J and I both have the whole weekend off, yippeeee! The weather’s supposed to be good, so I told him I’d come over and help with a big project of his (he’s the friend I mentioned here). You know I’ll be doing my best to work on my “big project” too, which is his lovely cock. So far J’s been a darling, pretty much what I said I wanted, so it’s more than just good great sex.

And that’s the thing. I’m ready to move beyond the regular sex, I want to experiment some, I want his eyes to roll back in his head and to hear him say “That was amazing!” What I don’t want to hear, or for him to think, is “What a slut.” Like Steff said in a post on titty fucking:

There’s an interesting dichotomy in the sexual world. One aspect is the woman who enjoys almost any sexual act. She’s often portrayed as lewd, slutty, easy, or loose, just because she’s an enthusiast. And that’s bullshit, my friends. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, the activities you enjoy surrounding sex should not judge who you are as a person.

But then there’s the flipside. If you’re hesitant to do some of the so-called edgier/pornified things, you get painted a bit as a vanilla lover, or someone who’s “conservative” in the bedroom, which is also bullshit, my friends.

How do you find that happy in between? Can somebody who’s a sexblogger avoid the slut tag?

J’s still going through the divorce dance, so it’s too early to say what will happen between us. I don’t want to rush him but I do want to explore some sex stuff. God, what a minefield this is!

More…… J just sent me some beautiful flowers! They’re those curvey tulips with the pointy petals, and the card says “Looking forward to bucking rivets – and more – with you!” Keep your fingers crossed for me!

From time to time in porn towards the gonzo end of the spectrum you’ll see someone reach forward from behind the performer and hook his fingers into the corners of her mouth, pulling it into a grimace. This is called “fish-hooking” and its intended erotic significance is opaque to me.

Fingers are one thing. Feet are another. Here now from Wired Pussy comes a photograph that takes fish-hooking to a whole new toe-fetish level:

As my father used to say, I don’t know too much and I don’t understand all I know.

Here’s a bit of midweek blasphemy from Hot Action:

Safe to say that at a certain point in my life, I started to have some serious philosophical issues with the Christian religion.

“So if you can’t have sex, what do you do in Heaven all day?”

“There is no such thing as day or night in Heaven.”

“…So what do you do in Heaven all eternity?”

“You glorify God.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

Hmmm.

Sorry homie, I think I might respectfully decline the invitation to this party.

There’s something that really freaks me out about Heaven, and it can be summed up in two words: infant mortality.

It’s not just that God is a smug bastard who causes beautiful innocent babies to die. It’s the fact that these babies, being free of sin, all get a free ticket to Heaven. Every one of them.

Can you imagine showing up to the Afterlife and there’s millions and millions of babies everywhere?

All of them gurgling and cooing and crawling all over you with their perfect little baby bodies.

This does not sound like my idea of a bachelor’s paradise.

It gets worse. Some believers in Christianity are opposed to contraception because they believe it murders billions of tiny souls. “Every sperm is sacred” and so on.

Maybe it explains how the Pearly Gates got their name. Although “Pearly Floodgates” might be more appropriate. I’ve probably sent a few million souls up to the glorification of God myself. I’ve probably sent a few million up today.

“Welcome to Heaven. The good news is the streets are paved with gold. The bad news is, ALL THE STREETS ARE FLOODED WITH COME.”

Watch your step!

Anybody else queasy from Bacchus’s last two postings? I found just the thing to settle my stomach.

Notice it isn’t only authentic cock soup, it’s spicy too!

Now where did I put my Cock O’lada?

The Girl With A One Track Mind says that good sex is all in the chemistry:

You see, of the men I have slept with — that made my fire burn from the chemistry — not all, even many, of them were that skilled in the sack. But they still made my pants soaked and enabled me to climax — repeatedly — when I was with them.

Given the choice between the most skilled lover in the world and one that is clumsy with his hands, but who — when he whispers in my ear “god you’ve got me so turned on” — makes me drip in anticipation of his touch, I know who I would pick, and it wouldn’t be Mr Loverlover. I’m of the opinion that every man can be taught (if necessary) how to please a woman well; but if there’s no chemistry there to begin with? Forget it.

This might sound harsh — “ladies, get rid of him if he doesn’t make your pants wet before he touches you” — but, fuck it, it’s true. Every good lover I have had was someone I had chemistry with; the ones I didn’t (and yes, there’ve been many of those too) — even with all the best technique in the world — didn’t make me come (as hard, as much, or even, at all).

I’ve long suspected it, but now it’s been confirmed:

“Good grammar is hott.”

Sorry for the light posting recently. I spent my weekend fighting off a spring chest cold and doing tax paperwork. It’s important to get that stuff right, because if you don’t, what happens to you is akin to the cartoon below, except it’s in a sterile room full of 1970s metal filing cabinets under bright flourescent lights that buzz and flicker: