It’s just like they say, confidence is always sexy. “If there was one thing that Mrs. Smith was sure of…”

What? It’s just an old TV commercial. Don’t have such a dirty mind.

Halley Suit reviews a new wonder drug: Levitra Proves Disappointing. Caustic fluids warning: don’t be drinking them while reading this.

From Write Only Media comes one of those widely-circulated email funnies; in this case, a not-so-funny list of things British women supposedly have written in the “Father’s Details” section of child support agency forms. A few items from the list:

02. I am unsure as to the identity of the father of my child as I was being sick out of a window when taken unexpectedly from behind. I can provide you with a list of names of men that I think were at the party if this helps.

07. I do not know who the father of my child was as all squaddies look the same to me. I can confirm that he was a Royal Green Jacket.

11. I am unsure as to the identity of the father of my baby; after all when you eat a can of beans you can’t be sure which one made you fart.

What a lovely metaphor. Not.

Isn’t it an amazing feeling when you click random blog links and stumble onto a post that feels like the author was eavesdropping in your brain? I’ll tell you what I mean:

I’m a hands-on sort of guy. I love to touch and be touched. But I’ve never been very good at it. The lady I used to be with a few years ago was the sort who always managed to shrug my hand off her arm, or turn away just as I was reaching for her. Always so innocent and seemingly random or accidental, it took me years to catch on to the fact that she just didn’t like to touch. Even early in that relationship, I often wished she’d touch me more. I’m not talking about sex, here, although I could. I’m just talking about a friendly gesture as we would pass in a hallway. A hand touching a wrist, that sort of thing.

The Nymph does not have this not-touching issue. Quite the contrary. She warned me on the phone, seemed concerned even, that she’s “hands-y”. I said “Sounds yummy to me!” and meant it from the bottom of my heart.

Hands-y? She is, too. And I love it. I never want her to let go. But she keeps making comments that make it clear, she’s worried I’ll grow to think she’s clingy. The woman actually jokes (the “ha ha, only serious” kind of jokes) that I’ll get tired of her “hanging on me” all the time.

That’s so not going to happen. Have I mentioned I love it when she touches me? Or, that I’m touching her just as much, and feel like I can’t stop?

It’s like Dan wrote about his Amber (links long gone):

When we first got together, I came to understand how starved Amber was for this kind of attention. She was actually afraid that I was going to get *tired* of touching her. What I realized was that I’d been starved for years for someone *to* touch, and she’d been starved for years for someone to touch *her*.

A perfect match!

We now return you to your regularly-scheduled (i.e., non-sappy) sex blogging.

Interesting article on brothel life, courtesy of the Ratty’s Ghost archives. There’s something for everyone in there, including frustrated economists:

Most brothels have completely unacceptable pricing structures, which one is expected to follow. Prices vary according to the location and quality of the individual brothel, but most of the time, whatever the asking price is, it’s insulting when you consider the cost of living and the price of other services in the area. Escort services are even worse–some of them charge as little as $200/hour, and you’re expected to give half of that to the house, and another $10-$20 to your driver, leaving you with eighty dollars, for which you’re expected to let the client fuck you. (Right. That’ll happen.)

Needless to say, it’s not a good idea to go along with that kind of stupidity. You can get $80/hour doing an ordinary job, for Christ’s sake. There’s no point in doing something which may or may not even be legal in your area if you aren’t going to be well-compensated.

Thanks to Daze for the link.

So when The Nymph was here, we had a conversation. It was pretty simple, it went kinda like this:

“I never want you to leave.”
“I don’t want to leave.”
“So don’t.”
“Well, I have to go home or my family will call the FBI.”
“Well, come back right away then.”
“OK.”

I figured I shouldn’t tempt the gods by exulting too much. But now the airplane ticket has been purchased and packing is underway. This is turning into a fairy tale. Don’t pinch me, I don’t want to wake up.

Flight date is just after Valentine’s Day. I teasingly tried to suggest that she was doing herself out of her traditional chocolate allotment that way, but I got firmly instructed that I had missed the point: the timing was cleverly designed to allow me to purchase her Valentine chocolate on February 15 at half price, and therefore it had better be a nice big double-sized ration, Buster!

I guess it’s time to start practicing my couples skills. “Yes, Dear.”

My grandmother used to believe that a young lady should never be seen to drink in public. It’s entirely possible she would feel vindicated by this photograph:

On the other hand, it’s also possible the young gentlemen present will be, er, intrigued by the young lady’s enthusiastic two-handed grasp on the beer hose.