seems i've always got something on the tip of my tongue.    ©

Friday, March 31, 2006

All About Oral: Odor, Etiquette, and Why Some Women Don't Want It

So, I received an interesting email recently, and the reader had this to ask:
I was wondering what your opinion is on oral sex etiquette. For guys AND girls, is one obliged to kiss someone who just finished going down on you? If your partner doesn’t feel like swallowing, what should he do about his come?
Personally, I can’t wait to kiss a guy who’s just gone down on me. I’m not really sure why it is, but I like to think that a) it shows my appreciation, and b) he finds it hot. Similarly, if I go down on a guy, I also can’t wait to kiss him afterwards. I find those kisses the hottest, most intense a kiss can get. I look forwards to them every time. Besides, planting a smacker on your lover after they've gone down on you is the subtle way of making sure you're tasting great. I've often grabbed the guy mid-oral, made him kiss me, find out the taste-test way if I'm tasting as clean as I want, and if I am, he's shipped back south to finish the job, and my fears and insecurities are abated. Smart, crafty? Of course I am. ;)

I think it’s rude, really, not to kiss your lover after having received their oral services. I don’t know why, but I do. I’m not sure there’s a hard-and-fast rule out there, but really, if you avoid a lover who’s just been indulging in your bodily juices and such, it communicates that you’re repulsed by yourself. It’s not that sexy. Own your sexuality, own your body, and prove it with a post-oral kiss.

When it comes to swallowing, I’m not one of those “good girls swallow” proponents. I often don’t. It’s different in a relationship, I suppose, and it depends entirely on his hygiene and his personal flavours. I’ve occasionally swallowed, and the first time I ever did it, it was by accident and I was surprised it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as I thought it’d be. I’ve sometimes chosen in the past to let a guy ejaculate in my mouth, and as I’ve snaked back up his body, kissing everywhere I go, I’ve deposited bits back on him, and then we kissed and squirmed happily together. I think it doesn’t really matter too much, but guys absolutely love a girl that swallows, not only because her lips are around him as he orgasms in that happy, warm place, but because it shows she accepts him in entirety, and that’s arousing no matter what sex you are.

If you haven’t brought him to orgasm orally, then it comes down to either finishing inside you, or by manual means, in which case either a condom catches the ejaculate, or it “goes where it goes.” Again, what happens with his come in a manual situation’s pretty much up to you, him, and the moment. There’s no real etiquette involved. Want it on your belly? Great. Want to take the chance that he’s not a squirter and your walls or floor won’t catch it? Great. Do whatever strikes you as the right way to go.


In keeping with this topic, I’ve been asked a few times and just never get around to answering it:
What can a guy (or gal) do to change the flavour of their ejaculate/personal juices?
It comes down to general health as well as diet. Are you prone to infections? There might be little you can do to change flavours if UTIs and/or other infections find you regularly.

But usually it’s a diet-related thing. Most sources tell you that a meat-heavy diet can result in a more bitter-tasting sperm. Rumour has it that vegetarians have the best taste out there. (For some reason, I just find vegetarians a little less sexy, though. There’s something odd about a man who doesn’t like sinking his teeth in meat, you know?) Focusing your diet on more carbohydrates, fruits, and vegetables, as well as drinking a lot of water and other pure, non-sweetened juices can do a lot to giving you a better flavour (and odour).

Smoking, coffee, and alcohol can also result in a bitter, unpleasant come.

You want to eat foods rich in anti-oxidants, high in fibre, and with lots of juice content. Pineapple juice is thought to be one of the best things you can drink in regards to improving your flavour, and is great for overall health anyhow. Drinks like blueberry juice and cranberry juice are also great in this regard. Celery is said to be a terrific food for come.

If you’re really wanting to get serious about things, you could invest in quality juicing at home. Cucumber, celery, pineapple, ginger, and so forth, all mixed together with some protein supplement can really help you develop a sweet, nutty flavour.

There are pills on the market that swear by improving the flavour of come, but what they don’t tell you is that the pills are rich in things like ginger, aromatic herbs and spices, and vegetable supplements. Sticking to a diet that’s rich in spices like ginger, low in sodium, high in natural sweeteners, will do the same trick.


There are women who resist having men go down on them. These women are resistant for a number of reasons.

One, maybe they just don’t like oral. Strange, but true. Oral’s a very intense experience, as most of us know, and for some, it’s simply too intense.

Two, they’ve had bad experiences. Lovers can be idiots. We can say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, and it can turn a pleasant experience into a scarring one. It’s hard to shake the memory of someone who’s been a thoughtless lover, and it takes patience and encouragement and support to overcome a negative experience.

Three, they have a history of infections. Some women are predisposed to infections. Maybe they swim in natural bodies of water too often, maybe they have a bad habit of shaving their legs in the tub, maybe they have poor post-workout hygiene, maybe they’re just built that way. Whatever the case, a history of infections can leave a woman with a really negative sense of herself and her privates.

Four, they simply have a negative sense of their personal odours. Like most women, I’ve had times when I’ve been self-conscious about my odour. I’ve avoided intimacy with a guy based on paranoia, not reality. In the end, I’ve come to learn that I generally smell the way I’m supposed to, and I have an average, if not desirable, taste to me. The only way a woman overcomes these sensitivities is by way of supportive, open lovers who offer compliments and kindness, not crass observations. The odour a woman emits is filled with the pheromones that turn men on, but the pheromones don’t work on us. Instead, it makes us paranoid. I actually worked in a fish restaurant as a teen, and was belittled by guy friends for smelling fishy after work. For years, I’d have issues about any odours my vagina emitted, and was never able to relax when a man went down on me, not until my mid-20s.

Five, your guess is as good as mine. I recently did the piece “Twats and Knives: Together at Last” in which I discussed the new trend of women getting cosmetic surgery done on their pussies. Why would a woman do that? Who knows. It’s not always something we’ll understand.

The point is, whatever the reason, some women aren’t into letting a man perform orally. If you’re a woman and you’re really, really concerned about your odours and tastes, you might want to try douching. It’s not something you should do regularly, as it kills natural bacteria that can fight infections, but if it’s something that gets you past the fear of having a man perform on you, then maybe it’s something worth trying. Including things like pineapple, ginger, celery, and other juice-altering foods in your diet might also give you a better sense of your emissions and scents.

If you’re a guy and you know she won’t let you go down on her, then don’t force the issue. Instead, sometime when you’re fingering her, you can lick your fingers and tell her you love the way she tastes, and you wish you could try it firsthand sometime. Comment on how her natural scents get you aroused. Linger by her belly, kissing her groin and surrounding areas, and toy with her, breathe her in. Don’t be obvious and say all the positive comments all at once, just occasionally make statements, and you’ll probably slowly wear down her resistance.

Insecurities are a hard thing to overcome, and as women, we’re barraged by advertisements on television that tell us we have to worry about our smells. Once every month, we get periods and there’s always inevitably that moment where we discover it’s a little on the ripe side. It’s not a wonder that women have insecurities about their sexual juices and aromas; it’s a wonder we ever overcome it, considering all the crap we see in the media. Any woman who’s ever had a yeast infection and has seen that look on their doctor’s face as he/she describes the “cottage cheese” within her knows how awkward it can feel to be aware of this thing growing inside of her.

It’s a struggle to overcome the paranoia, but supportive lovers get us there.


Earlier, when over, The Guy made the comment that what he loves about oral is, when you devour your partner's juices, they become a part of you. Their proteins mingle inside you with your own, and vice versa. It's the organic version of what sex represents, essentially -- you become one through your exchanges. I really like that idea. Pretty cool. So's the Guy. :)

Thursday, March 30, 2006

The Relationship Ride

When I was a little girl, I liked the “nice” rides at amusement parks. The Tilt-a-Whirl was a favourite. There’d be those moments when you’d spin wildly and you’d verge on nausea, and then it’d slow on down, and you’d settle back into an easy pace. It was unpredictable, but never dangerous, and never scary. The perfect combination, I always thought.

When I was eight, I went to Ontario to visit family, and my Evil Vixen cousin decided I needed to try a scarier experience. I was just tall enough to ride, and this was one of those big wheel-type thingies where everyone walks in, gets strapped against the wall, and the thing spins madly at wild speeds, first on a horizontal plane, but then it starts angling and elevating, until you hit absolute vertical – with every rotation, you go from facing skyward to staring at the ground from a height of a hundred feet or more. For an eight-year-old Steff, it was hellishly frightening. Throw in the blasting music and the screams and taunts of others, and there I was, out of control.

I was screaming, crying, and absolutely horrified. Tears poured down my face and I couldn’t stop wailing. They had to stop the ride and let me off. I was heaving and sobbing and needed my mommy, who was thousands of kilometers away.

To this day, there are times when I wish I could do the same with life. Stop the ride, man, let me off. Give me a blankie and a quiet night with reruns, I’m done like dinner.

The beginning of relationships, for me, are one of the most terrifying things I can experience. I’d like to jump in head-first, absolute abandon, and know it’s okay, it’s all right, I can do it. But I can’t. I start to, I throw my pennies in the wishing well and pray it’s all going to be all right, but then the evil What If? Monster starts whispering in my head.

What if I’m wrong? What if he comes to his senses? What if there’s some external factor I can’t control? What if I’m missing out on something better? What if the timing’s wrong?

And I fucking hate the What If? Monster. I hate the ambivalence and apprehension that finds me when the only thing I should be finding is trust. I’m in that rare situation with a guy who’s opening all the trust doors first, so the fear’s a little less than it might normally be, but it's still there, and I really, fucking hate that it is. I wish it wasn't. This time, I really wish it wasn't.

But it’s strange and weird because he has this, this massive decoder ring of mine. Not only do I have this blog, with more than 200 postings, but I have my other blog, with more than 500. I don’t know if I’m your standard blogger, because I try to really peel back my layers. Not for you, not for him, not for anyone but for myself.

Unfortunately, though, he gets to peel back my layers on his own time, by himself, without me seeing his reaction, and I’m left wondering, “What’s he really thinking?” Fortunately, he’s good enough at expressing himself that he often clues me in without my needing to ask. Still, I’m over-analytical, timid, worried, and scared. That’s just me, and it works better when I’m flying solo, because then I can sit around and ask all these grand questions that my readers can relate to. Now, though, I’m not flying solo, so I go and I air these fears, and he’s gonna know. Maybe a good thing, maybe not.

In my life, fear is the great component that I can never, ever shake. All this self-examination and illumination is generally done in the attempt to get past the fear of hurt and pain that has greatly coloured my life over these years. I’ve had, unquestionably, a hard life. I’ve been hurt six ways to Sunday in every arena of my life, no matter what walls I’ve put up or taken down. I’ve had adversity piled upon adversity, and the hardest thing I’ve ever had to learn is a) to love myself in the face of it all, and b) to allow others to love me.

And I’m nowhere near ready on the front of B. I’m having a hard, hard time getting past this fear and apprehension that comes with the beginning of a new relationship, but specifically, this one. There’s the reality that this relationship has begun with more abandon and less restraint than any I’ve ever had. It’s freaking the shit out of me, honestly. That was hard enough at the beginning, but then my bone-breaker had the misfortune of badly breaking his leg and needing surgery for the insertion of a metal plate and several screws. I feel so horribly for him, and because I’ve already come to care a good deal for the man, I really want to be there to be of assistance and comfort for him.

So I have. And today, oh, my GOD. I’ve woken up with The Fear. I hate The Fear. On the one hand, I’m screaming “Stop the ride, lemme off!” On the other, I’m thinking I like this feeling. I love how I feel when I’m around him, but when I’m not… all the niggling doubts squirm to the surface of my psyche and the Questioning begins anew, and quite needlessly, I suspect, given the time we’ve shared and the openness we seem to already have.

During one of our first nights together, we were lying on the bed, comparing notes about what we thought the other would be like versus what they had turned out to really be. He commented that he thought I’d be “more cerebral… no, more pensive.” I told him that I am, but that moods like pensiveness have no place in front of another person. (It’s rude, methinks.) I’m very, very pensive - always, really - but moreso when I’m alone. I do get very quiet, though, in those makeout sessions, lying there, occasionally holding each other’s gaze, and in those moments, it’s true, I’m not really thinking about anything in particular. But the wheel’s turning, and soon, the thoughts strike. Like now, the next morning.

And my question today is, am I my own worst enemy? Is my fear my great undoing? It probably is. But at least I confront it, I give it a voice, and maybe that’s the first step in moving past it. I know I feel this way, and I’ve tried to explain to The Guy that, for now, my actions need to speak much louder than my words, ‘cos baby, I ain’t got the words. Not yet. I try. But I can’t do.

I’m a good woman, a good lover, and a great friend. I know it, and I try to be each of those, but deep down inside, I’m also a scared little girl that wants the safety of the Tilt-a-Whirl. Too bad I’ve met the height requirement for the big fucking roller-coaster, and it's the only ride operating.

(Ed. Note: Earlier, The Guy did exactly what every man needs to learn how to do: He called me up and said, basically, "It's okay. I understand." Men want to solve our problems, but some problems can't be solved. Sometimes, an "I understand" and an "It's okay" is the best gift you can give. He's a good man. And I feel better. But I still like the Tilt-a-Whirl. ;)

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Polyamory: My Take?

Polyamory – it’s the new bi, man. Everyone’s doing it, so why aren’t you?

Oh, you haven’t heard? All right, then. Polyamory’s basically the “new” polygamy, ‘cept polygamy’s against the law, and since no one’s getting hitched, polyamory’s legal.

I’ve been asked, oh, a few times now to weigh in on the topic. So, you wanna know what I think? You really, really wanna know?

Yeah, me too. I can’t truly decide. Personally, that’s not a cookie I’m ever gonna sink my teeth into. It’s just not my taste of the month, and probably never, ever will be. I’m a one-guy gal, always have been.

But what do I think? Hmm. I’m torn. I think there are merits to both sides of the argument. Let’s start with the opposition, shall we? That’s always a fun ball to get rolling.

One of the things I absolutely loathe about our modern society is our inability to commit to anything, let alone anyone. We live in the On-Demand Age. Download the TV show you just watched, TiVO and pause. Single much? Log on to any chat site and find someone willing to cam with you, sans all the relationship bullshit. Hungry? Just around the corner there’s a 24-hour Mickey D’s drive-thru waiting to solve your woes.

We’re a society of spoiled brats. We want what we want and we want it when we want it. We honk our horns, rage our way down the street, ignore each other through our iPODS and portable DVD players, do whatever the hell we want, and seldom consider consequences.

And here’s a contingent of society saying, “Hey, let’s disconnect even more. I’ll get the sex I want when I want it, but I won’t have to actually, you know, be in, like, a ‘relationship’ type relationship.”

Is it really what we need? More disconnect? The easy way out?

Or is that oversimplifying what is, perhaps, one of the more ingenius ways of dealing with the stresses of modern living? Should you really have to decide between being with someone and being alone? Is the secret to balance found in distributing the weight more evenly, rather than off-setting it? Can you not have your cake and eat it, too?

There are those who argue that humans aren’t built for a lifelong commitment, so why are we trying to seek just one? Stats show the average pairbonding succeeds for only 4.5 years. Then what? Try it again, and fail again? Repeat the cycle of hurt? But is more cooks in the kitchen really a productive way of combatting that problem? Doesn't a greater human element mean greater probability of arguing and hurt?

There are those who state that what they love best about polyamory is the not needing to be there for one person 24/7. I’m in an interesting situation where I’ve just met a great guy, and whammo, he busts his leg, and suddenly the dynamics of this new relationship have become far more complex than I could have foreseen just 48 hours ago. And that’s life. Me, I’m prepared to deal with that. Others, maybe not.

Relationships are hard. They take work. Lots of. When you spread that responsibility around, perhaps it takes some pressure off of you, but it also weakens the bonds you share, whether you want to admit it or not. I could absolutely relate to those who may have gone through hard marriages, who want the practicality and safety of being in a committed relationship, but never, ever want to be that solo go-to person again.

Hell, shit happens, and so does cynicism. Is polyamory cynical? No, I’m not saying that, but it’s certainly self-serving. But aren’t all relationships, to a degree? We wouldn’t be in them if we weren’t getting something out of it, don’t you think? With polyamory, there’s more control over what you’re getting out of it (and putting into it), and when, than is offered in nearly any other kind of relationship.

Control can be pretty attractive when the threat of being hurt enters the picture. Committing to one person, that’s giving a single soul an awful lot of power over yours. Opting to be one of seven women in a relationship with two men, on rotating shifts or however the hell you’ve managed to divvy your time, well, you know you’re one of a number, you know where you stand, and you know you can always pass and protect your own ass.

I don’t disapprove of polyamory, and sometimes I even get it. Maybe when I’m in my late 40s and love has fucked me around and I’m past needing whatever the hell it is a single, committed relationship gives me, maybe then I might drink that Kool-aid when it comes around.

But likely not. I may not be a fan of marriage, but I like commitment. I like knowing who’s going to be in my bed, and I like knowing all the little peccadilloes. I like not having to stack up against competition. I just like it. I don’t have a musical-chairs heart, and probably never will.

If you do, and you’re cool with it, then all the power to you.

Just don’t expect everyone to understand, and don’t get your panties in a bunch when they don’t, 'cause most won't.

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

A Sexcipe -- Balsamic Strawberries & Pepper

Had a long, doting visit with The Guy at the hospital. I'm good like that. He'll hopefully be home tonight, and if not, Thursday. Honestly, I'm not much in the mood to write today, though, considering. Kind of sucks to meet someone great then find out they have about 3-4 months of being on crutches, with limited mobility, in front of them. (Did I mention the surgery to install a metal plate with four screws?) Still, it's someone great, so, y'know, I'll deal. Dealing's what I know well.

What to bring someone in the hospital, especially a romantic foodie someone? Strawberries chopped into smaller bits, marinated in only a touch of balsamic vinegar with fresh-cracked black pepper. Beats the shit out of the mush they serve on those horrific little plastic trays.

If you've never tried it, you absolutely must. It's one of the most sophisticated, delicious ways to eat strawberries, and I've never met a man who didn't love them. The tartness of the vinegar and spiciness of the pepper serve to really bring out the sweetness in berries, even in the bland California ones that show up far too early in the season. It's nothing like you imagine... fabulous.

Take a pint of fresh strawberries, chop them up into a bowl, add about a tablespoon or so of quality balsamic vinegar (if you've got a $4 bottle, just throw the damned thing out! Horror of horrors!), and about a half-teaspoon to a teaspoon of cracked black pepper. (Particularly good on strawberries is Black Tellicherry peppercorns.)

Let them marinate a couple hours, and serve just in a bowl, just like that. You can have some dark chocolate with it, or you can serve it with gingersnaps, that sort of thing. Almost anything works, and even alone is great. It's a really great date dessert, and it's never failed to get me action. ;)

The Guy loved them, although the nurse came up, leaned down and said, "You know he's not dying, right? It's just an ankle. He will live to see another day." Yeah, yeah, thanks, babe.

Monday, March 27, 2006

Damn you, Cosmos!

The Boyfriend just called. He slipped and fell on his way to work this morning, and is now in the hospital with a compounded broken ankle.

Bummer, for lack of a better word. Poor guy. Broken in three places and he needs surgery. Sigh. Shitty, shitty. But the sweetie calls me from the hospital so I won't feel neglected when I get no emails from work today. Sigh.
I can't go visit him in the hospital,* he won't let me, but he'll probably be home tomorrow, I suspect. I'll visit then.

Well, I'm not a nurse, but I play one on TV. ;) I'm sure I can think of a thing or two to take his mind off his troubles. I'm good like that.

(*Sick people shouldn't go into hospitals anyhow. Vulnerable folks there.)

Sunday, March 26, 2006

What Happens In Vegas, Stays In Vegas (Baby)

I stirred up a little controversy with this posting the other day when I said most women didn’t like porn sex. C’mon, a girl can have some fun, n’est ce pas?

I love aggressive sex. I love a mix. I come with my own multi-speed. I can’t do the same thing all the time, and when I get given the green light, you bet your ass I can bring added elements into the game. I go from frolicking to ferocious and back again in mere minutes. Never, ever be predictable. That’s my motto.

The Guy and I have had a little chat about bondage, and it seems he hasn’t had a real experience in the games that bind and tie, and I’m quite itching for this stupid bronchitis to go away so I can finally do all the devious little things I have in mind. I imagine – no, I know – he’s doing a tad more than just itching.

(I mean, really, I’ve had a pretty queasy stomach the past couple weeks, thanks to this persistently evil bug, and I was joking around with My Guy saying, “Yeah, about the brightest thing I can imagine is mixing that with giving head. ‘Hey, let’s see how that gag reflex is workin’ out for you, baby!’” So, the guy’s patiently waiting. It just seems… less messy that way. Unfortunately, I’m not nearly as good at restraining myself as I’d like to be, and I’m not sure that the eight-hour sessions of “playing” we’ve been having have been all that conducive to my getting over this. But they sure are fun.)

I wanted to stir a little controversy with that posting, though. Yes, it was in absolutes, and yes, it was tongue-in-cheek. Let me explain things in a little more level-headed manner, then.

Here’s the gist of it: Don’t fucking assume you know what your lover wants. Don’t assume that because you saw it on TV, it’s definitely gonna be working out for them. Talk and find out what page you’re on. Figure out what you’re wanting to do to each other, and know where you’re going to go, to a degree. (I mean, you never want to script these things. It’s about going with the moment. It’s like planning your vacations – sure, having an itinerary is nice, but isn’t a little spontaneity a good way to go, too?)

Be open with your lover, be accepting of hearing what they want, let them know you’re not going to judge them for their desires, make sure they realize that fantasies and wishes are nothing to be ashamed of, that we all have little weird things we’d like to experience, and it’s okay. That’s what you’re there for, for god’s sake. (And it's always okay to say no. Just don't judge.)

There are a lot of women out there, particularly, who are terrified of asking for what they really want. They’re scared they’ll be judged. They’re scared they’ll be perceived as being a dirty whore. They need to know they’re in a situation where they can ask for what they want.

That’s why what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

When you’re in your bedroom, or wherever you choose to play, you can be any character you want to be. It should never, ever colour or tint who you are as a person outside of the bounds of play – unless you choose to allow that.

It’s absolutely possible to know how to wield a riding crop and pick the lock of pair of handcuffs, and still be a good, caring person. It’s possible to groan “Fuck me with your throbbing hard cock, you beast” and teach kindergarten. Duality’s possible in the human condition, but the right to privacy in a bedroom’s something everyone deserves.

(Pity the US government’s missed that memo.)

A safe environment needs to exist, and whether a woman wants to be fucked like Jenna Jameson is something she has every right to decide, but not something she should be judged for. Men need to allow their partners the duality of being as bad as they wanna be, without assuming any moral judgments on that behaviour.

And women absolutely need to allow men to speak to their fantasies, too, without judging them. So he would love a three-way, how does it hurt you to know that? The fantasy existed before you, and it will exist after you’re gone. If you’re not interested, you say so, but never, ever judge a lover for saying what they wish they could have.

Hell, I’ve known men who’ve fantasized about three-ways but never actually want to have one, for instance, but sharing that fantasy validated them because it allowed them to put an image to words with someone they wanted to share it with.

Never underestimate the bond of having open communication. Being able to talk about these things can be one of the most erotic experiences you share. Allow the conversations to map the terrain you plan to explore as time passes.

Keep Vegas in Vegas, baby, but keep on rolling them dice.

Confessions of a Serial Kisser

Nice, full lips: I can’t get enough of them. I bite, nibble, and suck them with little regard for consequences. I acquiesce to an invading tongue like a defenseless village against raiders. Enter at will, I silently command, unwilling to put up a fight, but ready to engage regardless.

I nibble, bite, lick, and suck my way down his torso, enjoying it as much or more than he does. It’s my land, my territory, and intimate knowledge is my only goal. There’s no part of the body safe from my probing, and I’m an explorer with abandon, navigating first with my hands, then staking my claim with my lips. A nibble, a bite, a suck… all aphrodisiacs for yet another.

Like an addict, one is never, ever enough.

The Blogger's Code, A Reminder

A few of us sexy bloggers have had our work stolen of late, republished by others, who are claiming our work as their own.

I could be nice about this, but why bother? The deal is, we bust our asses to try and create unique content as often as we're able. I try to post, for instance, almost daily, and it takes a good deal of time to do, when I'm doing it well. I'm proud of what I create, and make no mistake about it --
I own this content. If you reprint entire pieces without giving us credit, then you're doing a very, very shitty thing. Smarten the hell up. Common sense my ass. It's rare sense, apparently.

If you like what you read, there is a code you should follow. You print excerpts, not entire content. You link to both the site and then to the post, separately. That's just the way it goes. I'm always grateful to be quoted/excerpted. That's flattering. Thank you. Imitation, when it comes to intellectual theft, is not the sincerest form of flattery, whatever the cliches may have you believing. It's simply theft. Plain, old, unimaginative theft.

Please, respect what we all do, and play by the code. We do.

And if you should ever recognize my work elsewhere, please inform me. I'll always be grateful.

Saturday, March 25, 2006

Our Tale of Many Coincidences

Since The Guy gave me his consent to share this tale with ya, here goes.

Have you ever seen When Harry Met Sally? Remember the cute vignettes that pepper the film? Old couples talking about the coincidences that brought them together?

Well, The Guy and I have our own Tale of Many Coincidences, and it’s why both of us are probably running into this thing a little less guarded than we might otherwise be doing with someone else. And hey, it’s spring. If there’s any time of the year to govern yourself with a sense of abandon, this is that.

Four years ago, we were living across the pond from each other. He was on Vancouver Island, and I lived here on the Lower Mainland, in the big old city of Vancouver. Between us was a two-hour, expensive ferry ride and about two hours’ of driving time.

We encountered each other on Lavalife. I spotted him, thought “Hey, he’s cute, seems like my type” and “smiled,” or something, and emails ensued. I remember being bitter that I had failed to notice he was on the Island, and if I had, I probably never would have contacted him, since long-distance relationships are not something I believe in. I always deliberately avoided the Island guys, so it was very likely a mistake in the first place. (But a happy mistake, as it turns out.)

Well, despite the geographical differences, we volleyed back and forth, about three emails each, but then he stopped the volley. Maybe he just forgot to get back to me, who knows, but I thought it was A Clue, and simply didn’t contact him again.

As so often happens in that crazy world of e-dating, we simply fell away and never did get in touch again.

The emails were great (though odd in the serendipitous coincidental kind of way) and if we’d lived locally, there’s no doubt in our minds that we would have hooked up. We had a strange long, long list of commonalities that we shared, and it seemed a little too odd to ignore at the time, but darn the geography anyhow.

Fast forward four years, and it’s Tuesday, March 7th. The Kid has just told me the night before that the evening we shared “was no fun” because I was “too aggressive.” I wouldn’t say I’m always “that” aggressive, but I sure as shit know what I want. (The Guy will attest to this, since it amuses him. “You, here, come.”) I was pretty annoyed by the Kid’s stupid & naïve comment, which resulted in this rant, and it also resulted in me deciding to write a very, very clear personal ad for Craig’s List, with the heading, “Writer chick, 32, seeks muse and partner in crime.”

The Guy, in what was probably another Weak Moment At Work was bored and just surfing Craig’s List for kicks. He had described himself as “single and not looking,” but when he saw my heading, couldn’t resist at least taking a boo. He read the ad, and as I usually tend to be amusing on my rants days, he had a chuckle, thought, “This chick is kooky,” and decided to check out my blog – which I had listed in the ad.

It didn’t take long, apparently, for him to notice my handle, which has always been the same on Lavalife – Scribe Called Steff. He did the math, recognized the writing style, and decided to take the plunge.

It turns out he’s been living in the city for a year now, and in the four years that have passed, we’ve begun to share even more in common. We’ve held the same jobs, love the same things, have the same beliefs, enjoy the same culture, we’re both foodies, we’ve both come through a lot of hardships with greater understandings of who we are, both our mothers are kaput, we’re both in the same place in our lives right now, yada, yada, yada. It’s enough sap to make syrup with, honestly. But I’m not complaining.

Well, I was thrilled to hear from him, since I don’t believe in “coincidences.” When these strange happenings come down, I investigate. So, naturally, I told him right off that I was interested in meeting him before I would meet anyone else. (Be blunt, it pays.)

Our first date wasn’t much to speak of, since I was pretty sick at the time and we only met for lunch, a bit of a walk, and he took me home, where I rapidly deflated into Land of Sickie-Plus-Nth. The next date entailed him making me dinner, and my selecting Fight Club as the date-flick du jour, which had him grinning madly. We had the first kiss’n’grope session, which led to some pretty wicked fooling around, but we decided it was worth not putting sex on the menu just yet.

The next date was this past Wednesday, with my preparing us breakfast for dinner (hey, don’t knock it – easy and tasty, and anything with bacon rocks) and yet another inappropriate date flick, the pimping classic, Night Shift. Again, we made like a couple of teenagers in heat, leading us to make a little mental list of all the things you can do for fun while keeping your clothes on.

So, yeah, we haven’t had the big Fireworks session just yet, but the Sparks are A-Plenty and Good Fun has been had by all. It’s one of those things that has too much promise to screw it up by sleeping together on dates one, two, or three. Besides, I’ve been sick and it sort of kills my libido a little. We’re both on the same page, though, and I can’t stay sick forever. Still, it’s a great thing so far.

The coincidences, though, and the commonalities we share makes this thing feel really, really comfortable, really, really early in the game. It’s a little odd and surreal, but really fun and worthwhile. We’re both really well-adjusted, and both of us being writers, the communication’s stronger than I’ve had it be at any time in the past long, long time.

It’s nice, it feels good, and hey, it’s spring. The timing’s awesome.

I think it goes without saying, though, that when life rises up and places a bunch of coincidences at your feet, that you’d be a fool not to further investigate matters. I’m glad I have. I’m curious where it leads, but I’m quite enjoying the trip thus far, and look forwards to a nice itinerary in the days and weeks to come.

(Coincidences ÷ Romance/Friendship + Hormones × Spring = Good Thing)

Sugasm #27

The best of the sex blogs by the bloggers who blog them, courtesy of Sugarbank.

HNT #4 - Assume the Position (
I Don’t Mind it Rough (
Kneeling (
Making Love in the Rain Revisited (
Monde Imaginaire (
The Notorious Bettie Page (
Sadist Taking What is His (
Spanking Site Review: Bars and Stripes (
Thigh High Boots (video) (
Training and Surrender (
Choices - Part Five (
D/s Correspondence (

Erotica/Erotic Experiences
In Three Minds (
My Ultimate Fantasy (
The Slow Fuck (
Teen Lesbians Brittney and Avril on Sapphic Erotica (
The Vixxen Chronicles - Walking Funny, Pt. 3 (
Welcome To My Fantasy (
Coach T… Ch. 5 (
Dear Pussy (

Sex Work
I am now a sex worker (
Half-Nekkid: Topless and Thinking (
Mothers and Prostitutes Don’t Mix (

Going Home (
Single Double (
Women Aren’t the Only Complex Creatures (
Caught Kissing in the Copier Room (

Save the Date! NYC Perverts’ Saloon - Monday, April 3rd (
Twilight + Thebes Podcast Discusses Paddles + Devil Girl Sushi Table (

Gracie on Abby Winters (
My Sister’s Best Friend Review (
I Feel Myself - The Art of Orgasm (
Oops, I forgot. The word of the day is “moisture” (
Sincerely LaRue (
S Spot Hentai Links (

Thoughts on Sex: Sex Commentary, Sex Advice, Blogging
Faking (
Fingering (
Long Ass POST! (
Twats and Knives: Together at Last (
Variety Act (
Advice - Tasting Yourself (
Anatomy Lessons Part 1 (
Come (

Sex News / Grab Bag
For the Youthful-Looking Cooter You Deserve (
Mardi Gras Spanking (
Profaning the sacred (
They’ve Went and Bottled the Pussy! (
Tom Cruise’s Cock (
Charges Dropped in Teacher Sex Scandal (
Dress Up Britney Spears (

Killing An Erection (
after a few shots… (

Friday, March 24, 2006

Golly, he likes me, he really likes me

Bacchus gave me a little whorage over at his inimitable Erosblog. Thanks, B. XO.

I Don't Wanna Be Your Dog

(This originally ran last fall on Some edits have been made, between that version and this, but it's never ran on here. Happy weekend, kids.)

I’m sorry, Iggy, but it’s true.

This one goes out to the porn school boys. Yeah. You know who you are. The guys who watch porn and think women actually want to fuck like that.

The majority of women don’t have “getting titty-fucked” at the top of their weekend to-do lists, all right? We don’t necessarily globally relish having our asses smacked while we’re being ridden doggy-style by some dude who thinks he’s one lap away from the Kentucky Derby. (Probably most women like to take one of those laps from time to time, though.)

The majority of chicks aren’t going to gush and coo like a girl on Christmas morning as you cum on their face. Most will be pissed that you’ve even attempted it, really.

Face it, boys. Porn movies are movies that are made by men, for men. They are entertainment. They’re the sexual equivalent of the DC Comics’ League of Justice: highly improbable, hugely exaggerrated, and excessively stylized.

If you’re taking your sex tips from porn, you might just want to think twice before you invite Debbie over for a little diddling.

Fact is, porn’s for the uninteresting. Most North American porn is so laughably cliche, so utterly uninspired, that it’s a wonder Europeans ever sleep with any of us. Thank god they know better than to believe everything they see on television. Pity the same can’t be said of everyone on this big ol’ continent, though.

If you’re content to underperform, then porn away, boys. If you really want to get fucked, and you really want to know what an orgasm has the potential to feel like, then explore the full dimensions of sex.

The problem with the Porn Boys is they just don’t fucking understand that orgasms are like concert seats. Just because you’re at the concert doesn’t mean you’re getting the best show. In fact, sitting in the nosebleeds might get you into the gig, but with all that frenzied distortion and being so far away visually, you’re barely scratching the surface of the experience.

Upgrading and getting in close seems to sometimes slow it all down and make the experience bigger than life. The bass rocks you, the sweat slowly builds as the tension gets better and better throughout the headliner’s act before they finally blow their wad on the show-stopping encore that leaves them and the audience gasping for more.

Stop being content to just show up and get rocked. Put yourself in the show and really make it an event.

What have you really got to lose, besides your breath?

Some thoughts at 3:30 AM

The Guy is a foodie, which I quite like, since I'm a foodie too. There's nothing like cooking for someone who *gets* what the effort is, and who appreciates the subtleties of a well-designed meal. I'm hatching a scheme for a really nice meal I'd like to cook for him, now that I know I can afford to eat and be merry a little bit. He cooked me dinner last week, so it's my turn...

...Trouble is, I'm sick, so our meal plans will have to wait a week or so. But The Guy is being a total sweetie and making me a batch of homemade chicken soup made from scratch (from the carcass of the bird that gave its life for our tasty meal last weekend, to boot), since I'm a sickie again. He's bringing it by on Saturday. This will be date the fourth, such as cuddling and feeding-sickie can be called a date, and it's safe to say it looks like this might be Something Good. It doesn't feel like just the fourth date, though. The comfort factor's far higher than I'd have expected it to be this soon.

What's really cool about this thing is that we both have brains. It's pretty tiresome always being the smartest person in relationships (I don't mean that to sound as arrogant as it does, but trust me, I used to read a couple books a week -- good, smart books -- for years and years, and I've essentially been paid on the job to learn for the last nine years of my life, so I certainly have some book smarts, and street smarts, too).

A relationship with someone with at least as much smarts as me, if not smarter, is a real turn-on these days, and something I've craved for a long while. Like, a long, long while.

And hey. He does soup.

Now, if he gives his consent, I'll share the oddly When Harry Met Sally-ish freaky-deaky way in which we met, but that's his call. I know he'll read this, so I'll just wait for him to clue me in. It's a pretty wicked story, though.

(My fever's finally broken. Whew! Thank goodness. :)

Thursday, March 23, 2006

Too close a look at poverty

The average North American is two paychecks away from potentially living on the street. I've been a little too close to that precipice, myself, as I've been waiting to hear about some money owed to me by the government, et cetera. Earlier today, I was sitting on my couch, near tears, terrified of whether or not I'd be able to make rent. My landlords are hard-asses and have no leniency for folks who are late with rent, since there've been a few deadbeats pass through this building before.

The utter fear, absolute fear that comes from just Not Knowing is a terrible, terrible thing. If you've never been in this situation, you'll just never understand. Too many people are far too cynical about those of us who've been thrust into money problems. All it takes is one bad break, one moment of bad luck, and no one around to help, and you can find your ass on the pavement.

There's a divide out there, between Those Who Know and Those With No Clue. The thinking for the Clueless is, "Oh, but there are jobs. They're everywhere. With a little determination and creativity, they can solve their problems."

Yeah, well, sure. Pie-in-the-sky, it'd be that easy. One wink and a swish of my magical wand, and I'd make this all go away. But then there's this place the rest of us live in, it's called Reality. Reality is, an $8-an-hour job won't fucking cut it, not with bills, not with student debts, not with health issues. Reality is, it's just not that easy -- not for most people.

I was hit then by these heaving sobs of terror -- probably compounded by the fact that I'm sitting around with a fever, shivers, a pounding head, and a knowledge that I couldn't work right now even if I wanted to. I'm completely sick and miserable, and if I were to get out to the world for work, well, I'd have to go through the torrents of wind and rain forecasted tonight, on the public transit, since I've not got a car to protect me from the elements.

And the fact is, finding the "getting by" jobs is easier for men.* They can go and do manual labour, which pays considerably more than the average job a woman can find to "get by" -- ie, waitressing, secretarial, etc, which are all relatively low-paying.

I swallowed my pride, wrote a "Please, for the love of god, if you love what I do, support me and donate money..." post for this Smutty rag, and it occured to me -- "call the government folks and see what's up," which I was told wouldn't be decided before NEXT Friday.

So, a cheerful woman takes my call, looks into my case, and bubbles over effusively with, "Oh, everything's great! You'll be getting checks dating back to February 24th, probably by Monday!"

And I broke down, like a fucking child, sobbing and thanking this utter stranger for what is, undoubtedly, the best news I've had in weeks. Fear... what a terribly powerful emotion. What a horrible, horrible thing to be under the thumb of.

So, I deleted my pride-less begging message, and here I am.

I am, without a doubt, an incredibly smart and employable person -- and don't think I don't fucking know it -- but I'm also a person who fell on a little bad timing, a little too much governmental delay, and for a bit there, a person who was in danger of some Bad Shit coming down.

I had my finances depleted after a couple unstable years in the film industry, when work dried up and I had to find my food sources on my own. My savings got eaten, and suddenly, my safety net disappeared, and without credit, there's not a fuck of a lot I was able to do. It's just dumb fucking luck, and if you're lucky, you'll never experience it yourself.

There are those out there with far fewer marketable skills than I, with nowhere else to turn, who are at the mercy of fate and happenstance, and they're being neglected -- not just by you, but by society and by the government. I'm not saying everyone deserves a free pass, but for fuck's sake, sometimes a leg-up is all that it takes. If you can provide one, then do so.

Employers, unfortunately, all too often lack the creativity to see some people's potential beyond their present fortunes. Me, I've never been in that boat, and god willing, I never will be. My situation's looking considerably brighter, and now my sick ass is able to focus on the only responsibility I should have to focus on: Getting well.

*I've been called on this statement. All right, well, there are guys who can't do manual labour ever, and it really sucks to be them, since they probably have even fewer options than women due to steretypes. Here in Vancouver, though, the statement's true. We have more housing starts than any other city in North America, if I'm remembering my facts right. Our labour laws are pretty favourable for guys working in that industry, and besides that, we have a lot of industrial work, most of which starts at $15 an hour or more. If I've pissed anyone off, then so be it. I guess being sick results in my being a little less perceptive than normal. Such is life. We write what we know, and what I know is what it's like here in my teeny, tiny corner of Canada.

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Lenny Bruce, Obscenity's Legacy, and Today's News

I wrote this late last night, when I should have been in bed. I was out for coffee this morning when The Guy emailed me with a link and said, "This will make you very angry." Rightly so. It turns out the Supreme Court of the US has decided not to hear a case on internet-based obscenity, meaning that internet obscenity laws are to be decided on a local basis. IE, small towns can decide what's "obscene" on the internet.

Think about this for a minute. REALLY fucking think about the ramifications of this, people. This is huge. You're going to have Buttfuck, Idaho deciding on whether or not materials that are being used and seen by people AROUND THE WORLD are obscene... in the land of "free press."

It all comes back to you. Your vote. It comes down to voting for leaders and politicians because you're looking for a fucking tax break, but you fail to realize the implications of what that leader's choices for life-long appointments to the Supreme Court are. Life-long: Meaning decades of deciding the interpretation of YOUR constitution.

You want to tell me that America's passion for freedom of speech is greater than any other nation's. Not anymore. Never has been. That's the greatest lie ever told, my friends.

This year's the 40th anniversary of the death of Lenny Bruce -- a guy who met the wrong end of every obscenity law ever passed in the US. Four decades have passed, and this is the bullshit that's starting to cycle back into action.

AGAIN, I ask you: Where is your voice?

The timing of that news is just strange, since I'd planned to post this today anyhow. A sad fucking day for freedoms, my friends. Know that.


The writer I am today is a result of the reader I was then. To tell the truth, I’m barely a reader today. I seldom settle in with a book, but I hope to change that behaviour.

I recently took some time to organize my bookshelves, and this book in the photo, my tattered copy of Lenny Bruce’s How to Talk Dirty & Influence People, still stands up on display, right behind my grandmother’s 1955 rotary dial phone, which still rattles and rings anytime someone dials me up. Next to it, a first-edition of the Arrow paperback version of HST’s Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas.

When I was 18, my narrow, protected view of the world was shattered by HST, but then came Lenny. Like HST’s classic tome, it gets off to an unforgettable start – particularly if you’re an 18-year-old kid. Unbelievably, I had the balls to recommend this to my 14 year old student last week.
“Filipinos come quick; colored men are built abnormally large (“Their wangs look like a baby’s arm with an apple in its fist”); ladies with short hair are lesbians; if you want to keep your man, rub alum on your pussy.

Such bits of erotic folklore were related daily to my mother by Mrs. Janesky, a middle-aged widow who lived across the alley, despite the fact that she had volumes of books delivered by the postman every month -- A Sane Sex Life, Ovid the God of Love, How to Make Your Marriage Partner More Compatible--in plain brown wrappers marked “Personal.”

She would begin in a pedantic fashion, using academic medical terminology, but within ten minutes, she would be spouting her hoary hornyisms. Their conversation drifted to me as I sat under the sink, picking at the ripped linoleum, day-dreaming and staring at my Aunt Mema’s Private Business, guarded by its sinkmate, the vigilant C-N bottle, vanguard of Lysol, Zonite, and Massengill.

At this tender age, I knew nothing of douches. The only difference between men and women was that women always had headaches and didn’t like whistling or cap guns; and men didn’t like women – that is, women they were married to.

Aunt Mema’s Private Business, the portable bidet, was a large red-rubber bulb with a long black nozzle. I could never figure out what the hell it was for. I thought maybe it was an enema bag for people who lived in buildings with a super who wouldn’t allow anyone to put up nails to hang things on; I wondered if it was the horn Harpo Marx squeezed to punctuate his silent sentences. All I knew was that it was not to be used for water-gun battles, and that what it was for was none of my business.

When you’re eight years old, nothing is any of your business.”

Lenny Bruce, if you’ve never heard much about the dude, was a pioneering comic who broke all the rules. The Jim Morrison of comedy, he had his ass busted for obscenity more times than Dick Nixon would proclaim he was not a crook. It was on his heels, on his ground-breaking sacrifices and legal hassles that Richard Pryor and every other comedian would follow. Without Lenny Bruce, there might not have been a Pryor, or a Hicks, or a Rock, or a Leary. Lenny Bruce said fuck you to the man, and he said what was on his mind.

These days, there’s something still admirable about someone with the balls to say “What you think is obscene is what others do behind closed doors.” As someone I quite like recently said, let’s meet at the corner of The 21st Century and Get Over It.

Laws of acceptability are drawn by people with the courage (or the accidental happening) to push envelopes in defiance of what accepted norms are. For instance, fucking can now be used as an adjective after 10 pm all because Bono accidentally said it as such during a broadcast of (insert irrelevant music awards ceremony name here).

But the ones who discover whole new lands, they’re the journeymen like Bruce because they’re the ones who consciously know what the accepted is, but choose to go far beyond it, consequences be damned.

You open to any fucking page, anywhere, and there’s something that even today is relevant. Me, my copy’s so fucking tattered it’s permanently mated with an elastic band, the only thing that holds it together. The page where the spine breaks clean in half, page 91, yielded this pearl from 1963, 10 years before my birth.
“Why don’t religious institutions use their influence to relieve human suffering instead of sponsoring such things as the Legion of Decency, which dares to say it’s indecent that men should watch some heavy-titted Italian starlet because to them breasts are dirty?

Beautiful, sweet, tender, womanly breasts that I love to kiss; pink nipples that I love to feel against my clean-shaven face. They’re clean!”

So many of us sex bloggers, we’re up in arms against this Moralizing of North America; the legislative attempts to arbitrate morality; this pitiful attempt to turn back the clock and eradicate sex and desire from the consciousness of the average person.

Got news for you, folks. We’ve been fighting this battle for decades. Whether it’s a brilliant writer and commentator like Lenny Bruce or a filthy fat fuck like Larry Flynt, the battles ain’t new, the war ain’t new, and the blood’s long from dry.

What’s different now, though, is the medium. Enter blogging. Enter podcasting. Enter streaming video. Now we have a voice. Now we don’t have to wait any longer for a voice crying out in the night, for a black-as-hell knight to ride in with a filthy leer and a winning argument. Now the undersexed, underfucked, randy-as-hell, crop-flogging, chain-wearing, paddle-using, nymphomaniacal, cross-dressing, same-sex fucking, porn-loving, and swinging folks, NOW they all have the ability to have a voice.

The thing about activism is that it’s not about ground breaking wide open in one fell swoop. Like any hole, it start with one push of the shovel. And another. And another. There will be rocks and boulders that limit progress, but with persistence, it all comes out. The greater the chorus of resistance, the harder it is to ignore. The greater the groundswell, the more ground we can break.

Unfortunately for the battle, Lenny Bruce died too fucking young. He should’ve died right around now, in his 80th year. Instead, a needle in his arm, he toppled off his toilet, and crashed to his death – a disgraced, bloated man who was mocked and ridiculed out of the mainstream, and instead, placed post-humously upon a pedestal by those who would continue to wage what was known as his crusade against semantics.

The book’s afterword ends thus:
“One last four-letter word for Lenny.
At 40.
That’s obscene.”
And it was. It is. Few people ever have the balls that Lenny Bruce lugged around with him, and it’s a crying fucking shame. And still, here we are, fighting for the same things, dreaming of the same freedoms as this long-dead Jewish-American comedian, in this, the 21st century.

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

Twats and Knives: Together at Last

I was sent this story recently by a reader, detailing about this new trend of women going under the knife to alter aspects of their vaginal regions. I’m sure there are valid reasons to do so from time to time, but really… what the fuck are people thinking?

Plastic surgery is something I despise. Packaging, that’s what our bodies are. I’ve spent my LIFE trying to come to terms with who and what I am. I grew up believing that my ample ass was something disgusting, and I was always under the impression I was far more than just imperfect, I was just physically wrong.

But, hey, the first thing guys seem to wanna grab is that ample ass. And now I have no intention of taking it all off, despite minimizing its spread in the recent past. Hey, real estate’s the best investment you can make, and mine seems to be going up in value.

Fact is, we’re constantly under scrutiny – from our banks, our lovers, our employers, people on the street. Hell, about the cruelest thing one can do to themselves is to buy one of those 10x magnifying mirrors, don’t you think? Why don’t you just run out and buy a lifetime subscription to therapy while you’re at it?

Me, I use a standard mirror. I just lean in real fuckin’ close, you know? Does the trick. For now. One day, the eyes are gonna go and I’m gonna need one of those big-ass look-at-me now glaring glimpses at my imperfections, but I’ll be ready for that day when it comes.

Now, one of the fundamental differences between our sexes – get ready, here’s a newsflash – is the fact that the cock is on the outside of the body, and vagina’s bits and pieces are all inside us. Everyone knows guys are hung up on their dicks. But what about chicks?

Fact is, we’re twat-conscious. Most chicks are as clueless about their twats as the guys we latch onto are. Ever taken a look at your vagina? Yeah? How’s that workin’ out for ya? Tricky, hey? If not, well, you’re probably not missing out on much, since you’re liable to feel a tad self-conscious once you rig up the mirrors to angle a look at your privates. You gotta spread ‘em for a look at it, baby, and that’s seldom ever the best way to get introduced to your kitty.

I remember seeing a posting on someone’s blog a long time ago juxtaposing an image of a woman’s mouth in a sexy pout, and another woman with her mouth wide open, readied for an invasive visit by a dentist and a drill. The author asked the question, which would you rather see? He then alluded to the overwhelming tendency in porn today to show women spread-eagled with their vaginal lips spread wide open.

As a chick, I find it unattractive. But I’m a chick, and I know guys see things differently, so I’m over it. I do, however, agree with the post’s author, and I have to wonder: These women going under the knives, are they seriously looking at these porn-based images as a measuring stick for their own attractiveness? Why?

Taking cues on genitals from porn is like expecting to look like a Vogue model after you’ve showered and made yourself up. How about a fucking reality check? How about realizing that the beauty of vaginas is the fact that each has its own characteristics?

An interesting artist in the UK has done a line of photographic collages called “Cunt Flowers,” and one of those images is what you find here on this post. The artist gets what I’m saying – pussies offer an incredible assortment of appearances, and the beauty is in the variety. We’re not cookie cutters, people, so why the hell are we trying to cookie-cut our cunts?

It’s time we stop letting the beauty industry and media inflict insecurities and doubts upon us. It’s time we stopped paying thousands of dollars to fix what we perceive to be imperfections. We would never fix the exterior of our cars and ignore the engine, would we? So why the fuck do we apply that methodology to our bodies?

Start thinking from the inside out. Touch your cunt. Believe your men when they express passion for all you have between your legs. If he wants to go down on you and enjoys tonguing and playing with you, then get the hell over yourself and let him. He’s the one who sees what you truly offer; you and your headspace probably don’t know dick. Or, twat, as the case appears to be.

Some fighting words

I'd like to take a moment, in light of the third anniversary of the Iraq War, to thank my readers in the military forces over there. Apparently it's a pleasant surprise that they're able to access my site despite some filters on their servers over there. Well, it's pleasant for us both, I assure you.

I've had a few letters from guys in the Marines that have just made my day in the last few months. While I disagree violently with the premise of the war, and the execution thereof, and the lack of transparency from the powers that be, and despite a few bad apples in the bunch over there, I think most of the soldiers are just men and women doing their job -- for a government that lied to them. The blame should always go on the heads of any organization, and the buck stops with Bush and the Dark Lord himself, Cheney. Make no mistake about it.

I hope that those great guys who've taken the time to send me letters find their ways home to their loved ones. I hope you find a way to keep from being too jaded about your government when you return. I hope you get the fuck out now, before it gets much worse.

Three fucking years already. 2,300 (American) dead (and counting), and no progress to really speak of. Last throes indeed, Dick. Fucking twit.

A comment was left elsewhere on the site this morning that got me thinking (my email notifier doesn't specify which post). I believe it's by a fella I think is one of those nifty Marine boys who's written me, about the power of communication, particularly when absent from a loved one. If it's the same guy who's contacted me in the past, then his story is fairly simple. He and his wife had a nice relationship, but she was always very restrained in their lovemaking, and always had a lack of confidence in her body and her ability to express what she wanted.

Through constant validation and repeated wishes to know what she really, really wanted, she has finally found the way to open up. During his time stationed across the seas, they've been exchanging emails as often as events would allow, and it appears to be transforming their relationship in every way. Fantasies are being discussed, envelopes are being planned to be pushed, and the landscape of their relationship -- with an ocean and a desert between them -- is morphing into something much richer and more open. He's counting the days before his return home is to happen, which, if I recall correctly, is in three weeks or so. (Here's hoping it's everything you're dreaming of, J.)

There is nothing more powerful in your relationship than the power to communicate. The ability to express your needs and desires will transform every relationship in your life, but it will boggle the mind if you are able to express your sexual needs with a partner who's open to hearing (and providing) what you truly desire.

Using tools like email, even when you're living in the same town, or even the same house, can provide you with a safer means of expressing what you need. As time passes, you will learn to better express those desires in your voice, and eventually, what was once the ultimate act of vulnerability will have simply become a great, great trust shared by two people who know how to be on the same page.

Well, boys & girls, get home safely, and do your jobs with integrity. It's time that chapter in your country's history come to a close. Let's hope that day comes soon.

Monday, March 20, 2006

A Word from the Management

It seems I'm getting into bed with slutty silent-silent partner. Ooh! He Who Must Not Be Named* will be fronting all the technology for your little smuteur (that's me!) to do a podcast. Maybe (gasp) -- MAYBE -- even two podcasts, maybe one involving actual interaction with you, the audience. (That depends if we can get the technological end of that worked out, but we're optimistic.)

Weekly, even. ETA? Hopefully within the next four weeks, very likely the next six weeks. Let's say May 1st, shall we?

I'd tell you some of the content, but I'm into surprises, and I bet you are, too. Suffice to say... it will be Steff without a leash, on the fly, off the cuff. You know you'll love it, you greedy folks, you.

It will be found off-site for initial broadcast, and after a delay, will be made free to you, my first loves. Oh, this could be the start of a beautiful thing, baby. If you have ideas for things you'd like me to address, you can always let me know, but I have to admit, I'll be a little less loose and carefree with audience requests with the actual first-run show, since it's to be an actual "produced" program. Girl's got designs in mind, baby.

To those of you who've expressed their enthusiasm about this before now, thanks for giving me the enouragement. I'm a little gun-shy, but hey... a little fear never hurt.

*Okay, we'll call him Voldemort.

As per a reader Q: Podcast = Downloadable, free internet-based "radio"-type broadcast (pre-recorded) created by independent average everyday folks, though the corporate world -- the whores they are -- are getting in on the act and using it as a business tool. Mine would be very current-sexual events based, politically & culturally & societally focused (again, with sex in mind throughout), with my typical humour (or lack thereof) inflicted upon you. When you're inflicted, you'll take it and you'll like it. ;) There's hopes of my doing a post-show q&a, which would be done live, but that's going to take some technical fidgetting, and it may or may not materialize, but we're determined to examine the option. Long and the short is, you'd be able to hear me doing this shit instead of just reading it. The content may sometimes be similar to my backlog, etcetera, but it will never be identical, and I'd rather be generating fresh work, not rehashing. I have standards.

Filler -- A couple good jokes for you

It's a Monday, and it could be a Very Good Day, depending what goes down, so I don't want to write right now. I don't want to tamper with my headspace. It's sunny, blissful, beautiful out today, and I'm about to head out into the world on my Eurotrash scooter, and plan to find my way to a beach or forest to do some photography. I'm going to try and find Love in images, I think. That would be a fun challenge. (Challenges rock. Ever assign yourself them at the start of your day? Try it!)

But I'd like you to have a smile on your face today, like the one I already have. So, without ado, one of my all-time favourite dirty jokes. I don't know if it's really the joke I love, so much as it is the woman I heard it from, and how incongruous the two seemed together. This is why I talk to strangers as often as I can. You just never know. :)

Now, I was working in a photo lab back in the day with my colleague Cathy. It was a slow Friday night and we had put out a tray of cookies for customers, for the hell of it. A little old 84-year-old lady stopped in, had some cookies, and began talking to us.

She looked at us both, scrutinizing us. "Do you girls like dirty jokes?" She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Do you like sex?" Then she shook her head. "Well, of course you do. We all do."

Well, anytime you have an 84-year-old lady with plastic glasses and her hair in a bun, leaning heavily on a burled cane, offering to share a filthy joke with you, you accept the offer. Here's the joke she told.


In marriage, there are three stages of sex.

The first is called House Sex. This is when you first marry, and you can't get enough of each other. You have sex all the time, everywhere you can, all over the house. Thus, house sex.

The second stage is called Room Sex. This is when you've been together for a couple years and things have slowed down. You still enjoy each other's company, but you tend to stick to the bedroom and have sex only in bed.

The third stage takes place after about seven years, and it's called Hall Sex. What it is, is every time you pass each other in the hall, you mutter "Fuck you," and you're done with it.

Little old ladies are wise as hell, huh?

One for the road:
Mickey Mouse and Minnie Mouse go to court to get a divorce. The judge checks out the paper, frowns as he's looking them over, glances up over his reading glasses and peers at Mickey Mouse.

"Mickey, look, I'm sorry, I want to help you out. I watched you as a kid, but really, I can't grant you a divorce on the grounds that Minnie's insane. I mean, "for sicker or for poorer..." You know? You made a vow, Mickey."

"Oh, sir, I never said she was insane," says Mickey. "I said she was fucking Goofy."

The rest of my jokes involve priests or sex toys. Well, here's hoping I have the day I'm wanting to have. Hope you do, too.

Sunday, March 19, 2006

Call, for fuck's sake!

So, date two has come and gone, rather successfully, and a third hovers somewhere on the unspecified horizon.

Now, I'm luckier than the average girl because I have this -- a mighty, mighty good decoder ring -- available for The Guy to peruse and see what it is I dig or don't. Because The Guy has a functioning Brain and Powers of Recall, he plays his cards rather well. Such as, calling The Next Day after Date One, and emailing me to thank me for my presence immediately after Date Two. I'm such a sucker for communication.

If you are a guy, and you're trying to do the whole play-it-cool bullshit, here's a clue. Most chicks will fucking LOVE YOU if you call. Why? Because suspense might be nice at Christmas time, but it really, really sucks if you're digging someone after a date and you haven't heard from them as to whether or not the diggage was mutual. Call. Email. Whatever the hell it takes, and everyone will be all the happier because The Bullshit Factor is cut by half. Plus, there's the added bonus of anticipation.

Anticipation? It rocks. Knowing a date -- a kiss, a cuddle, a grope, a lay -- looms on the horizon is a turn on. Suspense, or as I like to call it: Unknowing, takes joy away from things. If you think you're adding fuel to the fire with "suspense," you're not. You're complicating things and setting the groundwork for what will essentially be a whole lot of head games.

Forget about "being cool." Be straight up. I'm personally so sick of all that shit that if a guy DIDN'T call the next day, I'd probably write him off. My time's too valuable for someone who doesn't know how to clue me in that a good time was had for all. I'll do my part, he better do his.

Needless to say, not an issue with The Guy thus far, so things are swimming along nicely -- a fine happening in time for the first day of Spring, no?

(Now, there could be a "why can't she call?" line of questioning from the guys out there, and you bloody well know why -- she'll get perceived as needy or clingy, even if it's not the case. If you boys could stop having such narrow perceptions about chicks that call you, then maybe things would be simpler for you. Unfortunately, yer species' track record makes it just a tad too iffy for us girlies to take the lead there. As much as some of us might like to. And if, perchance, you luck out and get a chick who's brazen enough to be open and communicative via giving you the call, and she's not needy, then at least have the smarts to see it for what it is -- a chick who's willing to help you reduce the Bullshit Factor.)

Saturday, March 18, 2006

Being Alone And Dealing

I'm weird, one of my best times for getting inspired to write is during housecleaning. I think it's a procrastination thing. I wasn't planning on posting, but I checked my comments and one made me think. Then I started doing the dishes, and snap, crackle, pop, a memory kicked in, and next thing you know, I sat on down and got crackin'.

It's not until you're single and you're all right with it that you finally realize just how much of society is centered around fitting in and joining the club -- getting married, getting laid, getting validated. Society pats us on the back when we find 'someone' and if we're single, we're told to look at ourselves and find what's wrong with us, not what's wrong with them. Maybe, just maybe, we're fine. Maybe, just maybe, they're not good enough for us. Maybe, just maybe, we're holding out for something better.

I’ve come to learn the hard way that being comfortable with being single is one of the biggest challenges we can face. It’s so easy to run into the arms of someone “who’ll do” instead of toughing it out alone. It’s so easy to stay the course of least resistance in a relationship that doesn’t deserve your commitment. Getting laid is a breeze, if you set your sights low enough.

We’re scared of being alone. I remember my mother breaking down in tears several months before her death, before she even got sick, when she accidentally got stinking drunk (the first time I'd ever seen her drink more than a glass or two of wine) on my birthday and was throwing up and was horribly hung over the next day. I took care of her, cleaned up after her, washed her vomit-stained comforter, and anything that needed doing. She looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, “I’m not scared anymore… I’ve been so scared that no one would look after me when I got old and sick, and now I know I don’t need to worry about that.”

I think we all ultimately know that fear. God knows I've been intimate with it.

We’re a tribal society, despite how uncivil we can sometimes be to each other. It’s our heritage, our legacy. We’re in it together… so being alone is something seemingly incongruous to human nature. But we need to know we’re able to handle it, and so few of us ever really try to learn if we can.

We sometimes fail to see how much society conditions us to need the approval of others – from report cards as kids, job reviews as adults, and every fucking time we use our debit cards, it’s all about getting approval. When you’re single and alone, who’s there to give it to you? Who’s there to tell you in the night that everything’s going to be all right?

You. Just you. Me. We’re self-contained, but everything about our society tells us we’re not. It’s a struggle. It’s hard. Never underestimate the difficulty of going it alone, but also, never ever underestimate the wonder of making it work. There is nothing more rewarding than that night when you realize there’s no one in the world that could make you feel better than you feel right then, right there.

Loneliness will always find you, though, but it will always leave you, too. It’s like a tide. It ebbs, it flows, and you just need to find the rhythm.

Sugasm #26

(This is my first time in the Sugasm -- I never realized it was a submit-your-stuff thing -- and what it is, for those of you who've never really checked it out, is a list of all the good stuff to read off sex blogs from the past week. Some good readin' here, kids.)

The best of the sex blogs by the bloggers who blog them.


Last Night Jane Was Spoiled (…)
Metal Gear Friday (…)
Pornstar Grandad’s Secret: Topical Garlic (…)
Red Eye (…)


Met Models: Zyta (…)
Pool Party at Abby Winters (…)
Saturday Babes (…)
Sexy Tomiko (…)
Erotica-Obscura (
Film Fridays 15 - Luck O’ The Irish (…)
HNT #8 (…)

Fetish and BDSM

A Morning School Fantasy (…)
Seven Messy Girls on Abby Winters (…)
Commit to Crossing the Threshold (…)
Foot Fetish Photoset (…)
Interview with Sexy Kittens (…)

Sex News and Commentary / Sexual Politics

Lexington Steele Daintily Dips Heterosexual Toes in Not-Gay Water (…)
The New Porn Apartheid - Luke Fords Rebuttal Rebutted (…)
South Dakota Paper Bans Abortion Opinion (…)
Top 5 Disappointments and Surprises While Watching Porn (…)
Body Image and Sexual Risk Taking (…)
Girls Warned Not to ‘Go Wild’ on Spring Break (…)

Miscellanea - Sexy Advice, Reviews, & Announcements

Two Straight Men Doing Anal Together (…)
Dermaphoria Fever (…)
A Game For New (And Old) Lovers (…)
I am Shocked, Amazed, and Bewildered! (…)


The Mind Blowing Blowjob (…)
My 1st Shave by the Teacher… (…)
Niagara Fantasy (…)
Separated Only by Distance (…)
True Secret: Two Firsts in New York (…)
Wake (…)
Webcam Solo Sex (…)
Why I Started Liking Math (…)
Coffee, Tea, or… (…)
Deeper, deeper, inside, inside (…)
Diary of a Debauched Man (…)
I Had No Intentions… pt 1 (…)

Fantasies & Fiction

Lecherous (…)
Lesbian Seduction on Sapphic Erotica (…)
My Ache for You (…)
Overwhelmed (…)
Talking Dirty (…)
Threesome (…)
Fingers (…)

More Sugasm…
Join the Sugasm