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The Sex Blog Of Record
Monday, February 20th, 2012 -- by Bacchus
Way back in 2000, a bunch of annoying songs starting junking up my Napster searches (remember the original Napster?) from a crew called “The Bloodhound Gang”. One of them was a charming little number (not) titled The Lapdance Is Always Better When The Stripper Is Crying. I managed to summon a little frisson of moral disapproval the first time I saw the song title, because then and now, I like to think that sexual transactions ought to be more-or-less fun for both parties. But hey, pop music, whatya gonna do?
I was reminded of that long-ago flash of momentary disapproval by this picture at Kinky Delight:
The other intersection with pop music is that on Valentine’s Day, The Nymph and I were having our own quiet private party at home (we’re so old, I know!) and she was just tipsy enough to (a) be feeding the Gwen Stefani videos from her video iPod into our TV and (b) letting her massive girl-crush on Gwen Stefani show a bit more than usual. One connection between that evening and this blog post that I don’t mind mentioning: for some reason, the cartoon girl in this image reminds me of Gwen Stefani — perhaps because, if you click through to the larger version of the image, his hands on the back of her head are a visual mass at the same angle as the backwards baseball Gwen was wearing in one of the videos.
Further your deponent sayeth naught.
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Friday, August 22nd, 2008 -- by Bacchus
If you haven’t had your spankings lately, you might vicariously enjoy this very sexy account of a spanking. Excerpt:
I felt the hard plastic of my flat paddle brush against the crease of my ass and thighs, wide enough to get plenty of thud on both parts of my body. He’d occasionally stop and drag the bristles across my sore, red bottom; or use it on my pussy, raking it against my clit and swollen cunt. I’d shudder every time he raked my pussy, my legs buckling against the sensation—but not falling on my heels again lest he decide to add 10 more. I just wanted to drop to my knees and suck his cock. With a pussy so wet, how could he deny me a cock suck at this point? I was beyond horny, just dripping with lust, sex, lewdness. I wanted to be fucked and prodded.
When he noticed that I moved my pussy against the bristles of the hairbrush, he said, “So you like this, Slut? You like feeling your ass on fire? You enjoy getting a hairbrush used on your slutty little pussy?â€?
I turned my face to the side facing him, “Yes, Sir,â€? I breathed out heavily and groaned, almost crying with lust, “Please.â€?
“Please, what?â€?
“Please let me suck your cock.â€?
It’s on Spanking Blog, of course.
Thursday, March 27th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
Some long while ago, when I was a young and bookish and entirely virgin lad, I stumbled across the old truism “all brides are beautiful.” Being a literal sort, my first reaction was “that’s nonsense!” I’m not sure I’d ever even been to a wedding at that point in my life, but I was confident I’d seen unattractive women who would surely marry. However, as I grew older and wiser and more experienced, I came to appreciate the logic of the thing, especially its similarity to that hoary old chestnut and maxim of firearms safety: “There’s no such thing as an unloaded firearm.”
With a particular bride or a particular firearm, it might be possible to raise a literal objection; there are, in a literal sense, firearms with empty chambers, and there might be, in a literal sense, brides whose beauty cannot be limned by describing their physical attributes. But the social utility of the claim, in either case, must entirely overwhelm and sweep away any crabbed literal objections; and the man who cannot understand this, ought not to be allowed near a firearm or a woman, either one.
Having reached that stage in my moral and social development, the notion then struck me: Why do we limit this maxim of beauty to brides alone? No obvious reason presenting itself, I resolved that there must, indeed, be no such thing as an ugly woman. And for the most part, I’ve found it to be true.
Which brings me now to the latest barrage launched by Violet Blue against the tirelessly undead troll armies of the Internet. I’d hate to have people think that I’m just YAVBF (that would be Yet Another Violet Blue Fanboy, and yes, I have been accused of this by my own small half-platoon of trolls), but I am often in awe of her unique brand of combative courage. This time she takes on all the morons who enjoy what I’ve called crapping all over beauty, and she pulls no punches:
Every woman on the Internet gets called slutty and ugly and fat (to put it lightly) no matter what; all we have to be is female. In dinner conversation, my friend Lori reminded me of the Oscar Wilde quote, “Give a man a mask, and he’ll tell you the truth.” I restated it for the Internet, replying, “Give a man a mask, and he’ll slit your throat.” The application here is, “Give a man (or a woman) an anonymous account, and he’ll eviscerate your self-esteem.”
The problem is, with so many women I talk to, the trolling is effective. The number of times I’ve talked down a crying girlfriend after she’s been trolled in her comments about being fat, ugly, skanky, slutty or stupid is higher than I can count (no matter what she writes about). Trolls watch too much mainstream porn and TV, and believe stereotypes are real; they slap us with it and then we believe it, too. We compare ourselves to overly thin models, actresses, and porn stars, and it messes with our self-image and our ability to express ourselves sexually, and especially to enjoy sex.
She also quotes Margaret Cho:
In Margaret Cho’s “Beautiful” tour, she talks about recently being on a radio show and having the host ask her point-blank, live, on the air, “What if you woke up one day, and you were beautiful?” When asked, he defined beautiful as blonde, thin, large-breasted, a porno stereotype. Cho says, “Just think of what life is like for this poor guy. There’s beauty all around him in the world, and he can only see the most narrow definition of it.”
Poor guy, indeed. Has he not seen the way Margaret Cho can fill a leather jumpsuit? I’m no LOLcat, but I known a NOM NOM NOM scenario when I see one.
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Friday, January 25th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
Offered for discussion, an excerpt from “Nicole Gets An Education” by Vulgus. It (the excerpt, not the story, which is very long and somewhat tedious in the common manner of free internet sex fiction) is a short fictional account of a woman who has her best orgasm ever while being raped, so some of you may want to pass it by:
I am very aware, however, that the second best orgasm I ever had was when Bill Harris was making love to me. He held my hands over my head in one of his strong hands and I felt totally helpless. He stared into my eyes and I felt well and truly taken. He was large and strong and I felt overpowered. It was very exciting.
My best orgasm, however, was when I said “No” to Tom Phillips. We had gone out to dinner and spent a little time at a club. I had to get up early so we couldn’t stay too long. He grudgingly took me home and somehow wormed his way into my new apartment. It was my only experience with ‘date rape’. He took control as soon as my door closed. We had been dating for a month or so and we had sex a couple of times. Tonight, though, I was not in the mood. I was tired and a little pissed at him for being such an ass.
But he started pushing me toward my couch and pulling my clothes off. I was fighting him off, but not screaming or trying to hurt him. Finally he got tired of it and he used the cloth belt from my dress to tie my hands behind my back and he pulled my dress down to my elbows and pulled by bra up over my breasts and roughly mauled them while he held me close and forced his tongue into my mouth. I was struggling and begging him to stop, but he just ignored me.
Finally he pushed me to the floor and bent me over the sofa. He pulled my dress up in back and ripped my panties off violently. Then he held me down while he unbuckled his belt and slid it out of his belt loops.
As soon as it was free he doubled it over and started beating my ass. As he was beating me he was yelling at me, “Don’t you ever say no to be again, god damn it. You fucking tease, you bitches are all alike. You just use men to get what you want and send them home with blue balls and think that it is just great fun. Fucking bitch!”
I was crying hysterically, but he didn’t care, he must have beat my ass for several minutes before he pulled his pants off and raped me from behind.
I knelt there helplessly, my hands tied behind my back, his hand holding my hair in his firm grip and pulling my head up so that he could see my face while he fucked me. His other hand kept moving under me and squeezing and pinching my by breasts and my nipples. It was horrible. And I came harder than I had ever come in my life! Over and over. I lost track of how many times I came. I had never been so aroused in my life. Some of those rape stories I read on the internet flashed through my mind as Tom violently raped me and I screamed in pleasure.
Tom finally came in me. He stood up and wiped his cock clean in my hair. Then he dressed and left without ever saying another word. It took me almost fifteen minutes to get my hands free!
I sat on my dress on the floor for a long time sobbing and sad and furious and confused.
Finally I got up and took a shower and as I washed my sore body I pictured what had happened tonight in my mind and as I washed my sore pussy I was on the edge of another orgasm. Well, I had no reason to disappoint me, so I rubbed myself until I came again. But then I was mad at myself for doing it.
This excerpt is a fairly stark and unequivocal example of a blindingly common meme — the meme of the woman who is overpowered by brute male force, raped with a modicum of violence, and, on a sexual level at least, enjoys it.
There are plenty of controversies swirling around this meme. Many men, for example, enjoy pointing out that it’s a predominantly female fantasy, at least measured by sales dollars — because, lightly prettied up, it’s at the heart (or somewhere lower) of an entire genre of commercial fiction marketed to and mostly consumed by women. In certain feminist circles, this fused grenado gets lit and tossed back over the wall by means of various arguments to the effect that the fantasy is thrust upon women or defensively adopted by them in response to the miscellaneous oppressive mechanisms of patriarchy.
But my interest is not in the question of whether the meme is prevalent — for it surely is — or whether it is popular with women — for it surely is that, also. Readers of this blog will know by now that I am predictable to this extent: memes expressed in erotic fiction, consumed and enjoyed as such, will attract no condemnation from me.
No, my question is: What do you think is the propagandistic effect, if any, of the meme? Do you think expressions of it are intended to convince (or, regardless of intent, do have the effect of convincing) anyone (male or female) that real world rapes are less evil or pernicious than they actually are? In other words, does fiction like this have the intent or effect of reducing the power of “No”?
Of course the forces of censorship — against which ErosBlog lives in opposition — are quick to say yes, and to assume that a “yes” should end the conversation. I think erotic expression is important enough to defend even in the face of real-world negative consequences, could they be established, so I will doubtless continue to oppose censorious impulses. But it remains an important question. Is there danger in the expression of such fantasies? And if so, what’s the appropriate reaction, given the toxic sexual pressure cooker environment you get when a society chooses repression and censorship?
Sunday, January 20th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
Apparently there was just a big porn convention in Vegas, and Gawker Media was there. You may know Gawker Media for its several stylish blog titles, but it’s Fleshbot you’ll be most familiar with as an ErosBlog reader. Well, now I’ve been introduced to one of their newer titles, which also looks very promising indeed. Here now via Jezebel is Jezebel editor Tracie “Slut Machine” Egan’s Last Night I Boned An AVN Award Nominee, complete with “pictures or STFU” proof in the form of her triumphal hickie photograph:
They had this dude — the one I blew for a little bit in the bathroom — who was very easy to convince to come back to my hotel with me.
…
Back in the hotel, I decided I could use another drink (I really didn’t need it at all), and the dude I brought back with me said he wanted french fries, so we went to the Grand Lux Cafe (which is like the same thing as Cheesecake Factory) in the casino of the Venetian. We didn’t even touch what we ordered. We just drunkenly made out hardcore in the booth, and then I put my hand under the napkin on his lap and started jerking him off. Nobody blinked an eye. People weren’t even looking at us. When I remembered for a minute that I was in public and came up for air, I looked around and saw that people were too immersed in their own 3 AM dramas played out over extra large servings of fried food. One lady was crying next to a tight-jawed man, who was looking anywhere but at her face. The middle-aged gay couple next to us were arguing over whether to share or get their own meals. And the waiters were just happy that we weren’t bothering them with requests.
The dude put his dick back in his pants, we got the check and went back up to my room. (I’m sharing it with Jonno and Dash from Fleshbot.) We have an awesome suite; there are two beds and a sofa bed. Since I was the last one home, I got the sofa bed in the living room area, but that was fine for my purposes. Me and the dude went into the bathroom (I don’t have a picture of it, but it’s pretty grand) and just went at it. He lifted me onto the marble counter top. I wrapped my arms and legs around him, koala-bear style, and he fucked the shit out of me. He ruled and his dick was nice. I told him that he should maybe consider working in front of the camera instead of behind it.
We stayed in there for a little bit more and he finger banged me. I ended up squirting all over the damn place — which hasn’t happened to me in what seems like ages. It was shooting out sideways and shit, getting on both of our legs. I’m always a little afraid for that to happen in front of dudes, ’cause it’s such a fucking mess sometimes, but he seemed to be really into it.
Then we went to the sofa bed and I had every intention of falling asleep and not fooling around (the boys were just like 10 or 20 feet away), but he kept kissing me, and he was really too cute to turn down. I ended up blowing him again, and then he came on my tits. What the hay! We’re in Vegas!
We passed out, but I think I was only sleeping for like an hour before I felt his boner pressing up on my ass again. I pushed back, and before I knew it, we were spoon-fucking. Seriously, this guy is more of a machine than I am. I woke up in the morning with this:
I was kinda pissed about it. I’m not thirteen, you know. But Jonno put it into perspective for me when he said, “Consider yourself lucky that you fucked someone at the porn convention and all you got was a hickey.”
Friday, July 20th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
As any man who’s ever washed himself very very thoroughly in the shower can tell you, standard bar soap (I’m talking soap, regular soap, men soap for getting clean, like good old plain anti-bacterial yellow Dial, not the foo-foo stuff that women use that’s full of oat flakes and lavender oil and glycerin and lanolin and gentle moisturizers) can burn a bit if it gets up inside on the tender membranes. So this was a predictable result:
Next, we headed for the shower, which was our original plan. I had to brush my hair before getting in there, and as I studied my reflexion in the mirror, he prodded my ass with his entirely unlubricated, dry finger, which, you imagine, didn’t make it very far. He soaped it up and renewed the activity, and then soaped up his cock and plunged it inside as I bent over the sink. I could see both my pained and his ecstatic expression in the mirror, as he fucked me rough and raw with his soapy member.
It was uncomfortable – much like the way it used to be when we just started doing it – and even though I am quite comfortable with it after a generous application of lube, soap seemed to have gotten absorbed by the tissues or dried out, making it increasingly more uncomfortable with every thrust. I did try to breathe deeply and allow him to have me till the end, which he did.
We got into the shower, and after a few minutes I realized that my insiders WERE ON FIRE – at first I thought it was because of the roughness of the sex, but then I figured it was because of the soap, which is not designed for prolonged application to mucusy membranes. IT BURNED. It burned so much that I began to cry, got out of the shower, and placed myself over the toilet as I poured and poured water on myself in the attempts to alleviate the torture, all while crying the entire time. He got out of the shower too and squatted by my side, looking concerned. “It’s like having soap in your eyes,” I explained (only not quite SO bad). And it wasn’t a good kind, titillating, endorphine-friendly burn, like that produced by ginger. It was just a mean soapy burn, reminding me of Fight Club for some reason.
Thanks to Figging.com for the link.
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Thursday, May 11th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
CJ at Boyspoke posts from the front lines in an LA gym, about getting glared at when looking at women:
The thing is, these women — you know, the ones at the gym? They’re dressed — umm — gorgeously. Yes, even at the gym. I mean, I know Spandex is a privilege and not a right, but these women deserve to wear Spandex. Some of them even go as far as to wear athletic bras. And just athletic bras…at least on top; yes, they put on stuff that covers their other parts. It’s like, hel-LO, gorgeous women are all around me and some of them are dressed in even less than the ones I see walking down the street!
Naturally, I look. And I’m not really a gawker, but there are some times when I’m checking out the women. You would, too. It’s not like I’m making comments and pointing or being incredibly obvious or anything like that, I’m just, you know…gently checking them out. The problem is: some of them apparently don’t take kindly to being checked out. I get dirty looks in return.
I call foul on that. In fact, I call triple-foul on that. For crying out loud, if you’re dressed in an outfit like that, how can you expect me not to check you out? You’re wearing next to nothing. And the stuff that you are wearing is barely leaving anything to the imagination. Honestly, I think it’s be a crime for me not to look.
Here’s my thing: If you don’t want to be checked out, then dress accordingly. If you don’t want me to look at your boobs, cover them. If you don’t want me to admire your legs, don’t wear short shorts. There’s no law that prohibits you from wearing a loose t-shirt and baggy track pants instead of a sports bra and Spandex Daisy Dukes. And if you do wear the sports bra and Spandex Daisy Dukes … you’re not allowed to be displeased when I check you out.
First of all, there’s admittedly a line between looking and leering that not all men can find — or maybe they just don’t care to. But if we assume, despite the dirty look evidence to the contrary, that CJ is safely on the right side of the line with his “gently checking them out”, what’s up with that?
I know the gym is a problem for some women; in my town we’ve got women-only gyms and gyms with women-only areas for just this reason. But at the coed gym, when a woman has dressed to impress, does she really expect the guys to maintain monastic eyes-front-and-downcast look-at-nothing-but-the-equipment-in-front-of-me eyeball discipline? If so, is she not manifestly insane?
I have my own theory, which is that when she’s dressed to impress but glaring at you for looking, you’re not in the category of people whose eye she hoped to catch. Just for instance, you might be a man, ugh, and she might be there to attract the gaze of another woman. Or you might not meet her standard of beauty; she wants to catch the eye of someone as svelte as herself, and can’t abide being looked at by some regularly-sized slug.
Monday, February 27th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
CeeCi over at Giardino del Piacere got herself a good shave with one of them newfangled vibrating razors. And then when the thing was done, it was time for the next course:
After finishing my shave, he treated me to a bit of fun. He popped the cartridge off the razor, turned it on, then turned me on. The little vibrator he had in his hand was a delight. He knows precisely where my most delicate spots are and gently placed the tip there. If he applied too much pressure I wouldn’t feel much, so he would tap me gently. He told me later that when he placed it directly on the tip of my clit, my eyes bugged out like Jim Carrey’s did in “The Mask”.
Before I could become over-sensitized he stopped teasing me with our new found toy. He turned off the overhead light and placed the table lamp on the floor. Taking a hand towel, he tucked it into the neck of his shirt like a napkin then pulled himself to the table to feast upon my pussy. Within moments I had my first screaming orgasm. I was a rather emotional release as I found myself crying once the spasms began settling down. I reassured my darling I was fine, just got a bit overwhelmed.
Friday, December 9th, 2005 -- by Aphrodite
This month’s I Did It for Science is about, you guessed it, the joys of anal sex.
I returned to the mirror, took another look and slowly touched my anus. “Imagine how mom and dad might feel if they knew what you were doing,” the book proposed.
An image of my mother crying popped into my head. My father tried to comfort her, saying, “At least she has a job.” The book encourages anal explorers to write an imaginary letter to their parents explaining what they are doing and why. I skipped the letter. If I had to write an imaginary letter for every action I performed that my parents would deem disturbing, I’d never get anything done.
Doesn’t that sound familiar! The rest of the tale is fairly funny…..but not nearly as hot as the Evil Science Chick’s story.
Saturday, October 22nd, 2005 -- by Bacchus
One of the common mostly-false slams against porn in this era of globalisation is that the performers are mostly coerced sex slaves, or at least impoverished scared young girls with few options. (I’m not making this up as a straw man argument; see, e.g., the Biting Beaver (her term): “You CANNOT know if the girl you are masturbating to is, in reality, a sexual slave from Austria who has a gun pointed at her head just off camera.“)
Yeah. And you cannot know that the bottle of salad dressing you pour on your salad isn’t full of stale unpasteurized jizz from bored wanking food factory workers, either. But that doesn’t make it likely, or stop you from eating creamy salads. Why not? Because of branding. If you worry about funky jizz in your dressing, you buy a reputable brand from a company you trust, one that’s got white-coated vat inspectors and security cams all over the factory floor. And, if you really worry, you do research. You get a tour of the factory, or (more likely) read the article in Consumer Reports by the reporter who worked there for three days undercover. The point is, you check into it a little bit.
This is perfectly possible with porn. By way of local example, these issues came up in a peripheral way in this post about real sex in BDSM porn, where a couple of readers suggested in the comments that making such porn was degrading and unsafe for the models, only to be confronted by other readers who were able to vouch for the porn company in question based on personal acquaintance with the models and producers.
And that’s how you check out your porn brand. Research. You look for accounts (which are all over the web, since many models have blogs) of what it’s like to work for a particular porn company, how they treat their people, how the sets are run, whatever you’re worried about. Of course you can’t disprove sensationalist claims about porn factories full of enslaved Eastern European beauties this way — folks who want to cling to that fantasy will continue to do so, brandishing their “news” stories from The Weekly World News, National Enquirer, and Reader’s Digest — but you can satisfy yourself, along with any other reasonable people who might be curious, that the porn you buy is sex slave free.
To pick another flamboyantly outrageous example, how about the notoriously severe spanking and caning DVDs produced by Lupus Pictures? They are often cited as an example of a company that must abuse and exploit its models, because what right-thinking innocent girl would voluntarily consent to an ass-whipping that leaves her in tears with flaming red welts on her bottom? (Short answer: There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreampt of in your philosophy.)
Here are couple of a relatively mild screen capture samples so we know what we are talking about, courtesy of Lupus Spanking [2014 update: now defunct]:
And now some samples from an article by and an interview with Niki Flynn, who went to Prague to make a movie with these “evil werewolves from the East”. From the article (link broke awhile ago, see this .txt mirror):
I never thought of myself as a girl who could survive a Lupus-style caning. I cringe and wince when I watch the films and say, “There’s no way I could take that!” I’d heard the internet rumours, of course — about the innocent, impoverished Czech girls who are seduced by the money into being abused by the evil werewolves from the East. But I’d look at the “behind-the-scenes” pictures on the website and see everyone having a good time, laughing and horsing around, even after the canings. So the rumours never seemed to have any substance. Besides, the same girls turn up again and again to do films; they clearly know what to expect.
…
The thing that impressed me most of all was the consummate professionalism of everyone involved. This was not a group of pornographers making dirty pictures, nor was it a cruel band of misogynists delighting in taking advantage of girls who couldn’t say no. This was a real film crew working on a real film. In addition to the director, producer, script supervisor, makeup artist, properties and wardrobe mistress, caterer, cameramen, boom operator, still photographer, actors and (ahem) stunt girls, there were people on hand to offer us refreshments, comfort or anything else we needed.
…
Did it hurt? Of course. Did I enjoy it? Absolutely not. Do I regret it? Not for a moment. In fact, I had the time of my life. So did William. I knew exactly what I was getting into and I did it because this is what I like. And when it was over and I lay sobbing over the desk, I felt what mountain climbers must feel when they reach the peak. I was so high on the feeling of accomplishment and so lost in the roleplay that I nearly wished I could have some more! And when I look at the marks now I have a sense of pride and achievement. I savor the marks. No one who isn’t into this can ever truly understand. Boxers and footballers suffer broken noses and concussions. No one criticizes them or calls their sport unhealthy. What we do is so much safer. It’s really a shame so many people misunderstand.
Hmm, she doesn’t sound helpless or exploited, does she?
From her interview:
David: There are many rumors about the girls who perform in Lupus productions. Some believe that they attract poor, starving, drug-addicted Eastern European Girls. Now I know that this isn’t true. Prague is often referred to as ‘The Paris of the east”. The Czech Republic is not a third world country. What myths about Lupus would you most like to dispel?
Niki: (Sigh) Yes, the famous urban legends. I think that those rumors are insulting to the girls actually. It’s true, some people think of the Czech Republic as a third world country and that the girls are all uneducated and bullied into it. Or, they have no choice because they are so desperate for money they will do anything. The truth is that the Czech Republic isn’t a third world country; it’s a middle income country that has just joined the European Union. Most of the Lupus crew are friends on the Czech BDSM scene. Some of the girls do it because they are genuinely kinky — they come back again and again. Some may do it for money, but it’s not a crust of bread. They are paid a professional rate. On the set, they are treated as professional actors. The production team at Lupus couldn’t have been more professional or more concerned for my safety — for all of the performers’ safety.
And that’s how you know that the girl in your favorite video doesn’t have an off-camera gun pointed at her head.
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Wednesday, June 1st, 2005 -- by Aphrodite
After being away for a while, I finally got it through my stupid head that I won’t have something better to say here until I finish the R story. It wasn’t easy to do, and it isn’t very pretty, but here it is, behind the “more” link. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, the third part of the story includes links to the first two parts.
R and I spent Christmas on a skiing trip that was awesome and horrible. I liked learning how to ski, and even made it down the hill once or twice without falling on my ass. The mountains were beautiful, and while we were in public R was his attentive, charming self. He told me to pack for a sexy cold trip…..I thought he meant the cold would be outside. But it was inside too. He told me we’d be together…..except that he never slept with me. In his house, in all the hotels we stayed in, R never stayed with me in bed all night. At first, at his house, I thought it was to give me some privacy, but since he constantly walked into the room I used without knocking whenever he wanted, I don’t think it was for that. At the hotels, we stayed in the same room, but always in seperate beds. But I’m getting ahead of things already.
That first night, at R’s house, was very different from our fun at Thanksgiving. He was formal, like he was trying to decide if he should hire me for a job or something. R welcomed me warmly, but it didn’t seem very sincere, more like it was what he had been taught to do and say to a woman that would be staying with him. He didn’t seem to like it if I touched him first, I found out quickly. After dinner, which was focused mostly on eating and small talk about family and high school friends, he said that he was tired from working so much and that the next night he’d give me a proper welcome. I offered to rub his back, the way I used to, but he said no, and said I should probably sleep too as jetlag would catch up with me and make learning to ski in the mountains harder. He walked me to the room where I’d put my bags, which I thought was his bedroom, barely kissed me, said goodnight and walked down the hall to his room.
I wasn’t expecting a romantic candle light bath, or rose petals all over the bed, but after the hot sex we had at Thanksgiving, this was a real shock. He wasn’t even going to sleep with me! One of the things I hate about being single is not having a nice-smelling man to snuggle with. Here I was with a guy that used to make my knees weak, I thought I did the same to him, and he barely touched me all evening! I went to bed thinking What the fuck?!
The first time we had sex was the second day of the ski trip, up until then it was one lame-ass excuse after another. R was skiing with me down one of the bigger beginner runs, and when I fell for the jillionth time, he started laughing at me. He was close enough that I pulled him over too, and he fell on top of me. We were both laughing, then the next thing I knew he was kissing me, hard. A small clump of pine trees was close by, and he rolled us over into it, laughing and kissing me the whole time. There wasn’t much to hide behind, but there weren’t many other skiers. I undid my entire front down to the sexy thermal top I bought specially for the trip, but he stayed mostly dressed, just undoing enough to release his very hard, very hot cock and plow it into me. I don’t know and don’t care if anybody saw us, I was so glad to finally be getting fucked that I didn’t even think about it. Fast and furious and hot and cold…..I didn’t come, but it was still damn good.
That night at dinner R started to explain what he meant when he said he didn’t know if he could show me how he is now. The way he said it, I thought he was into rough sex, and since that’s not something I’ve done a lot of except fantasize about, I told him that I thought we could work up to some things. After I said that he relaxed, and was very sweet and more like the highschool boy I’d fallen for.
Remember, I didn’t tell R that I contribute to a sex blog. So as far as he knew, I was just some normal chick that was willing to try some kinky new things. Some were fun and really got me going, like these vibrating nipple clamps. Most of the time it seemed like he didn’t care if I would like something, and didn’t bother to even think about that. R didn’t seem to understand the need for lube with some toys, or going slow, so it ended up sometimes that his stuff hurt, it wasn’t sexy, and when we did have sex, it was like, just get it over with so I can go to sleep.
On our last night, after a very fun day just hanging out together, he decided to do a twat test. I needed to keep whatever he put in my pussy totally inside it, or he’d punish me however he wanted. The idea was he’d keep trying smaller things, but the first thing he put in me was so small and smooth that even clenching my tightest, it peeked out. I tried to tell R that it would be a good start for a teenage virgin, but not someone like me, but I got spanked for my “sauciness.” We both ended up frustrated and mad because his game wasn’t working. He said he was going to tie me up, and when I asked about a safe word, he said that he’d be able to tell if he was pushing me too hard and that stuff like that was for chickens. My questions made him madder, and he finally yelled that no slave of his was going to get away with talking to him like that.
That pushed me over the edge, because I never said I’d be his slave, and he never asked. I went to the room I was staying in, and R came after me, telling me that I was his for the entire trip and I’d better start behaving properly if I didn’t want to get seriously punished for my insolence. I didn’t want to do it, but I was so mad and so frustrated by his impossible demands and not having much sex that I started crying. R had been so sweet and affectionate whenever we were out in public anywhere, but when it was just the two of us alone all that vanished. I tried to tell R that if he had shown me just a little of that sweetness in his house, I’d probably be licking his shoes that very minute, but with his Jeckyll-Hyde thing going I didn’t know what to think, and I didn’t trust him to tie me up. He said he did care for me, and he knew that I just needed some good discipline to see that, and that after he gave it, I’d know I could trust him. I told him I didn’t work that way, I had to trust before ropes or cuffs came anywhere near me, and if he wasn’t okay with that then this was it. R didn’t seem to get anything I was saying, he didn’t seem to even understand the difference I saw in him going from public to private, so, since I was almost all packed anyway I grabbed my stuff and left. I told him not to bother calling me or returning my other stuff, and walked out.
He didn’t call or anything, until April. He had a business trip, he said, that required that the men have female companions with them. He told me I’d be perfect for the trip, that I’d love it, that he’d let me set the rules this time, if only I’d agree to go on the trip with him. He was so sweet and so persuasive that I almost said yes……but then I remembered how it was over the holidays, and how confused and awful I felt for alot of the time. I also started wondering exactly what this “business trip” was, and wondering if he had some kind of kinky thing worked out. So I said no, told him not to call me anymore, and hung up.
But his call made me start thinking about all we had done…..Thanksgiving, which was totally hot and fun…..Christmas and New Years’, which had some fun stuff but mostly was wierd and scary to me. Did I do something wrong to make it all so bad? Maybe I am more of a prude than I think…….but I don’t really think so. And now I don’t know if I’ll find someone else to try with….if I can trust a guy again. I don’t like being like that.
Wednesday, April 20th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
I go to blog after blog, and it seems like today they are all discussing the new pope. I already turned off the TV because it was “all pope, all the time” on the news channels. Since I don’t have anything to add to that conversation, how about a dirty joke with a nun in it?
A cabbie picks up a nun. She gets into the cab, and the cab driver won’t stop staring at her. She asks him why is he staring and he replies, “I have a question to ask you, but I don’t want to offend you.”
She answers, “My dear son, you cannot offend me. When you’re as old as I am and have been a nun as long as I have, you get a chance to see and hear just about everything. I’m sure that there’s nothing you could say or ask that I would find offensive.”
He says, “Well, I’ve always had a fantasy to have anal sex with a nun.”
She responds, “Well, I can probably help you with that. Are you single? And you must be Catholic.”
The cab driver is very excited and says, “Yes, I am single and I’m Catholic too!”
The nun says, “OK, pull into the next alley.”
He does and the nun fulfils his fantasy. But when they get back on the road, the cab driver starts crying.
“My dear child, said the nun, why are you crying?” “Forgive me sister, but I have sinned. I lied, I must confess, I’m married and I’m Jewish.”
The nun says, “That’s OK. My name is Kevin, and I’m on my way to a Halloween party.”
Bad Kevin, bad!
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Saturday, March 27th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Over at Smitten she writes about an event I’m always pleased to be present for — but what in the painted deserts of Barsoom is she talking about?
I can’t imagine why any of you boys like to look down.
- Well, first there’s the whole breathing issue. If you have any luck at all with genetics or pills, she won’t be doing much of it through her mouth. Leaving only the nose for that overrated O2 exchange, I’d hope hers isn’t stopped up all of the time like mine is, as this will make her even shorter of breath. I find myself making little gasps every few moments, like when you are swimming underwater and you come up to the surface for just a split-second before you go back under. Sexy, eh?
- Then, of course, there’s the suction. Let’s say you’re really enjoying a lollipop, and you pull it from your mouth quickly (like when you have to gasp for air), it makes almost a popping noise from the pressure released.
- Additionally, your mouth waters, since you have likely activated your digestive system by putting something in your mouth, and taking quick breaths with a watery mouth makes that’s right slurping noises.
- And let’s not forget the gag reflex; the majority of us who are not ‘independent art film actresses’ still have one. When I gag, my whole body lurches a little, forward, which causes, that’s right more gagging.
- Plus, there’s the crying. I have the most sensitive eyes in the world, I cry when I laugh, I cry when I’m mad, and I find little tears forming when I’m working really really hard at pulling a golf ball through a garden hose. Sometimes they even spill over. In joy, of course, pure joy. Eventually all of this effort, and crying, will loosen something in my nasal passage, and I will begin to sniffle.
Given all the gasping, suction noises, slurping, lurching, gagging, crying and sniffling, you really have one indelicate and kind of gross girl kneeling in front of you. But you boys never seem to mind.
- Gasping. Sexy. This is news?
- Suction noises. Sexier. Sex noise is always hot.
- Slurping. This is supposed to be a catalog of undesirables?
- Gagging. OK, not sexy. But the lurching? We thought you were just lunging forward so you could fit more in your mouth. That’s sexy.
- Crying. Haven’t seen this one. (I’m imagining six macho guys out there saying “Dude, you never made her cry? You must have a tiny wiener.”)
Mind? What’s to mind?
Tuesday, November 12th, 2002 -- by Bacchus
From deep in the archives of I, Asshole, a sweet sweet story:
When I was a newlywed, my brand new husband and I used to play all sorts of little fun games together. One night we were laying in bed starkers and reading books, and I was also eating a box of jawbreakers. For his amusement (I always get into the most trouble when I do things for other people’s amusement), I started putting the jawbreakers one by one into my vagina. He laughed a little bit to humor me, and by the time I got up to about 18 or so he started ignoring me and went back to his book. Eventually, I fell asleep and he turned out the light. Suddenly, at about 2 am I woke up. I was uncovered and chilly; a moment later I realized I was also laying in a big wet puddle that seemed to have an epicenter under my ass.
“Oh God, I wet the bed.”
I considered my options. I could get a towel and cover it up; I could wake him up and inform him that his new wife of 4 months was a bedwetter; or I could smother him with a pillow so that no one would ever find out what happened. Being young and idealistic, I woke him and told him the truth, crying, and I have to say he took it very well. I couldn’t believe it was true; I’d NEVER been a bedwetter, and we hadn’t even been drinking or anything. Just before I ripped off the sheets, I caught a whiff of something… sweet. I bent down to smell the huge went spot and it smelled faintly sugary. Then I remembered the jawbreakers. I did a quick check to see if they were still when I deposited them before bed, and sure enough, they had completely dissolved.
The whole thing gave me a new appreciation for my vagina. If it could melt that much candy in four hours, what else could it do? Corrode steel? Turn lead into gold?
What in the name of Thor’s Tremendous Hammer was this “New Husband” feller thinking? “My lovely naked wife is putting candy up her whatsis for my amusement. What should I do? Should I ask her for a piece? Offer to get it myself? Hmm…what to do, what to do…I know! I’ll go back to reading my book!”
Somebody spent a little too much time on the short yellow bus as a child.
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