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

Sunday, April 30, 2006

The Binds that Tie

The Guy got his little introduction to bondage Steff-style last night. This is good news for you, boys and girls, because now I can do the postings I've been wanting to do on exploring bondage for beginners.

The Guy's doing shower-type things, so I have no such time on my hands just yet. But soon.

Bondage = Good.

Face it, the bondage you "think" you know about is the stylistic bondage that the "extreme" lifestylers exhibit. Unfortunately, that's pretty intimidating to newbies. I intend to simplify matters and take a little of the fear out of it all. I'll give a few tips, that's all.

It doesn't have to be a "honey, get the leather and play some Nine Inch Nails" kind of night. That's a stereotype, and a wrong one. So, later this week, we'll talk restraint and pleasure, shall we?

Now... where is that guy o' mine? Hmm...

Saturday, April 29, 2006

Warning: Excessive Bliss May Be Good For You

I would have said that “the Guy has this saying,” but according to Google, there’s 14,700 hits for the phrase “post-coital bliss.”

It’s all about the PCB. Blissed out and riding that wave back to normalcy. Nothing recharges the batteries like a good lay, don’t ya think?

It’s Saturday morning (as if you didn’t know) and it’s cooler than it has been, but not cold. There’s 94% humidity – yep, count it, 94% -- and the air’s got that built in chill-enhancer that’s not so friendly in the morning. Still, I’m in bare feet, just not happily naked like I normally am in the morning. Oh, well. The headache burrowing into the back of my skull’s not really a high point this morning, either, but I’m ignoring it and listening to Gomez over my headphones anyhow.

The gym was supposed to be my destination, but I have that all-over-body sore that says somethin’ physical’s been up of late. (The dirty s-e-x, that’s what. I tell ya, the death-grip with your legs around the waist, hiking him towards ya, good fer thighs and ass and abs, ladies.) I figure instead I’ll do some ab work, play with free weights, write, watch TV a spell, and then that’s my day. The Guy hobbles over, crutches and all, to my place this evening. (I live on the third floor of a walk-up, people. Poor bastard. I try to make it worth it, and something tells me I do – he keeps coming back. Nifty.)

Back to the more interesting of topics thus far, PCB. It was after the dirty s-e-x that the conversation steered towards the PCB. Nothing takes a sting out of a working man’s week better than getting him laid by 10 on Friday, you know. My guy’s cut from a slightly different cloth. Instead of having sex (the dirty s-e-x, even) and rolling over to sleep the sleep of the dead, he gets energized. He actually enjoys cuddling and talking after a good shagging. How do ya like that? Now that’s serious PCB, folks. He even gave me a couple decent writing topics. (Okay, well, this thing’s a posting for the ADHD-afflicted in my audience, but still, the Guy contributes.)

I, for one, am a big fan of the PCB, baby. Sex for everybody, says I. Didn’t you get the memo? I took over the duties of World Domination and Universal Autocrat as of midnight last night.

Lucky for you fuckers, too.

Sex for everybody. Yep. Just step right over here to your frequency lanes and pick a number you’d like as your sexual quota each week. What, three times? Four? More? All rightie, then. Pick a lane, any lane. That’s the number of times you’ll be getting’ your love on each week, my friends.

Ah, if only. I would make such a KICK-ASS dictator. None of the genocide crap, man. No illegal law enforcement. No intimidation. All about the bliss, baby. Personal freedoms for everyone, medical insurance discounts for anyone getting shagged often, sex toys would be tax deductible… If only.

In my pie-in-the-sky utopia, I’d have sex four to six times a week. A couple double-dips and such in there, of course, as well as lazy sleep-in, clothes-off, shaggin’ Sundays.

I’m looking forwards to next month. We’re on the verge of warm, warm nights now, and I’m thinking how much I’m gonna love those late-night just-got-laid departures – riding through the fragrant streets on warm, breezy nights, my scooter weaving back and forth under canopied streets as various perfumes from flowers assail me and cooler air pockets surprise me. Sigh. That’s always the best time to be out commuting in the world: a summer night after sex.

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

Y'know, I went out for years with this guy who lived about 35 minutes away from me, and I still, to this day, remember loving the ride home almost as much as I enjoyed the sex and/or his company. It’d be 4am, and I’d be driving out on a highway that always had this awesome turn-off that made it feel like you were driving literally into the sunrise. Whoosh, around the bend, and back headed south-east, towards the sunrise again. I almost always took the long way home.

There’s just something great about sex in the summer. It’s better when you have a fan to cool yourselves off after all that work, but hey, seasonal shagging’s all good. I love staying in for sex in the winter, but if you have to leave, it’s such a bitterly cruel contrast – the cold, cold nights against the warmth and sweat and fury of your recent encounter. Yeah, I’ll take this… summer and the PCBs.

(The photo's one of the rare ones that are actually mine. Cherry blossoms were out here recently, and the last are just changing to wine-coloured leaves now, but this was the height of 'em 2 weeks ago. LOVE this city come blossom time.)

Friday, April 28, 2006

Shop's Closed.

Blah. Still grumpy, but not like I was yesterday. This is more of a "need time" grumpy. On Monday, I plan to get out of town for a night or two, and that should disconnect me from my blahs.

I don't know how much posting I'll get done over the next few days, so say hi or something, and I'll be back when I feel like it.

See, I'm a city girl with a nature girl inside, but sometimes, I just never get the fuck out of dodge, and it's been a long time coming. I'm going city nuts, I think. Too many people, one place, for far too long. Getting out of town helps me recharge creatively, so I think I've let it go too long. Problem to be remedied soon. Stay tuned!

Meanwhile, I just added this photo, one I took a long while back. Here in Van, we're surrounded by trees, ocean, mountains, and more, and along one of the busier stretches of beach, someone grafitied a few stones, and this is my favourite -- Love is the unconditional desire to do good. Fine thoughts before a weekend. And incidently, after a gluttonous potato cake and good French Roast, my mood's improving. Let's have a round of applause for caffeine, folks.

Thursday, April 27, 2006

Grumpy Steff

I'm a little grumpy, a little tired, and a little not in to mood to blog tonight, dear.

It's been a long week, and Thursday is my least favourite day of the week. I'll be quite happy when it's done with. Fortunately, my day is apparently approving a tad, since the weather's no longer calling for rain tonight, which always makes my commute a bit better.

I have no decent food, which means "Scrounge" is what's on the menu for lunch. (Boo.) And I have a little email not-really-a-misunderstanding, but-something-worth-discussing going on with the Guy, which is lame, but we'll sort it out. One of those things where a clearer conversation should've happened before things went down, but it didn't, and here we are. Oh, to be human.

I like it much better when it's laughter, fun, and orgasms, but those things will return quite shortly, I'm sure. Every now and then we get to return to planet earth and be reminded life isn't all sunbeams and blossoms.

But I really dislike Thursdays. Have I mentioned that yet? But tomorrow's Friday, and then it's the weekend, and I suspect that some nice times with the Guy loom during all that. One can hope. But it's Thursday, the hopeless day of void, and not even a promising lunch is on the horizon. Ew. :P

Oh, well. It'll improve once I get out into the world. For now, festering in the mood's not such a bad thing. I'll get it over with. And drink some water. I get ridiculous moods from dehydration, which I know I presently am experiencing. Isn't it amazing how dumb we can be, ignoring things like water because we don't think we have the time to deal with it? Oh, to be human. Without ado, then...

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

You Asked: What Do I Consider Cheating?

My life is going insane. I need to run away and pitch tent on some distant beach, living only off Mai-Tais and cheap sex. (You free, Guy?) It’ll be me and books and sand and sun and orgasms and orgasms and too many dehydrated afternoons. I’ll send people emails, not postcards, because they’re cheaper and I won’t need to leave the house to do it, or leave the sand, as the case might be. I’ll save the emails as drafts and wait out the mandatory 12-hour pride/holding period, and make sure nothing Untoward is evidenced to the world in regards to my life of slack and debauchery. My blog postings will be filled with elliptical moments of fantasy and remembering… about a life half a world away that seems so strangely chaotic and abnormal to the life now being led by this sand-locked beach-bum with literary leanings.

Instead, here I am, trying to fend off the urge to snack on chocolate chips, trying to remember that drinking more water makes me think better-faster-stronger, and being grateful it’s cloudy enough that I can concentrate indoors.

So, hi there. You were saying?


There’s an old saying, “A man never introduces his wife to his mistress,” or vice versa. Last night’s episode of Boston Legal made for good breakfast fare this morning, and the closing line was that.

It reminded me of an email from a reader, to whom I’ve yet to respond (sorry about that, you), inquiring as to my opinion on what “cheating” means today. That email is excerpted here:
At what point do you consider someone to be cheating on another?

I've been poking a few friends with this one and been getting back some interesting answers, but outside of my older brother's girlfriend, I'm getting generally 20-something's answers. So I figure I should get an older woman's view too :)

In case you're curious this whole thing got started because a female friend (that's an oxymoron when you're a guy isn't it?) was doing one of those Myspace surveys and the question, "Have you ever cheated on someone?" came up. And I just saw her freeze up for a second and give it some serious thought. So now I'm just randomly poking people for their opinions :)
Well, apart from the ass-kickin’ I wanna lay on this boy for calling me an “older woman” at the sweet age of 32, I found it an interesting question. (I ain’t “older,” I’m just right, baby. I look young, but I got the wisdom and know-how my age speaks to. We’re women of the good age, the women that teach youngun’s like you how to shake and move the world. Calling us “older” is like uninviting yourself from the party, honey. Be careful.)

When this question came in nearly two weeks ago, I didn’t hesitate to bring it up with the Guy. I wanted to see what he’d say. I was quite happy with his take on things, and in the end realized something: This is a great conversation for every couple to have, and soon. What is YOUR perception of cheating?

Does it matter only if it includes Bill Clinton’s definition of “sexual relations” or is it something more intrinsic, maybe even innocuous, than that?

Fidelity is a complicated web. Some women feel betrayed if their guy eyes an ass wiggling down the street. Some men feel betrayed if their girlfriend only watches sports and drinks beers with her best guy friend and never him. Who’s to say where the line is?

Every couple needs to set parameters. I’m in an interesting situation here, since I write this sex blog and about sexuality in general. That puts my man in a very interesting situation since he is constantly learning new things about my perspectives on relationships, sex, and everything else under the sun. It also means we’re often in the situation where we’re talking about things other new couples might be deliberately not discussing for a while, since there’s the chance of making it all seem more serious than things really are.

There’s that whole theory of push/pull when it comes to relationships. One partner becomes needier and pulls the other in closer than they should, sooner than they should, and the needed partner then becomes spooked and pulls back. Like rocking a boat, regaining balance (and FAST) is a major challenge, and if not met, the relationship will then be doomed. I did my “pulling” on this blog, and the Guy patiently let me.

In that time, we’ve talked about a great deal of “serious” issues, and nothing’s really spooked either of us, since we’ve confronted it. Cheating is just one of the many topics we’ve broached, but out of all of them, finding his stance on this topic was the thing that made me feel most comfortable about where we stood.

His response was that anything that smacked of intimacy (ie: beyond flirting) could be construed as “cheating,” with the stipulation being that you’ve declared “exclusivity” with your partner. (The Guy and I have declared that long ago.) I brought up the point that I occasionally receive sexual emails and I have been known to do semi-extreme flirting in one or two cases with correspondents, and I said that my role in those emails stopped as soon as I began seeing him, since I started to feel as though I would be betraying a trust.

I know my views on “cheating” are fairly old-fashioned; it’s anything that makes me feel like I should be saying or doing that with my Guy, not that other person. I have high standards for what I expect of friends, for what I expect of lovers, and even what I expect of myself, and not often do those standards get ringingly endorsed, but this time, Guy & I are on the same page.

In this day and age of cyber worlds and information highways, “cheating” can take on a million different looks. You can engage in cybersex, have a long distance literary love affair while still involved with a lover, you can ignore your sexual obligations in a relationship and spend all your time digesting porn and masturbating instead, or you can simply do the old-fashioned stalk-and-hunt of an extramarital lover via internet dating. It doesn’t matter. To me, if you’re in a relationship where you’ve vowed to be exclusive, there are things you unequivocally should not do – such as kissing someone else, exchanging love notes, or an afternoon rendezvous in a $39.99 motel. And you must, without a doubt, seek to have a strong and passionate sex life with your partner. It’s not called “roommates,” people.

But there are fine lines to what may or may not be construed as cheating, and the only way you’ll ever know what your lover would feel is a betrayal is if you ask.

Oh, and if you need to stop and deliberate as to whether the action could be construed as cheating? It’s cheating. I mean, use your fucking brain. Really. If you have to ask how much, you can’t afford it, baby.

But enough about me.
What do YOU think constitutes "cheating"?

"But I LIKE Cock!"

My bestest friend GayBoy (Mr.Tits.Pervert, in his less refined times) used to work in a gay bar. A bartender friend of his there is a stellar accountant, my accountant. But the only time he takes files and submissions is when he's manning the bar at the club.

Well, I'm not all that fond of the club, having inadvertently wandered in for "Bear" night in the past and leather night with all old, sagging gay men, such as it was. I suckered GB into joining me for the trip. We were comped some beers and noshing on Chex mix when I noticed the bull dyke with the neck problem.

Neck problem? I mean "making eyes" problem.

She'd do this unnatural neck stretch and cock her head to angle right on me, at which point she'd flash this "fuck me now, and hard" kind of look at me. Needy, hungry, or something. More a something than an anything.

Well, I just don't go that way. Maybe I should have said so, but I'd just come from a lovely visit with The Guy and was more interested in being silly with my friend than I was with dealing with the hassle from this stereotypical chick. (Badly fitted cargo pants, wife-beater tank top, black square-ish jacket, and a crew-cut. I mean, really. Can we have a touch, a smidge of style, anyone? A little gloss? Maybe just any of the things I'm presently doing to myself that you find so, oh, I dunno -- engaging?)

Besides, I was angled away from her, though I could see her in the mirror, but I was facing GB. Finally, The Accountant comes back after slinging a few beers.

"Looks like you have a fan."

GB launched into a description (none too quietly, neither) of all the various come-ons and do-me-nows the chick had been vibing my way in her rather "I'm on top" kind off way.

But then I turn to the Numbers Guy and I say, "But I like cock!" Right before then, the music cut out.

Sigh, as always, my timing's impeccable. I have one of these voices that can resonate, and right then, it DID.

A few short minutes later, my admirer scored herself a chick and they cut to the exit, but not without my admirer shooting me yet another look, this one laced with a hint of "Go fuck yourself."

This is reported to me by my dear friend, but had I seen the look I might have divulged that I'd already been brought to orgasm twice earlier, so I was not needing of any self-fucking on this particular night. But, sadly, I missed my chance.

I'm sure she was nice enough and all, but as I told GayBoy, even if I were a lesbian, she'd never be my type. Nope, I was always more into the Jordis Unga type chick, or the no-granola, but-turn-up-the-Marley surfer girl type. I mean, like, if I had to choose. ;)

But, really. I like cock. Especially when it's eager to see me. I'm just an old-fashioned gal. What can I say?

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

Sugasm #31 and Did Somebody Say "Test"?

It's early on Tuesday, I've essentially been up since 5:45. The morning's awash in this tepid glow. It's sunny, but there's no direct sun on me yet. Give it 40 minutes, then it'll have risen over the low-rise apartment building in front of my place. Summer's virtually here. It's been three days in a row of good, good bike rides, and Sunday I even got to do some crusted-earth trail riding and hit a few puddles along the way. Sweet! A fine time to be alive. And a great time to be in a good relationship.

Yesterday was test day. See that? Ugly fucker, isn't it? The blood pooled under my flesh a bit, just by the needle's merciless prick. Crimson skin's there now. Friday, I'll have my results. HIV, yada, yada. Testing sucks. But it's a good time in a relationship. Didn't I just say that? Here we go. Got the testing, baby. Naturally, I just sprung it on the Guy. Funnily, the very day he broke his leg, he planned to go get the full-meal deal of testing done. That was over a month ago. Freaked the shit out of me. "Eager, aren't you? Jesus!" was essentially my line of thought. But I'm catching up, the fear's ebbing, and I'm entering the "comfortably committed" mindset that usually eludes me for much, much longer.

So, it's done like dinner, Martha. Oh, I hate needles. With a passion. As a kid, I was always unhealthy. I had needles drawn every single Friday for about five years. A variety of mystery illnesses plagued me back then. What can I say? I'm enigmatic. Even professionals think so.

But this wasn't so bad. It was one of those medical people you look at and you think, "Hmm. She's either really awesome at her job, or she's gonna suck eggs." She was awesome. Took seven -- yeah, count 'em, seven tubes -- for everything from diabetes to HIV and it barely even registered. Well done, nursie-girl! I nearly smooched her.

Y'know, as cool and collected as I sort of am about all this, there's always something freaky when you see a vial of your blood sitting on a counter with a "CDC" sticker applied to it. (Centre for Disease Control for you off-continent types.)

There's a reward though: The possible future of condomless sex. More moments, less hassle. A fine thing. Spontanaeity? Check. Throw down and get it on, any time, any where? Check. I'll have me some o' dat, thankyouverymuch!

Friday, the good word comes down. Me? Worried? Not at all. I'm a responsible girl and I have higher standards than it may sound like from time to time. Should be just dandy.

Testing: The New Measure of Monogamy. Yep. Gettin' tests. There's a plateau. Goin' steady -- and we mean it, dammit. Yep. All ready for the Spontaneous Throw-Downs, soon. Turns out the Guy's never had outdoor sex. Well, well, well. He claims he's more of a "winter" guy than a "summer" guy. If he's never had outdoor sex, I could maybe see how that would be. But I know a trick or two to edumacate him on the finer points of warm nights and dewey grass. And maybe there'll now be one less hassle when I get my schoolin' on with 'im. He's so game. Lovely.

That's all the writing you get today. I'm pissed off I'm up, so I'm smoking a little dope (sue me) and rolling back under the covers. It's the first time this spring that ALL my windows and doors are ajar with a nice spring breeze blowing gently through my place, and I'm sitting around naked, and not freezing, and I love it. But I'd rather be under the covers. So, back to oblivion I shall go for an hour or two.

Meanwhile, these people have much more writing to offer to fill your needy, greedy little gaps, my friends. Do indulge. Do the Sugasm.

The best of the sex blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Yeah, baby! Rowr! Rr!

Erotic Writing
Back to the Beach (
Bliss (
Closings and Openings (
The Delight Of Sexual Tension (
The Driver (
First Time - Steaming the Windows in the Backseat of a Car (
Five Minutes (
How Would It Be? (
Illicit Liason (
Low-Carb Foreplay (
masculine/Feminine (
Stairs (
Tara’s Private Diary: Sucking Him Dry (
Taxi Cab Confessions (

Thoughts on Sex: Sex Advice, Sex Commentary, Sex News, Reviews, Interviews, Sexual Politics
Burning Rubber Interview (
CockBlogging Wednesday 22 + A Guest Review (
The Future’s So AdBrite, I Gotta Get Paid (
Hand-Jobs: Things You Need To Know, Part One (
High-Frequency Masturbation (
Maenads’ Mantra (
Sex in the News - Holla Back at Street Harassers (

BDSM and Fetish
All Tied Up (
C is for Cookie (
Dire Caning Technique (
Identity Crisis for a slave (
Tease and Denial with pastorpaul (

Allie Sin, Naughty Nati Dichotomy Exposed. Plus nekkid pics. (
Crystal Klein (
Cute Spring Babe Cody Milo in Full Bloom (
Exclusive - Justine Joli, Ball (
Front Seat Sexy (
Hair Goof (
Marathon Progressive House Party… revisited in pictoral (
A Saucer of Cream Please (

Experiences (and a Funny)
Cock & Dumplings (
Dick’s Sauce (
My first wank (
Sean luvs goths: Part 2 (

Monday, April 24, 2006

Oy vey, you searched for what?

This one sounds really innocuous, until you start thinking of the implications of language. In reviewing my webstats just now, I came across someone who landed on me via this search string:

"How do I position myself when having sex with my honeymoon partner?"

Honeymoon partner. Wow. Bet that'll be an unbridled night of torrid passion. Honeymoon partner. Not lover, not mate, not even spouse. Honeymoon partner.

One should make love on a honeymoon, don't you think? Not "have sex"? Unfortunately, I don't know what page they landed on, since I'm too cheap to pay for a full stats package and the info switches over too quickly. Sigh.

If you can't call the person you're about to supposedly spend the rest of your life with your lover, you might want to double-think those vows. Lover. I absolutely love having a lover. Not just a boyfriend or a partner or whatever, but a lover. Doesn't it just roll off the tongue? Don't you get a little hot just thinking of the word? Isn't it almost... tasty?

But having sex with a honeymoon partner? I mean, it sounds like there's gonna be a chaperone standing in the corner, throwing out coaching lessons as they go.
"No, no. To the left. The left. There you go... right. Now again. Again. Deeper. Oh, come on, do it like you mean it. Deeper. Yep! That's the ticket. Let's have some more of that! Fabulous. You're almost getting the hang of... oh, slippage. What a shame. Just when you were fulfilling your potential, too! All right, let's try that again. From the top."
Sigh. And this is why people need to stop overthinking things and go more with their feeling. Life's too short to be clinical.

Whoring for Comments: Pimp Me, Baby

Y'know, this month has been whack. I've had some 70,000 people pop by since April Fool's Day, which is just, well, weird. Yet so few people come out to say hello. C'mon, people. Show some love, say hi, comment on the weather, whatever gets you off.

Blogging's a pretty masturbatory past-time. We wank off intellectually and throw out emissions out here for y'all to swallow. It can be a strange sensation, especially when it's of such a personal nature as to be about sex in any way. It's comments that take the edge off it. Come on, was it good for you, too?

Say something. You know ya wanna. Besides, I'm staring down the barrel of a deadline that has me frozen like a jackrabbit in desert headlights. Humour me.

Sunday, April 23, 2006

saturday night was all right -- and bondage

the guy and i have had some space this week. not deliberately, it's just happened. he's still recuping from his injury, a severely broken leg, but decided to push things too hard this week, and wound up too fatigued. i'm a little concerned, but i know it's only two more weeks-ish, and then things will begin a move towards normalcy.

space is good. it keeps things healthy. absence/heart/fonder, and all that. there's something nice, sometimes, about waking up alone on a sunday. i'd rather i wasn't alone, but it is what it is, and i'll have a great day regardless. a great breakfast will be followed by a long sunny bike ride, and an afternoon of writing and editing.

the plan last night, though, was initially that the guy would come home with me after our first big night on the town since our first date... (i was sick, then he broke his leg. couch time, baby.) but last night, i had plans. i was going to introduce loverboy to my idea of bondage. i schemed and gathered the necessities. i love an orchestrated evening.

BONDAGE is one of those things that is overwhelmingly portrayed as a core activity. meaning, those who speak of it are those who are very much the "lifestylers." i know there are a lot of folks out there who perceive bondage as being only something done with dog-collars, whips, yada, yada. no, not necessarily. bondage can be one of the most intimate things you can do for a lover. bondage is the exercise of trust and generosity. romantic, passionate, hot, and fucking mind-blowing some nights, that's what it is, what it can be. it can venture to edgy, if you want it to, but it doesn't have to go there.

there are easier, less intimidating ways to introduce yourself to bondage than what the typical bondage practitioner might exhibit.

unfortunately, the guy wasn't well last night, having fallen and hurt his "good" leg yesterday, so he went home solo for a night of good sleep. i endorse that move, since i'm not some needy chick who has to have the guy around to know he's into me. 'cos, like, i know he's into me. quite.

but the point is, until i have that night of first-timer bondage with the guy, i won't be posting my "vanilla-lovers introduction to bondage," something i've already begun writing. i'm not sure i'll ever foray into the hardcore bondage lifestyle, but i'll never judge it, either. i do, however, think a lot of lovers are short-changing themselves by denying themselves the experience of either tying up and appeasing their lover, or letting their lover do the same to them.

i, for one, can't wait to have that experience with my guy. soon. quite. he knows it looms, and now i've begun building it up, "so, i've got caramel sauce..." because i'm getting a little impatient. and though i may have compromised patience, my intelligence, i assure you, is in full function. i may want to do this here, now, immediately, but i don't want my efforts wasted on my guy when he's too tired to enjoy them. i'd rather wait and have a better experience, so that's the plan. quality always trumps quantity in my world. maybe next weekend, and then, you kids can learn about bondage MY way.

Saturday, April 22, 2006

Handjobs: Things You Need to Know, Part Two

I wrote a rambling introduction to the topic of Handjobs here, and part one of this instructional bit is here.

Ask him, for god’s sake! It’s his penis, he’ll know. This isn’t your ex-lover’s cock, or your high-school boyfriend’s cock, or your college fuck-buddy’s cock. This is his cock, and it feels differently about things than those other dicks did. If you ask, he will think you value making him feel good. It’s a smart way to go. Let him tell you. He’ll be glad you asked. Not all guys are comfortable telling you when it’s too hard, and some men will even endure pain to avoid offending you. Be a real woman, and ask.

Covered this before. Most guys’ll say it needs it. If you want to avoid clean up and have better grip, you can put a condom on him. Start with oral and even end with oral, but it doesn’t need to be only one or the other. When it comes to using lube, start with only a little, and increase the quantity as needed. Too much will compromise your control.

It doesn't "really" matter. He should be comfortable, and reclining or lying down is a good thing for him. I like to begin by lying down next to him, or snuggling up, whatever, and typically begin with oral if I’m in the mood (see below) and then will sit up by his waist when I’m making progress and getting serious about the work. This gives you use of both hands, and more flexible access to all his parts, but begins with greater intimacy.

The Moves:
First off, every single one of these moves changes according to pressure and speed. Doing it nice and gentle will give him one set of feelings, but picking up the pace and gently increasing pressure as you go will take him to a whole new galaxy of feelings. Speed up, slow down, speed up, slow down. When you’re wanting to finish him off, pick the move you’ve seen the best reaction to, and just go to town. Once he comes, he’s going to get super-sensitive super-fast, and when he says stop, STOP. If you like, after a couple minutes, when he’s resting, you can just rest a hand on his cock, as if to say it was good for you, too. Or you can go have the beer you’ve earned. Whatever. ;)

Starting out, just play with everything. Caress his balls, place your open, flat hand over the length of his member and begin doing gentle-pressure circles over the whole region. Play with the tip of his penis, whatever you like. Better yet, take his soft-ish cock into your mouth, or nibble it with your lips, or lick it with varying degrees of pressure.

Then, once it’s harder…

The Ring-a-Ding-Dink:
For this, you make a “ring” of your index finger and thumb, or use the middle finger if he’s got greater girth, and wrap it around the base of his penis. Start tugging up and down, with firm pressure, but slowly, just around the base. So, this move has about a 1” rise on it. You’re not ascending the whole shaft, just staying right there at the base of the penis. Do it with more pressure and faster, and you’ll see him responding. A lot of nerve endings are at the base of the cock, hence why guys love penetrating you deep and hard, so it fires up those basal nerves. This is a great one to use during oral, too, while you have your mouth on his shaft’s head, and toy with it using your tongue to flick and lick around the head.

The Piston:
Standard move, girlies. But not, and I repeat not, a go-to move, not in my book. It’s a transitional thing. If he wants a piston job, let him do it later, and you know he will. Do a little piston work here and there, particularly when you’re wanting to move towards taking him to orgasm, so you can indicate speed’s about to pick up. This move’s just basically you wrapping your hand around the shaft and going up and down, from the base to the tip. If you’re using proper lube or a condom, it’ll make it easier to do full moves that take your hand up, over the penis’ tip, aka the “glans” or head. The head region’s crazy sensitive, so doing the piston via ascending over the head will be pretty hot for your man.

The Tweaker:
With both your hands around his penis (like you have them wrapped around the top of your steering wheel; your thumbs will be next to each other), you want to rotate your hands in opposite directions. One’s rotating towards you, the other’s rotating away from you. This gives him a pretty wicked set of feelings, and this move’s got a lot you can do to vary it. Such as:
  • Stop rotating the hand by the shaft, instead, start pumping a bit, like you would with a stress ball, or if you were checking your blood pressure at the doctor’s, squeezing that rubber bulb. Now and then, just squeeze firmly. All the while, the hand wrapped around the top of the shaft continues what it’s doing.
  • Or… Continue rotating around the shaft area, but flip your head-hand around, so your palm’s facing you and your thumb’s up at the top of his penis. Now your thumb can play with the head. This hand now does a mini-piston, while you rub and tease his glans at the same time. (So you have both the rotating and piston action at the same time.)
This is a fun one to do, and needs either a well-lubed condom or lots of lube on your hands. One hand’s around the shaft, maybe doing a mini-piston, while your other hand is open, with the palm on top of the head of his penis. Press down and do circles. That’s it. It gives him a lot of stimulation through his head. Press firmly, too, and harder as you go faster. Some guys get desensitized a little too quickly at the head of the penis, so you need to be aware of what your man’s tendencies are that way. You can do circular movements or you can do rapid side-to-side movements, but either way, his glans is gonna be happy.

Collision Course:
This is a bit of a mind-fuck, and one he’s virtually guaranteed to love. With your hands again in the “steering wheel” position mentioned above, you’re doing “opposite” pistons. Meaning, you’re doing the piston move, but your hands will be colliding – one’s going up from the bottom of the shaft, and the other’s coming down from the head. This goes against what his penis has been conditioned to feeling, so it’s a pretty wild departure. You can reverse this, so your bottom hand is moving down to the bottom (and emphatically colliding into his public wall, putting lots of pressure against his basal nerves) and the top hand goes up over the head, which it gives a good squeeze to as it does, and then back down. You can also change hand positions a la the second variation of the “Tweaker” above, but still maintain the opposite movements.

The Garden Hose:
This one’s just a nice departure. It's a softer move, but it should be done reasonably well-paced, and will give him sensation over his entire penis. In between some heavy action, or even starting out, just pretend you’re pulling out a length of garden hose… One hand goes gently up the shaft and off, followed immediately by the other, again and again and again, and as quickly as you can manage. Doesn’t work with a condom, but lube does the trick.

There are many ways to say to a penis, “I like you, you’re cute.” Tracing a finger up the shaft, either at the front or the back, can be fairly arousing. Playing gently with his balls can be lovely. Tickling his cock can be a pleasant shocker in the middle of a handjob, particularly if you have a feather nearby. Leaning down and breathing hotly on his moist cock can also be titillating sometimes.

I think those are all the “A” moves, and I’ll see if I can think of some more on the weekend. These are at least guaranteed to get you some results in the meantime. No promises about any more postings on this topic for now, though. But the point is, get creative. Bring in props, use your mouth, take moments here and there to nibble his thigh or tease his anus, if you’re wanting to prolong the experience. Don’t be afraid or awkward, and talk to him about what he’s liking. The more you see his enjoyment, and the more intense the orgasm you provide, the more you’re going to be enjoying this, too.

DISCLAIMER: I've had comments about uncircumcized guys v. circumcized, and the unaltered boys say they need little, if any, lube. Well, being your standard-edition Canadian girl, I've only ever met cut penises. They make lovely friends, but I'm sure I'd like there uncut companions, too. Unfortunately, I remain ignorant of more than just their company. So, their penis heads are apparently more sensitive, and lube is less of an issue. Duly noted.

Friday, April 21, 2006

Hand-Jobs: Things You Need To Know, Part One

Handjobs can be one of those awkward moments for women. It seems so… odd. How hard is too hard? How soft is too soft? Where’s the sweet spot? What in the hell should be done, just tugging, rubbing? What, what, what?

Every chick’s had a moment when they’ve caused a man to wince, or even cry out, from accidentally hurting his testicles or penis. We’ve all seen that terrible moment on the playground when some kid inevitably kicks another in the sack, only to see the victim crumple to the ground and begin crying like a girl.

I’ve only ever been violent once, and it was in a 7-Eleven, when a boy started clawing at me and trying to grab my then-growing boobs. I told him to stop, he didn’t, and I kicked him in the nuts, which surely looked different with me in my Catholic school kilt and dress shoes (poor fucker). I was 12, then, and didn’t really mean to kick as hard as it looked like I did, but boy, oh, boy, did I feel badly when I saw him balled up into a fetal position on the floor, whimpering like a kid whose dog just got mowed down by an 18-wheeler in front of his eyes.

Even as little girls, we learn that the cock is oh, so very sensitive, and yet, there guys are, tugging viciously on their members, it looks like, and so we think, “Well, that’s how to do it, then.”

Naturally, we reach out, manhandle that cock (or we do the opposite), and invariably hear, “Not so hard! Gently!” (Or "Harder, more like this.") Our synapses start firing. “What the fuck? Look at YOUR technique, buddy! What’s wrong with mine?”

Let’s see if we can clear some of that up right now. Oh, I should mention, specific moves come next time. This topic deserves some depth.

First off, guys need to be lubed up. Hand cream, baby oil, Aquaglide, whatever, but lube up. Chicks might sometimes use spit, but it dries quickly. Try tugging your finger, repeatedly, the way you would normally tug a cock. If you just rub up and down with no lube, two things happen: one, it burns, and two, it becomes raw. Not exactly the sensation you’re going for. And don't forget, when it comes to sensitivity, there's a world of difference between your digit and his.

Lube’s a great way to go, since you get the glide-effect going on. Personally, I find too much lube makes it hard to keep a little control over my hands. I mean, I’ve made good friends with my friendly neighbourhood penis, but really, I’m not sure I quite have the key to his house yet, if you know what I mean. Too much lube loses that little bit of control, and I’m more liable to overshoot my mark and have my hand keep slipping off his cock. Moderation.

Another great option that more chicks need to explore is that of using a condom for handjobs. If you’re wearing rings and forget to take them off, it’ll protect his crown jewels. If you have dry hands, it won’t be an issue. First off, the condom’s lubricated anyhow, but then there’s the pre-cum that also adds to his lubrication. (You can even use studded or ribbed condoms to heighten the experience further.)

The bonus, though? No need to worry about sperm shooting half-way across the room, or landing on you, or sullying the sheets, sofa, rug, or whatever. It’s tidy, it’s easy, and it takes the awkwardness out of the experience. Personally, it’s my favourite way to give a handjob. Starting to use condoms transformed how I felt about the experience (and made me realize how anal I am about having sperm shooting randomly across the room or wherever it’ll land, given my snazzy digs). Now I love giving a handjob and try to prolong his pleasure as long as I possibly can, since I know I can give a really, really intense orgasm, yet don’t have to exert myself too much, which means I can give him a handjob no matter how tired or not in the mood I may be. And, really, seeing the end result and knowing how satisfied I can make him, that’s a reward in itself, no matter what my mood was previously.

Handjobs, and some may not like the word since it seems so perfunctory, can truly be a beautiful, intimate moment between you and your guy. You’re able to keep eye contact, yet smother his body with kisses in between, as you stroke him towards nirvana. One reader even states he gets a much more powerful orgasm from a handjob than a blowjob, and perhaps it’s because more control can be had over what’s done and where, plus, you’re better able to see the reaction to all you do and gauge your actions as a result.

I wish I could have a penis, just for a day, so I could learn how everything feels. When I see what touching different parts of the penis can do to a man, it makes me curiouser and curiouser. Every time I give a handjob, it seems I learn something new about his penis. If, just as an example, I rub the base of it between my thumb and forefinger (always the flat part of your fingers, never the tip), just as if I were playing with a stone or something, rolling it back and forth, the reaction is pretty amazing… far more than I’d have expected, just seeing the standard rub-and-tug guys seem to get engaged in.

And that’s the thing women need to realize works to their advantage. Guys typically have a favourite method of masturbating, and they seldom vary it. Because of the angles we can have over them when it comes to doing the job on their behalf, we’ve got so many more approaches we can take. Because it’s foreign to us, even exploring new moves and ways of handling it will surprise and shock him, usually in positive ways -- if you’re watching the pressure you’re applying. It’s in the way we vary and switch things up that we’re able to bring that pleasure to a new plateau for them. It’s a new peak, a new high, and it’s never, ever what they would do for themselves.

Next time, I’ll be writing about specific moves. What you need to know now, though, is this: Every single part of the penis and the balls are sensitive to touch, even the inner thighs, and none of them should be neglected during a handjob. It’s not about “tugging one out,” it’s about variation, changes in speed, changes in technique, watching his reaction, knowing when to pull back, when to speed up, when to move your hand down to massage his balls or trace a finger up his thigh, and no guide book or scribe will ever be able to explain that. Every time you deliver a handjob, it should (and likely will) get better and better and better, because your knowledge of your lover is escalating… if you’re paying attention to him, that is.

Handjobs shouldn’t be awkward or strange. They should be something you can do for your man when he’s had a bad day or is feeling a little out of sorts, or when he’s hot and bothered but you’re tired and have a headache. It’s five, ten, fifteen minutes of your life, and hardly difficult to do, but immeasurably rewarding to him, and a terrific tool to use in keeping your relationship healthy and happy. If it’s clean-up and lube and grip that trouble you, keeping a pack of condoms around just for handjobs makes giving them far less of a chore, and really transforms them into the go-to move for keeping your lover happy. And becoming a master? Well, he’ll probably never be sorry you’ve compromised to give him manual stimulation, and in fact may come to look forwards to it. And hey, a surprise handjob during his favourite show or when he’s just lying on the couch might be a great way to shift gears for the evening.

You can do it, grasshopper, and next time, I’ll tell you how.

[Part Two is finished, with select moves and tips. You can read it here.]

Thursday, April 20, 2006

Hey, honey, mind photocopying this --and your ass-- for me?

A recent sexual harassment lawsuit was tossed out of court in the USA. It doesn’t amount to much in the scheme of things, but I’m fucking elated about it.

During writing meetings on the show “Friends,” things would get raunchy. Sex-talk and profanity would lace the meetings, and one woman got her panties in a twist as a result of it.

I’m sick and tired of the politically correct bullshit out in the world. Whether it’s no longer being able to flirt at all at work or having to check your tongue before you speak, people just take things way too goddamned seriously.

I recently had a reader object to my use of the word “chick” when talking about women. I had to rewrite my response to her because I was so pissed off at first. What the fuck? “Broad” or “skirt” or “twat” or “bitch,” yeah, those are offensive, sure. When you get an email from me, wanna know what the sign-off signature reads? “Resident Cunt.”

Words are words. Intentions behind them are what matters, and people need to start looking at the big picture, not using a macro lens to examine every little happening.

I will never, ever clean my language up for you, people. Sorry, not going to happen. Don’t like it? Read someone else. Go read fucking Miss Manners, for all I care. My blog, my words, my way. Soon, I’ll be having to watch every period and every verb when editors harangue me for perfection and for publication-quality work, but for now? I’m a rebel with a cause, baby, and my cause is “whimsy” and “spontanaeity”. I think it, I say it.

This chick, getting a job on a sitcom about sex, one of the top sitcoms of its time (this was six years ago), was LUCKY. She was FORTUNATE to have an inside fly-on-the-wall perspective of some of the best comedy writing on television. She was warned about the workplace approach when she got the job, yet she decided to rock the boat based on her own narrow perceptions.

It doesn’t work like that, honey.

This is tantamount to something we have occurring a lot here in Vancouver, home of the million-dollar apartments. Yuppies move into areas with clubs and bars and then they piss, moan, and bitch about noise after they’ve moved in. What part of “entertainment district” did you fail to fucking comprehend BEFORE you moved in, HUH? Fucking whiners.

There are a lot of standards I possess that are not met by the world at large, whether it’s cleanliness, food, manners, what have you, but when I leave my front door, I know I need to compromise. That’s life. But these whiners and wimps looking for a perfect, safe, clean, proper life, they’re spoiling it for the rest of us.

It’s one thing to say that unwanted sexual advancements are not appropriate for work, but it’s another thing to let that pendulum of so-called decency swing to extremes. Life just isn’t as fun as it used to be. Personally, I always pushed the envelope in the office. I was known as “flippant.” When I write, I have a backspace key. You think I’m off the hook here? You don’t know shit. In person, the things I say, man, I’m amazed I’ve never been beaten senseless and left for dead some days. Having a cute smile and a twinkle in ze eye serves a girl well, it would seem.

But why should I have to watch what I say? Why can’t I just say it, and if it’s too much, apologize? When did we start cutting the leg off before the gangrene set in, huh? We’re a preventative society now. Playgrounds aren’t nearly as fun as they used to be. Merry-go-rounds are practically a thing of the past. Teeter-totters? Dear god, the potential for death and dismemberment! Get that thing out of here!

We are a nation of pussies, and I don’t mean in the get-it-wet-and-get-it-now “mreow!” sort of way. We’re wimps. We’re too timid. “Park your indecency at the door and homogenize with the rest of us” seems to be the credo of the day. If we were a colour, we’d be beige, man.

So, we’ve had a small victory here with this court case being trounced. For once it seems like filth and debauchery are allowed to be a part of the creative process. But what about the rest of the world? What about workplaces that are boring and stoic? What if a little juice and impropriety was good for productivity? Maybe workers wouldn’t be so compelled to surf for tits and ass when the boss ain’t looking. Who knows. All I know is, talking about sex and swearing and being inappropriate makes me smile. Smiling means I’m happy. Happiness means I get more shit done. Getting more shit done means the wheels of this economy work better.

There’s an argument for scrapping the harassment laws. Economic benefit. Really, look at it – all this shit came into play since the whole Justice Clarence Thomas “Is that a pube on my can of Coke?!” scandal way back when. The economy? Has been tanking ever since.

A connection? Elementary, Dr. Watson. (Okay, I'm being a tad facetious, but really... don't we all hate work a little more than we used to? Isn't impropriety, oh, I don't know... fun?)

Handjobs, some introductory tips, will be up Friday morning and is already written. Sometime Saturday, or Sunday at the latest, part two, techniques and know-how will be posted. It's not written, but I know what I'll be saying, so it won't be difficult to conjure. Check back. :)

You asked? My thoughts on tit-fucking, then

I’ve opened the topic of handjobs, and I’ll continue on them, too, but first a foray into titty-fucking, as one male reader has asked my thoughts on it.

I don’t know the numbers for how many women enjoy titty-fucking, but I know I’m one of the ones who’s actually turned off by the thought of it, and I simply won’t engage. I wish I wasn’t actually turned off by the idea, but hey, it is what it is.

Fortunately, it’s never been a problem. I’ve actually never expressed the dislike until a conversation with the Guy tonight, but no guy I’ve ever been with has been interested. Why not? Maybe it’s not as common a fetish as porn would have us believe. Nonetheless, I have a couple reasons for why it’s not my thang.

First off, depending who’s doing the measuring and my time of month (breasts swell and reduce in relation to the cycle), I’m between a generous B-cup and a smallish C-cup. I don’t care, I’m fine with my breasts as-is, but their size would limit the benefit for titty-fucking, IMHO.

Second, I just don’t find it attractive. It’s not my thing. I won’t apologize for not liking it, either. I won’t judge others, since I really don’t give a fuck what you do in your home. It gets you off? FABULOUS. Not me.

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

But then there’s the flipside. If you’re hesitant to do some of the so-called edgier/pornified things, you get painted a bit as a vanilla lover, or someone who’s “conservative” in the bedroom, which is also bullshit, my friends. There are many things I’ll do, and I’m caught between both extremes on the perception of what kind of woman I am, too. I’ve probably had more public sex than a lion’s share of the people out there, I’ve dabbled in bondage and many other little game-type scenarios. I dirty talk, I’m creative, and I sure as hell take the initiative. I’ll talk about nearly any aspect of sex, but there are things that pull me back into my shell a bit, things that sometimes daunt me, things that even turn me off. I shouldn’t be judged for knowing what I like or dislike, and that’s precisely what happens too fucking much.

There are sex-bloggers who might even snicker at me for admitting I have found handjobs awkward, or that I’m not as come-friendly as others might be, or that I view titty-fucking with great disdain, but you know what? Get the fuck over it. It’s my prerogative.

Being a good lover is: A) Knowing what you like, dislike, and love. B) Knowing how to express your needs. C) Being open-minded without compromising yourself, whatever that might mean for you. D) Not judging your lover’s desires, but being true to yourself so you’re not going to resent them after the fact. (Always, always consider how you’re going to feel if you perform an act that’s not generally your cup of tea. Some things I’ll do because I know how “he’ll” feel, and thus, I know I’ll feel great seeing that expression on “his” face. Some things, “his” response just doesn’t matter because I know I’ll be left feeling like I’ve compromised who I am as a result of my actions.)

Sex and love and intimacy are minefields. There are things that will hit and miss with each of us, and our likes or dislikes need to be respected, or the collateral damage leaves all players pretty frickin’ fragged.

Honestly, titty-fucking’s just one of those things that I suspect every woman has a multitude of thoughts on. Personally, being a woman with a little more to grab around the mid-section, there’s nothing that turns me on better than a guy who navigates my entire body and who enjoys every inch of me. I’m fortunate in my present relationship to have a great guy who appreciates the whole of the female form, not just the three money-shot areas that many guys obsess over: Twat, tits, and ass.

And that’s one of the problems with titty-fucking. It takes some of us back to the boring same old shit that focuses on specific regions of our bodies when not enough of our bodies get explored during the rest of the act. When’s the last time you kissed her behind the knees? Or nibbled her low back? Or sucked the folds of her elbows? Huh?

My opinion on tit-fucking isn’t going to change any time soon. It’s one of those things that’s just true to who I am. I’m open to anything from anal to bondage to outdoor sex and sex toys of all kinds, but there are some things I’m just not in the mindset to ever enjoy, and I don’t even want to humour the guy and do it, just because I know how I’ll feel at the end of it, and it probably will be something along the lines of feeling cheap. No, thanks.

Again, this is MY perspective on tit-fucking. There are women who absolutely love it, and kudos to them. Whatever gets your rocks off, baby. But don’t judge me for what I dislike. Instead, realize that my knowing not only what I dislike but being able to express why takes maturity, insight, and self-knowledge – things I wish more people had the courage to express. Until, however, we stop judging people for what they do or don’t do, the sexual self-knowledge club might remain on the exclusive side of things. A real fucking pity, that.

Hickies are great when they can't be seen, but for professional reasons (I work with kids), I'd rather they not wind up on my neck. Got home last night to discover loverboy had accidentally (because he knows how I feel) left a small hickey on the front of my neck, where a guy's Adam's apple would be. I wasn't ticked off or anything, since I remember the moment and I think it's sort of worth it, but I reached into my cabinet and put some Arnica cream on it (a natural remedy good for bruises). This morning? 50% lighter, and I usually take forever to lose hickies! Thought I'd throw it out there as a tip for others who also need to avoid showing off their love bites.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Handjobs for everybody!

The handjob is one of those topics I’ve been putting off.

I’m about to confess something that no self-professed sex writer should ever confess. Giving a handjob feels really fucking weird sometimes. There, I said it. Yep. It’s how I feel, people. Deal with it.

Wanna know something? I’m not alone. I’ve chatted with more than a few chicks “in real life” who’ve expressed the same sentiment.

I’ve been trying to figure out what’s so “weird” about it, too. Let’s face it, aspects of feminine masturbation are really quite delicate. Into clit orgasms? (Me! Me!) All a gal needs to do is lie there and do some 1-2” finger rotations, and whomp, there it is. Hell, I’ve masturbated in public places and never got noticed. (But let’s not talk about that.) It’s just that simple as a chick. Whatever we do, it tends to look pretty sophisticated and subtle, and it gets us off.

When a girlie needs to stroke a boy, though, it’s so utterly foreign to us. Worse yet, it’s so obvious and so clumsy. Most of the time, it can leave us feeling useless. Up and down, up and down – oops! I did it again! I just slipped my hand right off your cock again! Oh, MY.

It takes a while to get used to giving handjobs, for sure. If you’re gonna tug one out, it’s best to have a user’s guide, first.

I’ve been working on technique – enough said, thank you very kindly – and believe I have a couple suggestions for things to be done a little differently.

First, though, let’s address the girls’ concerns. “Why bother masturbating him when he’s so much better at it?” Well, because he knows what to expect if he’s gonna get himself off. He knows when he’ll change paces, he knows what the next move is, and he even knows the exact point he’ll stop. You, though, girlie-girl, you’re the mystery factor. You doing it is like he’s being taken for a drive blindfolded. He knows he’ll get there, but the route’s gonna be one hell of a different experience without a direction to be aware of.

Guys go through their teen years praying they’ll get a handjob at the end of the night. And while, as a grown-up, the money-shot’s really in a good blowjob, going for manual stimulation’s never too much of a disappointment. Except when her awkwardness and insecurities are too obvious, that is.

Have a chat with your guy, let him know you’re a little awkward driving stick. Tell him to let you know if you’re grinding the gears or shifting in all the right ways. Ask him to tell you when he’s enjoying a specific technique, or if he can’t speak at the time and it’s real, real good, to bite his lower lips and close his eyes.

Watch his face. Study him. Learn what he’s loving. This, unlike giving head, is basically a two-way experience, because you can soak up so much useful information as to what gets your man off. Is it the nib under the tip? Ringing the base? Stroking gently with just a finger up the top of his shaft? Maybe it’s the old knob-polishing routine that’s too under-used? Giving head, you can’t really follow his reactions as much, so use this for what it is, a learning experience, and an opportunity to give him a nice orgasm.

Always, always, always make mental notes about what your lover enjoys, I don’t care who you are or what you think you know. Bodies aren’t one-size fits all, and not every trick works on every dick. You’re on your own, mostly, sister. I’m only trying to make it a little less daunting, is all.

But right now, coffee beckons, plus a few other things. I’ll write more on hand-jobs in the coming days/week, since it’s not done yet (eeps) but I’m curious if there’s other women out there who can share their feelings about giving a handjob, whether they too have felt odd performing them previously, or if guys want to volunteer things they’ve enjoyed having done to them in the past.

*Honestly, I mean, giving head's great, but if you're like me and you've been in a half-dozen vehicle accidents or so, the neck strain can be a killer sometimes, despite my fondness for impromptu oral. Something like a handjob is a great way to do something really nice for your guy with a minimum of exertion, comparatively. So, yes, there are very good reasons to give handjobs, and more on that very soon. This photo's from Doesn't look like that inspired of a handjob on either side, though, does it? Hmm.

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

The Guy has teased me and says if I'm not careful, this is gonna become a relationship blog instead of a sex blog. So, sorry if I've been going in the Vanilla direction, kids. Today's a writing day, so I'll see what I can muster. Perhaps: A sex toy review, a hand-job tip or two, and an answer to a reader's question about cheating, for tomorrow?

And to tell the truth, I avoid posting anything good over long weekends, because readership is adown, and those who do read never comment, so the reward for me is virtually nil. Instead, I'll wait till you poor motherfuckers are tied to your desks again. :) Which means now. Tomorrow, something more titillating. I promise. Otherwise the Boyfriend will withhold sex, I suspect, or something. God forbid.

The Great UnForgetting

I’ve had a nice evening. My good buddy popped in to share a joint with me, which set the stage for me to really nail what’d been mulling around in the back of my mind for a good deal of my day. There comes a time for most of us, and it’s not a one-time occurrence, but something that crops up repeatedly over the decades, when we remember something we’ve been forgetting: Ourselves.

It’s a little after midnight and my neighbour might be getting pissed at me. I’m sitting here at my big-assed writing desk, my stained lamp burning next to me, and my iPOD roaring the Stone Roses’ rock/love anthem “Good Times,” and I’m roaring right along with it, rocking my little white ass on off.

Where did our sweet love go? Who stole away our time?
Why do the stars above refuse to shine?
The harder I try to paint a picture of the way it was back then
The more I miss the good times, baby, let it roll again

Good times baby, this is the time
I need to know that your love is mine
Love me up, yeah, reel me in
I’m hooked, line and sinker, she’s my heroin

My night? Comprised of some gorgeous bruschetta I made myself with artisan bread, cherry tomatoes, fresh basil, and so forth. Oh, and copious garlic. I mean, shit, some days are made for pretending you’re single. ;) Garlic! But I kindly shared this feast with GayBoy. After all, he got me high. I little quid bud quo, if you know what I mean. (AKA, munchies, baby.)

After that, some porn on TV. (I mean the food channel. Oh, orgasmic.) Then, some cleaning, some reading, a salty bath, some music, some stretching, and more. It was all me, all night.

I go through these phases when I neglect myself. Usually, it’s just life getting too stressed and I get too scattered as a result. Sometimes, though, I’m just too goddamned nice for my own good. Now, I do these rants against the religious right, and I mean every fucking word I say, but let’s not forget that I was once a member of that same religious right. I was an extreme Catholic. If religion is a sport, I was a skydiver.

I wanted to be a nun, knew all the songs to the Sound of Music, and so on. I was a preacher kid even when I was 8. The kids would gather ‘round me on Gordie’s front stoop and I’d regale them with Christ’s antics for that week. “And then Judas betrayed him!” [insert atheist neighbourhood kids’ gasps here] I may not be religious anymore (since my mid-teens), but I’m pretty damned value-centred.

I live according to my principles, my virtue, my methods. I don’t give a fuck who’s morals I’m supporting or flaunting or mocking in the way I live, it’s about ensuring I’m living up to my own creed and satisfying my own demands of myself. When it comes to helping people who can use a little kindness, I try to do it. When it’s family, friends, or lovers who are in need of attention, I put them first for a little while – like we all should. So, when boyfriend busted his drumstick, I made him a priority for a bit, and that’s cool, it’s great. I’m pleased with my behaviour, and I’m satisfied I made his first three or so hellish weeks more pleasant, and that’s what it’s all about. It gets me to sleep at night. He’s through the dark patch, and now I’m taking a little more time for me, and intend to continue that. He’ll benefit because I’ll be at my best when we get together now, and that, too, is what it’s all about. All self-love means is making sure I spend an hour or so doting on myself when I can, really.

And we all forget how easy (and important) it is to do this – a little extra self-love fills the gaps when the big ol’ world forgets to show us the love. And god knows it’s gonna, sooner or later, and we ought to be at our best when it does.

Life’s hard enough to get through without forgetting about yourself. The thing we all need to remember is that lifelong vows and friendships and family are great, but the only person we’re absolutely sure is going to be in our lives until our dying days is ourselves.

The less we take care of ourselves, the more we resent our obligations to others. It’s about balance, ballast, ballet, whatever the hell you want to call it. It’s a dance of distribution, and you can’t neglect yourself in the performance.

It’s something I need to remind myself of from time to time. I didn’t “forget” myself these past few weeks – I just minimized myself for the time being, put me on pause. And that’s fine. Some weeks, that’s the way it goes.

This ain’t that week, baby. I’m unpausing. I’ll still dote on my guy, ‘cos he’s my guy and all, but just a little bit less than I was, that’s all. Balance, baby. It’s a struggle.

Monday, April 17, 2006

Stress and Relationships

Life’s hard. We’ve all come to learn this through our own experiences. Adversity finds us, and it finds us with ease. Sometimes we deal well, and sometimes we don’t.

Almost always, the ones who bear the brunt of our emotional duress are those around us. Keeping our heads straight and keeping our emotions intact are what we’re told ‘adults’ do. So, we struggle. We keep ourselves under control, or at least we delude ourselves in thinking we’re managing to do so.

But then we snap. Little things piss us off, bend us out of shape. Inconsequential things, like other people’s bad driving, meaningless comments from our lovers, or so-called disappointments like the movie we’re wanting to see being rented out already. Then we grumble, moan, erupt.

Last week, a couple things sort of sent me headed towards Tizzy Land. My lover snapped at me once, and then said something a little crass and thoughtless the next day. Two things, two days in a row, was enough to make me start thinking, “Is this worth the effort? Don’t I deserve better?”

In reality, though, each of those moments couldn’t even amount to a molehill. Considering the weeks since we started seeing each other, all the adversity thrown at each of us, the fact that we’ve managed as well as we have in the face of those, and have had as many long and good and wonderful conversations as we’ve had, and that we have only had these two itty-bitty things to grouse about, things are going pretty fucking good.

The problem I’ve found with my relationship is that, with any new relationship, you get the “honeymoon period.” How doth I love thee? Let me count the ways. It’s the period when everything is bliss and sunshine, when you feel you’ve been blessed with something wildly great. It’s that time when everything you do is interrupted with those too-frequent giddy little thoughts of, “Mm, I’m seeing him/her tonight. Boy, I can’t wait! Mm… kisses!”

This relationship didn’t really come with a honeymoon period. It began with my being sick, followed by mutual money fears, followed by his short-lived good luck of being hired on permanently to his job, and then, whammo, a couple days later, he was felled with a serious broken leg that required two operations done same-day. Now, he’s on crutches still for about another month.

Me, I’ve been playing nursemaid, and I thought I wasn’t resentful about it. I really did. I’m the kind of gal who wants to be of use, who wants to help. Even more importantly, I’m a gal who spent a total of 20 weeks on crutches over about 13 and a half months, the last instance being just over a year ago. If anyone can relate to how fucking hard life on crutches is, it’s me. So, help I have, and as much as I’ve been able.

But then I snapped last week, and all because he had a grumpy moment. It’s fine and dandy to relate to someone’s problems, but when you think they have a reason to be grateful to you for putting yourself out for an hour or two, it’s far too bloody easy to forget that their frustrations are much greater than the few you’ve encountered in the recent hours. So, I disregarded how hard his life’s been of late, and how angry he probably is at all this, and let myself feel sorry for myself as a result, and then took it out on him.

A few years ago, it’d have been enough reason for me to walk away from the relationship. “Mmf, he doesn’t appreciate me.” I’d petulantly walk away, all in a huff, and take it personally. This time, I’m an adult with a little accumulated wisdom behind my years. I started to realize my anger wasn’t at him, not really. It was because we never had a honeymoon period, and now, here we were, in a “real” relationship, with disagreements and miscommunications, and it dawned on me… we probably would never have that honeymoon period after all. We’ve gone from meeting to having a mature, measured relationship, without any of the carefree bliss in between.

Caring for a person doesn’t necessarily mean you’re always going to be able to treat them as they deserve to be treated. It’s hard to be honest with ourselves about how difficult our adversities are. It’s even more difficult to be honest with ourselves about how overwhelmed we’re feeling in the face of those adversities. And let’s face it, it’s brutal to admit our powerlessness to someone we’re hoping always sees us at our best, especially if you’re the guy and you’re supposed to be stoic and strong. But as a woman, it can also be really challenging to admit those feelings because we don’t want to be perceived as needy or overly emotional. Both sexes always have too much to lose from telling the truth, or so we seem to believe.

Admitting disappointments and anger and fear and hopelessness is akin to admitting we’re not tough enough to take life on. None of us wants to be that person, the one who’s being beaten by adversity. None of us wants to admit to embarrassment or failure. The one person we ought to be able to admit these things to is the one person we hope will never find it out. We don’t want their illusions of us to be shattered. After all, we know the truth: We’re not perfect.

Or, maybe it’s a little different from that. In my case, I didn’t want to seem petty. I didn’t want my guy to know I was angry he broke his leg, that I was hurt by the reality that we were suddenly thrust into this serious situation whereby our bliss was hurled out the third floor window of a hospital. The incisions in his legs cut into the heart of our relationship and made things complicated – when things should have seemed blissful and easy.

The thing about a new relationship is that it takes the edge off an already hard life for a little bit, and we didn’t have that. I found myself resentful about it, and as a result, I hated that I could feel such a way – feel so petty, so needy – when I really, really liked the guy regardless of the struggles he now faced.

It’s hard to tell someone you resent what’s occurring to you as a result of their adversities, and that resentment can really prove damaging to us. A great example of this is from the absolutely incredible and amazing miniseries Angels in America, when Louis leaves Prior because Prior’s been diagnosed with AIDS. Louis loves Prior as much as any person can, but he’s too fucking weak to stand around and watch his lover succumb to his horrid disease, so he walks, and in so doing, very nearly destroys himself as a result.

We hate ourselves for our inability to deal with life’s challenges, and it certainly can kill our relationships. We all know that stresses send our sexual desires plummeting sometimes, and with that, one of our healthiest forms of release takes a walk on us, and next thing you know, an already unpleasant situation escalates.

In my situation, I think we’ve overcome the worst of the Guy’s adversities. It’s not over, not by a long shot, and I hope I’m woman enough to continue admitting to him when it’s difficult for me, too, while still being there for him when he needs it. I’ve no illusions about the difficulties that lie ahead for us as he begins the slow path to rehabilitation, but then, I’ve been through similar struggles myself, and I know that if anyone can provide the support and understanding he’s going to need during this time, it’s me. And, fortunately, something inside of me says it’s worth it. I hope I’m right. But therein lies another struggle, that of unknowing and that of doubt. We just never know.

But we can hope. So, I do. I know there’s one great tool we both have at our disposal, and fortunately, we both know how to use it, and that’s communication. It’s the only thing that gets us through these times, and it can never be underestimated.

(And for those keeping score at home, the weekend spent with the Guy after our little crises last week was awesome. Really, really nice. I think we both had a really great time with each other -- and probably even the nicest time we've shared yet -- and have gone our respective ways today with a lot more faith and optimism about our future together, because we both finally admitted to our angst and frustration about his leg -- which has had more healing in the past few days than either of us could have predicted. Gotta love optimism.)

Sunday, April 16, 2006

"Mommy, what's a blowjob?"

If there's one thing I never really talked to my folks about, it was sex. I mean, at the tender age of 12 I walked in on my father rolling back and forth on top of my mother, both of them painfully naked, at about 8 on a Friday night. He was quite overweight then and it made me wonder if that's how whales mated.

As a result, sex held little allure for me. It looked... weird. Awkward. Just plain bad, honestly. I simply didn't ask, and they didn't tell.

It's one of those things I wish now I'd talked to my mom about more before she died. The older I get, the more I wonder whether she really did have a vixen under her skin. I remember when a friend of hers turned 50, and she found & ordered this studly stripper guy and had him come to our condo to do a striptease. She asked me to do the photography (and naturally I fucked that up) and it was a "wine and cheese" and wiener night, apparently. The women, so mature and nice and friendly were all gushing over this dark, buff, cute guy stripping for school tuition. He put some jeans on later and sat talking with them for two hours after the gig.

"Oh, I'm working my way through college, studying criminology."

My, what big brains you have, Brad.

One of the all-time fave sex conversations I had with my mother transpired when I was about eight years old.

We were watching a video of Steve Martin’s “The Jerk” one day, and there was a joke about a blowjob. Mom howled with laughter, wiping tears from her eyes. She was a sucker for Steve. I didn’t get the joke. I furrowed my little blond brows and turned to scrutinize her.

“Mom, what’s a blowjob?”


“A blowjob, what is it?”

“Oh, that’s when a woman sucks on a man’s penis, dear.”

“Ew! Why would she want to do that?”

She shrugged and said, “Ah, you got me, sweetie. You got me.”

This casual dismissal of blowjobs made me think they were insane. "She sucks on his pee-pee?" was the thought running through my head. "How icky. EW."

She rewound the segment, played the joke again, and this time I giggled, too, with a hint of revulsion.

I was more of a Fudgsicle girl way back when.

Sugasm #30

(So, it's a holiday weekend and I thought lying around mostly naked and playing with the bits and pieces of my significant other sounded a little more entertaining and, well, frankly, nice, than playing with my keyboard. I'm still in lazy mode, though he's left a little bit ago, so I'm going to recoup my tired ass on my couch, catching up on taped television from the last week. I'll have something tasty and new for you on Monday. Thanks for waiting. These folks, however, have good shit for you to read here and now. Have at'em.

And if you see a large, furry bunny hopping around with eggs in your backyard, please, don't shoot. He still hasn't gotten his ass over here with that chocolate. Fuck, y'know, service ain't what it usedta be, baby.)

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Friday, April 14, 2006

Today, it's Good Friday. Here in Canada, it's a long weekend. I'm taking today off, but hope to have something for you Saturday morning and maybe later Sunday night. Don't know. Check back. My readership tends to be down on long weekends, so I'm not sure whether I'll go to the mat or not, and the Guy's coming over for a couple nights, so I may be otherwise engaged. We'll see. But Happy Easter, folks. Enjoy. :)

Thursday, April 13, 2006

An Intro to the Cunt's Take on Abortion

The Guy knows I’ve thought about abortion a couple of times this week, and he coincidentally found a pretty horrific story in the New York Times about abortions in El Savador on the same day I happened to buy the Mike Leigh film “Vera Drake” on DVD.

It’s an interesting time for abortion.

On January 22nd, 1973, Roe v. Wade was decided in the American Supreme Court, which ruled, essentially, that a woman’s right to privacy superseded a state’s law on abortion, thus legalizing the highly controversial practice.

That means, being 32, abortion has been legal for my entire life. Yet I can recall being a child and seeing the “Dr. Death” propaganda waved in front of Dr. Henry Morgentaler, who was a legendary abortion activist. I was a staunch Catholic as a kid and perceived abortion to be “killing babies.”

Now, though, I perceive it as a necessary evil in a world where mistakes – and yes, crimes against women – can transpire. Should I find out I’m pregnant tomorrow, I’ll be at the clinic Monday. I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve used the so-called “morning after” pill three times, the first being back when I was about 20. I even remember the condom breaking, that one catalyst that forced me into that situation. I take the birth control pill now, and use the condom as well. I’m vigilant. But if something were to happen, I’d go to a clinic and deal with it.

Because it’s my body, because it’s my choice, because it’s nine months of my life that’s at stake, because I know that my genes are likely to mean a kid may have too many medical problems in their youth, because there are too many reasons for me not to have a kid. Because.

I feel for men who believe that it’s their kid too. I feel badly that they might think they should have more of a say in the matter. But until they’re able to have a distended belly, all-over bloating, utter discomfort and unease for a nine-month period, until they’re able to “squeeze one out,” the choice needs to be that of the female.

I can say a lot of shit right now, and I’ll have many men on my ass as a result, so I’ll keep it short and not so sweet. Men have great intentions. They want to be daddies. They want to bring a kid in the world. Ultimately, the majority of them take their responsibilities too simply, and the women tend to have to do most of the cleaning, cooking, and whatever the hell else the Soccer Mom of the Year tends to do. It’s the way it’s always been, and while dads are getting more involved and taking on more, they’re kidding themselves if they think it’s all evened out now. There are exceptions, of course, and yes, I’m speaking in generalities, but generalities being “the norm,” we know this is largely true, so please spare me the arguments on this. There are exceptions, but let’s look at the norms, all right? For the sake of argument.

When some guy – a boyfriend, a lover, whatever – says he wants the kid, he’s going to take care of it, there’s not a whole lot to go on there. Intentions don’t make the world go round, and promises are made to be broken. When it’s 18 years to life, one doesn’t wish to take a gamble, not when one knows who’s to pay the price when it all goes belly up. She will.

When the religious right and all those other bubbleheads get on their soapboxes to proclaim the sanctity of sperm and the amorality of abortion, they’re forgetting that the world isn’t some idealist’s wet dream. Ideals are for fools, and reality is for the rest of us. Yes, kids can be put up for adoption, but there are already kids out there needing parents – they’re just not the cute and cuddly little things in pink bunny slippers that every yuppie this side of suburbia’s got designs on. Let’s take care of those already neglected before we bring more into the picture. Yes, there’s social assistance for mothers who can’t make the finances work, but it’s not enough. Yes, everyone claims they’ll be there for the women when the women need help, but three years down the line, she’s going to be all alone, and she essentially knows it.

The thing that makes me most mad about this whole anti-abortion thing is this: It’s Christians leading the charge against it – whether it be El Salvador, Guatemala, or here in our own backyard – and they seem to have missed that very, very important part in the book of Genesis. God allegedly put an apple on a tree, and told Adam and Eve it was there, and the choice was theirs as to whether to eat it. He said there would be consequences for their actions, the expulsion from Eden, but He chose as a Creator to give them the option to decide what they would do with their life. Consequences would be doled out in the afterlife, and purgatory would be the resting ground for debts to be paid. Them were the rules set out by the Big Cheese oh so many millennia ago.

So, here we are, thousands and thousands of years after these alleged events, and these fucking Bubbleheads have decided that God’s choice to allow us the freedom of choice just isn’t good enough for their little right wing mission.

I love how they want to adhere to the Bible when it suits them, yet throw it out the window when it means they have to live in a society that doesn’t adhere to their little cookie cutter mentality of Utopia.

Get over it. Choice, according to your beliefs, was divinely given. Man cannot usurp it, is what the Good Book claims. Or is yours a faith of convenience after all? Oh, the hypocrisy. Fuck, I hate hypocrites.

(*As for El Salvador and Vera Drake, I’ve more thoughts on those. I’ll get back to that another time. Abortion’s being messed with in a major way, and Bush is on a mission. Well, la di da. So am I.)