I differ from the usual run of sex bloggers in that I’m not as urban as seems to be the norm. My roots are rural, and I don’t freak out when the only coffee in the county is called “coffee” and costs less than a buck.

So I can tell you with some authority that there remain, in this vast country of ours, a fair few young men whose entire ambition is to get some land, plant it, find a good farm wife, and settle down to a life of endless unremunerative hard labor. The good farm wife, as you can imagine, is a very important factor in this bucolic vision of paradise.

Thus I can well imagine the reaction of some young rural swain as he spies this Venus arising from the stock-watering tank:

And the reaction is this: “Yup, she’ll do.”

Hey, at least he knows she knows how to ride a pitchfork.

Picture is from Usenet.

Farmboyz seems to put a lot of thought into his shaving:

I left the bedroom without answering him. I began to collect what I would need, and that included my thoughts about doing this. Within seconds of his request, I had decided that shaving Jamie would not be much of a turn-on for me, but that I did love seeing the way passion wracked his slender body, making his back arch like the flare of a sunspot, and causing the shaking muscles of his legs to knot. With this in mind, I was curious to see what heightened reactions this ritual might produce. He was calling me from the bed.

“Just a minute. I’m getting some stuff together for this.”

I opened the linen closet and collected my favorite faded soft blue towel in the folds of which you may hear the ocean. In the bathroom, a fresh double-edged Good News razor and a can of mentholated Gillette Foamy. I would need a bowl of water, and once I had selected that bowl and filled it, there would be nothing left to delay my return to the bedroom. I stood in the pantry, fussing over this decision.

I thought about the young man in my bed who was calling my name. I felt as if I were about to be admitted into the last room of him, and that once I had inspected its contents, I’d be slipping out the back door, with no farewells, and with no intention of returning. Jamie might remain with me for days or weeks longer, but there would be distance between us that he would not notice.

I stretched to reach a high shelf, pulling down an old stoneware bowl, the bottom of which was incised with “Ruckel’s Pottery, 1870, White Hall, Ill.” It was glazed with the same cornflower blue of the towel. Men with eyes of this color can own me if they wish. Jamie’s eyes were this color.

I wondered what the previous owners of this bowl would feel about its imminent employment. Sensible women of the heartland. Daughters of the pioneers, preparing simple food grown on their plains, gently hand washing this bowl for decades, keeping it bright and flawless. I saw them with their hands folded in their laps, seated on small chairs in a circle around the bed, around Jamie, who is smiling up at me as I return to the bedroom, his knees drawn up to his chin and his dick drooping like a sprig of lilac onto the dark sheets.

But don’t he write purty?

I’m going to do something I rarely do, and quote another blogger’s post in its entirety. I don’t think Violet Blue will mind, because it’s an important message that’s not readily excerpted:

So I escaped my sex writing hamster wheel for a few minutes and went out with this guy the other night. Things went swimmingly. We made tentative plans to see each other again this weekend. The next day, there is a message from him on my voicemail, telling me that his ex-girlfriend doesn’t want him to see me again.

Um… I hate pointing out obvious things. But it seems to me that the ability to label objects is such a crucial life skill that it is one we learn in childhood and perfect long enough to outwit natural selection. Labeling is the basis for navigating the world. It is the essence of being able to call things what they are. Confusing that, I think, leads one down a road that eventually has one confusing the labels “Drano” and “Pellegrino”.

I’m just sayin’.

Oh, to be the nettle that knows the touch of a sub’s lips:

The picture of nettles at the Urtication site linked above got me thinking…..those nettles look so much like mint…..could nettles be edible? Why, yes! This Sado-botany nettle FAQ has alot more information, but alas, no recipes.

So don’t throw your greens away when you’re done playing with your sub – make some soup or a nettle fritatta. Sex juices on them would just add extra-yummy flavor.

Picture is from the Urtication website.

Sometimes I think I grow jaded. My first thought, upon seeing this vintage whipping illustration from Spanking Blog, was: “Why is she wearing his hat?”

It’s news to no one that the female orgasm can sometimes be a slippery and elusive critter. Kaya finds it’s easiest to catch one when she uses her nipple clamps:

Every once in awhile, orgasm eludes me, even with my pocket rockets, the hitchi and my imagination. I’ll be deep into a fantasy, humming along industriously and all of sudden, 10 or 20 minutes have passed and I’ll realize I’m contemplating the next American Idol cut. Or planning next week’s menu. So I mentally shake myself, refocus my head back to cages and whips and cocks….. and “wake up” some 10 or 20 minutes later designing my dream house.

Now, I don’t give up on an orgasm. That’s a road of despair that I am not willing to travel just yet. Seriously, it starts with just one. One time, you lay the vibe down and decide you just can’t cum tonight. Then it’s twice. Pretty soon, cobwebs and moths have taken up roost in your cootchie. No. Nuh uh. Not me. If I start it, I will finish it. And trust me when I say I’ve battled it a time or two. Stinky, sweating, cramped legs and arms and fingers and a sore, battered clit. But I won. My clit waved the white flag and spit out a pathetic little orgasm because I.will.not.be.defeated.

That’s bothered me a time or two. That seems an unhealthy obsession in the light of day. But let’s not go there, ok? :P

My most favored way of grasping a wayward orgasm is nipple torture. It amazes me how quickly I can cum once I start seriously hurting my nips. Because it’s so easy, I don’t do it every night. I don’t want to ruin that. I love it too much. (The marathon battles mentioned above would not take as long if I’d get my lazy ass out of bed and get the clamps out the toy box.)

I like when I get into a place where I just can’t hurt them enough. A clamp doesn’t cut it. Several clamps might. And then only if they are pulled off numerous times and reapplied. Twisted and yanked and pulled. When it’s really good, I don’t even need the vibe. Once the pain gets high enough, sharp enough, all I’ve got to do is touch my finger to my clit and I pop.

One of those mind-blowing orgasms that stretch out forever… and leave your mouth gaping open and your eyes crossed for awhile.

As part of an ode to post-sex summer-evening scooter-driving, Steph offers a parenthetical solution to the road rage problem:

Road rage is all because people aren?t having sex enough. C’mon, people! Spread the sex around. Let’s reclaim our streets. Nice, happy drivers who just couldn’t give a shit if you go faster. They’re thinking about getting a little more of the shaggin’ they just had. A far better traffic pattern would emerge, I bet.