Saturday, February 26, 2011

The City That Care (Didn't) Forget

So, I should be studying for this massive test I have Monday. Ugh. I have been, truthfully, and I won’t dull you with the details of school. But it should be said that most of my thoughts bubbles under the surface until a big bout of procrastination forces me to find something else to focus on – like cleaning my kitchen. Or writing blogs. :)


Mardi Gras is rapidly approaching. Technically, it’s been Mardi Gras since Epiphany – January 6th. But the crest, the climax, of the season is next weekend. The parades began last weekend, and there are quite a number this weekend, though I’m sitting them out for now to focus on school and work. Next weekend is the big weekend – from Thursday night through Tuesday evening, the city will be a mad mess of drinking in the streets, beads, and thousands of locals and tourists indulging in their every desire before Lent. I’ve seen it as a child, as a college student, as a rider on a float (in north Louisiana, anyway), and now, as an adult. It’s much more than simply drunk college students who try to flash for beads, but if you haven’t been here, then I’ll suffice to say you won’t understand without experiencing it.


Mardi Gras last year was pretty fucking miserable for me.

I’m just going to put that out there.

The parades were fun, yes. I had a great time at Muses and the handful of others that I attended. Actually, the best part of the weekend for me was the walk to and from my house, crossing St. Charles, seeing families and groups of friends, children running in circles, fences draped with beads.

Last year, at this time, my life felt like a crash course. I was working two jobs, and I had no money to show for it, because I was paying for my girlfriend’s share of utilities and rent and groceries. I would lie awake at night, trying to figure out how to stop my money from flying out of my hands before I could make it. It felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest, all the time. I was working one job at a restaurant, and though my bosses and the restaurant itself were really cool, I felt like I was going into a coma for hours just to make it through the day. Mardi Gras weekend I worked every day, eight to ten hours a day, in a state of constant chaos – hundreds of people, two hour waits, drunks, kids, stumbling over other staff members. It was great money, but the whole weekend was an exhausting blur. My other job I enjoyed, but the board member who controlled my employment was constantly trying to get me to do immoral and ridiculously stupid things, like lying on grants. I felt like I was constantly fighting him at that job, and it was wearing thin what little sanity I had left.

I was in school that semester three nights a week, which meant my days lasted eleven to twelve hours – wake up at 9am, go to work, go to school, pick up my girlfriend from work downtown, get home by 11pm or midnight, sleep, rinse, repeat. My classes weren’t going very well. I felt like the program wasn’t anywhere as high as my expectations, and I felt cheated because the reality wasn’t what I had been told.  

But really, I could have handled all of that. I can survive being broke and the stress of school, and Lord knows I’ve worked some jobs that made me want to pull my hair out. The tipping point was my girlfriend. Three and a half years in, and it was really, ridiculously clear that things were unraveling. We weren’t getting along, and I was feeling really trapped. I loved her, I cared about her. I honestly thought (at that point) things could work, or I was just too scared to admit to myself that I knew better. I’m not sure. But everything cracked to hell at Mardi Gras. We went to Muses and had a great time – it’s my favorite parade. Afterward, I agreed to go to a party at her coworker’s house, where we both proceeded to get trashed, well beyond my comfort zone, and in front of all her friends and coworkers, she flirted the whole night with the girl she was cheating on me with. Maybe ‘cheating’ is the wrong word, but it’s the best I’ve got right now. Fucking with my knowledge but without my consent or approval. 
Hm. That’s about right.

I couldn’t handle it. I left, got in my car when I was well beyond the capacity to drive (thankfully, I hit nothing), went home, and passed out on the couch. She fucked the girl, came home the next morning, and told me. And then asked me to pay her rent the next week. I remember so clearly, driving my car as we left Zotz, when she told me she didn’t have the money for rent. I wanted more than anything to drive my car through a wall, but I wasn’t stupid enough to wreck my car and put myself in an even shittier place.

I ran into the girl she was sleeping with at least once a week back then, and I vacillated from wanting to tell her off to just feeling really sorry for her. It was obvious she cared, obvious she was getting invested. She was young and sweet and na├»ve, and I wanted to warn her that she was going to get hurt. She would be collateral damage. But I wanted no responsibility for that, so I kept my distance. I told my girlfriend to think through this, to realize what she was doing. But as it became increasingly clear over the next few months, either she didn’t realize or didn’t care, and everything and anything became collateral damage.

Most of that weekend is a blur. I remember driving on Claiborne, stuck in traffic, and we were both crying. I wanted to be around her – I wanted the person I used to know, not the one that was there – and yet I wished she would just disappear. I hid at home or ran from the house, depending on the moment. I cried three, four, five times a day, at the drop of a pin. I had so much pent up sexual tension (on top of the stress), that I was a fucking emotional wreck. If I wasn’t crying, I was pissy and annoying.

I’d only been living in NOLA for a few months, and I knew almost no one. The few people I knew well were in the same boat as me – so busy they didn’t see the light of day often. It was isolating and miserable, and I felt extremely lonely. I realize now, looking back, that I had so much anxiety and sadness and anger at the time that I didn’t want to be around anyone. Social situations were overwhelming. Most everyone I had met knew me as a part of a couple, and they adored my girlfriend – she was charming and sweet and funny, she’s easy to love the first time you meet her. I shy away from many of the people who met me during those months. It wasn’t me. I was ashamed of how miserable I was, ashamed that I didn’t know how to tell my girlfriend “no” as much as I wanted to when she asked for money. I was ashamed that many of my friends felt like I had a great relationship, when they simply didn’t know the truth. I didn’t want my friends to hate her, to “take sides.” I didn’t know how to tell people how fucking bad things had gotten – especially when I couldn’t even admit it to myself yet. I didn’t want to be a burden.


A year later, looking back, it’s like I stepped out of a haze.

I feel like I have put so much of this behind me, and it’s an amazing feeling to have some distance. So much has changed, and all of it has been for the better. I can’t even fathom it.

I have a job I love. Adore. I mean, like anyone, I have days where I’m frustrated, where I make mistakes, where I feel incompetent or unheard. But the truth is, I’m doing something that plays to my strengths, my interests. My boss is fantastic. I count him as a friend as much as a coworker, and I respect him immensely.

I’m making money doing something I love. Fuck. That blows my mind. I know that might not happen again for the rest of my life, so I’m definitely enjoying it while I can.

I have an awesome roommate. No, she can’t change the toilet paper roll, and she’s not big on taking out the trash. But we have so much fun hanging out that I don’t really care. We get along great. She contributes for her share, and I never have to worry she’ll be unreliable or late on rent. Even when we’re stressed, we don’t take it out on each other. My house feels like a home, a place I can be comfortable, again. It’s the best roommate relationship I’ve possibly ever had.

I have a woman in my life whose company I genuinely enjoy, who doesn’t expect anything I can’t or won’t give, and who is incredibly fun to experiment with sexually. I don’t feel like I have much to give after four years in a relationship. I’m gunshy and anxious at times, and I’m grateful to walk instead of jumping into something I can’t handle.

I love this city. Adore it. There’s so much here that I can’t do it all, can’t see it all. I’m finding friends again – old and new –who I enjoy spending time with. I can laugh again, and it’s honest and raw. It feels good.

I’m healthy. I’m financially stable. I don’t stay up at night anymore freaking out about money, wake up crying. My anxiety has dropped dramatically. I actually look forward to meeting new people. I don’t run the other way at the thought of new social situations. I’m learning to talk about things again when I have a problem, instead of internalizing everything. 

It’s really... good.


I’ve spoken to so many of my friends from high school and college in the last year, and I’ve often heard the same story. They’re not happy. They hate their job, or they’re in a dead-end relationship, or they’re struggling with school. They hate that they’re still living at home. They’re broke or in debt or overwhelmed by stress. I began saying – believing – that many of us were idealizing what our lives should be, harping on the one or two things that we didn’t have instead of the many things we do have.

It comes down to this: the majority of the people I know have one of these: a great job, a city they love, great friends/family who live close by, or great partner. To have two is awesome. To have three or four – a fucking miracle.

In some ways, I rationalized that I was doing ok because I had a city I wanted to live in. I had at least one job I sort of liked, even if it was stressful and frustrating. And the rest – well, I was doing ok.

Looking back, I wasn’t ok. It's true I can't all go through life focusing on all the things I don't have -- there will always be more things I want than things I have. But I do think it is ok to say "no." It's ok to ask for more. It's ok to want more, to strive for more, to demand more. You'll never get what you didn't ask for. It's about striking a balance between desire and acceptance. 

Now – I’m a lot more than ok. I’m ridiculously blessed. I can’t really believe this is my life. I have more than I know what to do with. I can't believe that there's really nothing major I would change in my life right now. I mean, I could always use better health insurance, a better paying job, more time in the week. But that's all pretty minor considering how much is going right. :)

I’m so very much looking forward to this Mardi Gras – getting dressed up, hosting a house full of people, celebrating my roommate’s birthday, taking some time off work and school, possibly getting laid.  Parades and beads and beer and friends. Fuck yes. 

Laissez le bon temps roulez. 

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

a Kinkster is Born

The overhead fan is beating through the heavy summer heat, but it doesn’t make much of a difference. My room is stifling. The afternoon sun glaring on my windows isn’t helping – but neither are we. I’ve got her down on my bed, my hips holding her captive. She slides her hands under the oversized men’s cotton polo shirt I’m wearing; her fingers feel cool against the heat of my skin.

I stop kissing her, pull away. “Will you take your jeans off?”

I’m making her nervous. I can tell. I’m always a bit surprised when this happens, especially when I know for a fact that I’m younger, less experienced. But I suppose everyone isn’t quite so brash, completely sober and determined to get laid in the middle of the afternoon.

“I don’t know…”

“Please?” I keep pushing, foolishly, because I’m young and aggressive.

But she clearly isn’t going to oblige. I flip around, climbing off her, and fall into the bed next to her. She pulls up on her side, leaning over me, pulling me under her.

“Yes?” I’m not trying to be rude, but my response comes off as a cocky question.

“I want to fuck you.”

I look directly into her eyes, unfazed. “You already have. I want to fuck you.”

“Not today, not now.” She’s insistent.

“That’s not fair. I don’t want you to keep fucking me and not let me touch you.” In my head, I rationalize not wanting to start this – whatever this is – as anything but reciprocal.

“Just for today.”

I’m clearly not getting anywhere, and there's a time to stop pushing. I relax and pull her into me. She leans in to kiss me. She wants to get me off. We fucked the day before, and I didn’t come. I had gotten close – so close, then my body shut off at the last moment. It’s not abnormal. Bodies are fickle, unpredictable, changing. An orgasm, or lack of one, doesn’t mean or prove anything, at least, not in my eyes.

We’re still kissing, but I’m pondering the next move. My choices are to let her fuck me or get out of bed. This isn’t a difficult decision. She begins to unbutton my shirt from the bottom, and I follow her lead, unbuttoning it from the top. She slides off the only other article of clothing I’m wearing – a pair of cotton panties – and runs her hands across my body.

She swings her body across mine, holding herself up over me, and pulls the down comforter up and over our bodies. She’s stripped down from three shirts to one by this point, and I’ve got her bra off, even if she’s still holding on to her t-shirt and jeans. She sits up, hips holding me down, and catches both my wrists with her hands, pulling them above my head. I don't expect this, at all, and my body tenses reflexively. But I don't have any time to react. The weight of her body is pushing me deeper into the bed; I can't move. She leans in, lips grazing my ear. 

"I'm going to let go of your wrists. But you're not going to move. Do you understand?"

I'm gulping for air. Between breaths, I nod. 

"Don't say anything. I don't want to hear a peep from you. I don't want you to move a muscle. Understood?"

I'm nodding.

"Say 'yes' so I know you understand."

"Yes," I whisper. 

"If you move, I'll won't touch you." Every muscle in my body is frozen. 

She releases my wrists and moves down my body, slowly, kissing across my breasts, my stomach, my hip bones, the inside of my thighs. It's taking every ounce of my concentration to  focus on not moving, not twitching. She spreads my legs wide; they feel like jello -- I have no control. Her tongue finds my swollen clit, and a moan falls out of my lips. I tense, hoping she didn't hear me. 

She stops. Fuck. "Did I just hear you moan?"

I shake my head back and forth.

"Answer me."

"No. Yes. I'm sorry."

"Don't do it again."

She puts her mouth back to my clit, wraps both arms under and around my thighs until she's gripping me so tight I'm tensing against her. 

I don't have time to think, to process this totally new sensation in my body. I come so fucking fast that it scares me. I couldn't hold back if I wanted to. 

Monday, February 21, 2011

[e]lust #23

Welcome to e[lust] - Your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you’re looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you’re going to find it here. Want to be included in e[lust] #24? Start with the rules, check out the schedule and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~

Roadmaps of Consent - I fucking love consent. I love safewords. I can be much more cruel, and push much harder, if I trust my partner to tell me when I go too far.

Staying Safe - One cock, from one man, missing one condom, ultimately led to my brother’s death. And that sucks.

Flying the Friendly Skies - One button on her sweater was undone, there was a rip in her hose, scratches on her boots, and her hair was carelessly pinned back with stray wisps of hair escaping. There was a curious flavor of soiling about her, something a bit dirty and unkempt.

~ Featured Post (Lilly’s Pick) ~

Labels and my thoughts... - In the past year and a half I have gone from being someone that was lost, without identity that fit, rattling around inside myself to someone that has names for what they are.

~ e[lust] Editress: Dangerous Lilly

See also: Pleasurists #116 and #117 for all your sex toy review needs
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

She's an 8 Ball

As she walks up the steps, I pull open the front door, revealing my dining room cloaked in darkness. She leans down to kiss me, and I shift up on my toes, pulling her face down to mine. Connecting in. I like starting in a comfortable place, a calm place. She drops her backpack at my feet, and I let her grasp me around the waste, her lips still reaching for mine.

I pull away from her with a left ball change, and my body stiffens. She reaches for me again, leans toward me, but this time I rock back again slowly, cautiously. It's subtle, but she doesn't miss it. She stops, midway. Reaches for me with her hand, questioningly, but my body fluidly moves backward out of her reach.

"May I?" her voice is strong, not demanding, but confident.

I lean in to kiss her, but stop an inch from her lips. She comes back quickly, but I retract. She bites her bottom lip, cocks her head to the side, stares hungrily. I love the power in her stare. I love pushing her down, holding her there, watching her eyes as she gives way into yearning. The power is still there when she begs me. But there's something else, too -- a touch of fear mingled with the raw need for submission.

I move toward her once more, stop before she can reach for me to kiss me. She can't have me. She can't touch me, she can't kiss me. I lean it, catch her bottom lip, and bite it softly. She hesitates before kissing me back. She hesitates again, leans in to touch me. I pull away, ending the kiss.

"May I touch you?"

"No." Low and soft, I find my voice. It has the feeling of a familiar weapon, the handle of a old knife I haven't palmed in a long time. "I don't think so."

I can feel a shift in her. My voice takes her aback. I'm not sure when, but I know it has hit her that the room is dark. All the lights are off, which is unusual -- I always leave one or two on, click them off in a row on my way up to bed.

"Follow me." I take her arm, lead her though the dark rooms, into the stairwell. She doesn't know what to expect, and I'm going to thoroughly enjoy toying with her.

I stop in front of the stairs, midway into the house. "Kiss me," I order her. We dance for a minute, again, as I pull back from her kisses and she reaches in for more. I find pleasure in training her to follow my movements. She's intelligent, catches on fast. It's a mind game at this point, a psychological power play.

I find her hands in the darkness, put them on the waist of my jeans. "Take my pants off."

She giggles nervously. "But you'll be cold..." It's half question, half statement.

"Did I ask for your opinion?" I pause and lean in, my lips right next to her ear. "I told you to take my pants off."

"Yes, ma'm," she whispers.

"I'm glad you're listening." I don't have time for bullshit.

She undoes the button on my jeans carefully, slowly pulling the legs of my jeans down my thighs. I have the feeling she wants to touch me, but I haven't given her permission to. She knows better.

She stands back up and waits for my next command, nervously.

"What can I do for you?" she asks. It's one of her favorite questions. She's pulling what she knows, trying to apply it to the situation to make it more familiar, more comfortable.

"Whatever I tell you."

She giggles again, and a part of me wants to reach out to her as she navigates this space outside her comfort zone. But I haven't pushed her into anything she can't handle.

"Take off my panties."


"Don't question me." She moves slowly, carefully, working down my body. Her face is inches from my cunt.

"Stand up."

I can feel the cold air hitting my body. I guide her hand to the desk next to me, where my robe sits. She picks it up. "Put the robe on me."

"Yes, ma'm." She gingerly sets it on me. I lean in and bite her neck, bit her lip. Run my hands across her chest. She's bound, tight, but I find her nipples anyway. I want to pinch them, but that's not possible. She groans softly when I touch her.

"May I touch you?" I let this question sink in.

"What do you want?" My response is low, cold.

"May I touch you, please?" God, how I love to hear her beg.


She is accustomed to my consent. "Please?" But my body is stiff and cold as my voice.

"No. Follow me."

I lead her through the curtain, into the kitchen. The only light is a street lamp glinting through the window over the sink. In the middle of the kitchen I pull her into me roughly, nails digging into her neck, and kiss her. Her uncertainty is almost tangible.

I snatch her shirt in my fist, back up into the counter top, and pull her into me. Her hands rest on the counter.

"Do you know what I want?"

She shakes her head.

"Answer me."

"No." Her voice is so small, awkward.

"Do you feel this countertop?"


"Yes, what." It's not a question.

"Yes, ma'm."

"Lift me onto it." She cups her hands under my ass, and I pull my body up as she lifts me. I lock my thighs around her waist, bend over her, and kiss her. Her hand touches my thigh, cautiously. I pull away sharply from her lips.

"Did I say you could touch me?"

She hangs her head. "No."

"No, what?"

"No, ma'm."

"Then why are you touching me?"

"I..." She's stuttering. "I wanted to feel you."

"Don't touch me unless I tell you to. Do you understand me?"

"Yes... ma'm."

"Good. I made that pretty fucking clear."

I wrap my hands around her cheeks, pull her in close to me. I can't see her eyes in the dark, though I want to.

I shift my legs open, spread wide across the kitchen counter. "Do you know what I want?"

She shifts nervously but doesn't answer.

"I'm going to tell you what you're going to do. You're going to lick me until I come all over your tongue. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, ma'm."

I push her head down roughly between my thighs, lean back, and let her cup her hands under my ass and lift me to her face.

Believe Them When They Say...

Fabulous. A girl I know who lives in NYC posted this on her Facebook, and I'm happy to help it make the rounds on the interwebs. And I have to say, Rebecca Drysdale, if you make it to New Orleans any time soon, give me a call.

Monday, February 14, 2011

A Rose is a Rose is a Rose

"Which is why there are only eleven [long-stemmed roses] in the vase this morning; the 12th was dragged all over her body after I stripped her clothes off, the soft petals tickling her nipples and hips and inner thighs and cunt, then the long stem used as a makeshift cane on her inner thighs.

It didn’t last that long—it broke in two places before I could really get her warmed up and start delivering some harder swats. I don’t think I left any marks from the rose, but some gentle welts on her inner thighs were a bit raised last night. And this morning I noticed a couple handprint-shaped bruises on the backs of her thighs."

What a beautiful image, Sinclair. I can't think of a better way to make use of a long-stemmed rose. Check out the rest of his piece here. (Also, I wish there was a picture of the butternut squash ravioli! That's one of my favorite dishes. I had it at the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, and I still crave it when the breezes hit in the fall.)

Find Me In the Dark

“'She only liked him because they read at the exact same pace and turned pages at the same time,' her brother said, rolling his eyes. 'Not exactly my idea of romance.'"

Every once in awhile, I read something that rings true to me about love. It's pretty rare. I don't see love as tragic or all-fulfilling. I don't fear being in love, nor do I view it as a goal I need to achieve. I see it as a connection, one that exists in different forms for different people. I think the Greeks had it right in expressing so many different words for love -- agape, eros, philia, and storge. I hate that we simplify relating ideas with myriad connotations into one word. I also can't swallow the idea of love, of relationships, as a type of ladder which couples must climb in a specific order, over a certain period of time. I hate that we pressure ourselves, pressure each other, to fulfill relationships in one set format when relationships and connections can take so many forms and paths. If gender and sexuality can be complex and messy, relational, changing, growing, unsteady... why must love and relationships be static and conformational? 

I find this piece by Lisa Ruth Brunner at the New York Times really interesting. It's fascinating to see what we're willing to do for love, especially when we can write it off as youth and inexperience. Some of my best (and worst) moments, some of my most trying and most learning experiences, have been when I did something for love. Sometimes it was romantic love, other times, a different form. But this piece is most powerful to me because it's not conventional or predictable or what most people would define as a love story, since they don't end up together in the end. But sometimes, that's simply how it should be. I like that all love isn't a means to an end, or even an end in itself. Here, it's a story, a moment, a trip, a memory. Tomorrow, in a another place, for another couple, for another person, it will be something else. 

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

You're Gonna Keep My Soul

She pulls me into her arms, my skin to hers, and I bury my head deep into her neck. I can't describe how much I want to be held, need to be held. She brushes my hair back and kisses my neck so tenderly, from my earlobe down to my clavicle. I find my breath and suck the air in deeply. It feels heavy in my lungs, a stark contrast to the softness of her lips. I realize with a jolt that this moment is the first in nearly nineteen hours that my whole body hasn't been tense, clenched. Her fingertips run the length of my back, and I melt into her, unable and unwilling to hold myself up.

"I don't want or expect anything from you," she whispers sweetly in my ear. "I'm just kissing on you."

I purr deep, gutteral. "I know." I reach up and pull her head down to me, her lips into mine, and I kiss her deeply. I run my hand down her side, across her ass, down her thigh, back up to her hipbone. I wrap my leg around her hers and pull her down into me.

"It's kind of nice to do something life affirming." I whisper in her ear. I roll onto my back, find her hand in mine, and guide her fingers to my clit. "Oh, God," she moans, and I silence her with a kiss.


Nineteen hours ago we had been in this same bed, dead asleep, when I awoke to the sound of her phone. At first, I though her alarm was ringing, hours too early. But I shook off the heavy film of exhaustion to realize it was a phone call. She half-rose, pulling the screen to her face.

"Who is it?"

When she answered, my heart filled with dread.

She got off the phone and fell back, hard, into the pillow. I slid over to her side of the bed, wrapped my arm around her waist, and spooned her body. She entangled her fingers into mine, and we lay there, the gravity of the situation sinking in. All I could feel was raw shock. Pain. Fear. Dulled by a sense of exhaustion, a sense of expectation. Everything was about to change.

I kissed the tattoo at the base of her neck and closed my eyes for just a moment. Please, please, please, let this all be a nightmare. Let us wake up, I pleaded.

I cleared every thought from my head, pulled her tighter, and took a breath. The warmth of her body. The softness of her skin. The curls in her hair. I wanted one moment to absorb her, one moment before I hauled myself out of bed, pulled together a day's worth of work and clothes and other necessities, and raced toward the emergency room.

"This is going to be a long week." The words fell out of my mouth. "I can feel it now."


She twirls circles around my clit, and I bury my face into her neck to muffle my moans. I can feel my body warming up under her touch, my clit soaking wet, but I still feel disconnected, my head floating in and out of the moment. I try to focus, try to quiet my mind and let myself disappear into her touch.

"Fuck me. Please." She kisses me again, slides two fingers into my cunt, and almost immediately I realize there is little she can do for me right now. I crave the kind of soul-splitting orgasm that would suck the strength out of every muscle in my body. I crave power, almost to the point of pain. She pounds her palm against me now, but I am more disconnected than ever.

"Would you..." I struggle to pull the words together, to ask for what I want. It's always takes work, pushing through the anxiety and the walls to really say what I mean. I feel too emotionally weak to fight it, but I know her answer would be affirming.

"Would you... let me sit in your lap and get off on the vibrator?" My voice came out so softly, I wasn't sure it was my own.

"Of course."

She sits up, propping her legs, and I sit between her thighs, my back against her chest, and open my own thighs into hers. I feel small against her, cradled within her. I pull the Hitachi into my clit and immediately my nerves begin to twitch and fire. I rock against her, and she pulls my head to the side, roughly, and bites right into the muscular side of my neck. A moan leaps from deep inside me. She runs her fingernails across my skin, up my sides, down the inside of my thighs, and I'm almost crawling out of my skin, the sensations are so vivid and strong across my body. The Hitachi is too strong for me, but I push it into my labia, against my clit, absorbing the powerful vibrations and letting myself ride the nervous pounding. She is clawing me almost, biting and pulling at my neck, my shoulders, my arms. The nerves are shooting off all over my body, distracting me from how strong the vibrator is, the thin line of pain and pleasure in my cunt. I can't keep a rhythm. It feels like miniature fireworks are shooting across my body, a hundred origins, a thousand sparks.

My mind begins to flash images. I'm in the ER waiting room, again, under those unforgiving florescent lights. I'm walking around the hospital building, and the wind is slamming through three layers of cotton and right into my bones. I'm driving in my car, a block from school, and tears are streaming down my cheeks. I'm hearing his voice, rubbing his back, and I can't believe the words coming out of his mouth.

Her fingernails in my chest distract me again, bring me back down, out of my head. I'm here, and she's moaning in my ear. I'm ejaculating again; the Hitachi almost rubbing my cunt raw. My thighs are twitching out of my control. She's pinching deep into my nipple. I've probably been moaning, though I'm not really sure by this point.

"Stop, just for a moment." I pull her arm around my shoulders. "Just let me focus." She stops biting, clawing, obligingly, and pulls me tight into her.

"Are you going to come for me?" There's a hint of domination in her voice, and I like it.

"Yes. Are you going to let me?" I twitch again, still riding, still rocking, still shaking. I want to be defiant, but I'm too caught up in the physical sensation. My voice comes out compliant, submissive, small.

"I'll tell you when you can." In the dark my muscles tighten.

I shut off everything in my mind. Block out the images of the day. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Just the raw heat of my clit. Each. Nerve. Ending. I zero in, my whole body bound around this nerve bundle. I can feel the heat rising across my hips, up my stomach, seeping into my thighs. Building. Climbing. Ascending. I'm sucking in air, half-moaning, half groaning.

"Are you ready?" I didn't expect this question, but I don't care.


I can feel the heat of her breath on my neck, the sound of the air as she expelled it across my ear lobe. My clit has become so sensitive that every second is bordering on pain. But the intensity drives me. I want it. I crave it.

"Ok..." I let my voice rise, slowly building up to a higher octave with each moan.

"Come for me." She's urging, pushing, whispering right next to my earlobe. "Come for me, baby."

I close my eyes and concentrate in, deeper and deeper. The pain is searing. My moans stop, unprompted, and I find that instead I'm whimpering, pulling internal, connecting in. My body explodes into an orgasm, but instead of passing through, I'm riding on the waves spreading down to my fingertips, contracting every inch of muscle and skin and bone.

My body goes limp, still reverberating and twitching sporadically from the sensitivity of my nerves. I drop the wand. My head falls onto her arm, and she pulls in close around me. I feel like a child, wrapped in the warmth and security of her arms. I feel raw, vulnerable, empty. I almost want to cry. She would get it. No one else would, I doubt, but right now, in this day and this time, she would understand. But the catharsis is so great that I don't have it left in me to cry. The strength of my orgasm, the intensity of her body wrapped around me, her experience wound into mine, has pushed out so much of the pain.

I can feel her heart beating out of her chest, against my back. I can feel my own, pounding. This is life. This is force and beauty and healing. I can't save the world. I can't save him from himself. I can't do it all. But even in crisis, even in fear, there's still hope, there's still healing. There is pain and pleasure and the sunlight glinting through the Oak trees.

For minutes that feel like hours, I lie there, cradled in her body and heart, until I can gather the strength to move again. I pull myself out of her lap and drop the Hitachi on the floor. She lies down next to me, spread across the bed.

"What can I do for you?" She asks.

"Let me hold you."

I push my nose into her neck. I turn toward her, on my side. I pull her toward me, and she slides down the bed, putting her head into my chest, her chest to my stomach. My arms become expansive as I wrap one arm across her shoulders, down her back, and the other arm under her head.  pulling her deep into my arms. I'm shorter, smaller, and yet she fits like a puzzle piece. I kiss her on the forehead, on the nose, on the cheek, on the lips, and twirl her hair through my fingers.

"I wanted to hold you all day today," she whispers into me. "But I didn't realize how much I wanted to be held by you."

I'm grateful for the chance to hold her, to heal her, as she has done for me. She feels so good in my arms.

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Heal Me, My Darling

My first year of college, I worked as a DJ at my college's radio station. I found this single hidden among the rows and rows and rows of CD's, and it quickly became my favorite cover of this song. For a few months, it was the last song I would play every Sunday night, before I signed of the air. This song will always be, for me, about watching the sun set on Sunday evening after spending all morning in bed with a warm, naked woman.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Me Gusta, Quiero, Deseo

In the last month or so, I've begun a running list of toys I want to own, and what better place to write it than here? Of course, this wish list is prohibitively expensive. But a girl can dream. :)


Under the Bed Restraint Set (until I get a poster bed, which is another dream, but not a priority)

Most Anything Incoqnito Makes (the belt, the blade, the razor, the tassels)

Crystal Whip (I've had my eye on this since it came out. It's multifunctional and shiny.)

A Really Good Set of Cuffs (These are beautiful, but I could settle for something cheaper. Just nothing pink -- I had to gag a bit when I saw a plastic pink pair recently. A part of me thinks the leather is exquisite, and another part doesn't want to chop up an animal for me to be restrained, so get back to me on that one.)

Door Jam Cuffs (Not sure if these would work, since I'm 5'2 and my door is roughly 9'. Good question?)

A Spreader Bar (Not a fan of the color, but it's adjustable and doesn't come with cuffs, so it can work for wrists or ankles. I like flexibility)

A Suede Whip

Or, to combine most of these things, this set is really lovely, and not insanely expensive.


A Baby Vibe (Bigger than a bullet, but small enough that I can roll over it in the middle of the night and not notice. Or slip it in my pocket. Something more transportable than my Hitachi Wand, which is like carrying around a club)

Squeel (These just look cute and fun...)

A Glass Dildo (This one looks like a fun starter, but I can't lie, this one caught my eye. I've seen some that look more like decorative tabletop pieces than dildos, but I don't want to invest a lot of money into something I'm not sure if I'll like!)

A Good Double Dildo (Like this. I like purple a lot :) But no, I really could give or take on the color and brand. I've seen plenty of styles that would work just fine.)

I don't really need a new harness... especially since I received a brand new one free on a fluke... but this leather harness is gorgeous. And then there's this: a purple (I have a problem...), corseted harness that has built-in garter loops for thigh high stockings. Oh, and it vibrates. Talk about a fun genderfuck to pack with. That's something I could wear anywhere.

A few new silicone dildos. Like... this or this or this (talk about some fun colors!). If I'm feeling really adventurous, this. And definitely this, because I've seen Sinclair rave about it very, very often. He's not kidding about being a size king, though. Lord.

A Baby Plug (Because that's about all I can handle)


Fascinator Throes Blanket -- It's practical. Good sex is messy. This sounds infinitely easier than changing my sheets all the time.

Kama Sutra Massage Oils -- These don't run super cheap, but thankfully they sell them everywhere, so they're easy to find. I have the almond, and it's divine. I haven't tried their lube, but hopefully it's as high quality as the rest of their products.

A Box for all my Toys! Of course.


I'm sure I'll think of more to add after I post this list, but for right now, I can settle with this... just kidding. It will take me years to acquire everything on here, unless I start reviewing sex toys. Oh, that would be so. much. fun.