the more he withdrew into his computer.
The less we slept together. The more I ate, the fatter I got.
The more I pushed and nagged, the more he resisted…
Even having him leave didn’t stop the cycle.
Getting back together on this truce or that didn’t help at all. Even when he wasn’t looking at porn, I was still crazy jealous over him.
Until one day I just gave up.
I decided that I was valuable to myself. That it was stupid to be stressing out over his possible interest in other women, if he actually had any.
That I would be ok, no matter what happened between us. AND that I wasn’t doing either of us any favors by trying to control him.
I have a life to live and all of this paranoia was just trashing me!
This was years ago.
So many pedals of love have grown over those wounds now I hardly ever think about it.
AND he adores me still, showing me his love and faithfulness constantly without compulsion. Which makes it all the more valuable to me.
Ha.
