Happy Christmas!

resonance

You know that something has hit a chord when you realise you're crying without noticing it as you read.

Simple lines...

She felt his body spread over hers.
"I'm going to make love to you now, Molly," he said.
She nodded her head. There weren't any words she wanted to get out. Her face felt wet.
"You don't have to worry about anything, ok? Don't worry."


That's from Charlotte Stein's Ever Unknown in Total-E-Bound's Master Me, sent to me by the incredibly kind Justine Elyot, who is currently offering joy to the world in the form of book giveaways, check her out.

But. You don't have to worry about anything. I just can't even imagine.

Eat Me!

Oh, how nice to be able to promote something!

Even if my intro is longer than my actual flash piece in Alison's ebook collection titled Eat Me and full of delectable, delicious, food themed erotica. There's lots of longer ones too, by people like Sommer Marsden and Shanna Germain and M Christian - see who else:

If you check the link, you can see the contributer list and our thoughts on food and how it complements thoughts of sex and for the modest sum of $2.99, it can be yours!

Splitting Hairs

Someone asked me to write about my take on personal deforestation. On hair removal – pubic topiary, for some. I’m not really the one to write about it, given that I met my husband when I was 17, in an era and place where people my age didn’t wax, god, it might even have been pre-Brazilian. My husband frowned on the idea, having no issue with women looking like the women they were. And I was cool with that – sparing the expense, the mess, the pain, the embarrassment ... the alarming nudity of it all... so I’m not really the right person to wax lyrical on the topic, given that I am be-pubed, as god intended.

Times have changed though. At a meeting of women bloggers a couple years ago, a friend said that she’d seen an online exhibition of normal people who’d volunteered to be photographed naked. It was interactive – charmingly, you could click on their clothes and underwear, and see them in various stages of undress. She complained that to a woman, despite being quite different in age and style, etc, they were all waxed bare. She found it depressing that this had become the norm. Someone else suggested that perhaps she’d just clicked one time too many :)

I mean, I don't see anything wrong with this lovely happy woman.
(Sorry, this template has photo sizing issues. )

But no, apparently bare is the norm, now. In conversation with a man last night, he said he hadn’t seen pubic hair in two decades. Definitely Channel Four’s sex ed programme had all the boys thinking that women had to be hairless – though their standards came from porn, depressingly, and the girls were following suit. I loved Jiz Lee's stand on this issue, that she talks about here.

I do think that’s a problem, I don’t think it’s positive. It saddens me that this has become a blanket standard, that girls of ... what age now – 14? will assume they have to wax. I personally have no issue with pubic hair. Sure, a pube on the tongue is not the most fun, but as Demure Lemur pointed out in this wonderful post, hair gives texture, interest. Perhaps it’s a marker of our difference. And its purpose is to get our pheromoes out there. We're so scared of our animal nature - the horror of smelling. Is our fear of odour a form of evolution, or a frightened rejection of our animal nature... ?

I’m not so sure about the infantilisation argument either, though. That doesn’t really wash with me. It may be some people’s motivation, and I agree that not letting women be at all hairy in other places is an unfortunate societal construction – but it certainly isn’t something I’d consider. But I liked this post I found on Sex is Not the Enemy, in full here that demands an end to the politicising of the hair/no hair debate:

That said, I am sick to death of the “hair or no hair” debate. I’ve heard a lot of people on one side say that pubic hair is disgusting and unattractive, I’ve heard people on the other side say that without pubic hair, one looks prepubescent.

They’re both ridiculous arguments, positing personal preference as fact. It’s not fact. Some people like it with, some people like it without. Neither way is “disgusting” or “wrong”, it’s just fashion, it’s just what people are used to, it’s just individual taste. Why is that so hard for people to understand?

Here here. I think I agree with this. I don’t think anyone should feel they have to shave or wax – I don’t think anyone should feel they shouldn’t if they want to.

I read a nice story once, probably in one of Alison Tyler’s books, about a woman who shaves for her partner and is surprised at the deep, intense, fetish level of his arousal on discovering her smoothness. Having shaved out of curiosity, or ... boredom ... or in the spirit of adventure recently, I totally empathise with this. The silkiness! The smoothness... the ... intrigue. It really was like a brand new country. Yes, I do wish I’d done it while I still had someone to discover it with me. But even on my own, it seemed a very intimate experience. A sort of, ‘I’ve never been to me’ feeling :)

It didn’t make me feel childlike, I can attest to that. It made me feel, much more aware of myself, and like I had a secret I wanted to tell. And sure, I can imagine oral sex is a vastly different experience.

I gave a friend a voucher for a salon a couple years ago, for her thirtieth, and she horrified me slighly by going to get a full wax. I wanted her to have some luxury, a manicure/pedicure maybe, not to have her pubes ripped out by thier roots. But she loved it, felt gorgeous, went out and bought herself a thong just to revel in the sensation all the more. More power to her.

My main reason for not doing it before is that far from looking pre-pubescent, with my fatness, I’d end up on the other end of the scale and look like an old lady, what with my saggy tummy and stretch marked Mary (as a friend put it – I have stretch marks on my Mary!!) and the fact that being bigger means you’ve more pubic area too... it makes for a comfy hand rest, don’t get me wrong but ... ach, I don’t know. Does April work it? I don't know if I've seen a picture of her with pubes. I confess, I'm a little scared of this expanse of bareness on myself.

Adding those little insecurities to the pain/discomfort/embarrassment/couldn’t be arsed factor, and I don’t think it’s something I’d be bothered doing just for myself. Nor would I expect anyone else to do it just for me if they didn’t want to.

Still. It’s a place I’d recommend visiting, just to see...

Just to let everyone know, I continually typoed 'waz' instead of 'wax' throughout the writing of this post, which was quite funny.

Hot Fuck Sunday

Ah... that warm pressure on the inside of your wrist...

She should take her watch off though, just in case.

damn, it's monday again

Caught unawares, on the stairs?

Money Porn Mondae

Money Porn! I think I need to put this under my pillow... I need some riches to fall into my lap... I quite love this picture actually.

Hot Fuck Sundae, early or late, it's up to you :)

I hear we're going to have another very harsh winter. Snow and ice will abound.

I went looking for long johns for the laugh, but then I found him:



Well. It's easy to rock a vest. But long johns, maybe not so much. And this... including the tea cup? Ok, well, maybe it's cofee, but still; this is a man who is at ease with his sexuality, whatever it may be. And good lord, why wouldn't he be? The legs, for heaven's sake. Such masculine, muscular elegance.

They're organic, you know. Get some!

Ass-ociations

I was in a shop the other day, and I saw a load of these:





Will you judge me if I said that the first thing my mind went to was this?:






I mean, come on... there's really not that much in it, is there?

You know, somehow, both of them make me feel a little bit Christmassy.

Happy Monday!

HFS

I'm not really in the mood for Hot Fuck Sundae at the moment, except maybe the Sundae part. And the fact that it's such an excellently clever title, if I do say so myself.

Sex - sigh. I dunno.
Have you ever flicked through so many tumblr photos you got beautiful-ass-fatigue? That happened to me once. So very many beautiful, mostly female bodies, all these images of perfection. Endless perfect asses. It became wearying.

I love this site for its realness. And how much more interesting the pictures are in their aunthenticity and vulnerability. Real people are interesting. Girls who are fat but who still see themselves as sexual are interesting. You confront a lot looking at these pictures. Health. Self image. Self love. Trends and media domination and the plasticity of the enduring vision of what is attractive and acceptable that has been fed to us for some time now and that most of us have accepted and internalised wholeheartedly.

Why? Well, it's complex.

I don't believe in blanket fat acceptance to a certain degree, because of health, and because of how the human body can look and what it can do when it's strong and fit - those things are good things. And, fat is fear, and an attempt at self protection. But, acceptance and love have to come first. I remember my mother in law's reaction to me trying to explain something about how it's improtant to love yourself. 'Well I don't love myself!' she spat in disgust. Ah, Catholicism. You have so much to answer for.

It would be nice if we could stop separating the external and internal so much though. Celebration is good. Normal people should be celebrated. Women should celebrate themselves. We all should. Whatever shape we are.

Hot Fuck Sunday (early!)

Hmm... who would you rather be? ...

I like how this picture is pretty and nasty. And how you can hardly see him - just these ghostly arms and the faintest hint of black t-shirt and trousers. In the woods.. but .. there's just so much to look at. And all the contrast of pretty and spikey. Dark and white. So uncomfortable. Oo.

:)

from smut bookshelf to smutbox

The days of the smut bookshelf are gone.



The other day, my 7 year old daughter and her little friend decided to adorn themselves with kiddie makeup (pink features heavily) and pose glamorously on my bed. My daughter requested that I photograph them. I came into the room to see my tomboy girl posed elegantly on the bed in her jeans, fluffy pink dressing gown and goopy eyeshadow and lipstick, a book she'd picked up from the bed held all provocatively in her hands.



The book was Rachel Kramer Bussell's 'Naughty Spankings', carelessly left there by moi.



Can you say 'inapproriate'? Yikes!



So my daughter can read now. And it's occurring to me that it's time to remove my smut from view. She's not at a point where she'd go looking at adult books yet - at least, not if I don't leave them lying around under her nose.

So now they're in the purple box under the bed, in case you're looking. It's not a permanent solution, but it will do for now.

And at least I can stop worrying about my mother in law having a browse...

I just read this

And I have no idea what to do with it, but I feel like I have to share it.

I wish I could write it, but that is Not To Be.

So.

Someone else did: http://www.poppystvincent.com/2010/08/for-you-when-you-get-back-from-the-airport/

This moved me.

Hot Fuck Sundae

I keep meaning to writing about fat. A weighty issue for me. But I'm so reluctant. I see calls for 'Rubenesque' stories, and think I should write something for it... but... ach. I'm blocked on it all. I don't know how to make it positive but still include my feelings on it all. How to reconcile fat and happy and fit and healthy all into one bouquet. I feel like I should write about it. I will, I suppose. Just. Not right this minute.

Little Gifts from Within

The dream is partly absurd,

to be laughed at and discarded

But I will keep the memory

of the soft silk skin of your brown chest,

your stomach,

beneath my lips

and treasure it as though it were real.

It's Sommer Time!

Sommer is offering you cash and the stories off her back at her new place, with a wonderful SommerTime naming contest for her publishing press.

What are you still doing here?? Click! Run!

I think this picture's lovely. So apt in terms of reading and writing erotica.

The only thing is... the minute you see her torso as a face, it's all over...

once

We pause, to move. Me kneeling at the edge of the bed and you behind me. I can't remember why, something must not have been comfortable. Spontaneously, finally, you put your hands over me. One covers and holds my right breast, the other reaches between my legs and cups my pussy, seals me tight. For a moment in the darkness, I am held and owned. I am balanced and your hands on me feel just exactly right. It's perfect. It's surprising.

Later on I tell you that. The way I'm supposed to do, to communicate about sex. You sound surprised in return, as if you don't understand what you did or why I care. You don't understand that I've waited years for that one little moment.

And you still don't do it again.

Hot Fuck Sunday

I do quite like this picture. Because of her skirt. And the water. But really, mostly because it reminds me of a modern version of this one

This is one of my favourite paintings. When my daughter was small, she asked if it was me.

My father once bought me a book of wall pictures including this one, and then years later, a nice Rembrant book. I flipped to this pictue (in order to demonstrate my enthusiasm for the present) and said I loved it. His girlfriend piped up, in her TheQueen-like accent, 'She has horrible legs.'

Sigh.

a pet peeve, a personal bugbear, if you will

Say I was going to make a spanking video. Chances are I'd put on my best lacy pants (or panties, U.S types) for it. Maybe even a nice skirt, you know? I mean, a girl would rather look her best, even if she's up-ended, red cheeked and wriggling. I would imagine. Wouldn't you agree?


So, if that is the case, wouldn't you think the same would apply to the spanko boyfriend, or he who awards himself the capitalised 'Master'? It seems the answer is no.


Instead, more often than not, he's wearing ... shorts. Shorts don't command respect. They don't shout steely authority. They kinda shout nerdy teen, to me. Especially on older men. With bellies...


Worse again is the saggy tracksuit bottom. I mean, come on. That's not even trying a little bit. They're not even leather tracksuit bottoms, like this one:





Ok, that wouldn't command respect either, tee hee.

But yes, the sagginess. The old, wrinkly, round the house when no one can see you tracky pants the lads all seem to favour. I don't understand it. It puts me off, I tell you.

As does one other thing, while we're at it: If I was going to make a spanking video, I'd turn the fucking telly off first. I mean, come on! That's just rude and tasteless. I saw one the other day with a tracksuit AND a tv blaring and glowing in the background. Too much! And don't tell me it's spontanaety. They set the camera up!

Alright, I have vented, and now everyone knows I've been watching Spanking Tube. Oh well.

I leave you with this gem, which illustrates again the way tracksuits fail to strike fear into the heart of a spankee:

I once had a conversation with a writer of bdsm stories about how the idea of leather trousers with a 'panel' that opened in front was a bit silly, and found this to be a far scarier vision. Yes. Meheheheheh. Snigger.

I mean, even if somone let this AliG-alike anywhere near their ass, wearing a baby blue velour tracksuit will never say 'you is my bitch' to a girl. Don't kid yourself, gangstas.

Note to anyone whose erotica sensibilites were offended by the porny blow job picture - turns out it's even harder to find an appropriate lollipop picture than a blow job one (and I spent a lot of time loking for both!) So after extensive searching, I've given up on trying to be tasteful for now.

My friend was telling me yesterday, that her friend asked her what semen tasted like. Because, she'd never given anyone a blow job. She'd got married to the man she met when she was 16. He'd recently left her, with a debilitating disease and low confidence.

But she'd never gone down on anyone. Sounds like no one had ever gone down on her either.

I find it hard to fathom. In some respects. I mean, I'm not queen of orgasms, it's true. But still... I remember refusing a friend who asked me to go a little further, and suck on it, please. And I said, er, no! But even then, at 14 or thereabouts, I'd read Cynthia Heimel's Sex Tips for Girls and countless Cosmo articles on the best ways to please your man and so on. And it wasn't long before I'd found someone I was comfortable practising on. And because I'd never been taught that sex, or pleasure, or genitalia were disgusting or repugnant or evil, or whatever the fuck hangup you have to have to banish oral sex completely from your repertoire, I loved it, I loved being good at it. Back then it was great to be in control of someone's pleasure, to give something. To be too hot with an aching jaw under an airless duvet working on their pretty cock while they gasped and panted hoarsely above me. Asking if it was ok, to hear,

'Are you serious? Didn't you hear my breathing? And I didn't even come!'

Ah, yes, to be mistress of that.

But don't we expend such energy, being disgusted by things? Don't get me wrong, I'm as fond of laughing or ew-ing at random weird fetishes as the next girl, as I think the humour potential is strong in some cases. But dismissing blow jobs? Aw. So sad.

Plus, you know the fact she's asking about them means she's curious... I just pray that if she does decide to go down on someone that he doesn't have lumpy semen. Because that would be so ironic, Alanah might be tempted to write a sequel.

a validating thought

A message from our hero, Janine Ashbless, that I found in her interview with Nikki Magennis, that cheered me, and made me feel like cheering:

“Sex is important. ” I think that’s what pretty much all of my stories express. The establishment would have us believe that sex is trivial and a bit silly, a footnote to anyone’s life story. This is bollocks. People pour time and money into sex, they destroy their relationships and their careers for sex. And – on the positive side – in the loneliest and bleakest times of our lives sex is a gift of solace and pleasure. Fictional sex might be as important as the real thing, because let’s face it the stuff that really matters is what goes on in your head, not the bumping together of hairy bits. It’s what’s going on in your head that makes sex not just a trivial genital spasm but a place in which to find something more: escape from the self or connection to the human race, punishment or redemption, love, responsibility, surrender, empowerment, validation, intimacy, even transformation. So I write about those things. Sex in my stories isn’t always happy but it always matters. And I try and make it hot as hell too, of course!

Nikki's got an interesting question going on her blog today as well. Worth a click*

ack

One for Danielle

Ugh. I have this story that's been sitting with me for a while. It's due to be submitted. And it doesn't want to come out onto the paper. I've had it in my head for ages. I've blocked it out in notes. I've lost those notes, somehow, they're not in any of the three notebooks I might have scribbled them into... but writing it down, it's just not coming out right. All that intense prettiness that I can see in my head skids and scrapes as I try to lay it down on the screen the same way. It doesn't want to be out there. For three days I've been opening the folder and looking at it, and doing other stuff instead. What is up with that?

Hot Fuck Sunday

A Celtic Dom! This is a first!

Would you trust a red-bearded man to take care of you?

I can't get the photo to size right for the blog, so here is a better resolution original somewhere else.

tongues

I thought I'd be good at languages. With a sensitivity for cadence, and rhythms and structures and words, the taste of them. But no. It never came easy. Not even what's supposed to be my mother tongue, mo theanga fein.

And now along with the distance between us, there are unfamiliar words and meanings. It's not easy to stretch my tongue around your syllables, these multiples, they're hard to swallow.

So so much goes unspoken. Written into the pauses and the silences. They're universal, where translation fails.

It will do, perhaps, or have to, until we find another language, and I can learn you a better, more wordless way.

new fascination. archive diving

I'm a little bit in love. With MonMouth. Who I've read before, and liked, but never got involved with, bloggilly for some strange, foolish reason. But here I am at 00.48 am, with the cream cheese sitting unblended in the blender, lemons unzested, cheesecake uncaked and I'm still readingreadingreading his delicious, enticing, heartwarming posts about sex.

There's this tender, naughty compassionate enthusiasm for women, and people, and sex and lust and communication and so on, that I find irresistible, so real it makes me want to cry at times. I'd email him and ask if I could do an interview, if there was anyone visibly reading this. But two comments a post do not an enticing readership make, methinks. Especially when one of them's me.

Maybe it's only because he reminds me of someone. Maybe it's because his posts are so exceedingly hot. But yes. Little bit in love.

For something beautifully, achingly, breathtakingly dirty, try part 1 and part 2 of Parts for Wholes.

there's a cream for that...

Bahahaha, this makes me laugh. Inwardly.

This picture reminds me of Once when I was Young. 15, maybe. And I had a very pretty boyfriend with whom I was learning the beginnings of desire, and sex. And we had a friend, his friend first, Tony. Tony and I got on very well. He was kind, he was sweet, his father was an alcoholic, I think. He didn't talk about it much, but I think he needed a lot. I wish I'd been older, then, maybe, more for him. But. Oh well. Once we kissed a little, me and Tony, played around a little in my basement bedroom before he had to run for the last bus out of the little rural village I lived in. We'd run around town that day, seen a favoured band busking outside the indie record shop, held hands, there was something about the Violent Femmes but I can't remember what.

He came home with me and my boyfriend went home with someone else, and it was the beginning of the end of our eight week weenie love affair, sadly.

But, before all that, before, before, there was this one time that we were all out, hanging about in the sun, obnoxious and young and full of ourselves, us teenagers. Sitting against the wall at the bus stop, in a row. I walked up to Tony, where he sat, with his long legs stretched out, and planted my feet on either side of his spread thighs with a bounce. Stomp, stomp, with my ... hmm, docs, it must still have been, with flowery scarves for laces. And there I stood in front of him with my crotch more or less at face height. And he leaned forward, and kissed me. Right on the zip of my jeans, warm and sweet on my mons, no lower. And I shrieked, and leapt and ran, laughing, all of us laughing, with the kiss branded onto me. It must still be, somehow.

Hot Fuck Sunday, late again

Oh, Logan, I have neglected thee. And you have a new website. And look what's on it!!




I'd offer to help, of course, but I have a bad track record ... last time I tried that I instantly shaved a stripe into someone's head. So I'd just have to blow all the hair off his neck instead.

from SexandCandy

Think of the temptation... you'd be sure you couldn't, you shouldn't... but then maybe you couldn't resist just nibbling on her ear, just a little. Or licking her jawbone. Or even, taking her knickers off and getting your hand sticky between her thighs.

And the next thing you know, your partner, or the confectioner, would be walking in on you, bent over her, covered in chocolate and shame...


:)

* Excuse the hideous typos I was guilty of in this post... I have typo-blindness. Talking the knickers off a chocolate woman?? Oh dear...

Hot Fuck Sunday, one-day late

water nymphs




I'd like to live in a culture where women bathe together. There's a story in the this, the way the water slowly embraces, the languid splish and splash of it lapping, the sluicing away of the sweat of the day in sunwarmed water, the caress of a soapy cloth, of soapy fingers sliding over smooth plump breasts and rounded stomachs. Water beading on soft limbs, hair piled up on heads, nipples stiffening in the cool air...

autosexual

I will admit that there are certain non-sexual things that turn me on. At times.

The smell of coriander, vinegar and chip paper, and my local, wonderful, Indian takaeaway bypass my stomach and hit me directly in my girl bits.

But this man fascinates me. And others who share his preference.

Funny ol world, really.

Why does porn matter?

I always like what Greta Christina has to say. Interesting comments too. I liked Robin Wolfe's thoughts about working with sex.

Hot Fuck Sundae Lite

This is good...

But I like this too...

Can you see?

From Coco de Mer

Can you think of anything but watching him? Resting on the bed, long legs out in front of him. Maybe still in his suit, white shirt open, zip undone. Maybe he’s naked already, lithe and brown skinned, you don’t know, you can’t focus on what’s better… because there’s a smooth, heavy silver ring that stretches across the fingers of the hand he’s holding himself with. It’s matte, and cool to the touch against his knuckles still, maybe, but already warming. You can just feel the silent press and slide of it as he moves his hand up and down his shaft, slowly. The hard-soft unyielding, smoothed edge of it pushing against the iron-silk of his cock. Silver and skin. The extra pressure, the extra edge. You can taste the silver on your tongue, as you stand in the doorway, breathing slips of the air he’s exhaled, wondering how good the metal feels, wondering how it’s possible to find such beauty in someone else taking their own pleasure.

If you visit the website, tell me what catches your fancy?

Hot Fuck Sundae

The lines!

I think this speaks for itself.

Quotes

They always seem to hold more power than something more lengthy. I don't know why.

If ever thou be’st bound in thy scarf and beaten, thou shalt find what it is to be proud of thy bondage– William Shakespeare

- the bard understood all about human nature, I think. There should be a Shakespeare I Ching.


Look, if you want to torture me, spank me, lick me, do it. But if this poetry shit continues just shoot me now please. — Lori Petty

- I know this isn't profound, but I can just hear it in Lori Petty's cute little growly voice.

smells

Don't read on if you're squeamish, I shouldn't post this... but in fairness, I was looking for an excuse to post this picture :)

it's just... I'm very absorbent. I have onion on one hand. And hints of coffee and custard on the other.

And when both are suffused with an added feminine fragrance, it makes for a fascinating olfactory experience.

If I could choose, I think I'd opt to smell faintly of custard. See pudding post below!

keeping a straight face

I know a girl in a bdsm relationship. She told me that her boyfriend once lost the run of himself in the playroom and called her his 'fuckmeat'... she likes a bit of insult and denigration, but that one was a step too far and resulted in the pair of them lying on the floor helpless with laughter.



I think I'd be more of a fuckpudding myself, if I'm honest...

Ya gotta love Mike Patton

Somehow, these lyrics come as no surprise... :)

Hot Fuck Sundae

This qualifies for HFS, doesn't it? Because self love is important, right? It counts... god I hope so...

Actually, it does! I've just found out May is National Masturbation Month in the US! Rhyming tribute poems in the comments, please!

I'm also posting it for reasons twofold (after National Wank Week. I mean, Buff Your Muffin Month)

1- because this is a good position to get yourself off in, I'm sure you'll agree.

And 2 - because it somehow reminds me of Shiele paintings, crossed with Manga.

If you see what I mean.

Even though a friend once said she thought his self portraits looked like he was a victim of child abuse. And I can kind of see what she meant.

Dream-O s

http://dusanmalobabic.deviantart.com/art/Dreaming-Girl-120183192

A while ago something rare and precious happened. I was dreaming (rare and precious in itself, given the disturbing presence of wakey young son and snoring husband). That I was in my bed, with my lover lying behind me. We were looking for a belt, you know, as you do, and there wasn't one, so albeit reluctantly, I finally reached over and pulled my husband's from his jeans. I know. Symbolism symbolism.

Then my lover was no longer there, but I think at his instruction, I wrapped the belt around my mouth, and round my throat. And that was all it took - I came, all of a sudden, one of those surprising, brief, intense dream orgasms that always seem to be sparked by the slightest of things... like the merest brush of skin on skin, the briefest kiss. Once it was doing kinky stuff to a naked old man, and I woke up beyond disturbed. The subconscious is a strange and wondrous place. The belt-around-the-throat thing isn't something I'd conciously be into, so it's strange that it would be a trigger for a dream orgasm. Though hey, it's worth a daylight try, now, I suppose :)

Does everyone come in their sleep? Pop culture is all over the puberty wet dream, it's bigged up, and discussed, and referenced a lot. But there isn't a word about, or a word for, the female version - sure, you can call them wet dreams, but there's wet and there's the pulsations of your spasming cunt shaking you awake, know what I mean?

I suppose the reason I'm fascinated is that my waking orgasms are shy creatures, reticent, easily frightened away, and hard won. But my dreaming self clearly bypasses whatever inhibitions and fears and rational messing around that create the problem, and goes straight to O land.

Really, the only important question to ask is, how do I have them more often?

oh you've got to be freaking kidding me!!

Vulva cupcakes!!

Happy dance!

Snort, the blue furry ones look like muppet vulvas. Vulvae?

Hot Fuck Sundae

I love April Flores' hand wrapped around Jiz Lee's cock here. With her chubby little industrious fingers. Reminds me of someone I know... and the way their hair matches. And Jiz's lithe pixie torso and happy face, she's like some sort of nymph.

And this is all at a porn awards event... how much more fun is this than Oscars' entertainment?

And I love how they love each other ... just check out their 'back of the cab I Love You Awards'. Dotey!

an email, sent at 10.20 last night:

Vida!

TV3 now ... vulvas!!

what more could a girl ask for?

Bookshelf porn is great... a dream for us readers and writers.

But bookshelves combined with restrained ladies might just be a dream come true for certain eroticists among our number.




Sigh.

boobquake monday

It seems that this monday is being reserved for a scantily clad protest.

Boobquakes!

Greta Christina on Tiger Woods and kink

He's a SuperFreak!

This is a lovely post, and she is a wise lady.

following alternative memory paths

I dressed in white that morning. Well, white skirts. Somewhere inside me is some sort of past life memory yearning for petticoats and layers and full skirts. So I was barefoot that afternoon, in white skirts and a gauzey little strappy peasant top, all tiny blue flowers on white. I'd been reading in the garden and the sun was still in my hair and in my eyes when I answered the door. For a second I could register what I was seeing. A woman was standing there with a grin, and buckets of white tulips. A little sea of them. She handed me an armful, and a clipboard, and asked me to sign for them. And I did, in a daze, staring at my own little meadow of white flowers that had appeared at my door.

You came home, and found me, still in the hall, sitting on the dark stained boards with flowers all around me, flowers in my arms, white on white, the waxy too perfect petals and matte green leaves pressing cooly against my breasts, cold under my chin. Bare toes framed against the floorboards by frothy white ruffles on one side and green stalks and white flowers on the other. Your lips on mine were petal soft, warm, not cool like the flowers' kiss. 'Wait! Don't crush the flowers!' And you laughed, you never let me kill the moment, and led me upstairs to the white bed instead, to push my skirts up my thighs and make my petals open to you, let me thank you for the way you see me, for what you think I deserve.

Hot Fuck Sundae

Welcome dearies, those of you who, like me, still use the net on sundays. I know most people are busy with wholesome garden centre and dinner cooking and other family activities but for those still online and frequenting smut blogs, I bring this little gem. Other better women than me have their Man Candy Mondays, and so on, I couldn't compete. So Hot Fuck Sundae it is.

And to start of with something sweet and gentle...

Apologies, I downloaded this without remembering where it was from. Must do better, and observe 'nettiquette!

it's a vulva, dammit!

This really is a pet hate of mine. 'Close your legs, Britney, we can see your vagina!!'

The vagina's the inside bit, you vocab-deficient idiots. Unless she's wearing this season's speculum trend, you can see her vulva. It's really not that difficult.

Don't you think referring to anything to do with a woman's genitals as 'her vagina' is just a bit... crap?

I know. I come from a godfearing, woman fearing country where people teach their daughters to talk about their 'Marys' but surely those days are going? And the Sile na Gig also comes from here, she just got hidden away for a while.

Now. You really can see her vagina.

heh heh heh, those Christians...

Ok, ignore the silly caption. I suppose in the light of all the Catholic Church child sex abuse, this window is less amusing than just an honest depiction of daily life, but let's just focus on the dirty humour not the tragedy, eh?

I so relate to this!

Anyone else got one?

All Aboard...

The 1.10 to Dirtyville...

Check out the blog, your one stop shop to the Dirtyville and Kinkyville anthologies; two collections of smutty tales of secret small town life, compiled by the one and only Sommer Marsden, and featuring a horde of fabulous writers including fabulous me!

Get down, get hot, get dirty and get yourself a copy.

missing pieces

He gives me so much. But sometimes it doesn't feel like he gives me much. Little teasing tidbits I snatch and suck the life out of, transferring all their flavour into me, I lick them to the bone, wish for more.

He makes promises, suggestions I leap at, then doesn't play them out.

I know why. He needs to keep himself safe. And strong. Be what he needs to be, for him, for me.

But I need the forbidden feelings, the truth and the pain and the wanting - I want it, to sacrifice it to the dark space in me, the velvet black pit that opens up and calls for more. His blood, his tears, his cum. The pain, the fear... I could eat it all. Suck it all up and swallow it, each shivering word. And ask for more. Insatiable.