Flash Fiction Friday - Rites

I helped the Mother Superior don her scarlet robes in silence. I had been told not to speak to her, that she was mentally preparing for the rite. Her quarters were cold, even though it was summer.

Then I followed her down into the earth, to the prisoner. Was it fire in her eyes, or merely the torchlight reflected? I held the ink for her as she traced the sigils, and I wondered just who I had become in the darkness.

---

No, I can't stop there. I really can't. It's way too short to do justice to this picture, which isn't all that sexy but has plenty of meat on its bones. But I have to stop there, because of the restrictions of the form. It's like saying that I wish I had more syllables in a haiku. There are some things you just can't change.

But I can write something longer that's not a Flash Fiction Friday, can't I? So consider the above my submission for this week, and everything below the line is something else entirely.

---

The Rule is all.

It binds us and releases us. I learned to be a servant, not to a man or a God, but simply to the Rule.

I came to the Abbey a young woman of no prospects. I had tried whoring but had no knack for it, or perhaps I had a knack for leaving my clients changed. The men who came to spend themselves in me left as shells, the force pulled from them somehow. In the end, no one wanted to fuck me, and the madam came to beat me, perhaps to kill me. But she too was changed somehow, and it was then that I learned that what power I had was not just over men.

I have seen women burned for less, or for nothing, for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I had no wish to be burned, and if you have a gift and do not wish to suffer for it, you must trust yourself to the Abbeys. Some say it would be better to burn. They make a persuasive case.

"You think you are powerful," said the nun who examined me. I call it "examined" but really, just just ran an eye over me, muttering. "You have never taken a life. You have never known a man. Acceptable. Now, you will wear this collar. It will remind you."

"Remind me of what?" I began to ask, thinking that perhaps I should think better of a witch's life. The collar rang, a low tone, and then I was on the floor with no memory of falling.

"You will not speak," said the nun, facing away from me. "The Rule is all. You will learn it, and it will be mother and father, husband, children, God. There is nothing else. The Rule is all."

And so it was. Whenever I strayed from this unwritten Rule, even in the darkness, alone, even in my thoughts, I heard the bell of punishment and lost something of myself. First it was my sight for a day, and when my eyes returned to me I saw things differently. Then I forgot my name, for some minor transgression of a Rule I had never been told. I believe that all nuns lose their names, either through punishment or simply because those names no longer fit. I was Novice whenever spoken to, and I couldn't say otherwise.

Memories, places I had seen, people I had known, they vanished with the passing months, each one excised precisely for some infraction. Never the painful memories, but the pleasant ones. The painful ones were heightened, until I believed that they were all I was, that life without the Rule was nothing but pain. I saw my father dying, again and again, of the plague that had taken our village, and while I knew he was important to me, I did not know why, or who he was; those things had been taken from me.

In time, as promised, I learned the Rule, though I could no more explain it in words than I think any nun could, not even the nuns of the highest rank. It did not exist to be explained. And with that learning came a knowledge that my powers, as they had been, were meaningless. They were like a child, flailing in the darkness. There were nuns whose power could have killed me with a thought, and they were considered lowly.

One thing I did know about the Rule was that it forbade the use of power. We did everything by hand, and backbreaking work it was too. Only those who had left the collar behind, who had learned the Rule so well that it no longer needed to collar them, were allowed to practice their powers, and only in pursuit of greater things than simple drudgery. Whether it was for good or ill was difficult to say.

I was given more responsibility as my skill in remembering the Rule grew, and I hoped to one day be able to remove the collar, to take my place among the red-garbed abbesses who studied and ate and slept in silence. But that was a long way off. First I would have to pass through the ranks of the black-robed sisters, who did not wear the collar but were forbidden by the Rule from using any powers they might possess. Some women died as nuns, never having used power at all. Perhaps some never had power to begin with.

A day came when I was ordered to assist the Mother Superior, to bring her food and wash her clothes, to help her in any way she wanted. It was a great honor, and a sign that perhaps, soon, I would be allowed to leave the collar behind. It had been months since I had last heard the bell, and I was hopeful.

Mother Superior was a severe woman of indeterminate age who yelled, not with her mouth, but in thought. Her thoughts could blast through my brain in a way worse than any shouting or beating. Worse, perhaps, than the collar and its ever-present Rule. My life was not so hard, unless I made the slightest mistake, and then it was torture.

"Fetch me water for my bath!" would come her summons as I was washing her clothes, and woe betide me if I was late. "Now, where are my clothes?" she was snap in my brain as I poured the water into her bathtub.

I lost a few more memories, a few more bits of myself, as I learned to cope with Mother's demands. I erred, either in her service or that of the Rule's. And I slowly became better at withstanding her mental tirades.

One day, she ordered me to do something I didn't expect. "Take off your clothes, girl." I couldn't be shy; I had been living in a dormitory with several other women since I first arrived, a space scarcely large enough for us all to stand, let alone have any privacy. I pulled my novice's habit over my head, a simple woolen shift, and stood naked before her. "Yes, yes, you'll do," she muttered, one of the first times I had heard her speak.

Then she did something else rather surprising; she pulled her own red gown over her head and stood, naked as well. Her body was older, but I couldn't tell her age; she might have been my mother or my ancient ancestor. It was whispered that nuns had the power to slow aging or even time if they chose. "Come closer, my child," said Mother. "Don't be frightened."

She simply stood there while I moved closer, until I was within arm's reach, then she took my shoulders and pushed me to my knees gently, almost kindly. "I need you to do this," she thought into my brain. "I will show you what to do." And I felt my brain flooded with images, images of tongues and cunts and fluids, and I knew then that she wanted me to do something I was sure were contrary to the Rule. I wasn't disgusted by the idea, simply unwilling to breach the Rule. The Rule was all.

"Don't worry, child," she said. "Do this for me and I shall see to it that you are rewarded."

So I put my lips on her gray-hair-covered opening, and I moved my tongue, feeling as I did the heat of her. Then I heard the bell, and my skin numbed, but somehow nothing happened. I was able to continue to do as she asked, darting my tongue in and out of her, until she sighed, seeming satisfied, and backed away. And then, suddenly, the last pleasant memory I had, of my mother's embrace, vanished, and I wept.

"The Rule is all, child," said the Mother, sounding a little sad. "Everything must be paid for."

My work became easier; the Mother Superior seemed more lenient or perhaps just less demanding. Or maybe I became less likely to fail. The moment of connection was never repeated, but I saw her, sometimes, looking at me from the corner of my eye. I couldn't acknowledge it or think too much about it, or the bell might ring again. But I saw it.

One day, a messenger came from the royal court in the far-off capital, and I heard her mention a prisoner before the door slammed shut on me. Clearly I wasn't to be allowed to see everything just because I was Mother's favored servant. And the next day, a party of men arrived outside the gate; they weren't allowed in, of course, but it wasn't every day that a man got up the courage to come close, let alone a party of them. I'm sure a number of my novice sisters lost some of themselves for their thoughts that day. I no longer had much to lose, and my remembrances of the outside world were universally painful, so I only had a mild curiosity about what mission brought these men to the gate.

I saw the prisoner as she was led in, golden hair shining like the sun, but a black mask over her features. She moved differently than most, with a grace that could not be denied even by the chains binding her. She did not stumble as she was shoved, and she seemed to float over the ground even with the weight of iron on her wrists and ankles. I stopped myself before my thoughts violated the Rule, but I left a small fire of curiosity burning.

The next night, I was summoned to the Mother Superior's chamber. I helped her don her scarlet robes in silence, paying no attention to her naked form beneath them. I had never seen her put them on; they were reserved for truly important matters. I did not speak to her, as I had been told; she was mentally preparing for the rite. What rite I did not know, but it certainly was a serious one.

"Come, child," she said into my mind, and I followed her down a secret stair, down to a place of which I had no knowledge, holding a torch to light her way. There was shadow ahead and shadow behind.

And there in the dimness, lay the prisoner, bound and naked, face down on a bier as if waiting execution. She seemed to be singing; her form exuded a music that sounded dissonant in these cruel surroundings, a love song, or perhaps a song of worship. "Do not listen!" came an insistent voice in my mind. "The Rule is all." But I couldn't help but listen, even as I feared that the collar would steal something else from me.

The Mother Superior handed me a bowl of reddish ink, bloodlike and cruel in the flickering light of the torch, and I sat beside the prisoner, holding the ink and wondering just who I had become in the darkness, in this Abbey, under the service of the Rule. Snatches of the prisoner's song seemed to return pieces of me, and I remembered life before the Rule, before the pain and restriction. I sat and held the ink as Mother traced the mystic sigils into the prisoner's skin, each one imbuing itself with power as it was laid down, becoming part of the flesh and glowing with a black light. I sat and I wondered.

"You are condemned," said Mother Superior, her voice sounding old and hollow compared with the singing of the prisoner. "You will be punished. The Rule is all."

The Mother stood, her robe blood-carnelian in the firelight, and I stood too, only to be arrested by the touch of the prisoner's hand on mine. "Awake," she said softly.

"Do not listen! The Rule is all!" The shout came in my brain, but it was a pale shadow. The prisoner's hand went slack, and the sigils grew to cover her, blotting out her light, silencing her song. But the song was in my brain now, and it shone a light into the darkness and showed me what I was, not a shadow but a light, a fire. The Rule was just a chain. It could be broken.

"No," I said, the first word I had spoken since entering the Abbey. My voice crackled, unused to anything but screams. "No."

And I pulled the collar from my neck and hurled it at the Mother Superior, where it rang sourly like a broken bell, drowning out her words in my brain, leaving nothing but the song. I did not wait to see what I had done; I put words to my desires and movements to the words, and drawing an anchor I had not known existed, I stepped out of the world and found myself among the trees in the summer twilight, grass between my toes, naked as the day I was born. And I laughed for the first time, as the golden-haired people came out to greet me.

Thoughts on Sex Ed

HEDONE (are you reading her blog yet?) said something in a comment on the last post that got me thinking (dangerous, I know), and not about Mango Man (and have you put in a good word for him yet?). She said, "If people learn one thing it should be 'don't get your sex education from porn.'"

It's a sad fact that for many people, children and adults, there's no other option than to get your "advice" on sex from pornography. Commentators more erudite than I have beaten the point into the ground that porn isn't a good teacher; I'll just echo their central point. But I think they do miss a point, which is that porn is a bit like Wikipedia.

Go with me here. If I were writing an academic paper, I wouldn't use Wikipedia as a source if the only source I had for something was Wikipedia. I might give credit where credit was due, but only if Wikipedia wasn't my only source. Not that it can't be useful, but that you should always corroborate. It's a fine place to look for additional sources of information, but as a source itself it lacks academic rigor.

The same is true with porn. I have seen things in porn which later helped me to be a better lover. But I didn't rely solely on porn, and I didn't assume that they were good techniques just because the people in the pornographic video seemed to enjoy them. As a source of even common knowledge, porn is horrible, much worse than Wikipedia (although I wouldn't recommend learning sex from Wikipedia either). But there are a few redeeming bits of porn. And it is useful in the way it was intended: to be arousing.

The problem arises when people only have porn as an educator. If someone even has one other source, of at least marginally reliable information, where he or she can double-check, then porn becomes much safer. Watching porn when I was young, I had the ability to ask my parents what was going on, and they told me the difference between fiction and reality. Ideally, everyone should have at least one person to ask.

But since most people don't, and the people who do have someone to ask are usually asking someone who knows just as little, we have a real problem, one for which porn perhaps should not be blamed, but one in which it plays a part. But I don't think that it's the only problem we have, as a society, about sex. The lack of communication surrounding the topic is criminal, but even people who are well-informed still have a further problem.

Suppose we went at learning to drive a car like we go at learning to have sex. Not only would there be practically no drivers' ed, but everyone would be expected to be a Formula 1 driver the first time they stepped into the vehicle. And you wouldn't be allowed to ride along with someone else, but that's breaking the metaphor a little. Oh, and some people would be taught only that driving cars is horribly bad for the environment and shouldn't be done at all. Kids would gather in groups around cars trying hard to catch glimpses of them out corners of their eyes, then passing around books which discussed driving in frank, adult terms. The guy who got to drive his father's tractor would be BMOC, and he'd crow about how smooth the ride was, neglecting to mention that he drove the tractor five feet into a ditch. Bootleg Car Talk tapes would be listened to under the covers late at night. Kids would hide sets of keys under their mattresses with old copies of Motor Week Magazine.

I'm a perfectionist (I know, considering that last metaphor, how could I not be). Always have been. When I was young, I developed slightly late because I wouldn't do something until I was sure I could do it. I went from baby talk to complete sentences overnight; I didn't talk early, but I talked well. I didn't have much of a transition period between crawling and walking; I rarely fell down. I didn't read until I could read silently, and I skipped over a lot of children's books straight to the longer books. I am not going to be hypocritical and say that my attitude about sex was any different.

But even I had to admit that, while maybe I could go from zero to sixty (okay, maybe forty-five), sexually, I couldn't go from zero to perfect. No one can. Hell, I don't think that the standards people set for themselves are ever attainable, let alone the first time out. Losing your virginity shouldn't be terrible, tawdry, or quick (though it often is), but magical or not, it likely won't be as good as a later time, unless you lock yourself into believing that it should be.

Sex is like anything else; practice makes perfect. Or if not perfect, at least better. But no one is willing to give themselves license to practice. We approach sex as this deadly-serious thing which must achieve its aim all the time. We have trouble experimenting or playing. Part of that is because as children the idea that sexual play is healthy has been rooted out of our mass psyche; I bet even now some of you are reacting viscerally to that, thinking that I'm recommending that children be scarred sexually for life. There's no shame in that; it's the way society is. I sometimes wonder myself whether children are being sexualized too early, although that has less to do with sex itself and more with the idea of sex, a concept which, thanks to a lack of education, children don't really understand but try to imitate. Putting your preschooler in a two-piece string bikini is just stupid, for instance.

Education is a lot about failure. Failing often teaches us more than success. I don't mean getting an F on your report card, I mean trying and failing. It's something I have to tell myself all the time, because I am, as I said, a perfectionist. But by giving myself license to fail, I've learned more, and that's an idea I can apply to my sexual education just as much as to any other thing. Hell, it's all the rage in the corporate world now; I don't know the buzzwords, but incremental design is something that's basically a series of imperfect attempts leading to a more finely-tuned finished product.

Why can't we do that in the bedroom (or on the kitchen counter, in the back room of the club, the seedy bathroom of a cheap hotel, the SM dungeon... etc.)? If the best way to learn is to be imperfect, why can't we just go at it, maybe sometimes failing, maybe not enjoying something, but stretching our boundaries a little? And why do kids seem to feel that either the first time should be perfect (it will not be) or that if it's not perfect, it'll be awful and will scar them for life (it'll likely be kind of mediocre, but so what)? If you get two people to do something that neither of them have ever done before, and most likely they have little idea of how to do it, it's probably not going to turn out that well, but even if they both have extensive book knowledge, they still might have a bad first time. It's only natural. Theory and practice are two different things.

But even education and the license to fail through practice aren't enough. Because at a certain point, you can practice all you want with your partner and you may know know the ins and outs like a book, but you'll still be inside that box. I know I'm repeating myself a bit, but practice with only one partner will polish you until you lose your edge. I know some people aren't comfortable with the idea of multiple partners, but at least talk with other people. This is where porn can come into its own; it may not be good sex ed, and you should take it with a mountain of salt, but it can show you options you might not have considered. But watching porn or talking to other people is really no substitute for finding someone with experience and learning from them. That's tough; there's not a good system of sexual dojos, and to the best of my knowledge there's no remote mountain peak you can climb to study with the guru of sex (Rama Lama Ding Dong, I believe he's called). I mean, you could go to Tibet and hang out with the Tantrists, but it's not like there's a set procedure for that, and there's certain religious baggage there too.

So the best you can do is try to broaden those horizons any way you can, and then return to your partner and give yourselves the option of trying something and not having a good time. Don't do it every night. Don't plan a romantic evening and then whip out the untested move you want to try, leading to disappointment and dejection. Plan a play date. Bring your A game, but go into it ready to fail, at least at first. Watch together that porn from which you got the idea. Read the blog post aloud to your sweetie. Model your latest bondage gear. And then, if things go pear-shaped, promise each other that you won't hold a grudge and you'll try something else next time (or even approach what went wrong from a different angle; just because it didn't work out the first time doesn't mean it won't if you do it right for you). The old reliable shouldn't be the desert for which you have to eat the disgusting vegetables of new and risky sex, but you might decide to finish the night off with something that you both enjoy, just to keep things fun.

Who knows: you might not need to finish up the night with something reliable, because just because you gave yourself permission to fail sexually doesn't mean you will. It doesn't mean that at all. You can learn from success too.

I suppose I should also thank Advizor, because he got me thinking sex-therapist-like. If you wished he'd gotten me thinking sex-reporter-like instead, it's not his fault, so don't go to his blog and bash him for making me rant. Actually, this wasn't a rant, it was a ramble. I feel strongly, but I haven't raised my voice. I did go on and on though. With jokes.

Hard and Fast

If I had one piece of advice to give people about anal sex, it would be: "It doesn't always have to be brutal." Now I'm not saying that, if you happen to like your anal with a dash of spice, you shouldn't by all means go after that particular rainbow. Far from it; I have enjoyed a little of the old ultraviolence in my time, although probably far less than some people enjoy. I'm not into pain, but rough sometimes scratches an itch.

But if someone told you that all sex had to be tantamount to rape, what would you say? If someone said, "Oh yeah, if you're not spitting in her face, calling her a whore, and ramming your cock in and out of her cunt so fast that she passes out and bleeds all over the carpet, you're not doing it right," what would you think about this person?

And yet that's what most people think of when they think "anal sex." I don't know whether it's the taboo surrounding it or the fact that pornography seems to equate anal sex with brutality. There might even be other reasons, or all those above and more. But whatever the reason, you don't have to get fucked hard in the ass. In fact, I would strongly recommend against it, your first time out.

I don't want to bash men here at all; I think many bad anal experiences can be explained as a combination of factors, not least of which is a lack of sufficient preparations. But some men clearly like to watch women take enormous cocks up the ass without much in the way of foreplay. There are a lot of movies out there purporting to show anal virgins and their first times, and in nearly all of them, the implication is that the woman is only doing it because she's getting paid or wants to work in porn, and she makes faces and screams and begs to be anywhere else but invaded by a cock.

I don't know how much of that is true; I'm not involved in the pornography business. I can spot some fakes; if it's really giving you a bad time, it shouldn't go in like your ass is the Holland Tunnel, for instance, no matter how much you may mug for the camera. But a lot of the time, I just don't know. And I wonder, if it's real, will these women ever enjoy anal, or will it be tainted for them.

But that's beside the point. The point is that you can have slow, luxurious sex with anal, just as you can with vaginal intercourse, and if you like anal but haven't tried anything but wham bam thank you ma'am, I really think you owe it to yourself to give it a try.

I know a lot of women don't get much stimulation from anal; honey, that's what toys and fingers were made for. Just because you don't get a lot of stimulation, that's no reason to believe that it will feel any better if it's harder and faster. Slow down. Concentrate on the sensations. Maybe you won't cum, or maybe not without help; I know I don't cum from pure anal without a little stimulation to other areas. But I enjoy the hell out of the sensations because I'm not in a race to orgasm. Sometimes sex can be about something other than cumming.

I would be terribly hypocritical if I insisted that I'd never had anal sex where it was a race to orgasm though. Sometimes, I just want to get off, just like everyone else. I like getting off with a cock in my ass. Why shouldn't I?

So next time you're greasing up the ol' back door, think about maybe trying it low and slow. It makes the meat extra tender. No, wait, that's cooking. Soft and slow will make things last longer, and maybe if it's not hard and fast, you might find that you want things to last longer anyway. It's a bit of a Catch-22; people don't like the sensations of anal so they rush through it because they're trying to make their partners happy, but the reason they don't like the sensations is because they're rushing it.

This is probably an old hat to a lot of my readers; I've just been watching some anal porn and thinking about different things. And wishing I had some anal. Mostly that.

I remember the first full-night anal session I had with someone, romantic and loving, not crazy and wild. His cock never touched my pussy, except maybe the lower part of the lips. He was into anal in a big way; I suspect a few latent bisexual neurons in his brain were firing overtime. It was the first time, I think, that someone had spent so much time tossing my salad, as it were; he spent plenty of time licking my pussy, but he spent an equal or greater amount of time tonguing my ass. I don't generally go for that, but he wouldn't let up, just kept working on me until I was perfectly happy to let him go on putting his tongue up my butt forever. I was so blissed out I didn't even notice that he kissed me, which might in certain circumstances have grossed me out.

We made love face to face to start, which was a new experience, not because I hadn't ever had missionary anal, but because I get most of it from behind, which I'm not complaining about. If this had been hard and fast anal, missionary would have been awkward; as it was, his cock pressed into my ass and I wrapped myself around him, and we just pressed together, kissing, his hips shifting slowly in and out. I was more flexible then than I am now, and my legs were around his back, which lifted me up a little, put me in a better position to take him in the ass. I think in hindsight I would have put a pillow under me, but we were too into each other to care.

I got to really feel it, slowly, the tension of my sphincter, the slight friction of him sliding in and out, even with a lot of lube, the filling and then emptying of my anus. The anal walls aren't particularly sensitive, but I could still feel a lot of things which would have been lost in the noise had he been fucking me hard and fast.

He didn't last that long, but his pubes tickled my pussy and he ground himself into my clit as he came, which gave me a tiny O without touching myself. Then he got down between my legs again and licked my ass clean, sucking cum out of me, encouraging me to push it out. Yes, there were a few humorous noises. We didn't care.

I sucked him, which again, I don't normally do straight from my ass, and when he was hard again, he put me face down on the bed, just my ass in the air, and lay down on top of me, supporting some of his weight with his arms, while his cock pressed directly down into my ass from behind. Again, it wasn't as deep as it could have gotten; my buttocks were in the way for one thing. But he didn't really thrust, he just ground down, occasionally pulled up a little and then pressing down again. It really made me feel the fullness of it. Since my hands were unoccupied, I could reach down and tickle my joy buzzer while he ground down, so it was really like I was just holding my hand there and being ground against it. I don't know what psychological desire it fulfilled; perhaps it evoked the womb, or something similarly odd. Whatever it was, I enjoyed myself, and he lasted much longer, long enough for two orgasms on my part, the second coming to a head just as he came in my tail.

We rested for a while after he again cleaned me up, this time saving some cum on his tongue to feed to me, which I accepted without thinking. Again, not something I'm normally into, but I felt good with him.

Then, lastly, I rode him, sitting my asshole back on his cock, which started quite calmly but became more and more energetic until he rolled me over, legs around his waist, and held me up a bit as he fucked me, plain and simple, hard and fast. The contrast was wonderful too, and my ass was so relaxed that taking his whole length and girth was easy at that point, easy and fun. It wasn't slut this and whore that, no spitting, no name-calling, just a nice, vigorous fuck to round things out.

He was a hell of a lover, but not much for anything else. Not a tremendous personality, didn't like many of the same things I did, and wasn't interested in anything but anal, which I was happy to give him except that I really like things other than anal as well. I learned some things from him; he was older and more experienced at anal than I was, really, having had up to that point mostly anal with Mike and some quickies of uncertain quality. That's why you practice with more than one person; even if you want to be with one person the rest of your life, you never know what you might learn from someone else. Think outside the box.

No, that wasn't a pun, until I realized that it could be, so now it is one. Think outside the box. I slay me.

So, in summation, while most of the anal I get isn't like this, I wish I got a bit more of the slow, romantic kind, at least to break up the faster-paced stuff. Hell, I wish I got more of it period. Anal shouldn't be painful, kids (well, not unless you want it to be). It's just sex. It should have nuance.

There's a Protocol of Which I Wasn't Aware

I finally found out how to really participate in TMI. I never really knew how people got the questions or the lists of participants. Put that down to mostly laziness on my part. But thanks to HEDONE for posting something before the fact so I knew, I now know, and even though this week I can't even answer two of the questions, and I have no real plans to make this a weekly thing unless I get really bored, I'm going to participate fully this week to show my support for the concept, now that I know how. Wow, what a preamble. You can go to the TMI blog to participate as well, if you like.

Oh, and by the way, you should go encourage HEDONE to take a picture of Mango Man peeking his head out. She'll know what you mean. She probably won't do it, but I'm starting a vigorous grassroots campaign.

1. Under what circumstances would you kiss a stranger?

If you mean how could I be enticed to kiss a total stranger, I can think of a few ways. I might kiss a stranger who was nice, although how would I know he or she was nice unless I met them, at which point, do they still count as a stranger for the purposes of this discussion? At parties in my misspent youth, I believe I may have kissed people I didn't know. I'm not tremendously touchy-feeling, oddly enough, so I wouldn't go up to a total stranger and give them a kiss unless Sheri or alcohol or both were involved, I don't imagine. I might kiss a stranger under the mistletoe, or on New Year's Eve or something, although maybe not. And it would probably be in response to a request to be kissed, rather than pro-actively.

2. Who was the last person you sent a sexy or romantic text message to? What did the text say?

I don't text, so I can't answer this one.

3. What was the last sexy or romantic text message that you received and what did it say?

Ditto.

4. What was the longest romantic relationship you've had (months, years)? And what was the shortest romantic relationship?

Monogamous? I couldn't make it last more than a few months, no matter how I tried. As far as having a romantic relationship non-monogamously, I've had plenty that have lasted years. Excluding certain relationships because they're slightly outside the bounds of romance, I have no problem being romantic with someone for years, just not necessarily only with them. My romances tend not to break up horribly (although there are definite exceptions) but rather to simply fade away because we become less close. I have some people I care deeply about that I rarely see, so I wouldn't call them romantic relationships any more, but when I see them, it's not like we're starting over. We just have a relationship that is rarely ignited.

I'm very strange in this department, and believe me, I've had my share of romantic relationships of a more traditionally temporal type, where I date someone for a while, then we break up because it isn't working out. I've even gone further than that, but I really don't like to talk about that. Anyway, the relationships that work out and last are the ones that are slightly odd, and they're the ones I cherish.

5. If there was a cunnilingus contest, would you enter? Would you “eat” or be eaten? If eating, would you bring along your choice of pussy to lick or use one of the clean delectable pussies provided?

As a contest, if there was a really good prize on offer... wait, how exactly would one judge this contest? If I can bring my own partner, that basically removes any ability to judge, because it'll be totally subjective. And if it's for the sake of observers, that's not good either because looking good and feeling good are two different things (case in point: porn).

At a cunt-eating festival with no particular judging, I'd want to do both, and I'd bring someone along just so she could enjoy the festival too, not because I'd want to do nothing but be with her. Several someones. I could probably start my own festival. Damn I wish I could get Sheri and Sveta in the same location for long enough to have a mini festival.

6. If we asked your partner/lover to describe you sexually in one word, what do you think that word would be?

Which partner? I can't really say; I hope the word would imply quality, at least. I'm not asking for "perfection" or "greatest" but "wonderful" wouldn't go amiss. "Naughty?"

How about some words which wouldn't be used. Bellicose. Crispy. Proper. Impecunious. Pejorative. Undue. Ignoble. Sassafras. Gerund. Diophantine. Klien-bottle-like. Okay, that last one stretched the point. Anyway, I really don't know; why don't you ask them this question?

Reasons for Futher Craziness

First off, I find it somewhat of a delightful coincidence that I posted my 666th post the night of the Rapture-That-Wasn't. I have no time for Rapture-That-Wasn't jokes, but it was interesting that it should work out that way.

Second, for those who might have been wondering, Sveta hasn't died or left me. She told the powers that be that she was getting out of school later than she actually was because she wanted to stay for Ernst's graduation and she knew they wouldn't approve. She'll be coming home next week, which is fine because she told them she wasn't getting out until June so she'll be spending a few days at home, then going to the place her biological parent makes her live. There really should be a better term for all this. She'll be visiting me while her father and step-mother believe she's still taking finals.

But then she has to live with them, despite that fact that she's miserable there and they would probably actually love to get rid of her. But if she's under their roof, they can do what they want. I try hard not to hate people, particularly people I haven't met, but I'm on the fence.

She's getting a summer job. Or at least she's going to try. She wants to save up money for the inevitable time when she's no longer able to rely on family support. It's a miracle they're paying her way through college really.

When I last talked to her, she was pretty bummed out about Ernst leaving; he lives a pretty fair distance away, although it's definitely visitable. I hope he wants to visit, because they were pretty close (close hell, she's given him everything he could ask for). I told them both that I'd be happy to give him a place to stay and she could come over to the house to be with him as much as possible if he was there. I want them to be happy, and if I get a little action out of it, so much the better.

But at least for the first part of the summer, I will be doing something really stupid. I have several jobs to do, but... I auditioned for a part at a new theater and got cast. Yes, I will be appearing on stage. Haven't done that in a while. It doesn't pay, unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it) but it's a large sector of lines to memorize and a big chunk of time. I wouldn't do it except that I really love the play and never thought I'd get this role. I know the director and some of the other actors, but I've never worked at this theater before, so we'll see how it goes. Needless to say, this will probably cut into my free time a bit, but only for a while. I should have some time during the summer to take a bit of a break, I hope.

In other news, I saw Pam the other day (I haven't mentioned her much because I haven't seen her recently, so if you're confused about who she is, check out her topic). She's getting really close; she looks incredibly pregnant, past glowing and into exploding. She was wearing a dress that didn't flatter, so I can't say whether she's still a hot preggo or not, but I assume she is. She and Kirk, being the liberal youngsters they are, still have no plans to get married, which I guess I'm okay with since it's not like marriage fixes things. I really, really hope he's not planning on skipping out on his responsibilities as a father.

Nothing was offered, and I would have had to refuse anyway because I was busy, but I keep hoping that maybe I'll get one more time with a pregnant woman before she delivers. What can I say: I'm a sucker for preggos. But if not, I hope everything goes well. She promised to keep me informed.

Sorry that this is sort of an update post, but hey, things need to be kept up to date.

Another Shindig

I don't often get deja vu. The feeling I experience far more often is one of being an observer to my own actions, wondering just what the hell I'm doing and why I'm doing it. It's somewhat disconcerting at times. However, that's neither here nor there.

I don't get deja vu, and so when things happen again in a remarkably similar way I don't get a shiver down my back and wonder if the Matrix just suffered a glitch or something. I usually take it in stride. After all, most things recur. Life tends to fall into patterns, at least my life does. Patterns of boredom, mostly, but others as well.

So when I say that there was another party at the theater tonight, that is the truth. Not quite the same type of party; lower-key for the most part. And I had a beer and then quit drinking, so I was pretty much sober the whole time. Which is good, because had I not been I might have doubted my previously-stated stance on deja vu.

Down I went to the bathroom, walked in, expecting nothing because as I said, much lower-key, and there were the technician and the actress again (consult the manual if you're confused), only this time up against a wall, him behind her, pressing up and into her, her bare breasts crushed into the wall, his pants around his ankles. He looked around and saw me and sort of smiled. She looked around, saw me, and made a little squeaking noise, pushed him away from her and rushed out, half-clothed. So no deja vu there.

He looked pretty sheepish, standing there in the ladies' room with his cock hanging out. I made a point to maintain eye contact even though his dick was a tremendous draw; not badly hung at all. "Sorry," I said.

"Nah, it's okay," he said, pulling his pants up. "I get the feeling she was hating herself."

"Why?"

"She's super Catholic." This was the first I'd heard about this. I can't say that I'm that surprised; she has, as I said, a bunch of kids, and this isn't exactly the show which would strain one's religious leanings. It's a fun, family-oriented show, and I know we have a few actors who are fairly religious in the casting pool. But if she's so all-fired Catholic, getting blitzed and then doing extra-marital activities isn't exactly something you do, unless I missed that part of catechism class. No, never mind, I went to fucking Catholic school, I sat through all that shit, I know: she's going to spend a lot of time in confession saying rosaries.

"Still, sorry. I mean, for blowing it for you. She's got a nice body and looks like she's a decent lay." I was saying this as one of the guys. I don't say "bro" but if I did, I would have thrown one in.

"She's hot," he conceded, fully clothed now. I could see out of the corner of my eye though that he still had a tent in his pants. I don't think he was entirely sober at the time. "But confidentially, I've had better."

So we sat down on the floor of the bathroom and talked shop. It was a little surreal in hindsight, but hey, it wasn't a bathroom likely to be frequented, and we weren't doing anything but talking. This guy has indeed had better. From his description, it sounds like the Catholic actress is a wild ride but not much to ride in. By that I mean that she moans and flails drunkenly, but her cunt isn't all that interesting.

He's worked other places too, just recently moved to the area, and he's had much better actress poon. We swapped a few stories; I had him on numbers, but he had me a few times on quality. He worked a beauty contest, nothing national but important enough, and fucked three different teenaged contestants in one evening. Or so he said, and I have no reason to disbelieve him. Frankly, the fact that he wasn't in a hurry to pull up his pants in the first place was something of an indicator of his confidence. He's definitely got more of that than I do. I was a bit jealous, I don't mind admitting.

But on the whole, I was somewhat turned off by him; it seems like it's all about conquest for him. He fucks the Catholic actress because she's a MILF (a term, by the way, I'm not all that fond of, but I use here under advisement) and because she's forbidden fruit. Had he been different, at the start I was turned on enough to offer to finish up what she'd rudely abandoned. As it was, I just sat and enjoyed talking a bit of shop.

I probably shouldn't have, but I did get him to concede defeat with the story of me having sex on stage for an audience in college. Not a story I really ought to trot out to people with whom I work. Particularly as my rationale for not fucking the guy was that I didn't want him to treat it like it was a trophy and erode my professional cred. But it was a bit of a guys' boasting match at that point, and I just had to beat him at something.

We eventually went back upstairs separately. I said I had to use the bathroom (and I did) but really I just didn't want anyone to think that I'd had anything to do with the situation no doubt brewing with the Catholic actress. Sure enough, by the time I'd done my business and waited a few minutes to be on the safe side (guys, you really don't know how long women actually take to go to the bathroom, do you?) Catholic actress came creeping back in tears looking for her shirt.

I felt really sorry for her, not in a sexy kind of way but in a, "sister, I know exactly how it feels to want to have some sex without a lot of complications, and boy am I sorry you're restricted by your religion from doing what comes naturally" kind of way. Plus I felt sorry for breaking it up before the conclusion. Mostly the latter, truth be told; if you're going to cheat on your husband, you at least don't want to be interrupted while doing it.

I kind of wanted to go back upstairs and get the fuck out of Dodge at this point, since I was tired and had to wake up tomorrow morning (well, come to think of it, I still have to wake up, so that excuse won't fly) but instead I sat her down, helped her stop crying and wash off the smeared makeup and tears, tried to get a bit of the red out of them, and then we sat down in the ladies' room and... well, not really talked shop, because she seemed mortified of the subject, but I tried to make her feel better.

I don't know how successful I was. I'm not a therapist, and I'm a bit of an emotional sponge, so when other people pour out their souls to me, I tend to suffer. She loves her husband. She loves her God. She loves her kids. Why does she get drunk and do these things?

I would argue that the things she's doing aren't mutually exclusive with loving her husband, kids, or God, but I didn't say any of that. I just told her that I wasn't planning on telling anyone (which wasn't really a lie, since if someone who knows who she is is reading this, I'm way more screwed than she is) and that I'd try to make sure he didn't spread it around either (which was a bit more of a lie, since there's not a tremendous amount I can do about it). And that she was better than him. That if she were going to get drunk and do things, she should tell me first so I could make sure she wound up with a better class of person. That okay, maybe he was kind of hot, but that he wasn't a good choice.

I managed to make her laugh a few times, which was nice because she really is very pretty and usually spends her time beaming. I wasn't about to introduce the idea of lesbianism at this point, but had that been on the table I think I was much more interested in making her happy than in making him happy. Then we went looking for her panties. I expect they've been added to a trophy case. I just hope no one finds them later; she might have taken them with her unawares when she made the precipitous exit.

I have no idea where she was hiding the whole time; she didn't go back to the party with no top on, that's for certain. By the time we were finished with everything, everyone else had gone home, so I made sure she'd be okay to go home herself, then went back in to check everything was cleaned up and shut down. I don't know why I'm always the last to leave.

In this case though, I found a soft spot to plant my ass and rubbed out two sharp Os in quick succession, just because I had nothing better on offer. If they ever hang that curtain again, there may be a small stain on it. I hope CSI never arrives to investigate a crime; they'll wonder just what the hell was happening on this curtain. Then I locked up and left.

I confess that the ideal outcome of the evening for me would be that the technician went home and wished he'd had the balls to try to get me to fuck him while masturbating sadly, and that the actress feels better about herself and maybe stops getting so drunk and doing things she regrets. Maybe she could stop regretting some things too, but a lessening of regret is the ideal end result. And as long as I'm dreaming, I'd like a pony.

And now, speaking of which, sleep. I hope. No, probably one more session of find the tamale, then sleep I hope. I have a number of other things brewing to talk about, but not now. Perhaps Monday. Night all.

Flash Fiction Friday - Gonzo

I had started the evening sober as a pope, but after an indeterminate amount of both time and liquor, I was in a seedy little dive, the kind that Momma always warned you about, watching two Asian gentlemen play backgammon while the smoke from their unfiltered Camels hung heavy in the air like smog over LA. But we were a long way from LA.

I tipped back a glass of what I had been assured was a Tanqueray and tonic, but which tasted more like a toilet brush. The room swam before my eyes, filled with strange figures who seemed to be pointing and laughing at me, or maybe that was just the walls. Chong, or maybe Wong, swore, Cantonese, Haka, or some garbled Mandarin; I spoke none of them, so I slurred a request for translation.

"He said Xian is a goatfucking testicle-licker," said a low growl. "Then he asked what the hell this bitch is doing on the table." I looked around, but could locate neither the speaker nor the spoken-of bitch. Then I wondered what had happened to my bra, and slapped possibly-Wong. How dare he call me that?

Things became a bit blurry after that, although I believe I may have danced until they threw me out in the street. I never did find my clothes.

---

I'm supremely sorry I don't have more energy to write more, because I think this is a terrific picture. But while I did have a few days of lower-impact, I had to spend them doing things other than Flashing my Fiction. Like writing other blog posts, and catching up on emails, and doing other work, and errands, and masturbating a lot. Not necessarily in that order either, I'm afraid.

I'm not a great lover of gonzo; I've never read all of Fear and Loathing, and what I did read didn't really stick with me. But for some reason what started out straightforward became rather stylized as I wrote, to the point where it seemed a bit, just a bit, gonzo, so I went with it. I wish it were sexier, but you go where it takes you.

I also deeply, deeply wish that I could call someone a goatfucking testicle-licker in some language other than English. If anyone out there speaks another language and knows some wonderful insult of that nature, please, I'm begging you, share it. Even if I already know it (and I do know a few insults in other languages) others may not. Think of it as cultural exchange. I'm looking pointedly in a few people's directions, but anyone may chime in.

Short discussion this week, so you must all troop over to Panser's lair and read all the other wonderfulness. Or submit some wonderfulness of your own. It's not too late. Last week, I couldn't even post mine until Friday afternoon. How long does 220 words really take?

Nipples

I had a question, or rather a series of related questions, which just begged answering.

"So I was wondering - speaking as a young girl who became sexually aware and aroused at a relatively early (flat) age, when did you discover your nipples? [W]ere your nipples a playground before your breasts developed? Did they become more sensitive during their development? What's the back story on your front story? What's YOUR take on [nipples]? On yours, and your preferences for others?" - p s

Basically this is an invitation to ruminate on nipples, but I'll try to stay focused.

From a very early age, I knew nipples were for nursing. I think all girls go through a phase of wanting to be mommies, and it seemed natural at the time to try out nursing as well, because after all, that's what they were for, right? I don't remember a lot of this; I'm just putting it together from vague recollections. Anyway, I know that I tried to get Mike, when he was still a baby, to nurse on me, but since I wasn't giving milk it didn't work out well. But there was definite sensation there, and I must have filed that fact away for future reference.

Of course, once I was introduced to sex, I wanted to know all about it, so nipples were a part of the information I wanted to learn. But even when I started masturbating, I didn't do a whole lot of nipple play because I was too focused on the main event, so to speak.

I think the first time I genuinely enjoyed my nipples was with Mari. She had breasts at that point, while I was still pretty flat, and she taught me how to suck on her nipples, then turned around and did it to me. Up to that point I hadn't really experienced nipple play, just some idle stroking and wishing I had breasts. But after that, I was all about getting my nips taken care of. They've never been my biggest erogenous zone, but they are definitely a zone I enjoy.

Mike went through a period of fascination with nipples, and I reaped the whirlwind on that. I've never orgasmed when I could feel it in my breasts; I'm not sure anyone really does, but one hears stories. But having a breast sucked while being penetrated is lots of fun, and until Mike hit his growth spurt he was at just the right height, compared to me, to do that. Dad couldn't really manage it; the best he could do was cup my breasts in his hands and roll the points between thumb and forefinger while his cock was inside me, which I also enjoyed but wasn't quite the same.

I guess my nipples may have become more sensitive as I became older, to a point, but the reverse is also true; I don't think that my nipples are as sensitive as they might have been the first time I really played with them. It might not be physical; the sensations just aren't as novel any more, perhaps.

As far as my take on nipples, I enjoy mine just fine. I like oral love, with a lot of tongue and a bit of suction, rather than pinching or nipping. Not being into pain, I'm obviously not into clips and so forth. But there's more to the breast than just the nipple; I like to be cupped, with my nipples in the center of the palm, with just a bit of pressure, maybe a bit of rocking up and down. I like kisses all over my breasts, and between them as well. Licking is also appreciated. Teasing around the nipple with just the tip of the tongue... well, that might get you a gold star.

I have fairly perky nipples but not ultra-puffy. For the size of my breast, I guess they're about normal. They get hard, but while I might make jokes about cutting glass, that's more hyperbole than fact; I've been with women whose nipples get way harder and pointier than mine. Still, they'll show through shirts. They're pink, just like my cunt, a pink which might not show up on darker skin but which stands out just fine on me. If I'm flushed, they get deeper pink, but only just noticeably, at least I'm told.

As far as nipples on other people, I like nipples that go with the breast. If you've got bigger breasts, you can get away with bigger nipples. A little puffy is okay, but sometimes women have breasts that look like they're the Giza plateau (only without the Sphinx, although I suppose that could be a metaphor for other cat-named things), and that's not my favorite. A clean demarcation between nipple and breast is nice, but not a deal-breaker. And I do like perky nipples, higher on the breast, but that's just me being shallow. It might seem like I'm describing my own nipples, and in a way I am; I'm pretty happy with mine, although I'm jealous of larger breasts and if I were to somehow get larger breasts I'd probably want slightly larger nipples to go with them. But I like tan nipples or brown nipples or basically any nipple that fits in with its breast. It's a difficult thing to describe; the aesthetic of nipples is complex in my mind.

I enjoy playing with other women's nipples a lot, to the point where I'll do things to them that I wouldn't want them to do to me. Only if they want that, of course, but I've done a wee bit of nipple torture with a few people, and I'm always happy to use my teeth gently, which some people seem to enjoy. I will definitely pinch if asked. But that's not just women; I've been with more than a few men who wanted a bit of nipple action, and I am happy, very happy, to give them the same treatment. In my somewhat limited experience men seem to either not be into nipple play or like it fairly rough (understanding, of course, that my definition of rough is lowballing it a lot).

Dad doesn't care about nipples; he'll let me play with his, but it's not his main thing. Mike goes through phases; sometimes he likes a bit of nipple nibbling, other times he doesn't. I'm given to understand that when the kids were young, throughout the period where Mom had us all and after we were weened, she was nipple-play-crazy. Breastfeeding didn't dull her interest in it at all. Mari likes to give and receive, and she's very good at both. Sheri is too rough, but she likes it when I'm rough back. Sveta and I like each other's nipples a lot, although neither of us are nipple-obsessed, and we both like about the same level of attention, so it works out well.

Beyond that, I went through a period of lactation fascination before I realized that it wasn't lactation so much as pregnancy. But I did hope, for a while, that I might be one of those people who lactates all the time. Now I'm not sure what I was thinking; it sounds embarrassing for those poor women, really. But I tried hard to get milk to come out. What can I say; I was young and dumb.

Hopefully that's enough information on nipples, but if not, or if you've got a similarly stimulating question, I can be reached via comments or by email at lexinaughtygirl[AT]gmail.com, which all you humans should be able to handle. If you really can't, I think my profile page has an email link built into it. I like questions, and while I don't like formspring, surely people can make the extra iota of effort and ask in some other way.

Panties in a Bunch

I needed some new general-wear panties. Attrition and loss and possibly theft (sometimes it seems like someone must be stealing them, otherwise where the hell are they going) had depleted my stocks. I'm not talking about the exciting ones, or even ones I might actually go shopping for; I'm talking the panties I wear to work, the daily-rotation panties, the ones I buy in bulk from the big box store. Maybe not bulk, but you get the idea.

So I went to the store to pick up some, and they didn't have the brand I like. Big deal, thought I naively, I'll just buy the brand they have.

Wrong. Either I've lost weight (and I don't think that's true) or the sizes are different, because the panties I wound up with are baggy. And in bikini cut, that's not something to take lightly. But I'm poor, and no one is supposed to see these (people sometimes see them, but that's not according to plan) so I soldiered through and waited for the time when I'd find the brand I liked again.

It took me too long, but finally I found them, or so I thought. So I bought two bags, plenty enough, at a price that I find more and more ridiculous as I get poorer. Seriously, underwear cost too damn much. Topic for another time, or indeed another blog that I don't have. Anyway, I bought them and tossed them in the laundry, and a few days ago had cause to do a load and so wound up with fresh new panties.

Except these panties are no good at all. I thought they were the same things; they came in the same label, in the same number, by the same company. I should clearly have been paying closer attention. These panties aren't cotton. They're some weird synthetic blend, which means they stretch. A lot. I could probably pull the leg holes open wide enough to fit both my legs through one hole. The waistline rides up to my belly button when I work and gives me horrible wedgies, and I can't seem to get them to stop turning into thongs.

So I've been wearing the remnants of my everyday-rotation stash and some other panties which are more comfortable but more exciting, and dreading the day when I bend over without thinking and expose something exciting to my coworkers. They'd notice. I may be one of the guys, but they'd notice.

I'm going to get all old for a moment and ask why the hell the things I like have to change? Why can't they just keep the panties that I find comfortable the same? Huh? Okay, putting my walker and blue hair dye away. Now I'm faced with the annoying prospect of having to buy a number of pairs of underwear without knowing whether they'll be any good in order to find another kind which will undoubtedly disappear as soon as I find them. And you can't try on underwear, no ma'am. So that's money. Hooray. Or I can buy the more expensive kind that yes, I do like more, but which cost as much for one pair as I can get two or three in bulk. Hooray.

I'm sure you all wanted to hear about this. But it's been on my mind.

In exchange for listening to me rant about panties, here's me in panties.

Whose hand is it? Well it could be anyone's. I'll leave it up to your imagination.

Slut

I don't like the term "slut." A lot of people seem to really go for it, either because they enjoy being verbally abused during sex or because they've taken it as a badge of honor to be referred to as a slut. I suppose that's a bit like the other slurs which have been appropriated by the slurred party, and I guess I respect that, but that doesn't make me like the term any more.

As for being verbally abused during sex, to each his or her own. I'm not into it, but there are plenty of things I'm not into that people like, and while I think one might want to examine one's needs and determine just why one needs to feel degraded during sex, hey, if it's your thing, I'm not judging. Okay, so I'm probably judging merely by saying that, but I'm not telling you to stop doing it.

I'm not sure why slut occupies this rarefied place in our linguistics: it's really the only thing that does what it does. You can't exchange it for whore or bitch, although both could easily be used to degrade. And there aren't a lot of synonyms which carry to meaning of "person who sleeps around" but don't carry the baggage of slut. When I hear the word, it seems dirty, trashy, just plain unpleasant.

I'm proud to be promiscuous. Yes, there's a judgment in that word too, but it's longer so people can't throw it around in the same way. I'm proud that I share my physical love with many people. But I don't embrace "slut" simply because it doesn't feel like me. It may mean other things to other people, and if they like the word I won't assume that they like it for the same reasons I dislike it, but I don't like it, so I don't go for it.

I hope no one is offended by any of this, except that that's a vain hope. Someone will be, no doubt. I'm just trying to explain that I, personally, don't care for it when a guy, who might be taking the lead, romantically-speaking, and I might be enjoying that, when this guy decides to start telling me to beg for it, slut, or to get on your knees slut, or just to call me a slut, even if he doesn't mean it to be particularly degrading. I'm not a fan. I don't even mind being ordered around sometimes; it can be fun in the right circumstances. But leave the names out of it. Particularly slut.

Done rambling now.

Informational Tuesday

Via HEDONE and a whole lot of other people whose blogs I read.

Thanks to Kirsti from the Drenched and Delicious blog for the ‘getting to know you’ questions.

Getting to Know You...

1. What does your online profile name mean?

It's a diminutive form of Alexandra, which is the feminine form of Alexander, which comes via Latin from the Greek Alexandros, which means "Man's Defender" and may originally have been used as an epithet to describe Hera, Queen of the Gods. None of which I thought about. I have never said it was my name, but then I've never said it wasn't either.

2. How did you decide on the title of your blog?

Because if you have an "ex" in your name, the temptation is irresistible. I've removed the "Sexy" from the title, but originally I believe I actually named it "The Exploits of Sexy Lexi" which is just too euphonious for words.

3. How much of your online personality transcends into your real life (RL)? What's the biggest difference between the two?

Things don't transcend into. They transcend. I believe what you're trying to go for is "bleed into" or something similar, as in, "How much of your online personality mixes with your real life?" On the other hand, maybe that's not what's being asked.

Online, I'm funnier and I get to talk about myself more than I might otherwise feel comfortable doing. I'm probably more talky in general, at least taking into account the fact that this blog is basically talking to total strangers (I love you all). I'm also more attractive online because I get to pick the pictures. No, only kidding; I'm probably hotter in real life because I'm in HD.

4. What have you stumbled across through reading blogs that really made you want to try it out? Have you done it yet? Was it a good, bad or so so experience?

I've seen a few toys that I really wish I had the money to buy, and I've heard some stories which made me want to do some things, but I haven't really been that cross-pollinated by other blogs. Not that I don't like reading them, just that many things I've liked reading are about things I have already done and enjoy. Oh, and I suppose I stumbled across Flash Fiction Friday and wanted to try that out, so I did, and it's been a good experience. Masterful understatement there. It's been great. Better than great.

And now, in honor of May is Masturbation Month...

5. After you masturbate, do you taste your cum? Do you like the taste of you?

Depends on my mood. Strangely enough, if I'm masturbating because I really wish I had a gal to do it with, I might be more inclined to taste my fingers after than if I'm masturbating missing cocks in my life. I'm fine with my own taste, but I like other people's more.

6. Do you like to masturbate in front of someone else? Does that heighten your arousal or are you indifferent?

Again, this sort of depends on my mood. When I do it, I like it and it makes me aroused, and as foreplay playing with myself while someone watches is nice, but I do like it to segue into other things that I enjoy more.

7. Have you ever been caught masturbating? By who?

Being "caught" masturbating in my family is meaningless; we never tried to hide it and still don't. I think it might be easier to catch guys in the act than girls anyway. I remember once I was masturbating in my dorm when Gwen brought someone over unannounced, and that was a near thing, but she was the first through the door so I had just enough time to compose myself before the guest walked in. Other than that, I don't think so. Maybe I'm forgetting; it's honestly never been that big a deal to me.

Back With a Vengeance

No, I'm not plotting the downfall of various people. I just meant that I now have some free time again and boy do I have things to talk about.

The other night there was a shindig at the theater, during which time I had a bit more than a bit too much to drink, over the course of several hours. Most of that time I hung out, chewed the fat with various people, cheerfully ogled a few people without any particular malice of intent, and just generally was present at the party. I was not the only person who was getting to a state of inebriation either; there were plenty of people who really needed to let loose a bit.

This hasn't been the most stressful thing ever, but there has been some stress, and while tempers have been kept in check, there have been moments where things might have gone horribly south in a hurry. But the party, if not fixing that, at least alleviated the pressure a little. People were being social, friendly, lubricated people.

At a certain point, after I realized that I was perhaps being a bit too lubricated when I said one or two things I didn't really mean to say, I excused myself to the bathroom, but went to a different bathroom than the one near the party because I wanted to take a few minutes and make sure I was all right. I wasn't worried, really, just needed a moment to myself to fix myself with a stare in the mirror and tell myself to behave. That kind of thing.

I walked into the ladies' bathroom, expecting to be completely alone, when what should I discover but a surprised couple engaged in some extra-curricular activities. More specifically, an actress and a technician, she sitting on the counter with her top off and dress pushed up to her waist, he between her legs with his pants around his ankles. Best part: she's married, and not to him.

When I say "surprised" however, what I mean is that they both looked up and their faces registered a small amount of surprise, then she grinned sloppily and wrapped herself around him again as he started thrusting once more. Well, I'm nothing if not a voyeur (okay, maybe a few things) so instead of interrupting, I leaned back against the wall and watched. I'd always wondered about her; she seems rather free-spirited and young for her husband, whom I've only met in passing, but she's got 17 kids (not really, but she has more than two) which means she must have been popping them out one a year since she was 18, because she also doesn't look old enough to be a mother more than once maybe. She looks my age. I know, I'm ancient, but seriously, she's incongruous.

And did I mention they're both redheads? No, I didn't. They are. He's got great hair; I'm not sure hers isn't dyed, but either way, it looks good on her.

After a few moments, I went in closer because I hadn't really gotten to see anything but his ass and a brief glimpse of her. She has gorgeous tits too, particularly considering the number of kids she has. She's not skinny, but very curvy in a zaftig kind of way. And she was wasted. He looked a bit more sober than I was, sober enough to give me a glance as I came in closer, then grin as she moaned softly.

It could easily have become a redhead threesome; I was ready to go right there. But although they didn't seem to mind me being there, they made no move to invite me in, even when I leaned in to get a closer look at his cock thrusting up into her pussy. The carpet doesn't match the drapes on her, but that's not necessarily an indication of anything; she has lightish-brown pubic hair, trimmed but not much more than that, which could well be her hair color or could be just an indication that her hair is different. I've met people who have different color hair, pubes, and beard. He, on the other hand, was a fire-crotch, and lots of it.

Sober, I might either have felt slightly uncomfortable or I might have made a move, but in my state, I was fairly content to watch. She giggled as she flipped over and he pressed into her again from behind, then shortly thereafter he pulled back with a small grunt and made a mess of the back of her dress. She didn't seem to notice. I just grinned at them and left again.

Which was why I didn't get to give myself a good square look in the eye, which was why I went back and had another drink, which was why I wound up on stage with another gal singing musical theatre numbers and laughing. I was dripping wet at that point, from watching bathroom sex and not getting any myself and just from being me and drunk and horny. When someone asked me if I needed a ride home, I told him, "Yeah, take me wherever." Which was how I wound up at his house making out with him on his couch. He's not bad to look at, and he was perfectly happy to, "Fuck me, fuck me please!" as I must have begged him about a million times on the car ride home.

I wasn't so drunk that I blacked out, I was just too drunk and tired to give a rat's ass. I wanted to get laid. I've flirted with this guy in the past, and if it was a bit of shitting where I eat, that's life. He's older than I am but I'm okay with older men, as I've said in the past. I let him do most of the heavy lifting, which I feel just a little bit bad about because hey, I like to bring my A game. I think he may have gotten my C game.

There was making out and light manhandling on the couch, then we moved to the bedroom where clothes were shucked somewhat woozily and then some more naked making out, body to body, with his hard cock pressing against me as he stuck his tongue down my throat and pressed fingers into my cunt. No oral, just straight from light foreplay to penetration. I don't remember him putting a condom on but he was wearing one when he entered me. Face-to-face fucking lasted about a minute before he wanted me on hands and knees; I'm not really trying to insult him, but it really was like he had wanted it that way in the first place.

When he pressed in from behind, hands on my thighs and pulling me back onto him as he pushed forward, I came. It was a drunken O, which meant it was just sort of a state of mind, but it was pleasant enough. He wasn't going at it hard enough to work through the haze, so I remember encouraging him to go harder until he pulled out and moved up, obviously expecting to be finished in my mouth. I obliged. Then I don't really remember going from cum on my tongue to sleep, but clearly we both fell asleep thereafter.

I woke up tangled with him in his bed, bleary and stiff, more from sleeping in a strange bed with someone than from drink. I was all set to make the walk of shame, but he said he had to drive me back to get my car anyway, so why not hang around for a while, have breakfast, get a shower, something. "Something," wound up being morning sex, which I remember more clearly this time. It wasn't much to speak of. Stripped of the haze of alcohol, he was rhythmic but kind of boring, he didn't seem interested in eating me out, and he didn't last long enough for me to cum more than once. I'm not saying it was awful, just that it wasn't epic. I don't expect epic, and it was nice to get some penetration, but it really made me miss people who do it better.

Then, finally, he drove me back to get my car. Vague assurances were made that it was no big deal, that hey, everyone was entitled to a bit of a fling, etc. and so on. Then I drove home and got ready to go back to work.

Later, I caught the eye of the technician who had been railing the hot married actress and gave him a grin, which he raised an eyebrow at but did nothing else. He's pretty quiet, so I wasn't expecting much. Redheaded married actress wouldn't look me in the eye. Frankly, I don't care; I've seen her naked and that was fun, and I had no illusions about getting to fuck her, so it's all lagniappe.

The pressure is off for a bit now, and hopefully will remain off long enough for me to catch up on some blogging. And strangely enough, I don't really feel any guilt or regrets about any of this. I'd expect to feel a bit of work-personal-separation-anxiety, but I've been so cut off from sex recently by events that I just felt like I deserved a bit of loving. It won't affect my professional life, and why work in theatre if you don't get to screw actors?

Flash Fiction Friday - Yellow Eyes

"So, how does this work?" He said nothing, although she hadn't really expected anything. "Just... I don't know, stop me if I'm doing it wrong."

She had stripped most of her costume off in the sweaty air, but standing over him she now felt chilled. "You're sure this will make you normal again?" she asked, helplessly. His yellow eyes blinked, perhaps in code or perhaps just in hunger, and she wondered, as she straddled his furry belly, if or when the ringmaster and crew would leap out and yell, "Surprise."

---

"He's neutered, pet; he don't mind." This was doubtless in reaction to my face as she planted her heel on a tender portion of the tiger's anatomy. The cigarette dangled from her leering lips. "What, you think you're the first man I showed around?" I wondered what I was doing here. "Now come on, pet, you said you wanted a bit of fun."

I let her take my cock in hand, all the time looking only at the tiger's yellow, unblinking eyes. The orgasm, when it came, was surprisingly strong.

---

hunger rumbles this place is dry as bone no don't think of bones

the bare apes look crunchable sometimes when the hunger comes but they are careful careful apes too careful and they will bring pain if I snack on one of their number

the female comes

roll on my back yellow eyes blinking

come closer I'm just a big old softy nothing to fear from me

she is bold this one

planting her foot on my belly rumbling rumbling

I will never have a better chance

hunger consumes me

---

Blogger ate this the last time I posted it, then went offline. I had some not-terribly-interesting things to say about it, but instead of all that, I'll just tell you to visit PB for your Flash Fiction Friday needs, and leave you with the limerick that was the first thing into my head when I saw the picture. It's a classic.

A smiling young lady from Niger

Took a ride on the back of a tiger.

They returned from the ride

With the lady inside

And the smile on the face of the tiger.

Random Thoughts On Oral Sex

Hey everyone. I had this thought on the way to work and felt like maybe it was worth sharing, and then on the way back from work I had it again, so clearly it wasn't just a one-off.

If you want to improve your tongue dexterity, here's something you might try (not a silver bullet and your mileage will most definitely vary to the point where I might get two millions miles to the gallon and you get fifteen feet from the garage and then the tank is bone-dry and you're looking at the gauge and wondering just what the Hell kind of bitch I am for having sold you this lemon of a gas-guzzler, imagining me on a beach somewhere with your hard-earned moola laughing my ass off at you like you're some kind of sucker, only you're not because I never sold it to you at all, so caveat emptor doesn't even apply in this case, more like caveat auditor or something). I stress might. What, you skipped over the parenthetical phrase? Go back and read it.

Buy yourself some sunflower seeds in the shell. The kind baseball players eat when they're not chewing tobacco. The kind that make you look like some kind of horrible rube. But buy them anyway.

Now, chances are good that, if you've purchased them in the past, you already know what I'm going to say, so you can probably skip the rest of this. But maybe you bought them before and wondered how to eat them, then either tried cracking them one by one with your fingers or teeth and gave up or stuffed a bunch in your mouth and chewed until you had a horrible scratchy cud going on, then either spit it out and felt disgusted with yourself, or swallowed it. Maybe you're one of those people who actually likes to eat the shells. There are people who feel that way about shrimp too.

But this time, take some seeds and put them in your mouth and try to eat nothing but the kernel with nothing but your teeth, lips, and tongue. It's hard at first, I know (yes, I know there are those in the back of the class who are snickering, secure in the knowledge that they've been doing this for years; this is not really addressed at you). But eventually you should get to the point where you can store the whole seeds in one cheek, pull one at a time out with your tongue and lips, split the shell with your teeth, chew the kernel on the other side of your mouth, then spit the empty shell out without leaving a trail of drool down your chin. This is what we do for fun where I come from.

Okay, not really. It took some practice to get out of the "aw fuck it, let's just chew up the whole thing and hope" phase and then even more to get out of the "only one seed at a time otherwise things go horribly wrong" phase. Much of that practice came about because I had mostly given up smoking and had to do something or I'd go insane. Don't practice indoors.

No, this wasn't intended to be a reminiscence on misspent youth, nor on the rather disgusting habit of spitting. I don't do it in polite company. It was intended to be an achievable goal. Everyone always talks about feats of tongue gymnastics like being able to tie a cherry stem in a knot with nothing but your tongue, but maneuvering seeds around your mouth before they get all soggy and pulling the kernels out of them will give you a real sense of what you can do with your tongue.

And what are tongues used for, kids? That's right! Oral sex! Keep a limber tongue in your head at all times, children, and good things will follow.

This Week

I am swamped. Not in a "my panties are swampy" kind of way, but in a "I want to throw myself into a swamp and sink blissfully into oblivion where I can be slowly tanned by the chemicals and then pulled out a thousand years from now by archaeologists who will secretly kind of want to do me even though I'm all corpsified and gross" kind of way. Busy busy busy.

I will try to do FFF this week. It might be the first week I miss in a very long time. But chances are good I'll get one done for Friday. However, you may see somewhat less of me than anyone likes until next week at the earliest. I've just been busy and also somewhat unenthusiastic about writing.

On the other hand, if I get into a mood to write, even if I have no events about which to write, you may see some of that.

I did, however, want to have at least one post this week, and something happened yesterday which was worthy of posting but I was too tired to do it then. Dad and I had sex.

Yes, actual penetrative sex. I was sucking him off (well, "off" is perhaps not the right word, since he seldom actually goes off, but whatever) when he started to harden up, and as soon as he was even close to being hard enough, I hopped up and eased him into the love canal. It felt so nice; it had been quite a while since I'd been penetrated by anything other than toys or fingers, and even longer since I'd had Daddy inside me. He leaned back and took my hips in his hands and we just rode, fiercely, until I felt him softening up again.

It should perhaps have been a joyous occasion, but it wound up being depressing. He was angry at himself for not being able to keep it up, at least until I came. I was... well, okay, I was disappointed. I tried not to let that show, because it's not his fault, but my womanly parts are masters of mental magic, so they convinced my rational brain that they deserved more. It was a tense moment or two.

Then I fought back into control, lay down on his chest and kissed him and said "Thanks Dad, I needed that." Which I did. I needed more, but that's okay. And he smiled sheepishly and kissed me back, and then we cuddled for a few minutes before he moved me to my back so he could give me the orgasm I needed with his fingers and tongue, if not with his cock.

I was all set to try to return the favor, to see if I could maybe suck one out of him since oral seems to stimulate him more. But he just told me it was fine, that we both had to get busy with other things. So in the main, kind of depressing.

On the other hand, when viewed more dispassionately, it's not so depressing after all. He's been getting hard more regularly, and he has orgasmed once or twice under my ministrations, although usually somewhat unexpectedly, as if more of a premature ejaculation than anything else. And if he can stay hard long enough for me to get him inside me, it's only a matter of time before he'll be able to stay hard long enough to properly fuck me, the way only my Daddy can. It's a long road to recovery, but his doctors say things are progressing fairly well. It's only been a few months, really. I can give it more time.

Flash Fiction Friday - Procrastinatrix

I shall do my work. I shall not procrastinate. That's my little voice again, unheard and unheeded, as instead I put aside the book of knowledge I seek but cannot stand, and close my eyes and think of her.

I have only seen her in dreams, but she is beautiful. She waits for me in the mist, shining locks cascading over perfect shoulders, high, proud breasts, slim and lithe, with eyes as deep as a well and also as dark. The haze parts and there she is, standing wanton. She begs me with her eyes, and I do as she desires, lying back, my fickle fingers stealing down to rest above the rising heat of my loins. Her eyes widen; she seems to urge me on as I run delicate touches around my hooded goddess, feeling the moisture and pressure increase.

She never touches me, not in my dreams or my waking visions, seeming content to watch as I bring myself to joy. She remains wordless, but I can feel it as the book tumbles to the floor. Again, she speaks without speaking. Again.

---

In contrast to last week's flash of almost instant inspiration, this week I left this until almost the eleventh hour. It wasn't a lack of inspiration on the part of the picture, but rather on the part of me; I haven't been feeling terribly writerly of late. Maybe I blew a fuse doing last week's.

The title is a bit goofy for the story, but I love adding "trix" to the end of words to make them sexier. I'm all for feminism and I think that women and men should be judged the same way, but if that means I've got to give up aviatrix and dominatrix and so forth, I think that's just silly. Sillier than herstory. Sillier than hym and hys. I think women need to take back "trix" in the same way we need to take back "bitch" and "cunt." I have a dream where one day, little children of all genders can call each other cunts without regard to sexuality or gender! I have a dream today!

A bit much? Yeah, maybe. I do like procrastinatrix though.

As for the meat of it, I rarely write in the present tense, but in this case it seemed right. There's enough of the present-past that it doesn't seem like an imposition, but I figured what the hell, I'd try it.

Is she a temptress, a succubus, a siren? I don't know. This isn't autobiographical except in the sense that I procrastinate, sometimes by masturbating. I think you can believe whatever you want to believe.

Just one this week, which means that to get your fix of Flash Fiction Friday you may need more than a taste. If so, head over to the supplier, PB, with one pants leg rolled up and a red carnation in your buttonhole, and he'll sort you out. Tell 'em Lexi the Cunt sent you, and if that doesn't get you thrown out, clearly I need to try harder. Unless you're the fuzz. You aren't the fuzz, are you? If you are, you really should shave more carefully next time.

Stupid Internet

So my internet was out for much of yesterday, which is why nothing happened yesterday blogwise. Today, however, the internet has returned, so to make up for things, I've got two TMI-ish things which I'm going to cram into one giant TMI post right below here. From HEDONE and K&J.

1. LUST (excessive sexual appetites): Besides your current significant other, for whom do you lust or who have you lusted for in the past? Does your significant other know about your lustful desires?

All sorts of people. I could be here days answering this question. And of course.

2. GLUTTONY (over-indulgence): What food brings out your inner glutton?

Chocolate. That's the easiest one, but there are others. I like good food.

3. GREED (avarice): When it comes to sex, what are you greedy for? When it comes to things, what is it that you want more than you need or deserve?

I'm not sure how to answer the second part of this question because it implies that there's a certain level of sex which one deserves. It also implies that wanting sex is greedy. I like to think of most sexual activity as being something that I give as well as receive. But I suppose I'm a bit orgasm-greedy, and I want more anal than I get. Maybe the second part of the question isn't about sex only, in which case I'm greedy, mildly, for most things that normal people are greedy for: respect, power, love, money, approval. I'd be lying if I said that wasn't true, as, I imagine, would most people. I'm not a saint.

4. SLOTH (idleness/procrastination): Name a task or activity in which you perpetually procrastinate?

I'll get back to this one in a minute after I answer the more interesting questions further down the page.

5. WRATH (anger) is manifested in the individual who spurns love and opts instead for fury.

a. Describe a time that you were very angry?

Let's just say that my life has provided a certain number of events which have made me angry, and I'm happy that I managed to get through most of them without doing much of anything, and in none of them have I been arrested or charged with anything.

b. Have you ever been so angry that you thought about revenge? Did you seek it?

I've sought revenge on my sister for pranks. And I've coldly, calculatingly exacted "justice" for certain things. And I've toyed with the idea of revenge in a more sinister manner for a few things, but never acted on it. Revenge isn't good for the soul. I'm not saying you have to be a Christian, but there's a certain wisdom in, "'Vengeance is mine', sayeth the Lord." "Getting even" rarely results in anything fair.

6. ENVY (jealousy): Who or what do you envy? Why?

I envy plenty of people. Most of the time, it's the constructive envy which doesn't make me want to destroy what others have, but rather to better myself so I too have what they have. Sometimes, I'm ashamed to say, I just want to take things away. That's not healthy, but again, I'm not a saint.

7. PRIDE (vanity) is the love of one’s own excellence, and it is considered the worst of the 7 Deadly Sins.

a. When preparing to meet a lover, what are you most vain about?

Good question. I think it depends on the lover. Sometimes I'm interested in looking my best, sometimes I just want to be clean. Cleanliness isn't really vanity, but maybe I clean up more assiduously before meeting a lover than I ordinarily would.

b. What sexual skill are you overly proud and boastful about?

Probably my ability to orgasm. That doesn't sound like something to boast about, but I talk about it a lot, and maybe I'm boasting.

c. What part of your body are you proud of, boastful about?

Given the number of pictures of my ass and legs on the blog, I'll go with that. I'm not proud of my tits (not that I hate them, but I could do better) and I'm sometimes annoyed by my lack of tone in the belly region.

Bonus: What sin do you think is your greatest virtue? For example, what bad thing makes you more appealing?

Oh, probably lust. Cheap answer, I know, but for the purposes of discussion, I'd say that being lusty is a selling point.

---

1. What is the weather like in your city today?

Too hot, too humid. I don't live in a city, but it's still true.

2. Do you like the zoo?

A lot of people say, "I hate seeing animals in cages; I wish they were in the wild." And while that's true, I acknowledge that most animals in zoos have no wild to be in. Zoos perform a valuable function of conservation, and the people who work at zoos are good people who genuinely love animals. I support zoos, but I don't like going to zoos because I don't like seeing animals in cages. It's not the zoo's fault; I'm depressed that zoos need to exist more than anything else. I've been to a few "zoos" where it was more like a wildlife preserve, and I enjoy those more, although it still depresses me that the animals are in need of such things.

3. Do you eat coconut?

All the time. I've never been very good at eating coconut from the shell, but I love coconut. I hate fake coconut flavor, but the real stuff, hell yeah.

4. Have you ever hammered a nail? Are you good at it?

I have, and I am. I've used nail guns too, and I've driven screws and lag bolts. I've never gotten to do a hot rivet, but beyond that, you name a fastener and I've probably used it. Hell, I can weld a bit too. Yeah, I'm bragging about my skillz. Maybe I should go back and change the previous questions. Nah, I'll get to it later.

5. Does your family have a vacation destination that you visit often?

Not really. Sort of. I haven't been in years.

6. How many pillows do you sleep with?

A large number. I have two for my head, and two for body-pillow-type-duty.

7. What’s the first thing you do when you wake up?

Moan. Not the good kind either. I hate waking up.

8. Will you send your kids to summer camp?

If they want to do. I did summer camp, although it was day camp mostly. If my kids want to go to camp, I will try to make it possible, and I might encourage them to do something over the summer just because it's good for them. But I'm not going to bundle off my protesting progeny to some camp upstate for the entire summer so I won't have to deal with them.

9. What do you put in your baked potatoes?

Usually butter and salt, unless there are other options. If other options are available, chili, cheese, chives, sour cream, onions, bacon... basically, anything goes.

10. Did you take swimming lessons as a kid?

Yes, at summer camp. I could kind of swim before, but after I went through years of swimming lessons, I was hard-core. Not that I would have been Olympic or anything, but I could do all the things one needed to do to pass the various Red Cross levels. I could have been a lifeguard had I been a bit older and not completely uninterested in dying of skin cancer. But I could do two Olympic pool lengths under water (I still can't believe I could do this one), dive into the shallow end without killing myself, rescue people, tread water with no hands forever, all that crazy jazz. I couldn't do any of it now. I do miss swimming though; I think I'd like gills as a mutation. Yes, I want to be Kevin Costner from Waterworld. Deal with it.

There you have it. I'm not complaining about the internet; my provider is pretty good about uptime. Just an explanation.