The Late Bloomer Finally Blooms

Listening

2010-11-15T18:02:00.000-05:00

So, okay. New boy. Brand new. Fun boy! Let's call him: Caleb! (Looks in archives of blog, ponders new fake names, comes up with Caleb.)

You know what's hot? What turns me on? What makes me slick, like slippery wet stones in a brook in the backyard of sexual reawakening? (Holy Extended Metaphor, Batman.)

Really. Good. Listening skills.

Seriously.

You might have strong hands, you might have smoldering eyes, you might know the gspot like the back of your hand, but if you're not listening to what I'm saying...

Sorry.

I know. And it's not a super duper turn on.

I'm smarter than you, Guy Who's Nodding, Guys Who's Rubbing the Back of My Neck, Guy Who Gives Random Compliment at Random Time.

"You have the most beautiful eyes."

DOES NOT BEAT:

"You know what I like about you. You have no filter. You say what you want to say and it's not awkward or mean. It's just what you want to say." THIS is what Caleb said.

"Your skin is like...porcelain."

DOES NOT BEAT:

"Have you always been this innocent? This full of wonder?" THIS is what Caleb said.

Written down--maybe the innocent thing sounds cheesy, untrue, a ridiculous exaggeration. But honestly, I am innocent. I am full of wonder. Despite all the men, despite all the threesomes, despite the recent broken heart, despite the bdsm and the orgies and the strapons--I'm innocent. I'm full of wonder. I look at this world I'm in and created for myself and I'm like--ahh. Wonderful.

These are things that Caleb said. Because he was responding to what I was giving him.

It's hot.

It's his practice, it's his game, it's his way of "getting" women. Granted. But you gotta get chicks somehow. Why not get them by listening to what they're FUCKING SAYING TO YOU?! Am I right or am I right?

Besides, I think Caleb doesn't have expectations. He just takes what you're putting out there. And makes it work. That's a good way to live! ANYWAY!

Back to being slick as stones. Back to juicy pussy Janie.

For my birthday, I invited a select few to join me for an afternoon of brunch and sexy time. Brunch lasted for longer than sexy time. Both are so important in my heart. It is very hard to balance goat cheese and rosemary tart with fooling around. I try, though.

"I have to leave in about 20 minutes," said Caleb.

"Well, then we better get undressed," said Jefferson.

Earlier that afternoon, Caleb had told me that his present to me on my birthday was just going to be enjoying who I was, celebrating me.

"That's so nice!" I said. And I meant it. I giggled and blushed.

Still.

I ALSO wanted a little play from Caleb. Ha. I mean, who wouldn't? Handsome, thoughtful, quirky, giggly, boyish, manly.

But when Jefferson said, "Let's get undressed!" Caleb did just that! He left the room. And peeled off his clothes. Then came back in. I barely caught a glimpse of his body when he returned. It was only a moment before he showed me to the bed. Had me lie down on my back. Started massaging everything. I closed my eyes.

To be true, I immediately starting thinking, touch my tits, touch my pussy. You know how it is, ladies. Sometimes, some parts are greedier than others. Sometimes, initially, you don't want to wait. But Caleb was thinking: This is her whole body. Her whole body is connected to her tits, her pussy. I will start with arms. Neck. Shoulders. Legs. Calves.

Hair pull.

Mmmm. What HANDS.

I am making sounds. Quiet sounds. I am getting slick at stones in a brook. I am not moving from this position. I am not asking for him to touch anything except what he wants to touch. And I am not even asking that.

He's already heard it.

However, I DO say, "Caleb. Caleb with the hands, everyone," to the whole room, the other sex party guests, so they know, so they know our new friend Caleb has capable hands.

Props, after all, must be given.

And then, suddenly, his fingers are inside me. Probing. His fingers are on my clit. Rubbing. My cunt is accepting everything. I have never been so ready for a goddamn fingerbang. I am not thinking of his cock. I am thinking of his fingers which are an extension of everything.

He is suddenly humming to himself, nearly purring. He is coaxing my orgasm out of me with sounds like an animal. And so I come. Then again, I am coming, and I am beginning to get loud, and Caleb his growling in my ear, kissing and sucking and growling into my ear, loading my head with his sounds, pulling me to the sounds, towards his mouth by my hair, suddenly he is making me listen. And I am hearing it. I am hearing what he wants loud and clear.

Come for me, he is saying, but in grunts and growls and moans. No words. This is how I translate it. This is what I decide to hear as I listen. So I do. I come. Again.

Like...three times?

I am blissed out.

"Happy Birthday, Birthday Girl," he says. "I gotta go."

And he goes.

Just like that. Part of me wanted to get up and show him out. But let's face it: it's better to just be lying down, still, quiet, blissed out. With my warm cunt, my alive body, my happy heart. All of which are saying so much without saying anything at all.

For the first time in a while, I am listening to Janie.

Believe It Or Not, I Have Been Semi Blogging Lately...

2010-11-15T08:33:00.007-05:00

It's just that I've been doing it on Twitter!

I'm janie_blooms2 there. http://twitter.com/#!/janie_blooms2

I suggest that if you haven't been following me on Twitter, that you start following me there.

What has happened: I got a new job, I moved, my boyfriend and I broke up. I've been excited, mournful, eternally hopeful, occasionally sad, blissfully bewildered annnnd horny.

And I recently had a wee birthday orgy to celebrate all that.

I'm going to write an actual post about my adventures of late. Promise. This week.

A TLBFB Series: ADVENTURES IN OPEN RELATIONSHIP LAND Part I: Getting Our Needs Met

2010-08-08T20:32:00.019-04:00

Many of my readers on several different occasions have asked me to write more about the ins and outs of my open relationship with my boyfriend, Adam. Tonight I feel inspired to do just that. This will the first of a few posts in a series I’m going to call Adventures in Open Relationship Land.

My boyfriend and I have decided to be in an open relationship on approximately five different occasions. Every time, we have gone a bit deeper into ACTUALLY enacting an open relationship. It was only two times ago that we finally put on paper some of the guidelines by which we’d like to conduct our open relationship. For me, this was so vital. Not in determining exactly how our open relationship will go—you never really know how it’s going to go, how people are going to feel, who you’re going to meet, etc—but it was vital in that it made me think about my relationship BELIEFS. What I WANTED out of our relationship. What I NEEDED. What were my relationship NEEDS?

A lot of us go into a relationship and let the relationship happen TO US. I wanted the relationship between Adam and me to happen FOR US. I wanted to be the subject of my relationship, not the object. And I’d never really thought of it that way before writing up this contract. We can conduct this relationship however we like, as long as our needs are being met. One of us can be actively seeking out partners while the other is only seeing his/her primary, and it doesn’t matter—as long as our needs, individual and collective relationship needs—are being met. The open relationship needn’t be symmetrical—but it needs to be equal. We both need have our needs EQUALLY MET.

People who are sort of outside gazers on our open relationship wonder how it can work when Adam is out fucking another girl at an orgy and I am staying at home and nursing my menstrual cramps. How can I POSSIBLY be happy with a situation like that? Don’t I feel lonely, neglected, sorry for myself? No, I don’t. Haven’t yet. Why? Well, we make sure that I DON’T. Because the night before that orgy, Adam tied me to the bed, blindfolded me, and played with my body for hours. We made love many, many times, softly, roughly, I cried in his arms, I Mommied him, we laughed and made out like teenagers in between eating salami and provolone sandwiches. And we fell asleep in each other’s arms. This actually happened. My NEEDS had been amazingly, stupendously, wonderfully met the night before Adam went to the sex party. So the next day, I was walking around with the same validated, blissed out, in love feeling that everyone experiences after a good date with the person they love. And when I feel that way, I’m so happy when Adam goes out and gets what he wants—gosh, Adam can do whatever he wants. I mean, within reason, of course. He can do whatever he NEEDS. Because my needs have been met. Our relationship’s needs have been met. And we can proceed boldly, daringly, adventurously in other directions because of that.

And then we can come back together again stronger.

That’s the beauty of the open relationship for me. It encourages my independent explorations—it asserts that Adam need not be my EVERYTHING at all times (and I need not be his). The open relationship says, Go, be my own person, have my own experiences, and then share them with my partner. The beauty of the open relationship for me is that we’re not being open, separately—we’re being open TOGETHER. This is a journey we’re each taking on our own, together! And every successful relationship is dependent on that—new experiences together. Studies say that couples who go experience new and exciting things together—their relationships are invigorated and rejuvenated over and over again. The beauty of the open relationship is the ability—as long as our BASIC needs are being met--to insert new life, new vim and vigor into our relationship whenever we both see fit. As two people on the same journey, experiencing different diversions along the way.

An open relationship is about valuing our freedom and valuing our security.

In my next post in the series, Adventures in Open Relationship Land, I’m going to show you a few points we’ve written down in our “open relationship contract” which is always in flux. I’m going to point out some of the open relationship “mantras” that have helped me understand and reiterate to myself what this open relationship thing is, and what it can be. I have the distinct feeling that a lot of the points will be related to by monogamous folks as well. My open relationship contract is just as much a relationship contract as an open relationship contract. So stick around!

The Prospect of Getting Fisted

2010-05-12T21:58:00.000-04:00

I want a hand up there. Past the knuckles. To the wrist. A fist. In my vagina.

Mostly because I think I'm capable. There are some things I know I'm capable of but have no interest in doing. I'm entirely capable of eating fennel. No desire to, though. Ugh. Fennel. But that other F word--fisting.

Exciting stuff.

A couple weeks back at Chemistry, this sex party in Brooklyn, a lovely woman named Molly (who I might very well be able to link to somewhere on the internet right now, but I only know her from real life, and you can't link a real person in a blog post, though that would be fun if you could--click on the hyperlink and bam they're there) got all five fingers inside my cunt. Just up to that big knuckle though, not past it. So not technically fisting. She got all those fingers in by warming me up with OUTSTANDING erotic massage, tons of lube, and then--The Juicer. Which is forming your fingers into a shape where all the fingertips are touching one another to make a sort of beak-like shape, and then the fingers go up the pussy, and rotate, like you'd do with a lemon and one of those old fashioned juicers. That felt FUCKING AWESOME. That fullness, and allll that lube, it just felt so delicious, so full, and I felt very, very, very relaxed, too. Like I could cum or go to sleep with her fingers inside me. Either or.

Wasn't a whole fist, though.

But I think I can get one up there. I do. In time.

A few nights later, my man tried The Juicer on me. Cuz he pays attention when I'm writhing on the mattress at a sex party with a girl's fingers stuffed into my soaking pussy--he wants to make that sort of thing happen again. But he wants to do it. I don't mind that he gets inspired by the other people I fool around with. In fact, that happens to be an outstanding benefit of this open relationship thang. We are always excited to get back to one another. Anyway. He got his fingers further inside. His hand is bigger. It felt that way. But it also felt super relaxing, again. There was occasional gspot stimulation but mostly just a feeling of getting rubbed and massaged from the inside out. And I felt suddenly very able to get fisted. And then it got to be a bit too much and he pulled his fingers out slowly.

But we got close!

I think when someone's wrist does disappear inside my vagina someday, I might cry. Just because I feel like that's a big awesome deal and the more stuff I can get inside my body that doesn't hurt me (ie, not bad food, drugs, cigarettes)--the better. I just like to feel full. In general. Which is why I think I dig on multiple orgasms. The first one always feels the best. But I'm a glutton. And I know if I can get a bunch of baby O's in, that's a good thing as well.

I'm gonna do some research on vaginal fisting. Anal sex seems like a really difficult thing for me (successful anal sex count--ONE) but fisting doesn't seem as scary. Maybe because my vagina isn't undiscovered country. I know her pretty well at this point. I like to think I know what she's capable of. I also like to think she'll continue to surprise me. But I'm getting to know her better. Every day. We're in a long-term relationship--my cunt and me.

Practice

2010-03-28T13:54:00.000-04:00

My break-up and consequent getting-back-together with Adam totally kinked me out.

I sort of equate the changes that have occurred in me and with us since the break-up to a near death experience. Though I've never had a near-death experience, (except with the kidney stones in 2004, just kidding, I didn't almost die, but damn, those hurt) I imagine that after you have one, you suddenly feel the urgency to do the things you never did. To express the things you've never expressed. To take the bull by the horns and fuck that bull really hard. Er. No. That's not what I meant. You know what I meant.

Since the boyfriend and I have gotten back together, I have:

1) worn a pink wig while sucking him off.
2) cleaned his apartment and made his bed as foreplay.
3) engaged in Mommy/Little Boy play.
4) received bites from him on my back while he fucked me from behind, obtaining huge alien bruises.
5) fucked him while his roommate slept across the room.
6) gotten tied up and been made to squirt with the Eleven.
7) been choked with cock.
8) gone to Paddles, the friendly BDSM club, with a best friend from high school.
9) made plans for beatings with other men.
10) masturbated in front of Adam and gotten off to him telling me details of another girl's blow job the week before.

That last one is the biggie.

I had been wondering what they'd done. I knew it was everything but penetration. That's what he'd told me, in brief. But after riding Adam that afternoon and feeling his cock pulse inside me while his ass wore his new Njoy butt plug (gulp), I felt the need to get off one more time. With my hand. And his words in my ear.
I started to get wet. My fingers started to glide more easily over the hot little button.

"Did she make you cum?" I asked.

...

"Yes."

"How?"

"With her mouth on my cock and her hand jerking the shaft."

"Ahh."

"She kept jerking my cock as I came. The cum splattered all over my stomach."

"Sounds so...joyful," I said, circling my clit with my two fingers.

"Yeah," he said, his mouth near my ear.

I tucked my head into his shoulder. In that crevice where it meets the arm. I came shortly thereafter. Yelled a little bit. Inhaled and exhaled. And smiled. Wow, I thought. I managed to get wet and turned on by the details. The scary details. The hot details.

In a way, this was a test I wanted to give myself.

This is all brand new territory. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. I'm just trying to listen to my heart really hard. To his heart really hard. I'm never exactly sure of the emotions all this open relationshipping will bring up. But I'm eager to feel the good stuff. Because contrary to popular belief, this open relationship stuff isn't all about just processing jealousy and envy and insecurity. It's supposed to be about processing joy. Even with this particular challenge, this challenge of sharing this man that I love, there has to be joy for his joy. It's tough. And awesome. I feel like I'm becoming a better girlfriend. And he's becoming a better boyfriend. And that makes me happy. I just want to get better. At being happy.

Happiness takes practice.

The Moment (One)

2010-03-08T22:03:00.000-05:00

I am finding it hard to stay away from my blog these days.

I want to fill it up.

When I am feeling sexually inspired, I feel creatively inspired. At least lately. It wasn't always that way. When I first started getting laid on the regular, I sort of gave up writing altogether. And I lost a few pounds. Sex was sort of fulfilling both my desire to create and my desire to fill up my body.

(Cock is filling. It's like grape nuts. Or kale.)

Along with feeling creative, I am also feeling calmer. And all the things that were stressing me out before, while they still exist and many of them are still out of my control, well, they're not as unmanageable anymore. I know this has something to do with getting back together with the boyfriend. I think one of the things I value most about him is the way he is able to give me a sense of calm. It's not that I'm the spazziest, most manic gal in the world. But I can get overwhelmed.

(This is one of those thinky posts. One that doesn't say too much. One that rambles. I think I have one of these every six months or so. Usually right before or after a change. Life is very changey right now. Changey. I like that word.)

You know the moment before everything falls apart? The moment where you just don't think you can take anymore and then suddenly it gets so much worse? And everything just goes WHOOSH, up in smoke, down in flames, etc? I think I'm as far from that moment as one can be right now. In that I believe this is the moment right before everything comes together. And I'm seeing this, I'm seeing this very particular image over and over again in my mind's eye lately: the grass of my soul at its most lush. Totally unmanicured. There are weeds, too. Pretty ones you can't detect from flowers. It's all growing. A little girl sits in it. Grazes her hand over the tops of the blades of grass. The wind is blowing. A ribbon falls out of her hair. She's only got one pigtail. She doesn't care.

She feels as though that suddenly things are going to get that much better.

Mommy and The Good Boy

2010-03-07T21:55:00.000-05:00

I should say that there is sensitive material in the blog post below. Incest fantasy themes. All parties mentioned are consensual. But it might trigger those who are particularly sensitive to such issues. Please be warned and proceed in reading at your own risk. Thank you!

I hear his electric razor buzzing away in the bathroom while I’m lying in the dark. It’s 2 am. I can taste the cranberry vodka on my lips. I can smell him on his sheets. It is late. I am drunk. I am happy to be in his bed again.

He comes back from the bathroom. Quietly creeps into bed. He lies down beside me. Takes my hand. Puts it above his cock.

There’s no hair there.

“I shaved it all off. More prepubescent this way…”

Gulp.

I know where this is going. It has never really gone here before.

Earlier, he had told me not to mother him. That he just wanted to have fun tonight. When I told him he might want to drink his drink slower. He was serious, but it gave me a certain rush. A few nights before, he put his head on my chest after we'd fucked. I played with his hair. He said he felt taken care of, that I felt maternal to him, in that position. And sometimes he puts his lips to my nipples and makes these little suckling sounds. Sometimes he’ll make a little boy sound when he’s doing this. It’s partly under the disguise of “ha, I’m being silly” when he does that, but for me--it's sick hot. These things are subtle, but I catalogue them. They trigger me, send a red hot current directly to my groin, and I want to simultaneously make him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with the crusts cut off and have him ram me with my legs up in the air.

“Feel it. It’s all smooth,” he says, and I massage the place where his pubic hair would be, right above his cock. Slightly. I graze his cock with my hand. He makes sounds. He is whimpering. I am barely touching anything important. But he gets hard as a rock.

He sneaks under the covers. I can’t see him at all. His mouth, without hesitation, is immediately all over my wet cunt. I start humping his face. I have my hand on top of his head, pushing it down. I swivel my hips to rub my pussy all over his mouth and chin. I use his mouth.

He is a good boy.

That’s what I’m thinking, not yet saying…

Minutes later, he is on top of me. And what he says soon after he’s inside me tears me apart.

“I want to make you happy, Mommy,” he says, panting as he thrusts, not like a boy, but like a man. But what I say is:

“Oh, my, you’re such a good boy.”

“Do I do it as good as Daddy, Mommy?”

“Better, baby. Better than Daddy.” I groan, feeling my pussy get slicker by the minute. “When did you get so big?”

“Oh, Mommy.”

“My good little sweet little boy.”

I start to moan loud.

“We have to be quiet, Mommy.”

We’ve never said things like this before.

It feels unnatural one minute. Very sexy the next. Very sweet. This dirty talk. This role play. I’m not sure how to do this. And then something clear as day pops into my head: I am teaching him how to love me. I am showing him the way Mommy likes it. I am showing him the way JANIE likes it. And when I suck his cock later, he groans, “Oh, Mommy!” and shivers are sent down my spine. When I jerk him off and he whimpers, I am beside myself. I tell him balls are so big now, so tight. And I think that everything he does right now he is doing to make me happy. This may or may not be the case, really. But I want so badly for him to feel grown up and worthy of all these big feelings I have for him. I want him to feel that as Adam, the man, the man I love, and as the boy, the boy I am in charge of right now.

I watch him finish himself off with his hand. I repeat over and over again “That’s a good boy, that’s a good boy.” I don’t know what else to say. It sounds like a bad porn, in a way. But that is all I can think of to say. That is all he is right now. He shoots long and hard. It hits my arm, my stomach.

And then I’m not sure what just happened.

I think we just lie there quietly in each other’s arms until we drift off to sleep.

This is all very promising.

Restrained/Without Restraint

2010-03-04T18:07:00.002-05:00

Holy cannolis. I got fucked eight ways til Sunday last night.

You heard of these under the bed restraints, right? They basically like go under your bed. Duh-skees. And then you get all velcroed in, your ankles and your wrists. The reader should note that I’ve always been scared of getting tied up. I’ve just never been all that into the immobility factor. I think it’s partly because I orgasm really easily and part of me thinks I might die if I have too many orgasms, and one can force them out of me if I’m, let’s say, not able to move away.

Adam forced them. Hard. But man oh man. Did I keep giving. And giving.

He likes my new public hair. He likes the pretty square shaped tuft above my cunt which is clean shaven. I like it, too. It’s adornment rather than massive bush. It also leaves my pussy mad exposed.

“Your pussy’s so pink right now,” Adam said as I lay sprawling on my bed, restrained. The overhead celing light was on. I was terribly visible. And embarrassed. Yeah. bashful.

Pink-Pussy-Bashful.

But I guess my rosy love niblets looked so good that Adam felt compelled. To eat my girl. My cunt. Like a starving man. He licked me for a long time. First time in a while. I got sopping. He kept going. Nibbling and sucking hard and biting my thighs. Slapping my tits. Hitting my stomach. Clawing at my tummy which makes me nuts. Nuts.

He teased me with his cock. Halfway in. Fuck. I hate it (love it) when he does that. I started to beg him to fuck me.

“Please, Adam, please fuck me,” I whined. I didn’t know what else to do but whine.

“You call that begging?”

“Please, please, fuck me. Please,” I moaned sticking out my lower lip. He mimicked me and nodded, his cock just a quarter way in now, leaving my hole crying for him.

“Please, please, please FUCK ME, PLEEEEASE,” and I tried to lift myself off the bed and onto him, though I was restrained. I couldn’t. I couldn’t even reach his mouth to kiss him.

It was then that he stuck his fat cock all the way in.

Thank God.

He rubbed at my clitty and fucked me hard, then soft, hard then soft, then. Then he spat into my open mouth which was agape in orgasm. He kept spitting on me. In me. Three times, I think. It was damn fucking hot. He wouldn’t let me kiss him. Then he’d force his pink tongue into my mouth, fucking my mouth as he fucked my pussy. All of me ablaze under his awesome Adam fire. Seriously. Man was on fire. Me too. We were two sticks rubbing together.

After a while…

“You ready for something bigger?” Adam asked, menacingly. I knew he’d gotten a new toy. I didn’t know what he’d gotten. He’s been a bucket full of sex toy surprises lately.

“Yeesss,” I said wearily. How big I thought?

Turns out it was Njoy The Eleven Big.

He brought it from the bathroom. It was huge. It was heavy. It was shining like a metal beacon of phallic power in my candlelit room.

I wanted it IN THERE.

He of course made me lick it first. Tried to put it in my mouth.

“It’s too big,” I said. He laughed. Scary.

He hit my tits with it. My thighs. Rubbed it up and down my torso.

See what he does? See how he gets me acquainted? See why I like fucking this man? And anything he yields in his hands?

The big end of the Eleven could not fit in my cunt. Not at that time. Someday, though.

The smaller end could, though. With its ridges. Its curve. Its…

“Oh fuck, oh, OKAY, YUP, YUP RIGHT THERE, OKAY faaaaa!”

I gushed a tiny fountain as he pounded away with the metal cock in his hand. Adam moaned as I splashed the comforter with my juices. You could hear it coming. The sloshing. The squishy sound as my gspot got jabbed with this cock. Liquid. Hot and sweet. Adam lapped up what was left minutes later as he forced his cock down my throat. I can deep throat when I’m lying down. And when he forces it into my mouth, and I see his balls high and his asshole tight and sweet above my face. Oh Christ. Submissive Janie time.

He fucked my tits at the end.

“Oh God,” he said, “I’m gonna come. I’m gonna.”

“Oh my face, on my face!” I hissed.

“On your…” and before I knew it his milky white ropes were flinging themselves onto my cheeks in unpredictable patterns. I giggled and moaned and stuck out my tongue to lick it off my upper lip. All this would end in cuddles and laughter and hugs and talking and giggling in a bit. But first, Adam had to let me out of the restraints.

I went to the bathroom to take a gulp of water. I looked in the mirror. I was red all over. Fuck, I thought. I’m on fire. From the inside out.

Love's Continuation

2010-02-28T12:47:00.000-05:00

"I want you to take me back," Adam said. We were sitting on the couch. He was holding my hands in his hands. He was staring at me intently. His eyes were a bit glassy. His palms, sweaty, like a fourteen year old boy’s. He was nervous.

I wasn't nervous. Not really. For the first time in weeks, I almost felt calm.

It's not that I'd been "waiting for this." It's not that I'd expected that "he'd come back around." I mean, that's the shit that's in romantic comedies. And while Adam and I have certainly been romantic, and on occasion, quite comedic—we are not made of the stuff that makes a Nora Ephron film.

Thankfully.

But when he walked into my apartment that night, freshly shaven, dressed in a fancy shirt, with a bag full of clothes, when he kissed me softly on the lips, tentatively, and cleared his throat a few times in my kitchen while I was arranging our plates for dinner—let’s say I’d had a feeling.

Later on, after dinner—collard greens, salmon, salted caramels, honey wine—when we were lying in bed, naked under flannel sheets, tangled up in a hug so tight I could hardly breathe, Adam said three words that floored me, just floored me:

“You are mine.”

We can make this relationship untraditional. We can make this relationship open. We can make this relationship exactly what we want it to be. I’m hoping we do.

But “You are mine.”

For the moment, that’s all I want—or need—to be.

His.

Let Us Proceed (In Love)

2010-02-19T12:31:00.004-05:00

So Adam and I broke up.

Don't everyone start crying, please. There's light at the end of the tunnel and all that crap.

Okay, so partly, I think we broke up for ethereal reasons. Feelings and lack of feelings and strange feelings and scary feelings and what do the feelings mean and what should they be and shouldn't they be and what is this and what do you want and all that. And he can’t imagine never sleeping with another person again. Which I imagine is scary for a 26 year old guy. I've f'ed a lot of dudes in my life (see: this blog) so that's not so scary for me. I did give him "permission" to sleep with other girls. But he hasn’t, at least not without me, because he didn’t want to, but he did want to, but he didn't, etc. etc. I'd imagine it's hard to do something that might hurt someone, potentially. I mean, let's face, he already hurt me when he, in essence, dumped me. So I'd rather give him the freedom. To explore. To figure out what he really wants. Even though that could leave me in the dust. Right? That's the fear. But I mean. Who wants to live in fear? F fear, dude.

Embracing freedom is hard.

(We should have read that Tristan Taormino Open Relationship book. But it kept getting sent back to Amazon. Wouldn't fit in my mailbox. That's probably the tragic point in all this. Kidding. Sort of.)

Of course, through this break up, I’ve figured out more about what I want, who I am. I’ve discovered that I’m a whole person without Adam. That he’s a beautiful addition. He doesn’t “complete me.” He supplements me. Is that the word? Supplement? I have friends, hobbies, goals that I can enjoy without him. And that was an important rediscovery. Important, but painful of course. Because I’d rather be enjoying these things with him by my side, at least some of the time. Because he’s one of my best friends and I really like holding his hand and having sex with him and saying I love you and watching him do stupid naked dances.

(Now leaving Gulpville.)

Last night, we hung out. We had drinks and dinner. The conversation was some of the best we’ve ever had. I’m not particularly interested in trying to “win him back", like in the traditional sense, because I don't think I did anything to lose him. We're kinda starting over, from a friend place for now. Figuring shit out. Which is fine by me, because I have fun figuring things out with him. We are very compatible. We have so much fun together. And I feel patient. And strong.

Of course, it is hard to embrace our strength. Because that means we are responsible for our own recovery and our own happiness. And who wants to be responsible for that? We want other people to heal us, make us happy. Because if they do, that means they care. But really. They can't always make us happy. Even if they want to.

But I can make me happy. I can at the very least try.

Adam and me--our relationship is complex. Like everyone’s. It’s an experiment and a journey. It's companionship. I never really asked for more than what I thought Adam could give. Maybe sometimes this wasn't always the best idea. Maybe a boy needs a fire lit under his ass in a relationship, needs a challenge, needs some tough love, needs constraints. But honestly. I was always happy with what he could provide. As long as he’s happy with what he can offer, I’m happy. He might wanna hold more doors for me and say thank you for making me dinner and dance with me at 3 am, though, a little more. Ha.

Maybe we'll figure out what's lacking. Or maybe it’s nothing. Maybe we can be content with what we have. It's all hypotheticals.

If Adam and I ever start a band, we'll call ourselves The Hypotheticals.

Adam said our relationship is always best when we're freestyling, making up our own rules. It's true. But that takes a certain amount of creativity, reinvention, patience, and collaboration. I wanna say: let's collaborate.

So. So so so. So for now.

For now, we are just proceeding in a spirit of caring and love and nurturing. Because that’s the only way we know how. We took three weeks off from one another. We didn't speak at all. It wasn't a fake break, it was the real deal. I thought of him every day. It’s been terribly hard. But rewarding as well. Figuring out what I want. Who I am. Without Adam. With or without him, I really will be okay.

And so will he.

He is the boy I decided to love. It was a decision. It was a choice. I can pretend that it wasn't--that it's all chemistry, it's all insane love spasms and electrical impulses, but ehhh. I think I knew what I was getting into. And I dove in. Sometimes, my feelings feel chaotic and insane. But I react to what I’m feeling. That’s my choice. And my choice was to love him. And to love myself. Above all. To love myself.

Love. A wise woman once said. Is a battlefield. That shit's for real.

The Continuing Adventures of Janie, Adam and Kay in Threesome Land

2010-01-06T11:57:00.006-05:00

"You guys can make out while I pee," I said to Adam and Kay, after a big bottle of wine and some roasted chicken and three bean salad and mashed potatoes from Harriet's Kitchen.

I went to pee. And found a wet spot on my panties. Which was no shocker. No shocker at all.

I came back to the bed finding Adam on top of Kay, kissing her. I sighed. A happy sigh. I think I like watching them kiss more than anything. Which might be corny. I don't know.

There is part of me that resists thinking and writing romantically about Kay and Adam and me. Because I think, the standard mode of thought, is that threesomes should be hot. Wild. Kinky. And I'm afraid of the romance in a way, hesitant towards intimacy, sensuality. But I don't know how else to do it. I don't know how else to allow a girl in our bed except to be intimate with her, to sort of "allow" her to be intimate with him. I don't think I want it another way. Not right now. It seems right. Look, I'm not talking about big-time polyamory here. I am, for one, not nearly cool enough for that. Please.

But Kay is sweet. And I am not afraid of her. Ha. Yup. Let's face it, women have fears about letting other women into their beds, with their boyfriends. And that's understandable. It's a risk, of sorts. Sometimes, just sometimes, I get the tiniest twinge of "Hmm, what is this? Why is this happening? Do I want it?" But when I find myself pushing Kay and Adam's heads together to watch them kiss in front of me, that subsides. And I'm happy for everyone. And I'm happy after the fact, and my brain isn't bombarded with doubt and anxiety and fear. Thank Christ.

And if Adam brings up Kay while he and I are making out, I don't cringe. He did that last night.

"Should Kay come over soon? Or is that soon?" he asked, hesitating. Too soon after the last time we hung out with her is what he meant.

"No, she should," I said. "I'm in touch with her all the time. We'll hang out soon."

"So are you guys friends now?" Adam asked.

"Of course we're friends," I said.

Adam is very adorable. I know he doesn't want to mess it up, the threesome sex thing. Or say anything that makes me feel insecure. And I know he's grateful for the threesomes. And all of this makes me want to do things for him. Because I know he loves me. And wants the best for us, and I guess, for the relationship. Because the relationship is pretty awesome.

And honestly, when he mentioned her, I was thinking of Kay then, too. Which is a good sign, I think. Adam and I cuddled, to get warm...

When Kay and I cuddle, I sense a certain legitimate caring. For me. She is not cuddling with me so that she can fuck my boyfriend. Though she can. She is touchy feely with me because she wants to be. And that sets my mind, and heart, that weirdo brain in the middle of my chest, at ease.

NOW FOR THE SEX STUFF.

The last night we got together, early on, while Adam ate Kay out, I licked Adam's ass. Beautiful clean pucker. Flawless. His ass was made for all that pussies are made for. Sometimes I think that. Sometimes I'm envious of the things his hole can do. And then I remember I have a perfectly capable cunt. Generally ready to orgasm, always at the ready. And I'm happy with that. I mean, come on. I can't complain.

For instance, I came when Kay strapped one on and fucked me. Fucked me hard for barely three minutes. Such a huge cock. A big black cock and a smooth red leather harness. Adam's things. The things he bought when he first discovered I was into the idea of fucking his ass. Here, a little over a year later, another girl was wearing that very strap on. It was her first time. But she made me come.
And then she slipped a condom over the cock. And slipped into Adam. Just like that.

She fucked him from behind to start. But really, he was fucking her, as we all later pointed out. Kay was wearing a feeldoe, which has a sort of handle that goes inside her, inside her pussy, then the cock goes through the harness ring, and then finally, the cock goes inside Adam, and he, on all fours, moves back and forth, up and down on the cock, pushing Kay back, Kay's thighs straining, straining to hold her body up, and Adam is getting pounded on his own accord, and the feeldoe part of the dildo is doing Kay as well, doing her right. And me, Janie, I am lying down beside the two hotties and watching, just watching.

When Kay got on top of Adam, it was a different story. She was fucking him. She was kissing him. Playing with his hair. Sweating. Hard. Wet. A real good fucker. I mean, super great potential.

Kay can do the fucking. But Kay has self-admitted submissive tendencies. But that night, she was pulling hard and biting on my nipples. "I'm trying to be meaner," she whispered, giggling, hardly sounding mean, but with a mean mouth, which made me meanly wet. I made her meanly wet later on with the Hitachi, which was too much for her, mostly. It is for a lot of girls. My fingers inside her provoked gushes of liquid.

"I wish I knew how that happened," Kay said plainly.

"Your orgasm doesn't happen then, when you squirt, does it?" I asked, still banging her with my fingers.

"No, not really," she said, her pussy a salty sweaty spout, pushing my fingers out as she ejaculated, the top of her cunt swollen with arousal, a tight wet box begging to be filled. (Bad erotica alert. But true.)

It was something I thought about after she left. The way her vagina works. And then the way Adam's ass works. And the way my vagina works. The way mouths work. The ways that holes are so useful. The way that they get full. And when they are full, they are whole, in a way.

Right now, I for one feel very full. Very.

Where Have I Been?

2009-12-28T19:26:00.002-05:00

In a land without a computer, for one thing. But now I have mine back! So that's a bucket of hooray.

There was also: strep throat, sprained ankle, bronchitis, stomach flu, family drama, work madness, holiday crazies.

In between all that, there was the two year anniversary of this blog (holy crapanoli), birthdays, being poor, threesomes, a rodent infestation (not as hot as threesomes), career reconsideration, sex with hot crying, wicked awesome getting closer to the boyfriend time, a play party in Brooklyn, growing my hair long, miniskirts, and discovering that I make the best sweet potato pie in the fucking universe.

I've been locked in like two of the hardest months I can remember. But yet, still, hope, love, possibility, and all that good stuff.

Because I mean, life can suck, but it's still life. At least I'm not, like, dead.

No, honestly.

Someone I know has been going through chemotherapy and something she read somewhere left a big impression on her: the time when you're going through chemotherapy might be tough, but it's still time. It's still life. Don't wish it away. And that's one of the greatest most awesomest "duhs" I've ever heard. Like what the hell am I complaining about? My hard times are NOTHING compared to others' hard times. And in between all the shit in my life there are always pockets of beauty. And the beauty comes mostly because I'm loved. Not cuz I'm getting skinny or cuz I'm pretty or cuz I fuck a lot or cuz I live in New York City. It's because I'm loved.

And because I can have multiple orgasms and I can eat Ethiopian food in the West Village and fall asleep with my boyfriend's hand on my cunt while I'm in in fleece pajamas. Sometimes all in the same day.

Life's aight.

Toy Review: 12 Inch Leather Heart Impression Paddle (Happy Birthday to ME!)

2009-11-22T16:46:00.006-05:00

"I think you should give me 31 spankings on my birthday with my new 12 inch leather heart impression paddle," I texted Adam a couple days before my birthday.

"Good idea!" he texted back.

After eating salmon, deep fried potatoes, broccoli rabe, four kinds of gelato (egg cream, chocolate sorbet, pear, and cappuccino biscotti, I think it was) and a lot of red red wine, we danced a bit. To Sam Cooke. I had a grin on my face I couldn't hide. My eyes were getting glassy. I was now entering: The Amorous Zone.

Slow dancing with my man gives me a huge lady boner. And besides, and this is so fucking true and a little love-lame, I never feel more in love with him than when I'm slow dancing. Swear.

And then...

"Are you ready for your spankings now?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, in a small voice, immediately submissive. "How do you want me?"

"On your stomach," he replied. And so I stripped and lied down on the bed and put my ass up.

"That's a very nice sight," he said, standing behind me. Oh, he was getting into the zone. He doesn't get into the hitting zone all the time but when he does--boy howdy, Janie has it coming.

I was drunk on food and drink and love and other things when he started hitting me with the heart impression paddle.

A hard spanking. A soft spanking. An in between spanking. One that was not a spanking at all but just a graze. He stretched out the spankings over minutes. Pauses between each one became unbearable. I started grinding my bare pussy into the bed as I waited for his (Bad Erotica Alert) delectably mean administrations.

"Count each one," he said, at the beginning. "Count."

(Hotness Alert.)

So I counted.

"One."
"Two."
"Three."
A long pause. So long.
"Was that five?"
"That was four."
"Four." Owwww. "Four!"

It went on forever.

This paddle has a way of being just what you want it to be, when you have the forces of mean and sweet and harsh and kind behind it all.

Honestly, toy reviews are easier to do when I am, or he is, inspired by the toy. And that can be because of the toy, or because I'm in a really good place to experiment, and explore. Who knows? Who cares? This shit was HOT. I started to understand spanking through it.

Soft spank.

"Eight?"
"That was seven."
THWACK.

Sometimes when I lost count, I was fearful that he'd hit me harder. Sometimes he would. Sometimes he wouldn't. Just anticipating the hit, guesing what it would be--guessing right, or completely wrong--was a huge part of the fun. Each spanking was perfect. The arch of the spankings. It was a story told through spank. He took me on a journey, in a way.

But the heart paddle didn't leave any heart marks, like it said it would.

It did leave me red bottomed, though.

"Thank you very much for my birthday spankings," I said, sniffling, tears rolling down my face, when he'd finished. He kissed me.

"You're welcome."

The paddle left me so incredibly wet that he didn't have to guide his cock into me. It just slid in. Time after time. Taking it all the way out. Slipping it all the way back in. Magnet cunt.

All from spankings.

All from the heart paddle.

I give it two bums up.

(Even though I just have one bum.)

"Sex Toys provided by SexToy.com home of the biggest selection of bondage, fetish and kink toys online."

A Good Thing Threesome

2009-10-19T20:48:00.005-04:00

I asked Kay out on a date—a date with me and my boyfriend.

She said yes.

And that was very exciting.

Kay is an achingly lovely, olive-skinned smile of a gal. That lighting up a room thing? She can do that. Lightbulb Girl.

I mean, Kay is momentous. She is. And I don’t say this to make her blush. When I met her, when Adam met her—we kind of knew. That she’d bring the right vibe. That we’d compliment each other. I mean. Chemistry is difficult enough between two people. But between three? It’s hard. I mean. It’s hard for me.

But Kay made it easy.

You see, Kay is the first girl I’ve met who I really wanted to invite into the bedroom with me and my boyfriend. In like. The very specific threesome way.

We met her outside a quaint Italian restaurant on the Upper West Side. Days before, I told Adam that we’d need to take her out to dinner first, feed her before we took her home and ate her alive. At one point, right before the date, Adam said that he felt like he was more along for the ride of the date between Kay and me. And I could see that. How he would feel that. I was the one who’d been texting her, emailing her. But I also knew as soon as the three of us sat down, and wine was poured, and ricotta dumplings were consumed, that we’d be three peas in a pod.

Peas we were. Three happy horny little peas.

Kay looked so pretty as she first dashed past us outside the restaurant, missing us altogether.

“Kay!” we half-yelled. “Kay!” and she stopped, and turned around and TWINKLED. In her little dress with all her long flowing hair and I instantly got a rush of excitement. I looked at my man and I looked at this girl and I thought: Good Lord, Possibility. Possibility like a burst of cold Autumn air, possibility like a shot of whiskey, possibility glowing as bold and as hard and as fierce as the streetlight. Possibility, present and obvious and awesome.

Of course, I was getting ahead of myself.

But there are times when we have to get ahead of ourselves to see where we could end up.

Dinner itself was just okay. Kay’s fish was nothing spectacular, Adam’s special pasta dish was, like, meh. My ravioli were great. Broccoli rabe. Bitter. Sage butter sauce. Which you could pour on Con Ed bills and they’d be delicious. We drank wine. We talked about law. And work. And school. And boys. and all manners of things. At one point, I went up to use the ladies room. So did Kay. It was just a one-stall, one room deal. When I finished peeing, Kay was standing outside the restroom.

She looked at me, beaming, and said, “This is so exciting. I’m having so much fun.”

“Me too,” I said and kissed her briefly on the lips. A smile on our mouths as we kissed. A secret kiss exchanged as bus boys filled water beside us and pretended not to stare.

Adam sat beside Kay the whole meal. I sat across from them. The waiter flirted with me. I exclaimed that perhaps he thought I was the single girl and Kay and Adam were on the date! Which made me a little wet. I was at once the voyeur, and a facilitator, in a way. But I think we were all that. Center of attention and the guest. But I cannot speak for them, really. I can only speak for me. And I was enjoying my role as girlfriend and hot date.

Let's jsut fast-forward, shall we?

With three people, in a bed, the events happen all at once. There are many things occurring. There are many private parts pulsating. There are many nipples hardening. There are many goosebumps. There are many limbs. There are many details of flesh.

It is a plentiful fuck.

I remember Adam on top of me, first, kissing me. And then turning to Kay. Kissing her. Their faces soooo close to mine. I could see their lips clinging and their tongues slipping and I have to say: out of everything—I most enjoyed watching them kiss. Perhaps that is because kissing Adam is one of the things I most enjoy doing myself. Kay was at once a mirror. And also her own image.

I could see myself in her.

And then I could see myself in Adam as he groped her. I could see my mouth in Kay’s mouth as she sucked Adam’s cock. I could see my tongue in Adam’s tongue as he lapped at her clit. I could feel my cunt when Adam’s fingers stabbed at her melting pussy, which left a delicate puddle on the sheet.

Kay made me feel grateful.

Kay never made me feel jealous.

I liked kissing Kay. And then kissing Adam. Kissing Kay. And then kissing Adam. The differences of their mouths.

But Kay’s mouth.

Kay’s mouth gives blow jobs that look like porn.

Because my man’s cock disappeared down her throat.

Disappeared. No trace. Magic trick.

“That looks sooooo nice,” he said as Kay swallowed him whole.

“Oh my God,” I murmured. Then I started squirming and kicking at the sheets. “That looks so hot. It’s so hot, I can’t take it.” I whispered into Adam’s ear. “I can’t take it.”

But I could take it. I could take this for hours.

When Adam fucked me later on, Kay said:

“You two are so sexy together.”

And I think I said thank you. I should have if I didn’t. Because I remember her saying that. How it at once touched me and appealed to my vanity. And I thought of that the other day, when my ankles were beside his ears, and he moved my hips back and forth, positioning my pussy so that he could so deftly fuck it and hit that spot over and over again, I thought. Huh. I wonder if Kay would think this looked sexy.

Adam beat at our shoulders and asses and legs with the meanest rubber flogger in the land. The welts that rose on our flesh. Adam mauled at our tits and pinched and punched them. Adam had two girls that liked pain a little bit in his bed. Adam embraced that. And then littered our blushing, slightly bruised bodies with kisses.

Kay embraced eating my pussy as Adam gave her direction. I closed my eyes and heard his voice. Flatten your tongue. Suck on her clit. Stick your tongue deep inside. Lap at her clit. And feeling Kay’s mouth do what Adam was saying made me feel like I was the star in the hottest instruction video that ever came to be.

“You should really eat this pussy, Janie,” my man said. And I did. I was just thinking to myself, I should really eat that pussy, when he said it. And what pussy it was. Salty and wet. A smell so sexy I wanted to eat the smell. I found myself gulping it down as I flicked my tongue hard against her clit my own clit pulsating as I felt hers get warmer against my face.

We played with each other for hours. Sensual. And comfortable. And I was blissed out.

Kay and I slept in Adam’s bed that night while Adam, like a gentleman, took the couch. He said the next morning, after Kay had left to go home, that he loved hearing us giggle in his bed as he woke up.

The night before, at the very beginning, Adam’s eyes were all shiny with wine and sex and anticipation.

“You two look like angels,” he said, as Kay and I cuddled next to one another and gazed up at him.

Hours later, I was so happy. For all three of us.

A successful threesome.

Not always easy to come by.

A good thing.

With more good things to come.

A Trip to the Nude Beach (Featuring a Special Guest Blogger!)

2009-10-05T18:17:00.006-04:00

A couple months back, my boyfriend, Adam, Laken, Jefferson, and I all went to the nude beach. I had such a lovely time. So did my boyfriend. (Shocker.) I told him to write about it. And here is the end result! I loved his own account of our nude beach excursion so much, I thought it would be appropriate to post it here. So here's an extra-special glimpse into the adventures of Janie Blooms and friends--as told by her boyfriend. Enjoy!!!

“If Jefferson and Laken don’t pack sandwiches for themselves, I swear…,” said Janie, shaking her head.

“Relax,” I said, surprisingly firmly. I’m sure some girls get even more upset when you tell them to relax, but not Janie. She just chuckled and said, “You’re right.”

I knew why Janie was nervous, and it had nothing to do with whether our friends would be bringing sandwiches for the beach. It was that the beach we were all going to go to wasn’t just any beach. It was a nude beach.

Neither Janie or I had ever been to a nude beach, though it’s something I’ve had on my list since I was 16. And even though I haven’t been to the gym in over a year and have started to gain a small belly, I wasn’t really concerned about letting a bunch of strangers see my still body from head to toe. In fact, I was pretty excited.

Janie was excited too. But I knew it was a bigger deal for her than it was for me. Janie’s lost 30 pounds or so since we first started dating, and if she blew my mind when we first started fucking, it definitely hasn’t changed for the worse. But the idea of baring it all in broad daylight for all to see – her tummy, her large breasts that get approving hoots and hollers from the Latin guys in her uptown neighborhood, her thighs, her ass – for her was both stimulating and nerve-racking. But she knew it would represent a momentous step in how she sees her body. Plus, between the two of us, it was her idea.

We met Jefferson and Laken on an agreed-upon corner in Jefferson’s neighborhood. As we saw them approach, 10 minutes late on account of what we figured was a morning fuck, I was already feeling a little flirty. After all, the four of us had slept together on a previous occasion, which I had enjoyed a great deal. Plus, Jefferson and I had spent at least half a dozen nights together alone, during which he always gave me a good assfuck. Janie and I had agreed beforehand that we weren’t going to have another foursome that day, but still, it would be impossible for the energy in the air to be simply “platonic.” Laken and I hugged a little awkwardly, but Jefferson and I kissed on the lips, and the morning seemed full of possibilities. Would we agree to just get naked in the car on the way to the beach? Would Janie and I be able to find a secluded spot to fuck to release the tension when it was too great? Only time would tell.

Ironically, as Janie had predicted, Jefferson and Laken had not prepared any food for the trip, and asked Janie if she had enough for all of us. She explained that she didn’t, and we agreed to stop in one of the local supermarkets to pick up some things. I put myself on beer detail and grabbed six-packs of Corona and Sam Adams Summer Ale. Noticing that the signs advertised 15 limes for a dollar, I filled up a bag with more limes than we would ever need for only 12 beers. After paying, I noticed across the street an even better deal. “17 for 99 cents! They fucked me!” I exclaimed. Everyone chuckled, and even though we were getting a later start than we wanted, we were all in good spirits for the day ahead of us.

Walking to the car, I confessed that one thing I was looking forward to was the prospect of seeing lots of bush. “I just never see it, that’s all. Every girl in New York seems to shave herself like a porn star.” I knew though that I should be careful not to make this seem more than a passing fancy, since Janie had already teasingly threatened to let her bush grow out completely, which she said is like a jungle, extending to her thighs.

The way to the beach was pleasant but tame. Laken and Jefferson entertained us with story after story about what it’s like growing up in the American Deep South, while we listed to Nick Cave and MGMT. After realizing we missed our exit over 45 minutes after we passed it and then backtracking to fix the error, we were all extra eager to get to our destination.

Arriving at the beach, we were surprised to see everyone outside still had their clothes on. A round of jokes began about how funny (but not funny) it would be if it was just a regular, clothes-required beach, after all the anticipation. Jefferson suggested we head toward the beach while he parked the car. I volunteered to carry the larger, filled cooler by myself, which I strained to keep holding as we walked down the surprisingly long boardwalk. Arriving at the edge of the boardwalk, and still slightly confused by the lack of naked flesh, we decided to wait for Jefferson and all go to the beach together.

As the four of us started on the sand, in the distance we saw bodies that were uniformly beige or brown. As we got closer, we passed a sign that said “you may encounter nude sunbathers beyond this point.” As we got even closer, the sight of naked bodies was confirmed, though really without any shock. We saw a naked volleyball game, which included a woman as well. As we reached the more densely populated part of the beach, we set about looking for a spot to lay down our blanket.

As soon as I put down the cooler, I made sure everyone was looking at me, and jumped out of my clothes in a matter of seconds. I wanted Laken to see the semi-hard dick she had once politely sucked. And once I was naked, there was not much for everyone else to do but get naked also. Side by side Laken and Janie undressed, revealing their sexy bodies – Laken, with a very slim body, small but perky tits, and Janie, who is made of curves. As a joke, Jefferson took of his pants and underwear but left his t-shirt on just to show how ridiculous it looked. But off that came to, and just like that, we are all naked in the sun, with nothing much else to do but relax… and put on sunscreen.

Jefferson and I separately began to rub lotion onto each of our girls. Part of the fun of this, I realized, would be to linger as long as possible doing ordinary activities without resorting to something that would actually count as sex. I patiently massaged the lotion into Janie’s back, her shoulders, her ass, her thighs, her calves, her feet. I had already figured out during one of our very first fucks that Janie gets turned on when I rub her back. Having lingered over her backside long enough, it was time to do her front. As far as I was concerned, the practical need for her to have sunscreen on every part of her body more than justified than need to do the globes of her chest. She may have gotten a little embarrassed at some point, but I wasn’t.

I needed some sunscreen on me now, and Janie was quick to return the favor, massaging my shoulders and buttocks. I put handfuls of lotion on my cock and rubbed it in. I didn’t care that I had a paper-white dick – I didn’t want to take any chances about having my dick get burned the first time I bring it out into the sunlight for hours on end. Janie and I kissed, and for the umpteenth time, I felt lucky that she was my girlfriend.

Deciding to refresh ourselves with food and beer, we opened the cooler and the other bags. Laken sat on the blanket spread eagle, and I unabashedly stared at the shaved, pink pussy I had once eaten and still hoped to fuck eventually. I also checked out Jefferson’s familiar cock, and was pleased when I felt the others were looking at me. From nearby, the sounds of the Allman Brothers’ “Whipping Post” were coming out of someone’s boombox. It was a Sunday afternoon and I had felt like I had no care in the world.

Having slaked our hunger and thirst, Janie and I decided to take a walk along the beach. Janie suggested taking a dip in the ocean, but I knew it was cold and had no desire to do so. We walked along the shoreline and passed couples and singles. There were definitely way more guys than girls. It really didn’t bother me any – I wasn’t making more than fleeting glances in anyone’s direction - but it did disappoint Janie some. We noticed one guy who was holding one of those fake Groucho Marx nose-and-moustache get-ups over his dick. When we reported this to Jefferson and Laken, we all agreed that that was silly, but not in a good way.

Returning to our blanket, I decided to lay down and take a nap… on my back. Before nodding off, I mumbled to Janie, “you know, I think I’m a bit of an exhibitionist.” Janie responded confidently, “I know you are.” “How do you know?” I asked, curious to hear my new idea about myself substantiated. “Well, you were the first one with your clothes off this afternoon, and you just really enjoy your body.” “And I guess the naked dancing when I’m high,” I added. “Yeah, that too.”

As I awoke from my nap, I knew what it was time for – time to reapply sunscreen! Janie lay on her stomach as I suggested, and I straddled her ass for maximum lotion-applying ease. As I worked the lotion into the small of her back, I found that I could rub my cock intermittently in the same motion. Janie didn’t know what I was up to, but Jefferson seemed to enjoy the show.

Perhaps in response to the increasing air of excitement, Jefferson put Laken in his lap, and wore a mischievous grin on his face has he worked his fingers inside her pussy. As I already knew from previous experience, Jefferson has some talented fingers.

Well, the ante was set, so I’d have to at least call it. While Janie was sitting with her back mostly to me, my fingers reached around for that magic button of hers. I thought we were being pretty clandestine, but if my arm’s weird position didn’t give me away to Jefferson and Laken, then my hard-on most certainly did.

Maybe the sexual tension between the four of us had reached a peak, or maybe it’s just hard to go back to relaxing after that, but we all decided it was time we should get going. The beach would be closing soon anyway. As we were gathering up our stuff, Jefferson pointed out to me that the couple on the blanket next to ours were now engaged in some play of their own. I guess excitement’s just contagious that way.

The Miracle Massager

2009-10-05T11:28:00.002-04:00

Oatmeal raisin to chocolate chip. Fleece to wool. Law and Order to The Wire.

The Miracle Massager to the Hitachi Magic Wand.

Good versus. You know. Amazing.

But I don’t want to bash the Miracle Massager completely. After all, it’s The Oatmeal Raisin Cookie of Sex Toys!

I got my Miracle Massager in the mail a couple of days ago. My boyfriend managed to open the package before I did, plugging it in and placing the head of the vibrator over his balls. He was in his jeans, by the way.

“It’s pretty powerful,” he said.

I took it from him and placed it over my crotch. I was still wearing my jeans, too.

“Yeah, it is,” I said. “Pretty powerful. And pretty, too. I like how it’s black. And the handle is lighter. And the red bulb. It’s sleeker than the…”

“Hitachi,” he finished. “But…”

See, there’s really no getting around the fact that the Miracle Massager models itself after the Cadillac of Vibrators, Hitachi Magic Wand. Both aim to provide quick clitoral orgasms. Hitachi does this VERY quickly in my experience. Miracle Massager took a while. The Miracle Massager is a good vibe, though. And I’ll tell you why.

The Miracle Massager is very light. You can hold it in your hand for a long time without any wrist strain. Ha. It’s very quiet for the amount of power it possesses, too. So sort of elegant. And the head is bendable, ie, you can like aim at certain areas better, which is fun. It’s pretty damn strong. One of those vibes that warms you up and gets you slick like THAT. Unfortunately, it didn’t come with an attachment. On my Hitachi, I have this blue hook that I put on the head. (The bf calls it Grover, which makes me laugh). The hook was originally intended to make the Hitachi able to penetrate and for gspot stim, but I like the hook cuz you can place it directly on your clit, and wowzer, insta-gasm. The head of the Miracle Massager placed directly on my clit for too llong made me a bit numb and itchy. Sounds awful, but it wasn’t that bad. I still ended up coming really hard. I guess you can buy an attachment for the Miracle, too. Which I guess I should have thought of.

Okay, plus, some girls don’t like how powerful the Hitachi is. They prefer the lower wattage of other vibrators to get them off. I like really direct, tough, intense vibration. And penetration. I like my men to do me slow and sweet but my vibes—quick, hard, I could care less about making this romantic for you-kind-of-fuck.

In the end, the Miracle Massager is a good thing to have in my arsenal. No doubt. I think the girls who occasionally accompany me in the bedroom will like this vibe quite a bit. I also think I’ll use it every now and again because it does the job. It just takes a little longer to get you there than the vibe I’ve named so many times before. I look forward to feeling the Miracle’s effects when there’s an attachment involved. So I’ll get on top of that. But seriously: you want a vibe that’s very powerful and just does the job (but maybe not as quickly as one other toy in the world) Buy the Miracle Massager! Happy Vibrating, Folks!

"Sex Toys provided by SexToy.com home of the biggest selection of vibrators online."

Surprise Reunions

2009-09-22T07:07:00.004-04:00

So like two years ago, I was involved with an alpha-male Ivy League grad who liked to wear my panties, be exposed to extreme verbal humiliation, and get fucked by guys. He was also completely in the closet about such things and only told me. So of course I felt special and then, like, fell for him, even though he was sort of an asshole. I mean, definitely an asshole, in many respects. He was just incredibly kinky and smart and let me say the most terrible, meanest things to him in the world and he took pictures of himself with my panties in his mouth. Panties which were covered in his cum. While he was wearing a wig. Needless to say, he kinked me the fuck out.

Then of course as these things go, he disappeared off the face of the earth, and I sat by the phone, gmail inbox, waiting for him. Then I heard from him. I heard excuses which I took as truth because I was being a stupid girl. Then he disappeared again. Reappeared. Excuses. And I punished him. Which was hot and sad. Then he disappeared again, didn't show up for a planned date. So I finally got the nerve to block him from my IM and my email. And he never called. And I got over it. Slowly but surely. Avoided the block where he worked walking to the subway each night but that was that. Pretty much. He started me on a certain path to kink and I valued him for that. But still--asshole.

Fast forward two years to my boyfriend's friend's birthday parry. Pizza joint. She says she has a few more people coming...

Who walks in but Disappearing Kinky Alpha Male.

HIs jaw drops when he sees me. Mine does too. He's a friend of her boyfriend's.

I grab my boyfriend and hiss: I fucking know that guy, I know that guy!

How? How? says Adam.

I dated him. Well, I kinked out with him! He disappeared! He's an asshole!

Ha, says Adam. That was bound to happen eventually.

What was bound to happen eventually? I say.

You running into some dude you... says Adam.

Ha. True that.

For the rest of the night, Kinky Alpha Male and I pretended not to know each other.

Through dinner and karaoke. Yup. So surreal. But what else could we do? He never told any of his friends about me. I wasn't about to out him to this big group of people. And whatever. So. Ha. Kind of amazing.

Me: 30 lbs lighter, in a miniskirt, with a hot and funny boyfriend.

Him: Fatter. Balder. With two bandaids on his hand and a look of defeat in his eyes.

Mmm. Defeat! Not the sexy kind but the kind that makes you feel good about getting over a boy you never thought you'd see again but then DO! It was kind of a gift!

Me: Elated. Relieved. In a good place.

Him: Who the f cares? I mean. Really. HA.

The Daring Young Couple at La Trapeze: An Announcement of Sorts

2009-08-31T21:53:00.004-04:00

So this last weekend, the boyfriend, who will henceforth be known as Adam, and I went to La Trapeze.

Which was…INTERESTING.

It’s a swingers club. Like on 17 between 5th and Madison. Janie’s here to tell you all about it. Because why shouldn’t I. There’s barely anything written on it online. Which makes this a fun opportunity!

Okay. So. You buzz the door. They let you in. You pay a guy at a window $120 for you and your guest (it’s a couples only club). He gave us some masks because it was masquerade summer sex in the city party night. Sort of a mixed party metaphor but whatever.

Okay, before I go there, let me just say that Adam and I were excited and nervous before going to La Trapeze. Of course. I mean, I was a bit more nervous than he was. He was being the cool one that night. One of us had to be. Once we got there, I was the one who wanted to get naked first (or rather, in a towel, towels here rule, everyone is in a freaking towel, it’s hilarious) but before, I was totes nervewracked, dude. Because I’d never been to a place like this. I had no idea what to expect, really. We had heard about the buffet which sort of grossed us out, frankly. But that was about it. We were looking for adventure. In a way, we found it…

After we paid, we walked through these double doors. And we were greeted with a sort of cheesy pub atmosphere. Kinda folksy and English. But tvs with very typical porn on them. There were lots of folks in their 50’s half dressed and eating from the buffet which had a sign that said “Please cover your lower torso when standing at the buffet.” Ha. Hilarious. There was a bar with mixers, no alcohol (BYOB). I sorta like that. The place is run by African men. Which was interesting. I wondered what it would be like to work there. In the end, I decided, it would be very weird. And possibly soul sucking. But a summer internship might be fun! Ha.

There’s like a hallway leading from the front buffet/bar area lined with tiny rooms. Private rooms for couples, really. But by the middle of the night, there were like 10 to a room. There were two larger rooms at the top of a short staircase. These rooms were covered in mats and linens. There were mirrors everywhere. There was a locker room to put our stuff. There was a spiral staircase which led to the official upstairs. Upstairs was basically a few small rooms with some sex furniture. Downstairs, there was also a dance floor and a disco ball and a stripper pole which mainly went unused. I mean, I never saw anyone use the stripper pole. I should have. Or Adam should have. He’s a pretty fun dancer. Can certainly get down in his own way. You know it!

At the beginning of the evening when Adam and I were just taking it all in, we decided to have some of the whiskey we brought. Always a good idea. Then we sat on a couch. Next to, I swear, the most attractive couple there! We talked to them for like an hour. They were so lovely! They told us how lucky we were to have each other. That was cute. They talked about their dreams of opening up high-class swinger clubs. We all laughed and drank together and the vibe was pretty cool, but I’m not gonna hold you in suspense—we didn’t hook up. Not sure if that’s because Adam and I were just too nervous to make some moves, or because they weren’t really *INTO us like that, or because they just wanted to chill and make some friends or whatever cuz they like always go to swinger events and know how to just be cool and stuff and knew we were newbies and wanted us to just like take it all in or something. We never saw them fucking at all. They made it into their towels. But they weren’t like doing it anywhere with anyone. I don’t think. Ha. I know. I sound like a high schooler. Dorkwad.

Things that happened at or because of or around or in connection to La Trapeze:

1) Adam and I got a private room. We fucked on a mattress with pretty nice sheets, actually. We kept the door unlocked so people would come in and watch us. No one did. Cuz it’s a private room. Duh.
2) We did it a lot in the big rooms. I figured out a new way to suck his cock which is more like suckling, as if the head of his cock is a nipple, in a way. It gets him hard very quickly. I did this a lot. We fucked a LOT.
3) When Adam spanked me, people went, “Ow that had to hurt!” but it didn’t really. It was like a cutesy spanking. Which is nice and sensual and not owey at all, duh.
4) Here is a point: SWINGERS ARE GENERALLY NOT KINKY PEOPLE. At least the ones we encountered. They have lots of vanilla sex. But in front of other people. Not kinky. Just exhibitionist. Which to me is not really a kink. Because I could care less who watches me have sex. It doesn’t necessarily turn me on. It’s not a guarantee pussy-wetter is what I’m saying.
5) A lot of people groped me while Adam and I fucked. NONE of them asked. NOT ONE. I told about four guys, No thanks. Most guys who touched me went for my asshole. Seriously. There are like no manners at La Trapeze.
6) Adam came on my butt at one point and I felt him rub it into my butt cheeks. SWEET. Then I turned around and he told me that the girl NEXT to me did that! That girl WAS VERY CUTE. A thin white girl with nice boobs, a collar around her neck, striped socks, and a blonde bob. She was VERY CUTE. She also had a fun sorta kinky vibe which was unique there! But. Her date was a creepy dude. Very creepy. He pointed to his dick while looking at me. Like, suck it. I didn’t want to. There is like NO COURTING PROCESS here. Dudes think if you’re there, you’re game. But I’m not, really. Not unless you’re a dude or a chick who is sexy and nice. Most people were kind of humorless. I’m sorry, but they were! (I am making no friends from La Trapeze here in this post.)
7) But blonde girl Jen was cute and nice and smiled a lot and said, You’re cute to me which was a legitimate compliment. I totally finger-banged her. Three fingers at one point. She was soaking. Then came the idea of me fucking Jen with a strap-on! Yay, good idea!
8) When we finally got a room, Jen, Adam, Jen’s creepy date, and I, SUDDENLY, TEN MORE PEOPLE POURED INTO THE ROOM. To watch the girl get fucked by another girl. I was like, no, not doing it and I left. Ha. I know. That might psych some people up, but even at the swingers club, I wanted INTIMACY. Adam supported me cuz he’s understanding and felt similarly.
9) But then we found another room and I got to fuck Jen for a while with the strap-on (used condoms, and it was her strap-on, which was too small, the harness, but I made it work) and that was fun. I asked her what the dildo was made of and she didn’t know and I told her about disinfecting it by boiling if it’s silicone but she just nodded politely, like I don’t care, just fuck me, so, I slipped on a condom, and like, did. Her vagina was sort of very easy to fuck cuz she was mad slippery. But then suddenly some other girl tried to finger me and bit my lip. She was an aggressive kisser and had long fingernails. Then some really big dude was grabbing my tits hard. It became too much. We left again. But Jen was nice. Jen, if you’re out there: call me! I want to teach you about safe sex, have you dump your boyfriend, buy you a new collar, and we can fuck and and you can fuck my boyfriend who thought you were very cute!!!
10) This man that looked like Santa Clause sort of stalked me the whole night. But he was sort of nice! I didn’t mind him so much by 4 am.
11) I gave Adam a massage with a nice older Latina woman who barely spoke any English. “You touch him here, he like it.” She had a nice vibe. Her man rubbed my shoulders and boobs from behind which was nice. But I told him to back off when he tried to finger my butt. What is up with that? Adam never saw the older Latina lady. He was on his tummy with his eyes closed. It was sort of lovely!
12) I came many times throughout the night. Adam fucked me really well over and over.
13) We drank lots of Makers Mark.
14) We looked for that couple we met at the beginning of the night. They were our favorite, and our base camp. But we realized that some friends fade in and out of your life—in like 45 minutes. But we saw them a few more times and they were always nice. But not fucking us. Ha. Maybe we should have made moves. Oh REGRET. Not a lot. A modicum.
15) We ate fruit salad from the buffet. They have free mixers, ice and cups there. That was nice.
16) I really learned how to say no at the swingers club. Basically every time I passed by a guy, he would touch my ass or boobs. That I let go. Because I would be saying no all the time if I didn’t and that gets tiring. If a guy was around while I was riding Adam, he would try to get at me somehow. I don’t like sex that’s THAT anonymous. And their tentative touching was somehow creepier than if they just grabbed my tits hard. Like. Sort of own your moves, creepy dudes.
17) AND NO CONDOMS ANYWHERE. I REPEAT. NO CONDOMS ANYWHERE. We figured there would BE BOWLS OF THEM. La Trapeze in no way fosters safe sex. This, to me, is not a sex positive thing.
18) But my boyfriend and I are sex positive.
19) And I am happy about that.
20) Very.

At 4 am, when we got home from La Trapeze, Adam and I were kinda tipsy and tired. We were all fucked out but parts of us still wanted to fuck and so we did. I even came. Adam was still hard but having a hard time coming, as he had about five times in the evening already. He needlessly jerked his cock hard, arching his back, tightening up his legs, breathing heavy and then he’d sigh and go, “Gah. Nope.”

You know how there comes a point when you want to come because you can, maybe, and you’re satisfied, but you still want to come, because you have a cock or a clit and why not? Well, it’s at this point when Adam asked:

“What are the chances of me just being able to shove my cock in your butt right now?”

I said, “1 in a 100. Try it, some guy just won the lottery in the Bronx, it might work!”

“What?” said Adam.

“Just shove it in,” I said. Stupidly. Ha. Course, he tried shoving his cock in my ass.

“Ow, it hurts,” Adam said. “It hurts my cock. You have the world’s smallest asshole. It’s genetic,” he murmured, but kept on trying to get in. Hey anal newbs: THIS IS THE WORST WAY TO TRY TO HAVE ANAL SEX. But I just laughed. There was no way it was going in. Barely any lube, no fingers, no tongue action. But he tried. So did I. We figured there was a small chance a slight sneak attack on my rosebud might work. It didn’t work. Adam just fell to the bed.

Minutes later, he finally came, after jerking off hard, sighing, “Ha. That didn’t even feel good.” We giggled. We fell asleep in each other’s arms. It doesn’t matter that the ending to the night was, in part, an anal disaster. Who cares? Who cares when it’s one moment in many? Being open to those moments. To all kinds of moments. That’s the ticket, I’m learning. And that’s an exciting realization in a relationship that, for me, has a way of getting more exciting.

Okay, so: Adam and I want to have safe sex with other couples who are hot and funny. This is not being picky. This is having standards. I am proud of these standards. Okay, maybe the people just have to be hot. Or just funny. We want our sex lives to include humor and experimentation. We want to be able to communicate with our lovers, not just reach out and grab them. It is a very exciting prospect for us. I think we can make it happen. I think we can find likeminded folk at other clubs, events, or parties. We don’t want to be TOO sceney. But we do want to find our place somewhere in the scene. To all the kinky fun happy sex positive swingers out there: I say: BRING IT. You know where to find me.

Us.

Sex Toy Review: SENSATIONS (it's a board game!)

2009-08-10T20:18:00.007-04:00

So my boyfriend and I like to play games. Like sexy games. Such as sexual favor blackjack and I’m gonna blindfold you and sneak up on you after several minutes while you’re lying there all anxious and then molest you and how quickly can I make you cry with this riding crop games. These are fun games we like to play! Because we like to play fun games, I was very excited when I received the board game: Sensations! (A Sensuous Game for Lovers. Oooh.) My bf said it should have been named Sinsations. He’s so clever.

The game itself, however, is not very sinful. But it does come with fun things like massage oil, a blindfold, an hour glass (that’s like a minute glass, but really like a three minute glass), a little vibrator, some challenge cards, paper and pencils, and some favor coupons! And then there’s a board and two little game pieces. Two ugly game pieces. We thought they should have been in the shape of tits and a cock or something. It’s a game FOR LOVERS. Anyway. You roll the dice. You land on a square. And then you look at the key and figure out what the square is telling you to do.

Sometimes the square tells you to pick up a challenge card and do something fun like, “Put a treat somewhere on your body. Now blindfold your lover. Have him/her find the treat using just his/her sense of smell. If he/she finds the treat and licks it all up before time is up, he/she receives a favor coupon!” I smeared chocolate cake on my inner thigh. He found it. That was fun! But then sometimes you land on a square, and it has a symbol which means “Pick a number between 1 and 6. Roll the dice. If you thought of the number it lands on, you get a favor coupon!” See, that’s dumb. Telling the future? It should be like “Make your boyfriend come using only your mouth before time runs out. If you do this, you get a favor coupon. Now smear his come on your tits, you fucking slut. Who owns that cunt?” Or something. He would never say anything like that. He’s a nice boy.

Other challenges were like “Write your top five favorite vacation spots. As well as what you think your lover’s might be. Whoever guesses the most right gets a favor coupon.” That was kinda cute and fun and we actually learned something about one another there! Cute!

There were a lot of “give your partner a massage” spaces on the board, it seemed. But you’d have to spin two spinners to find out what was getting massaged by what. My boyfriend spun the spinner and got “buttocks” (mine) and “toes” (his). Which meant he had to give me a butt massage with his toes. Which just kind of made me laugh and hurt a little bit. Ha.

Anyway, not enough times does one land on a space on the board which requires to pick up a challenge card. And since the object of the game is to complete all the challenges and then count up who has receive the most favor coupons, it kinda stinks that there aren’t more opportunities to complete challenges. Cuz the game lasts for way too long. Like we played for over an hour and only got 5 favor coupons, and there’s like 30 challenge cards in the box. So you have to pretty much dedicate a whole day to playing Sensations. Which we weren’t prepared to do. And there weren’t enough kinky things, we thought.

Oh, sidenote: another weird challenge was write a 7 letter word on your lovers back using only your tongue. I wrote the word “buckets” on his back. He actually guessed it! We should have BOTH gotten favor coupons for that. But only he did! Which was annoying. My tongue worked hard! Doh.

Since the challenges go in order, I had a feeling they maybe got a little bit more hardcore as the game went on, and sure enough—they do! But we didn’t get that far in the game. Yeah, I cheated and looked. One of the last challenges read: “Turn your partner on using only your private parts. If you succeed, you get a favor coupon.” But private parts? Barf. Kindergarten language. And like I said, we didn’t get that far, cuz the game LASTS. SO. LONG. Basically they should have a 20 minute version of Sensations (Quickies!) and maybe a 2 hour version. Anyway.

That’s my major complaint. Length of play. And timidness of challenges. And not enough kink. But I think for some new couples just starting out, this game would be very fun! Just make sure to have some drinks on hand. And play naked. And allow yourself some fooling around or fuck breaks. Even if that means you might not ever finish the game, I think the point of it is really to create arousal and tension and work with your new natural chemistry. So make the game work for you is my advice. This is Janie Blooms. Out.

"Sex Toys provided by SexToy.com home of the biggest selection of anal toys online."

When Big Things Happen

2009-07-24T09:54:00.001-04:00

There are things that happen in your life. Things that you discover. Or rather, things that discover you. Things that happen without your willingness to say yay or nay. Things that seem inevitable, tragic, fated. All those big words. And even if what happens to you always seemed destined to happen to you, you are not prepared for it when it does happen. Because what we expect will happen never feels like we think it will feel. It feels real. It feels non-dramatized. It feels like the true story that the film is based on. It’s undiluted life.

Nothing bad has happened directly to me but to someone close to me. Something health-related. Of course, when something bad happens to someone you love, you feel it. Not like they feel it, but how you imagine they feel, in a way, digested, revised, translated through your heart and mind. I imagine their toughness, their strength, their resolve, being tested. And I know how hard that must be for them. Or I can imagine. Because when something hard happens to a strong person, it is sorta like, the ways in which they are weak are revealed. But underneath that weakness lies their strength. Their vulnerability is their strength. Their ability to show their wounds and say, this is how I have been hurt. And this is the way I am going to heal. The open air, the openness, will create the emotional scabs. So to speak.

Again, nothing bad has happened directly to me. But to someone close to me. The strongest person I have ever met. And the person who has given me so much of my own strength.

There exists a zillion and a half unknowns at this point. Anxiety, therefore, is the enemy. We are taking each bit of information as it comes. Digesting them, making conclusions, or more accurately, assumptions. It is not logical, emotionally or, um, logically, to make leaps ahead and start thinking about the terribly and terrifyingly grand “What Ifs.” What if my laptop exploded right now into a thousand chocolate covered sprinkles? What if my mirror turned purple and revealed my image as a 60 year old? What if the capital of Alaska was Honolulu? It does us no good to think about such things. Because it doesn’t provide solutions for the present. It doesn’t give us the options we need to feel differently about things. It just presents us with impossible situations that have not occurred and need not ever occur, really.

I can’t go into specifics here. I can’t say who has the health problem or what it is or anything like that because, well, it’s personal. Well, it’s personal because it’s not about me. I will say pretty much whatever about myself on here. But when it comes to people I love and their non-kink, non-sexy related affairs—I feel the need to be somewhat silent. In fact, I’m weary of mentioning even THIS much on here, because it really doesn’t have much to do with the thesis of this blog. But I needed a platform to display some of my feelings. And this seemed like a good place to do that. For whatever reason.

It is the strangest thing when something BIG happens. And all the other things you thought were big suddenly become very small, and actually for me, quite manageable. It’s not that things become less important, but their importance just shrinks compared to the big thing that just happened. And I really start to use all my faculties, like all my LIVING faculties, to the best of my ability. I was talking to a sibling the night I found out, and I said that right before I discovered the news, I was starving. Now I couldn’t eat a thing. But I felt alive, alert, awake. And he told me, You’re in warrior mode. Which was so true. My caveman self felt: There’s a lion chasing you. Or the barbarians from the next village over are pillaging your land, you must take action! That’s what my body was thinking. That’s what it was doing. Warrior mode. I started cleaning my house like a madwoman. Fast. Sweating. I started throwing things out. With tears running down my face. But strong. I know, it sounds silly. But I was in warrior mode, and my apartment was my land that I had to protect. Then my boyfriend came over. With movies, brownies, a flogger, himself. And it was somewhat like someone had come to save me from the lion. Or at least treat me after the lion had bit me in the leg and scratched at my arms and legs. In real present life, what happened was this: I could be present with my sadness while unloading some of it on to my boyfriend. And that felt very good. He continues to impress me. He really does know how to step up.

Yesterday was only the day after I found out the big news. It was a very long day. I was very tired. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I sort of hid away and spent hours doing very little. Thinking only about the crisis. A perpetual lump in my throat. I felt the need to go shopping. It’s interesting that such age-old gendered activities like cleaning and shopping would make their way to the forefront of my coping mechanisms. But then, finally, after what seemed an extremely long day, I had dinner with my best friend. We hadn’t hung out in a long time and we had much to talk about BESIDES the current crisis: vacations, weddings, work drama, new jobs, etc. It was good to hunker down with her and spill my guts and laugh about the absurdity of it all. About how these things can happen to anyone. They happen to me. They happen to the ones I love. They actually happen.

That really goes back to what I was saying way up there at the beginning of the post. That when these things happen, nothing can prepare you for them. You hope you will react healthily: with a good dose of sympathy, patience, and logical problem-solving. But you never know. These kinds of things elicit strange reactions from people. So far, everyone I know has reacted as expected. But we’re only at the beginning of the journey of dealing with this. The event has already changed our lives. And now it is time to continue on with our lives, as we were, and yet, as completely different human beings. To be attentive to the crisis, and yet to demand normalcy. I hope I can do it. I hope. I hope. For them. And for me.

Sex Toy Review: Mini Butt Plug

2009-07-21T10:46:00.006-04:00

Recently, I have been experimenting with putting things in my butt. My butt, historically, has been one stubborn asshole (yes, literally) but has enjoyed things such as thumbs and fingers and tongues quite a bit recently. I thought it only logical, then, to try out a butt plug.

And so enters Basix Rubber Works Mini-Butt Plug. (Mine is blue.)

First off, it’s “100 percent phthalates and latex-free, environmentally safe and hypoallergenic.” Which is nice. Cuz I’ve heard that rubber can be kind of scary. It’s rather pretty, translucent, and bendable. But there’s one problem. The base: in my opinion, it’s not wide enough.

The picture of the butt plug here, which I obtained from the website, indicates that the mini butt plug has a larger base, which is part of the reason I chose it. The ACTUAL base of the butt plug is not much more than an inch wide, and since it is also sort of jelly like and malleable, I believe it has the potential to sort of, like, slip into my ass with the rest of the plug. Which totally refutes the purpose of a base, which is to prevent the butt plug from getting lost in your ass. Without this confidence, it’s sort of hard to get really into it.

I did try the mini butt plug out, briefly, with my butt in the air, and not pushing it all the way in. I only had to use a little lube, actually, which might indicate that it was almost TOO small which is sort of encouraging! What’s also interesting is that because the plug is rubber it sort of “smooshes” as you push it in. It can actually get wider as it enters your ass if it confronts resistance which is an interesting aspect to the toy. It felt rather nice, actually, like a subtle g-spot massage, but I couldn’t really go all the way in my experimentation because of my fears of it disappearing due to the small base. I can imagine that if I obtained a butt plug with a wider base, I would go to town. I especially like the idea of having one in my ass while getting fucked doggy style. I’m sort of weary of putting in the Mini Butt Plug and sitting down, which is disappointing because I’m looking for a butt plug that will sort of start training my ass. You know, I’d like wear it for an hour or so while typing sex toy reviews or something.

So in the end, I didn’t really play with the Mini Butt Plug out as much I wanted. I might be acting TOO cautious here because of my limited experience with ass toys, but if only the base were wider, I think I’d be all about this toy. Oh well. Butt-er luck next time. Heh.

"Sex Toys provided by SexToy.com home of the biggest selection of anal toys online."

Puppet Shows and Pee

2009-07-20T19:25:00.001-04:00

One morning, a few days ago, I began telling a story about the mushroom-headed men to my boyfriend. While playing with his cock. That’s right—it was Penis Puppet Show Time!

“Once upon a time, there lived The Mushroom Men,” I said, bobbing the head of his cock up and down so that it appeared to be talking, or you know, narrating. “There were short mushroom men,” I said, squeezing down on his half-hard cock so that it was short and stout. He laughed. My boyfriend. Not the short mushroom man.

“And there were tall skinny mushroom men,” I said, stretching his cock out so that it appeared svelte.

“Some mushroom men looked left.” I twisted his cock’s head a bit to the left.

“And some mushroom men looked right.” I twisted his cock’s head a bit to the right.

Then I didn’t really know how to continue with the story because I was getting horny, and started to lack any real storytelling ability, and so I stroked his cock once or twice, and then things got serious, like seriously HARD, so you know, that’s when you like stop with the Penis Puppet Shows and get down to blowing your boyfriend.

I sucked him pretty hard, doing the twisty hand thing and grabbing his balls and lifting them upward, massaging his sack as I made things terribly wet and slick with all my slippery spit. Soon, I was on my side, stroking him again with my hand while I gingerly played with my clit. I was already slick as wet marble because my mouth is an erogenous zone. When he’s in my mouth, I feel it in my cunt.

“Want to sit on me?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, grinning. And so I sat on his cock, and my cunt melted. I rode him for a bit. His eyes were closed. He moaned softly. He started thrusting upwards. Hard.

When he does that, I start wanting it from behind.

“Can you please fuck me from behind?” I asked, rolling off of him, and batting my eyelashes.

“Sure,” he said, with his million-watt grin. He then proceeded to fuck the fucking fuck out of me. Fuck. His hands weren’t on me at all. Just his cock, in and out. Just cock and pussy, that’s all that was touching. It made us perfectly functional as fuck toys and it was perfectly hot and I came probably like three times, grunting. And then he came on my ass. It was quite the spectacular load, which is generally the case with the FFOTD (First Fuck of the Day). I grabbed some paper towels and wiped myself off. I lay beside him, sweaty and hot. He was also sweaty and hot. It is July in New York City, after all.

I forgot who suggested a shower. It was a good idea, though. We were pretty gross. I mean, others might think so. I could dig his sweaty bod all the day long.

So we hopped in the shower. The water warmed up quickly. I noticed the tan lines on his arms. Noticed the fuzz on his tummy. I smiled at him, very happy to have him home after he’d been away for two weeks. He is so fucking cute all the fucking time. And I love our showers together. Sudsy and slippery and full of giggles and sometimes kissing. Sweet, almost innocent times right before we head to breakfast, mmm, ricotta and lemon pancakes, potato, gruyere, bacon omelette, sourdough toast, iced coffee…

I looked down at his cock which he’d been quietly playing with.

Suddenly, liquid started coming out of it.

Onto my stomach.

Warm liquid.

He started giggling maniacally.

“What is that?” I asked. “What is…” and honestly, I thought, WHAT A GREAT TRICK! He sucked the water from the shower into his cock! He is spraying water all over me from inside his cock!

And then I smelled something…something familiar…

“Oh, you’re peeing on me!” I exclaimed. Not upset, no. Surprised!

He continued laughing. And continued peeing.

“You’re, you’re peeing on me!” I said again, and he was, he was still peeing.

“Oh my God, I didn’t realize—you were—you’re peeing on me!” And then I started laughing. Hard.

“You said I could,” he giggled, out of breath, the last couple drops of pee hitting the bathtub floor. “You told me I could in the shower sometime!”

“I know! Ha! I just didn’t understand what was happening! That’s awesome! Ha! Pee!” And then I hugged him or something.

We soaped up and rubbed up against each other and kissed a couple times and hopped out of the shower and went to breakfast. Got those pancakes and that omelet.

Three days later, he let me hold his cock while he peed—into the toilet this time. I was standing behind him. I felt the piss move through his cock. Which was pretty hot. Some of his pee got on my hand.

“Let me taste you!” I said, suddenly. I licked my finger. “You taste like water! That’s awesome!”

“Cool!” he said. “From peeing on you to you tasting my pee in three days! Awesome!”

Then we started watching The Godfather Part 2. Which I’d never seen before. Which was pretty awesome.

Really. If I am to be truthful. Anything new, with him, is awesome.

SubSpace: The Final Frontier OR Sex Toy Review of the Lover's Riding Crop

2009-05-19T10:00:00.019-04:00

My boyfriend is a very sensuous person.

He is all about receiving and giving pleasure. He is not exactly submissive, nor is he dominant. He is both, in a way, we are both, and we like exchanging those roles back and forth until our fucking becomes a seamless interplay of roles. No one’s in charge, but we can both take the lead, and follow. I suspect this is how lots of folks who deem themselves “vanilla," play. And we incorporate kink into our whole love experiment and so activities, modes, dynamics can change on the drop of a hat. And sometimes we just kiss for twenty minutes in strange ways, seeing what our lips can do, biting each others tongues, finding that place where the mouth meets the cheek, the tease kiss. Kissing is the ultimate group effort in the practice of sweetness.

Last night, he used the Lover’s Riding Crop on me.

And it became very clear who was in charge.

I have some experience in
BDSM.

Getting flogged, spanked, caned, nipple clamped, slapped, punched, single-tailed.

But I’d never been cropped, as it were.

I got the Lover’s Riding Crop from Sex Toys a couple weeks ago, and just the other day, after fucking, I told my boyfriend.

“I got a riding crop that I have to review. Sometime, I want you to use it on me until I cry and then fuck me. Could you do that?”

A moment of silence.

“Yeah, I could!” he said, excitedly.

“Oh, good!” I said, back.

My boyfriend doesn’t really beat me up. I mean, he’s mean to my tits, because I really get wet, and love it, and he likes my tits, and likes giving me pleasure. But as far as just wailing on me until I lose control and go into la-la-land—we hadn’t really explored that. Until last night.

We’d already fucked once. After some brief snuggling, I showed him the Lover’s Riding Crop. It’s a sturdy designer crop with a lovely leather tip. It feels lovely in your hand, and is sort of effortless to use. In fact, when the whole episode was over, I’d asked him if he could have kept going on for a long time, and he said yes. Some things that one uses to smack others around with are heavy and take some force. With the Lover’s Riding Crop, one can put a rather small amount of force behind the thwack and elicit a big result. This would be his first time using a riding crop, so some experimentation would be necessary. And yummy.

He started by just tracing the riding crop lightly over my thighs and back, across my bum and shoulders, the sensation of cool leather both relaxing and titillating. I knew he was warming me up. Soon, he gave me a few good whacks on my buttocks, which stung. Quite a bit. And I’m not a big sting-girl. Historically, I’ve been more thudcentric, but there is something very nice about the riding crop—the concentrated area of sting. With a spanking using a hand or paddle, an entire area gets all burny very quickly. With the Lover’s Riding Crop, the sting begins in a small area, and slowly spreads out. He started cropping me rhythmically—from cheek to cheek, back and forth, quickly, and then he came down very hard with a THWACK. That sent me growling.

“Oh did you hear that sound that it made in the air?!” he said, excitedly, almost boyishly. “What a great sound!”

“No, I didn’t hear it,” I replied, briskly, getting a little pissed, which is what happens to me at the beginning. That sound was for him. That was part of HIS enjoyment.

Then he started cropping me on the back, my shoulders, the meaty, muscular parts of me. And godDAMN—did that hurt. He really started going at me and it was then that I started to sweat. One whack in particular made my body go stiff and I felt my cunt clench up. And that moment was the moment that I got bratty.

“Fuck. You,” I said, gritted teeth, suddenly angry that he was doing this. Why was I letting him do this? I am a strong girl. I am bigger than him.

And then he said the right thing.

He said the most dominant thing I’ve ever him say.

He laughed, a bit menacingly, and sweetly.

“Fuck me?” He said. “Ha. Fuck you.” And hit me harder.

It was fucking perfect.

I soon started crying. My pillow was wet with tears and snot. He would not let up. Then I wailed and he did, stop, briefly. And then he started again, and the tears turned into hysterical laughter which is when I know—I’ve gone bye-bye. Subspace. Here I come. I’m laughing. He’s laughing, and hitting me. We’re laughing together. I haven’t been there, so fully there, in quite some time. He could do anything to me in that moment with this riding crop, and I would let him. I never said stop. And he kept going. And then I asked him if he could hit my front. I got up and put his hands to my face.

“Feel all those tears. See how much I’ve been crying,” I said. I wanted him to know.

I lay on my back. And he used the Lover’s Riding Crop on my nipples. The fleshy part of my tits. My clit. Lightly, and then harder. My inner thighs, which stung like crazy. I started to cry again, and then laugh. And then I went still, hoping, praying that he’d shove his cock in me. I tilted my crotch up to him. And instead of fucking me, he ate my pussy, the sweetest way, a lovely tongue bath, light and slow and languid. It was delicious. I came. And then he started fucking me again. And then, well, forget it. I came two more times from him hitting my gspot over and over again.

And goddamn—was I LOUD.

When we were cuddling afterwards, I kept saying that. Oh my God, I was so LOUD, I was so LOUD, giggling and kissing.

“Did you like doing that?” I asked him.

“I did. Quite the power trip,” he said.

“I loved it,” I said. “Thank you for doing that for me. Thank you for stepping up.”

“When you said “Fuck you” to me,” he said. “That was really cool. If you ever got really filthy with me, talking like that, I could really, really…” He drifted off.

Janie’s mental note: be more vocal next time.

I know we’ll be using the Lover’s Riding Crop again.

From the looks of the marks all over my back and tits, my body won’t forget what he can do with this riding crop in his hand any time soon.

In Springtime, The Only Pretty Ring Time

2009-05-11T19:24:00.005-04:00

I've just come back from a nice long weekend at my folks. They live in a rather rural area, with a pond in the back, surrounded by trees, deer, squirrels, woodsy walking paths. It was a quadruple deal sorta weekend--I got dental work done (Renewal of the Mouth, Rebirth, that's spring-like, sorta), Dad's birthday, Annual Spring Party, and Mother's Day. My sister came home for a surprise visit from out west, and so that was rather joyous. Many guests at the party complimented me on my weight loss. And for the first time ever, really, I can't remember when this has ever been the case--I was thinner than my younger sister. Which was wild. Because I looked at her, and thought she looked great. And then my brother whispered later, You're smaller than her now, you know. And I realized that I was. And that was rather awesome. In a very narcissistic and vain sort of way.

Now I'm back in the city, and awaiting the return of my boyfriend tomorrow who has been away for two weeks. I've missed him a ton. We barely got a chance to speak the last two weeks. I'm so craving his touch. And all his kisses. And his stories. I'm achey for it. Kind of melancholy.

I wrote nearly 20 pages last week of a new project I'm working on. Which is also rather exciting. I'm not sure how good it is, I'm not sure what will become of it, I'm not quite sure what it is, really. But I'm glad to have a new project under my wing. My best work I figure out as I make it. When Janie sits down to write a specific thing, with a plot structure--it's a disaster.

I suppose I work best, in writing and in life, in a non-linear fashion.

So yeah, you take all that stuff--and I'm feeling rather on edge. I would like a real big live job. I would like to start making money again. I would like to lose a lot of weight this summer. I would like to get fucked really hard. I would like to perhaps find another apartment in the fall. I would like a lot of things.

I'm not unhappy. I'm not depressed. I'm not exactly invigorated in every part of my life right now but I think that's only because I have a lot on my mind. There's a lot of potential energy wiggling in a tight little place in my soul right now. Nothing very kinetic. Just a lot of could-be action.

I'm also very eager to have anal sex this week. Hah. That came out of nowhere, right? I suppose not completely out of nowhere, given that this is a sex blog. But it's true. Two weeks without any sexy time makes a girl eager.

Posts like these generally feel strange to write. Because it's like, I don't tell you guys what's going on as much as I used to. I mean, I also think I don't check in as much as I should with myself either these days. There is something about not working which makes me feel, I don't know, less thoughtful. Because I'm ALWAYS with myself. The pensive nature comes less frequently because there is sort of a constant, rather mediocre self-reflection going on, even if it's not that terribly useful. If that makes any sense.

I think I've written about change in this way before--that change happens constantly, that it's very rarely a big "Bang, look, you've changed! Something just happened inside of you and you're a different person! What are you going to do with this new self of yours?" That doesn't really happen all that often.

**NOTE: At this point, I lost half of my blog post. It was big and long and awesome and pensive, and then it went bye-bye into the Internets. I am currently rather upset with its disappearance, but I'm going to press on. And try to recreate things...

REAL POST CONTINUED...

My boyfriend said something really interesting to me a few months back. Passions are cultivated. Very few of us are born with that "calling," or that thing that compels us to do something that we've felt we always needed to do. He said that passions come from interests. From realizing, "I am interested in that thing. I shall study it more and it shall become even more important to me as I discover what it is." I have always enjoyed writing. But more and more these days, and this could be because of fear, I have found that my writing seems to be more of a fierce hobby than something I want to make my career out of. But honestly--I don't know what I want my career to be. Trying to figure this out scares me. I apply for many jobs, none of them pan out (mostly due to the economy, not due to my lack of experience) and so, I retreat. I retreat into a sort of stillness. That prevents me from feeling uncomfortable. But there comes a time when the stillness DOES feel uncomfortable. My metaphysical legs start to fall asleep and although I know it's going to feel weird to stand up--it's going to feel like I don't have legs at all, it's going to sting, and zing, and tingle--but I know that it's necessary. Because I'll get my legs back eventually if I just start moving them.

My career needs to get its legs back. If it ever had legs to begin with. Maybe it didn't. Maybe I need to make them. Out of what, not sure.

I know I don't have to feel alone in all of this. I know my situation is not unique. This is the thing about "situations"--especially about the bloggable situations. Whether it's about love, or lack of love, or jobs, or friends, or lack of jobs and friends, or family, or lack of family--they're all common experiences. And so I take comfort in that.

This post is becoming something new, by the way. The first draft--I'm not sure what it was.

I know I'm terribly capable of a lot. That I'm blessed with brains and humor and creativity and good health. I could do anything. Doesn't that sort of suck? Ha. Not really. But knowing that I could do anything makes the problem of my destiny rather formidable. I have definitely said that before.

I have not listened to my body in a few days. Not really. I ate a lot this weekend (a few parties will do that to a girl), and I didn't have a lot of privacy to get my business done. My SEXUAL bizness that is. In fact, I haven't masturbated since Wednesday. Haven't gotten off since then. As I've said, my man returns tomorrow. But the answer to my current fog of thoughts seems to be: Get off. Have an orgasm.

It's not a cop-out, I don't think. I'm one of the brainier, headier people I know. I think my head works harder than my heart, harder than my cunt. Though my heart and cunt are quickly catching up. Thankfully.

I'm gonna let my pussy talk for a bit. See what she comes up with. See if even the clarity of coming makes anything else I'm trying to figure out become, um, clearer.

I want to be productive. I'm just not always sure what I want to produce. I'm a machine. I'm a machine in the back of the warehouse that used to do something awesome. What do I do? What is my function?

Right now--in this tiny little moment--orgasm.

Don Wand Jade/White/Red Helix Double Head Dildo (It's Glass!!!!)

2009-05-04T12:41:00.005-04:00

Mmm. Praise be to Sex Toys. I love me some
glass dildos.

The Don Wand Jade/White/Red Helix Double Head Dildo, in particular, is something reeeeally special.

First off, it’s kind of pretty! In a patriotic, psychedelic sort of way. And it comes in a darling little velvet blue padded pouch, which, for some reason really melts my butter! I don’t know why, but I’ve come to appreciate packaging.

This glass dildo is just that—glass— so you can boil it, wash it with antibacterial soap and water, sterilize it with a very mild bleach solution, or put it in your dishwasher! (Of course, I don’t have a dishwasher living in New York City—they’re hard to come by. Since I’m just using it solo right now, I just wash it up with some soap and water after use, and it’s as good as new.) The dildo is double-ended—one head is a bit bigger than the other, and that’s the end that I elected to use, the fatter end. I’m no size queen, but when using a curved dildo like this one that has g-spot stimulation power, I really enjoy a larger head. Too small a head and it’s more pokey than thuddy on that juicy spot. The dildo is also a rather nice width—not too slender, not too fat, and I appreciate that. I like feeling full but not bursting and this particular Don Wand glass dildo dildo is a lovely size.

The description hints at partner play as the dildo does, as I’ve said, have two heads. But honestly, I’m not sure it’s long enough for that. We’ll see. I have a couple opportunities to use it with a partner coming up, so I’ll let you know how that goes. Heh.

My actual experience with the The Don Wand Jade/White/Red Helix Double Head Dildo could not have gone better. Since it is glass, it slipped into my cunt rather easily. I didn’t even play with my clit before I inserted it. I was greedy to get to the self-fucking, so with a little lube, and I was good to go.

What’s particularly lovely about this dildo is, of course, the curve. Short, shallow thrusts hit my g-spot JUST so and I could really start to hear my pussy get wet early into the session. Which, for me, is quite the satisfying sound, especially during solo masturbation play. I like some sound effects! I really started pounding my cunt hard with this thing, and it felt extraordinary. The glass warmed up to my body heat right away. I used it lying on my back and then turned over started fucking it while I was on top, just moving my hips back and forth a little, which was also lovely.

I have a hard time having a vaginal orgasm without any clit stimulation while I’m masturbating. So after a while, when I felt that I was rather close to the edge, I plugged in—what else—my Hitachi Magic Wand. I let the Hitachi rest on my clit while I continued to fuck myself with the Don Wand. And I came nearly instantly, 30 seconds max. And it was one of those double doozy orgasms—vaginal and clitoral—at the same time! Which is always exciting. When I finally pulled out the Don Wand, a few drops of my juices came out with it. I have a feeling if I’d taken it out sooner, some water works would have occurred. But my pussy clenched so hard around the Don Wand when I came, I could barely get it out! When all was said and done, I was very pleased. And I was very spent.

I really really enjoyed the The Don Wand Jade/White/Red Helix Double Head Dildo. If I had any complaints, I would say it could benefit from a couple more inches in length, for partner play, though I haven’t tried it with a partner yet, so it might very well be long enough. But honestly, it’s one of my favorite dildos of all time now. And I plan to incorporate it into a lot of masturbation sessions to come. Ha. To come. Pun.

Sextoy.com Toy Review: VIBRATING NIPPLE CLAMPS!1!!1!

2009-04-20T21:09:00.004-04:00

Nipple clamps.

My first kinky toy purchase (besides the Rabbit which sort of sizzled, smoked, blew up, and vibrated for a few seconds on the floor til it died the first time I used it—long story, but it scared me away from any toys sex-related for a while) was a pair of nipple clamps. Because that's my fetish. I like rough nipple play. Like it when a boy pinches and twists. Like to incorporate my own pulling and tugging while I get off. So yeah. They hold a special place in my heart. And on my boobs.

So what better toy to review, from a girl who likes to get her tits abused, than
Vibrating Nipple Clamps. I ask you? None better toy!

The good ole folks at Sex Toys
alerted me to the fact that my Vibrating Nipple Clamps would arrive shortly and I was simply elated! The clamps themselves have rubber tips with screws, so you can adjust the tension! Which I just love because you can start out with a semi-ow, and get owier and owier if you like, or if you partner likes! But of course the main attraction with these clamps is the fact that they’re each connected to two little bullet vibrators, the speed of which you can also adjust. I started out by putting the clamps on my nipples without any vibration. These things were tight! Tighter than my other pair of nipple clamps, which was fun! Because I’m on a mission to become Miss Tough Tits USA, don’t you know.

My nipples are somehow connected to my clit. Seriously, sometimes I even rub my nipples just as I would my clit. So when I put nipple clamps on—ZING. My clit comes alive. And my pussy? Hi, welcome to Slick city. These nipple clamps did just that. And then I put on the vibrators...and well. Here’s the thing. It’s a nice sensation and all, but as far as vibes go, I’m picky. Like, I liked a high powered vibe on my clit. But for me, there’s no reason for a vibrating insertable dildo. My cunt getting all shaky inside while my gspot’s getting pounded—it’s kind of a distraction. Now, this is not to say the vibrating aspect to the nipple clamps was a real distraction from the pleasure of the clamps themselves—it’s just it didn’t make that much of a difference. It was a novelty sensation. Kinda massagey. Kinda more sweet. And after a few minutes, I turned the vibes off, and really, I enjoyed the rest from the vibration more than the vibration itself. Maybe that’s part of the fun! Having your body experience the clamps with vibe and vibe-free. It’s an interesting idea. But I couldn’t help but think how funny it would be if a partner tried to shake my nipples really fast and hard to create a vibration effect. Ha. That’d be silly. ANYWAY.

Vibrating Nipple Clamps. I’d say get them if you like intense nipple play. And also get them if you’re sort of a vibe freak who wants her (or HIS—dudes have nipples, too! My man doesn’t really like intense nipple play, though, so we didn’t explore too much with the clamps on him) entire being rocked by vibrations. I mean, the adjustable screws and really nice rubber tips are super nice and hot and fun, so yeah, I’ll use them again. And I’ll probably turn on the vibrators every once in a while, for kicks. Or shakes. Nipple Shakes: they bring all the boys to the yard.

Dirty Bathroom Fuck

2009-04-06T11:53:00.003-04:00

“I think I’m gonna have an enema for dessert,” he says, putting his fork down.

“Okay!” I say, a bit too nonchalant. I’m trying to hide my turn on, you see. There is no reason to hide it. I just haven’t. Well. Haven’t figured it all out yet.

Fuck.

I’ve only watched him give himself an enema once before. But it made my cunt juicy like, fuck, I don’t know what. Though I can’t really say that while I’m watching. I can only drink my beer and pace. Like a boy at a party after the prom watching his date dance with her best friends.

In preparation for the enema, he undresses. On a whim, I unzip my black sleeveless dress just about a quarter of the way down, just so my tits pop out like so, demi push up bra helping em out. I know how good my tits look, lace of the push-up bra barely showing. A girl knows. He takes a glance at my cleavage and practically winces, like a construction worker does when the finest piece of the day walks by.

“You should wear the dress like THAT to the party,” he says.

He crouches in the tub and slides the long, slender, orange spout in his ass. He squeezes the bottle and I hear him sigh and breathe deeply and the water disappears into his body.

Fuck.

I have to leave the bathroom for a second. Take a deep breath. Compose myself. Gulp. I’m the one who’s bashful, not him. But like I said, I can’t figure out the turn-on. Can’t find the words to express how I get soaked to see him crouched on all fours in the bathtub, deeply breathing, the empty enema bottle lying beside him…

How I love spreading his ass cheeks while he’s fucking me hard, my feet up in the air as he leans in, my fingers barely grazing his hole as he thrusts. Suggestion of my big black silicone cock. I like licking his hole, his balls, the inside of his cheeks, spitting on his ass, poking my tongue in, stabbing lightly, hearing his giggle turn into a groan. I love it.

Christ.

I go back to the bathroom. I see him on all fours, ass in the air in the tub. I pick up my Corona. I take a long slow drink. My pussy twitches. This feels dirty in a way. But there is a sweetness, too. Like I’m watching my baby take care of himself. But it is dirty. It is.

It’s about to get dirtier.

He sits on the toilet. He releases. He flushes. He is still sitting on the toilet. He shows me his cock. It is leaking pre-cum.

“See? See?” The enema does that to him. Just that.

His pretty purple cock is half hard.

He is all finished now, just relaxing, sitting on the toilet, as a boy will do. I stand in front of him. I play with his hair. I sigh and put my nose to his hair and breathe in. He puts his head between my tits. He unzips my dress more. He starts sucking on my tits. I unzip the dress a little further. He grabs at my tits even more, so rough. I keep the bra on and flop my tits out of it, so that they fall over the big lacey cups. He sucks on my nipples hard. And then, and then he starts to claw my stomach. He is at the perfect level for it, sitting on the toilet in front of me. He licks my tummy, and kisses and bites it. Which makes me insane. All the while, he is twisting my nipples so that I am moaning and squealing. He looks so fucking perfect sitting down in front of me, worshipping this tummy of mine, gorging on my tits. He unzips the dress further. He takes the straps of my bra and slips them down my shoulders. I unhook the bra, let it fall to the floor. He slides my royal blue boyshort panties off from underneath my dress. I take off the dress. I am naked now, as he is, I am standing naked in front of the naked boy with the very empty ass who is sitting on the toilet. I am very naked. The light is so bright in the bathroom and suddenly I feel so very unclothed.

I am on my period.

He sees the string from the tampon hanging out and pulls. He flings it into the toilet.

“Can you hop on?” he asks, signaling his cock. “Sit on it?”

I remember the last time I fucked him while he was sitting. It was the first time I ever came while being on top. I ride him often now, when he is unmistakably hard but tired and I need cock, because I always need cock. I attempt to mount him. He goes a bit soft.

I get down on my knees and suck my man’s cock. On the bathroom floor. He stiffens up quickly. The head of his cock is huge, leaking. He is moaning softly. I look at him. His eyes are glazed over. My nipples are swollen and sore. My cunt is dripping. I get on top of him, and slide his cock so easily into my pussy. He feels so fat and I am slick as fancy marble floors in front of office buildings after rain. I start riding him hard. My thighs slapping against his thighs. That sound. Smack. Smack. I slow down. I rock back and forth. His breath gets fast. He is close to coming. He says so. He jabs his cock into me, upward. My feet touch the bottom of the toilet bowl, where it touches the floor, my fingernails dig into his shoulders. He groans, cums. I feel his cock twitch. He is so spent. I put my head into his shoulder, still sitting on him.

“Am I too heavy? Is it okay that I’m sitting like this?”

He smiles. “Oh, yeah. It’s fine.” We kiss.

He takes a quick shower. He wears a bathrobe as he gets ready. He puts on the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Two hours later, we are grinding up against each other in a back room of a bar in Brooklyn. At one point, he grabs a handful of my tummy and pulls me close to him. I’m fucking desperate for it. For hours on end.

We fuck two more times that night, and again the next day. My gspot thanks him, over and over again.

Oh, and his ass? How was that?

Very. Fucking. Edible.

The Late Bloomer Finally Does Sex Toy Reviews: Berman Center Selene Vibrating Clitoral Pump (Say That Three Times Fast)

2009-03-30T15:42:00.006-04:00

“So, do you want to use any of your new toys?” he asked me, sleepily, all covered up in my flannel sheets.

“Oh, right!” I exclaimed, jumping off the bed to get my little box of goodies. “New toys!”

It was St. Patrick’s Day. We’d just finished up round one of sexy time. Fuck of the Irish. Ha! Like LUCK of the Irish! It’s a pun, get it?!? Oh lord. Anyway: first toy review! From Sex Toys!

The Berman Center Selene Vibrating Clitoral Pump. Which, funnily enough, you can find under As Seen on Oprah. (Oh jeeze. Oprah.)

“Okay,” I said, hopping back onto the bed. Taking a deep breath, I opened up the cool parallelogram-shaped box. Inside, there was a little light purple gauzy pouch.

“Oooh, look, a pouch! Isn’t it cute?” Little drawstring and everything. Aw, sweet. Anyway, I quickly explored deeper the contents of the box. The pouch wouldn’t be, you know, the thing helping me to get off.

“Oh, look, it comes with little attachments!” I said, giggling. So, okay, here’s how it works: there’s the purpley-pink plastic machine part of the toy that you can put batteries in (optional), there’s a short plastic neck of the toy, then there’s the suction head of the toy, and then there’s little silicon rings, one with tickly little fingers, and one ring without the tingly fingers, to be put on the suction head. And, ooh, this was the cutest part—-there’s a little cord coming from the end of the toy and leading to the little purple football shaped pump—that’s what I’d be squeezing in order to get my clit all big.

My goal was this: to obtain a mini-cock. Honestly, probs too lofty a goal. I mean, my clit’s pretty apparent, very accessible, as it is. And I adore heavy stimulation on it. I’d let him go down on me for a couple of days if it weren’t for the knowledge that his cock has quite the way of filling me up just SO.

“Okay, let’s put this thing on,” I said. “Ha. First time! Aren’t you glad I waited til you were here! Fun!”

“Yeah!” he said. “Fun!” Ever enthusiastic. Even when it’s late and we’ve had fruity beer and were up til like 5 the night before.

“So, okay, let’s see.” I put on the plain old silicone head onto the head of the clitoris pump. Then, I remembered: oh, right, it’s a vibrator, too. I mean, I’d picked the toy for that, but had forgotten that it didn’t come with batteries. But no matter. The pump itself works without batteries. I’d end up using it as a vibe a couple days later, as he fucked me from behind. (Which, incidentally, was fun and all, but all that rigorous thrusting into my cunt sort of made the clitoris pump fall off mid-fuck.)

Anyway, getting ahead of myself. First trial!

I managed to put the silicone ring on the toy the wrong way. In fact, I hadn’t figured out that it was really a sleeve to go OVER the pump until a few days later. Maybe cuz I’m not so good at mechanical things. Or maybe it’s just not very clear how it’s supposed to be put on. In any case, the suction worked anyway, even with the ring attachment put on wrong. I slapped it on over my clit and the surrounding skin. I told him to squeeze the little purple football shaped pump and then—tada! My clit started to swell inside the plastic suction tube thingy! You could see it and everything! Fun!

“Oohhh!” I exclaimed. “Fun!” I could already feel my pussy getting wet. All the blood going right to the area. I see why this thing is like an accompaniment to getting orgasms. I bet it helps if it’s hard to get there.

But then the pump wouldn’t pump anymore. Just three little pumps and that’s all it would do. Done and done.

“I guess that’s it, that’s as far as it can go,” he said. I was sort of disappointed. I wanted more pumping.

Then we noticed the little heart-shaped button next to the purple football shaped pump, which, when pressed, would release the suction. I pressed it a couple times, and the air went out. My clit and labia started to sort of shrink and then the suction just popped off.

Hmmm. Was that it? I thought. And yeah. That’s sort of it.

Of course, it’s more of an accessory to the crime known as FUCKIN’ then it is like a play-alone toy—in my opinion. That first night, we fucked a while with the thing on me. He couldn’t get in my pussy first off, cuz my pussy was sort of clamped shut. Tight. The tension that the clitoral pump provided made it hard for that initial penetration but once we got going—pretty fun. Though I think me playing with my clit or him playing with my clit would have done just as good a job. And as his body pressed against mine, the hard plastic parts sort of dug into my skin. That wasn’t fun. And then a few days later, while doing it doggie-style, clit pump on, WITH vibrator, somehow he managed to scrape his dick against the hard plastic parts of the toy. Which we noticed the next morning. Poor penis.

I have tried putting the clitoral pump on my nipples as well. Because, I mean, why not? His nipples, too. That was kind of fun. But more like, look at my flesh swell-visual sort of thing. Rather, than: Wow, I am like totally overcome with sexual sensations. Whatevs, though. The clitoral pump is what it is.

I tried using it while fucking myself with the Pure Wand today. Turned the vibrator on, using the silicon attachment that has the little jelly fingers. The jelly fingers didn’t really do much on my clit. Again, oh wells.

The whole thing is sort of a smaller contraption. If it were an all over pussy pump, that’d be hot. My guy mentioned that as well. We just wanted it bigger, more, stronger. I guess I’m not super duper into subtle toys. I guess this little guy is more on the subtle side. As scary as clitoral pump might sound, it’s really just a cute little toy that might be aid in making your pussy slick. That’s what I’m thinking.

A few days ago, my boyfriend was sucking my clit really hard during oral. After, he said, did I suck it as hard as the clit pump? I told him that really, it was just totally different. But I did get off on the added zingy-pain of him sucking my clit so hard. And without the clitoral pump, he might not have thought to do suck so hard. So it’s nice that toys can inspire lovers. I just kind of wish this toy were a bit more inspired itself. Or harder working. Like some lovers I know.

As Seen By a Girl

2009-03-24T17:41:00.006-04:00

I brought her to a little café in uptown Manhattan. She ate her home fries and pancakes from the center, outwards. I had a wrap and fries and two mimosas. She had one mimosa. The conversation was flowing but at this point, I really, really just wanted to get into her pants. Jeans. Jeans, I mean. Them jeans…

This was a girl date. First one in a while. First one ever with a girl from the south. A girl with an accent, even. Not too slow, not too languid or mopey or mollases-y, but lovely, sweet, lilting, even. I had told her over gchat, that I sounded somewhat like a news reporter from the Midwest, and that my accent would probably not alarm her. It didn’t.

We’d been chatting online for weeks in preparation for her visit. We’d said over and over again the things we wanted to do to each other. That we wanted to be sweet and rough and cuddle and smoke in bed and make each other come. She talked about biting me and messing me up and I liked that.

But honestly, all that chat had me feeling overwhelmed the day before our date. What if I don’t live up to her expectations? What if there isn’t the chemistry we’re hoping for? What if it just doesn’t work between us? Novice dater questions, but suddenly, I did feel like a novice again. I so wanted to impress. To be impressed. As ridiculous as that sounds.

These are the fears of anticipation. These are the fears we conjure up for ourselves to protect us from failure. If we expect the worst and we get it, then we were right.

But after brunch that day, as we walked across the bridge toward my apartment on the hill, I had no doubts. The idiosyncratic way she ate her pancakes, from the center, let me know that she was real, that we were real, together. And thank goodness, people become real. Thank goodness, people are not ideas. Or ideals. They are people.

I poured myself some whiskey and diet coke as she sat on my couch, drinking her water. “Gosh, I’m just so thirsty,” she said. (She probably didn’t say Gosh but I like to imagine that she did.) She continued to talk about her mother and her family and the South and school and friends and really, I’m not sure I said anything of use at this point. At all. I’m so bad at conjuring up details with this one. I don’t think I was being exceptionally clever. I was just working up the courage to make a move, like a 17 year old boy with a 3 hour old hard-on pressed up against his jeans. I was unarmed with this girl on my couch. Didn’t have a game. No game I knew to play.

I played with her hair a little bit. I saw her back straighten. We talked a bit more. I ended up switching places on the couch. I asked her if I could kiss her. She said yes. We kissed.

“Girls kiss differently than boys,” she said.

I wasn’t sure what was different, but my pussy got wet. So ta-da.

And then it all just happened, because thank goodness, bodies can so take the lead.

She devoured me with her mouth. I felt tongue and teeth and lips. She got on top of me. I could feel a part of her strength. I knew we would feel that throughout this, swapping strength and vulnerability, not switching, per say, but being all those things. Just like that. On encounter number one.

I needed her naked.

We went to my room. I was naked quicker than she was. She had on those jeans for a while. She said she liked those jeans. They did look good. Would look better on my floor, however. My floor wears jeans WELL, I tell you what.

She pushed me onto the bed. She licked and nibbled. And we kissed. Then she spread my legs. And looked at my pussy.

“I’m just looking,” she said quietly, matter-of-factly. And she was. Just looking. I gulped and smiled and cooed. She told me the other day I make sounds like a cat in heat when I get excited. She’s right. I do. I meow.

She ate my pussy good. Gently at first. Then harder. And I came quickly. I was ready to give it for hours. And then she lied on top of me. And I sighed. And petted her. My fingers went to her cunt and I felt the wetness. I wanted to taste it. Suddenly, senses were blasting away again. I already felt the welts on my tits rising. From her bites. She bites hard. I still have four yellow bruises that aren’t going away…

Soon, my face was between her creamiest of thighs. Her pussy, though. Ha. I have to tell you. It’s almost laughable. How fucking perfect it is. How small and tight and symmetrical. Like a porn star. So edible. So I ate it. I slurped and sucked hard. I was greedy for her orgasm. I didn’t savor as much as I wanted to yank that come out of her. And her orgasm came like a train. Her back arched, her face, scarlet red, her legs shaking, her thighs clamped around my ears. All was quiet. She came hard. I lapped gently at her cunt, licked her clean. She smelled like wet grass. Seriously.

Then we smoked a cigarette. At some point, she performed a breast exam on me. And showed me where the pulses were in my body. Because she’s going to be a medical professional. This pulse is hard to find, she’d say. She put her fingers around my wrists. She told me I had a medium build because her fingers could touch one another around my wrist.

She slapped my tits very hard. I said she could do it harder. She spanked my ass. Her hand hurt. My cheeks blushed.

And then, of course:

“I want you to squirt for me. I’ve never seen a girl do that before,” she said.

“Okay!” I said, excited.

Oh. Hah. On command, I thought to myself. This might not be happening…but then.

I fucked myself hard with the Pure Wand and my cunt made the juiciest sounds and then I gushed on my red comforter in under two minutes.

As it trickled out of me, she said, “Well, if that isn’t the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” exhaling her cigarette smoke. Kneeling beside me. Above me. I looked up at her.

I’d done it.

I high-fived her.

“You told me to do it, and I did it,” I said. “I’ve only squirted once before in front of another person. This, this is special.”

We cuddled. We laughed. We kissed. We looked in the mirror and compared bodies. I liked how short and curvy I looked next her long, languid, svelte prettiness. I liked the way we looked next to one another. It turned me on. Our differences. Our skin, though.

Exact same color.

There’s a picture of our legs in my cell phone, same pale, fair skin.

At one point, we were actually quiet. Dwelling in blissed-out silence as we spooned. And then she broke the silence.

“I can see your pores,” she whispered in my ear. She was peering closely at my shoulder, grazing her fingertips against the curves of me, examining the new girl.

“Oh, I have freckles on my back!” I exclaimed, softly.

“I see them,” she said. “I see them.”

Nice to be seen. It’s always so nice to be seen.

My Body Says Welcome Home

2009-03-09T15:43:00.005-04:00

I was lying on my back. He was kissing me. Suddenly, he stopped kissing me. And he looked into my eyes, looked back and forth between my eyes, both his eyes looking into one of my eyes at a time, his eyes, back and forth, like a pendulum, and then focused, like he was searching for something. Searching for words in my eyes. And then he smiled.

I found myself waiting for him to speak. Which is a big deal. Cuz I talk a lot.

And then he said something that I always dreamed a boy would say to me, ever since I first started thinking about my body and its relationship to other bodies, to lovers, to boys I would someday love...

"I just want you to know," he said, almost absent-mindedly fondling my breasts. "That I will love your body. If it gets smaller. Or, or if it gets bigger. Or stays the same size. I will love it. Because it's a part of you. It's not just your body. It's not a separate thing from what you are, from you. I can't just consider it by itself. It's, it's you. And I. I just wanted you to know that."

And I said thank you, and swallowed, and tried not to cry. And I succeeded! I didn't cry! I wanted to say something equally as lovely and intelligent and caring to him, but I could only blabber "Thank you" in three or four different ways. I can only hope that someday I'll be able to say something that will affect him as deeply as he affected me.

He placed me in my body.

And suddenly, I felt very much at home. In mine. And under his.

And So The Ball Finally Drops, But It Is More Like A Pretty Colored Balloon Rather Than a Scary Leaden Medicine Ball of Death

2009-03-02T21:11:00.005-05:00

So like 13 days ago I got laid off. Which is, you know, not the rarest of occurrences in this country these days. I lost my job on account of the current economic situation and not because I had done anything, you know, wrong. In fact, I tried very hard these last couple of months to make myself extremely useful at work, doing the work of assistants that had been laid off prior, and taking on responsibilities without being asked. You know, just to make like I was invaluable and stuff.

But that wasn't good enough. Lost my job anyway. Cuz there ain't no $.

And really, if I'm to be completely honest, the only bad thing about losing that job in PARTICULAR is--well, currently, I'm not making money. That's it. Besides that, my day job had sort of been sucking my will to live in a small way. Subtle way. And I'm not a big complainer. I'm not one of those "I hate my job" people. I mean, I just try to make do with what I have. Historically. Just sort of accept my situation and move on.

But that's not how I've been rolling these days. I've taken charge. Of my heart and my body. I've taken charge.

So why should it not be that with my career? Why should I just accept dead-end, non-creative, non-motivating day jobs? Because it "gives me time for my writing"? Please. I've been saying that for years. And I'm not writing any more or less than I ever have.

Honestly, I'm scared. And very uncertain. About what I want to do. For a living.

There. I said it.

I am a writer. I am a performer. I can cook. I can read. I can critique. I am a quick learner. I am an excellent listener. I give good advice. I'm objective. I have two degrees from the two of the country's top institutions. I could do anything. I really could.

That's a lot of fucking responsibility.

The hardest thing about being a human is knowing what my potential is and then living up to it. Seriously. I am, comparatively, tremendously privileged. I am healthy. I am smart. I should find a job that will utilize what I have to offer. Challenge me. Actually CHALLENGE me.

I'm not sure what that job is.

Honestly, everything had been going so great. I fell in love. I decided to turn my eating lifestyle completely around. I started working out more. I got back in touch with family and old friends. Everything was going so great. And then the ball dropped. Then I lost my job.

And it didn't really matter.

Emotionally. Spiritually. Losing the job hardly made an effect. Was like, poof, it's gone. The space that the job left when the job was gone...was the same space that was there before. Does that make sense? The lack of an interesting job was there when I had a job. And it's still there now. But the job that I had before is no longer there to distract me from the fact that I'm not living up to my potential. I'm really not. NOt 100%. I'm a productive human being. I know I'm doing great. And because of that, I need to be doing even better. I need to take advantage of this time--when I'm healthy, when I'm happy, when I'm gaining confidence, when I'm free.

Yeah, I could say, But there's a recession going on, I should just take any job I can get--but honestly, the recession could go on forever. And I will take any temp job I can get. But I've made this promise: I'm not taking a full-time job that isn't creative. I'm just not going to do it.

It's amazing. Losing my job. Not devastating. Scary, yes, because of money. But not devastating. Freeing. One of them there blessings in disguise.

I don't know. I've had a couple days where I've felt like a bit of a deadbeat. But mostly, I've been staying busy. Looking for jobs, cooking my own food, working out, watching movies. I mean. It's not the craziest day in the world. But it's a day nonetheless. And at least I have this apartment. And at least I have my health. And at least I have people who love me, who care. At least I have my ambitions. No matter how pushed down they might have gotten by being in that job for three years--I still have my ambitions.

I just gotta get my ambitions to come out and play.

Yes.

2009-02-16T12:50:00.000-05:00

The sea scallops wouldn't caramelize.

The cajun catfish tasted a little soapy.

The potatoes were buttery and a bit overdone and delicious, the asparagus perhaps a little undercooked, the salad was fresh and vinegary. The baked camembert completely lost its shape when I took the wooden rings away.

The roses were beautiful.

The cherry Belgian beer tasted like the best fruit punch I've ever had.

His shirt was a blue jean button down. Snap buttons.

I wasn't wearing tights or panties.

The melted chocolate was lovely with the granny smith apple.

The lavender candle burned and melted all crooked.

Elliott Smith played after Bright Eyes. Bright Eyes did not fit the mood.

We were full and laughing about the fish and the sad way the camembert had spread across the pan, and he said, "If we cook enough meals, some of them aren't going to work out. But I'm not bummed out about the fish." And suddenly, I saw our future. For an instant. A girl does this. She time travels. She is transported. As much as I love being in the moment, I imagined all the meals we would cook. Steak. And fish. And pasta. And stews. And cookies. And salads. And sauteed vegetables. And tarts. And chicken. And casseroles. And cakes. With beer and wine and tea and hot chocolate. And orange juice and sparkling water.

We went over to the couch and stared at each other and kissed briefly. He touched my chin, my neck, and cocked his head to the side, and he licked his lips and parted them for a moment like he was about to say something. And then he shut his mouth. And then he inhaled. And he leaned over and for the first time, into my ear, like I had done with him, he whispered, "I love you, too."

And I believed him. And I knew he did.

No Reason

2009-02-03T20:31:00.001-05:00

I was shaking a little as I entered his apartment that night. Overtired, horny, emotional. A little scared, really. It felt strange coming to see him and being that out of sorts. But I thought, in my infinite first serious relationship wisdom: This is a learning moment, Janie. Be yourself. And tell him what's wrong. And let him help you.

"My brother's in the hospital," I said as he walked out of the bathroom, freshly showered. His hair, cut that afternoon. His bangs curly. He was shirtless. I got immediately distracted. "I like your hair," I murmured.

"Your brother's in the hospital? Why?" he asked.

"Some awful stomach flu. He's been throwing up all day. Green stuff. Bile. He's like lying in the hospital with two IVs right now. He's such a tough kid. It takes a lot for him to admit that he's feeling sick. So it's..."

He took my coat and my purse and my scarf, slowly, nodding and I felt taken care of. These things I notice. I rambled on. "I guess it's not food poisoning because we both had all the same food yesterday and I feel fine. I mean, it's gonna be fine. I'm just, being 200 miles away, I get nervous. I think the worst. But he's getting taken care of now. I mean, in good hands. He's at the hospital my mom's like eighth cousin works at. It's kind of weird." Sigh. "I'm sorry I'm going on and on. How are you? Are you okay? How was your day?" And then I gave him a hug. Ohh, his skin...

"You're so warm. You're always so warm," I kissed him lightly on the mouth. I felt like I might burst into tears. But I didn't.

"Mmmm," he moaned a little bit. "Do you want a drink? A beer?"

"Oh God. Yeah, I really need a drink," I said. The six pack he bought for the party we were going to attend in an hour was still on the floor. I took a beer. He opened it against the counter, not being able to find the bottle opener. I took a swig. The glass around the mouth of the bottle had chipped. I cut myself on the lip. I laughed. Ha. I thought. What else?

"What?" he said. "What's--"

"I'm bleeding, the bottle..." I went to get a tissue and dabbed my lip. I came back with a bloody tissue stuck against my upper lip.

"Ugh, that's awful, I feel bad," he said. "Are you okay? Let me see it..."

"Don't," I said. "I'm fine. It's funny." The bleeding stopped quickly. "I'm done bleeding. Want to have a little vampire kiss?" And so we kissed. His lips plump as mandarin orange segments soaked in that sweet sugar syrup.

I went and got another beer. A cider, actually. He took the beer with the chipped neck. Then he poured the beer into a glass. I hoped he wouldn't swallow any glass, and said as much. He said it would make him tougher. I knew he didn't like wasting alcohol. We stood in the kitchen for a moment, staring at each other. He had this glimmer in his eyes. That glimmer.

"I'm sorry, are you horny? Are you like crazy horny right now and I'm just going on and on about my brother?" I asked, licking my lips.

"I'll manage," he said and I kissed him.

"Give me a few minutes," I said, taking a big swig of my cider. "And then we can. We can..."

"It's fine, it's fine. Whatever. Do you want to sit down on the couch?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, "Let's do that." Suddenly things felt formal. New. It was so curious and sweet.

We sat on the couch.

Of course, about five minutes later, we were kissing hard, slowing unbuttoning things. His hand pressed hard against my breast bone. He likes the soft parts, but he also likes that one hard part. He does. I like when he gropes the parts of me I don't think about when I think of the sexy parts. He makes me reconsider sexy parts. Of course, I'm in love with his eyebrows. So it's understandable. The bits of lovers we that we come to adore.

I pulled down my tights, sighing.

"I cannot wait til fucking summer. No more tights. You can just put your hand between my legs and just like. Just like..." I wandered off, watching him take off his pants, seeing a little wet spot on his underwear. I took a couple steps toward him. And our hands went everywhere. We became hands.

"Get on the bed on all fours, ass up in the air," he said, sweetly, but with some authority.

I did what I was told. I giggled silently.

I felt him behind me suddenly. Just standing there. Not moving. Not even touching yet. And my heartbeat quickened. I shifted my ass further up in the air in a moment of scared daring. Then I felt his hands on me. Groping my ass cheeks, spreading them apart. The cool air hitting my wet lips and my tight asshole. I felt at once a little nervous and more than well-taken care of. I felt very...present. Noticed. And he was just barely touching. Just making me into a sexual exhibition before his eyes before diving in. Objectifying me. I couldn't see his face but I knew he was just looking at my holes. Maybe my neck. And that made me feel extremely sexy. I heard him sigh and then heard his knees crack. Suddenly, his tongue was slipping over my wet cunt. I squealed very quietly.

He can make me cum by breathing on me the right way. I know. It's ridiculous. And you don't believe me. And people exaggerate their orgasmic nature, and it's a cliche to make like "Oh my God, I cum with him so hard" but really, the cum-by-breathing on me is hardly an exaggeration. I am always ready to give that to him. Always. My orgasms are my gifts to him now. I can give him as many as he wants. I won't run out. I think about us years from now and doing things that we do now with a precision and a grace and a familiarity. And even that, even that thought of us being almost mundanely used to one another--that makes me cum.

His fingers slipped deep inside my cunt, curling up, swirling about in ways that made my back arch. I started panting and backing up on those fingers and then he started pumping them into me in such a way that I could hear my cunt squish against his hand. Then he started sucking my clit hard again. And I came. And then I came again when he sucked my cunt, sticking his tongue deep in and I backed up on his tongue and just that wet little muscle of his tongue felt at once so large and so mighty. And then. Suddenly.

He was licking my ass.

Which he had not ever done before.

And I got a little nervous, for one second.

And then I remembered that his mouth is fucking heaven and there is no room for nerves in heaven.

And the sounds he made, growling and moaning and whispering not words but just little somethings and the slurping as he lapped at my hole and the taut skin at my crevice were just. Outstanding. So naughty. He was the star--not my ass.

I want to do with him all the things that I fantasized about with people who weren't real.

These objects of fantasy that I'd create in my head, because no boy would ever want to do that. Or that. Or that.

But he. He would like to try it all, on me, with me, next to me. I feel that way. Sometimes I feel we are running this marathon of hotness and that honestly, honestly, we will never finish the race because there is so much to do with one another, to one another. And why would we want to finish anyway?

Have you ever heard anyone wax so poetically about a rim job before? HA.

He would finger my pussy hard and lick my ass and spank me and rub my clit and no finger ever entered my ass though I thought it might, but he later said:

"Baby steps."

And I was grateful for that.

I had barely touched him, barely touched him at all when he slipped on the condom and mounted me. Fucked me hard and fast. Slapped my ass with force. Dragged his fingernails hard down my back. Got further on top of me, entered me from another angle. My gspot swelling to the point of near bursting. I came two or three times. I told him how good he felt. And then I told him to fuck that pussy hard and I so wanted him to cum hard inside me. So hard. He'd been so good to me. So sweet and hot and fine as he always is, as he constantly reminds me. His thrusts became short and fast and very hard and I knew. I heard him moan and then he popped. Came hard. Almost yelling as he did so. Collapsed on top of me. His stomach against my torso. He kissed the back of my neck.

"I just got spoiled," I meowed. I giggled and he rolled off of me, smiling. I imagined a cigarette between his lips though he doesn't smoke. We lay next to each other and I played with his hair. The curls. Those curls.

"No, God, that turned me on...too. So much. Too," he said. I continued to play with his hair. And straighten out his big furry eyebrows with my fingers. I kissed him near his temple. My heart was in my throat. He looked at me with the sparkly eyes of someone who's about to ask a really good question.

"You. Are so beautiful," I said softly and he sighed and I heard him whimper almost and he hugged me tight. "You are," I said.

And we continued to breathe.

We continued to catch our breath.

My brother would be out of the hospital in a few hours. The boy and I would go to the party and I'd watch him dazzle the guests without me by his side. And I would feel proud. And even later on that night, after too much drinking and too much eating, I would suck his cock until he came in my mouth and on my face and I would leave him. So close to sleep. And we would say "Bye Babe" twice. And I would get in a cab. And I would go home because I had to work in the morning. And I would collapse into bed. And I would love him. A little more.

A little more.

For any number of reasons and for no reason at all.

Njoy's Pure Wand

2009-01-19T08:51:00.001-05:00

The Pure Wand is pure...um...ecstasy?

I don't really use that word "ecstasy" lightly, obviously. It sort of connotes an otherwordly, religious experience which I mainly attribute to things like flourless chocolate cake and shoulder rubs and an hour of cunnilingus.

But good lord. The Pure Wand ain't just whistling dixie.

Njoy has not asked me to write this review. I'm doing it for the joy of the product. I'm writing this because this particular toy has transformative properties. Characterstics that turn me into a grunting porno fool. Characteristics that make the neighbors above me, finally, (honestly, I can't believe they haven't already) pound on the floor. (Sorry, neighbors.)

The three most potent characteristics of the Pure Wand are as follows: curve, weight, and beauty. The curve hits the spot, whether you're a girl or a boy, the weight makes sure it stays there, and the beauty of the toy really does contribute to the overall sensuality of the toy. Opening up that box and seeing it shine and glisten in all its sexy glory, I was sort of taken aback with the Pure Wand. Like if I were going to be attracted to a sex toy--this would be it.

When I first used it, by my lonesome, I incorporated the Hitachi Magic Wand for clitoral stimulation, and okay--I nearly went through the ceiling. The Pure Wand required almost no lube because it's stainless steel and slides in like--I don't know--stainless steel. And when it's in there, at least when it's in MY pussy, all I really need to do is tap on whatever end is outside of me and it hits the spot. It's sort of a magnet that way, goes right to the gspot and stays there because of its glorious heft. And with the aid of Hitachi, it produced an orgasm that literally soaked my mattress. And I'm not the biggest squirter in the world.

Using the Pure Wand with the boy, okay--he incorporated more in-out action that I had, more of a fucking motion with the Pure Wand and pretty soon after he started--my cunt was making squishy wet sounds like I'd never heard. And I was panting and squealing like a crazy lady and that's when the neighbors did their "bang-bang-bang" on the ceiling. I quieted down and proceeded to gush a bit. I pointed it out--I had never gotten there with a partner before! It was terribly exciting. There was very little clitoral stim involved during this session with the Pure Wand, and it was cool to see that gspot stimulation alone could cause a wet ruckus!

I'm not sure how to describe what the Pure Wand did to HIM--except that he had multiple orgasms when it was in his ass. That's right--one orgasm, and then another! Actual ejaculate both times! How cool is that?! He didn't want a lot of in-out action with the Pure Wand--basically just wanted it to hang out in there and hit the spot with a short jabs. We were wondering if we could use it at the same time. Not sure about that. Maybe if it were a little longer...just saying, njoy. Just saying. :) Something like the 11 in length but you know, curved on each end. Heh.

I think this toy is the fucking bee's knees, I really do. The box it came in was lovely and I adored the pink silky lining. Though a pretty penny, it's totally worth it, because it'll last forever. I'm definitely going to be purchasing more njoy products because I have a feeling they're ALL quality. There's just something so elegant and simple and right about the craftsmanship here for the Pure Wand. It's really cool to experience and to witness.

Breaking Up with Food

2009-01-12T20:43:00.001-05:00

“I don’t think I could ever get tired of this body,” he said, as we stood beside his bed, groping each other, clothes still on, shoes kicked off. Kissing.

“I don’t think I could ever get tired of this body,” he said.

I kissed him hard as tears came to my eyes, and the tears disappeared as he pushed me gently onto the mattress.

No man had ever said something so complimentary about my body before. My tits, yes. My eyes, my blow job lips. Even my ass at the right angle. But the whole thing in one shot, one great uber-compliment. I was thrown. It was at once one of the most erotic and sweetest things anyone has ever said to me.

So wanting my body to look a certain way for him isn’t the problem. It’s not the issue. He likes me how I am.

God, this issue is so big, so to speak. I really don’t know where to start. Suppose we start at the beginning. And track my chubbiness from there.

Ever since the second grade, I’ve been chubby. I had a couple years there, up til about seven years old, when I was teeny. But chubbiness came quickly and with great determination. Before I knew it, I was nine years old, and the boys were chanting “Janie, Janie, has a lot in her belly.” I don’t say this to break your heart, dear reader. But that chant stuck with me. And I started to cry when I had to go clothes shopping. And I started eating more. And I started dreading going to the town pool though swimming had once been one of my favorite activities. My body self-consciousness happened really early as a result of being bullied, and so then came the defense mechanisms: the sense of humor, the overachieving in school, the making friends with everyone I could. I let boys touch me in inappropriate ways when I was very young. And to top it off, I matured early as well, getting breasts in the fourth grade, but being ashamed to ask my mother to go bra shopping with me until the sixth grade. I was sad, I had low self-esteem, I had no idea what my body was doing, and so I ate my feelings. Nachos with cheese and canned chili after school, a couple Snickers bars for lunch, extra big plates of pasta for dinner. My parents didn’t monitor my portions, and I didn’t think a meal was really a meal unless I had seconds. Junior high school came and went and I played sports and started starving myself every now and again. Then I’d eat a lot and make myself throw up. I eventually gave up the eating disorders—really, I did, just like that—because I just wasn’t feeling very good, didn’t like feeling sick. Feeling full was okay, though. Of course, overeating or emotional eating are sort of an eating disorders in themselves, and so they became my forte. I lost a good deal of weight during college from just being more physically active despite all the dining hall food and drinking. After I graduated from college, I moved to New York City and went to grad school, where I smoked a ton of pot in order to write and had the munchies 24 hours a day. I gained a lot of weight via that and the marijuana use was also contributing to a depression that also caused me to eat more. Eventually, I pretty much quit smoking pot (meaning that I no longer smoked it five times a day, and maybe once every few months), and got my first day job. Well, the office I work in has a vending machine. Down the street was one of my favorite pizza joints. Around the holidays, there’s food galore. When I get bored, I also eat, and my job is often boring, so I eat a lot there.

Basically, I have learned to eat when I’m bored, sad, happy. I eat to mourn, to celebrate. I eat to socialize, I eat because I really enjoy the different flavors of food, I eat when I’m hungry. I eat when I’m tired. I eat just to eat. Food has absolutely been, up until now, the love of my life. It has comforted me when I needed comforting, it has brought me together with family and friends and lovers, but what it has also done—is make me fat.

I don’t want to be fat anymore.

Let me just say, for the most part, I like the way I look. I like my boobs and I like my face and I like my legs. But I don’t like my belly. And what I don’t like about my belly the most is how it flops over jeans that would otherwise fit perfectly. I don’t like not being able to wear the cutest dress in the store simply because it does not fit. As I’ve said before, my belly has become an erogenous zone for me, a kinkified spot. If a man touches my stomach, twists it, gropes it, cums on it, I go nuts. I can’t help it. It’s so full of nerves and sensitivity. But I know it would still be that way if it were smaller.

Also, and very importantly, I want to be able to run. I want to be able to go hiking with my sister and climb mountains. I don’t want to get diabetes. I don’t want a heart condition. I don’t want to get sick. Right now, I’m healthy. I want to stay that way.

I haven’t really dieted in years. Or rather, changed the way I eat. I hate the word diet. In fact, I pretty much gave up the idea of ever being thin about a year ago. But in the last few months, however, I’ve started to watch what I eat. I’ve been thinking about every calorie that goes into my mouth, I’ve left plates at restaurants half full. Still, it hasn’t been enough. It hasn’t felt like I’ve been making a real change. I have been feeling like I need a complete overhaul at the way I look at food.

And for the first time ever, I’m not afraid to do that. I’m not afraid to change my relationship with food.

It doesn’t seem like if I take away the junk food, the big portions, the bad-for-me snacks that I’ll be giving up the thing I love the most.

Because, really, that’s what it’s alllllways felt like when I’ve dieted. That I’m giving up the thing I love most in the world.

But I’ve realized something. I love my self more than I love the food.

I love my self more than I love the fucking food!

That’s it. That’s allllll there is to it.

My life is filling up with other things now--writing, the boy, plans for my future, new ideas about my career. All these things are also more important the food I put in my mouth. And so I’ve joined Weight Watchers, because the women in my family have done it and been successful at it, because the way one is forced to monitor food makes me both accountable and excited about the nerdiness aspect. And also, I like the message boards. Hah.

I know it's not gonna all come off at once. And in fact, I'm doing this the grown-up way, with a grown-up attitude. I'm not expecting instant huge changes. But the weight will come off, bit by bit, and one day, months, or years from now, I will be at my goal weight. And I will maintain it. And it will be one of the most brilliant things I've ever done.

I officially started my new way of eating today. And I feel great. It’s only the first day. But it’s the most important day in my opinion. And I’m proud of myself.

So here we go.

I have something to say to you, Food.

I’m sorry, food. I love you. But I just don’t love that way any more. Like, I’m not in love with you. Food, God. Food, can we just be friends? Can I come to you when I need you, but not every time there’s a problem? Food, I can take care of myself now. I really can. I don’t need you always there to rely on. I’d love to party hard with you now and again, for margaritas, tacos, flan. That’d be fun, food, and I think pretty healthy if it’s just every once in a while. But not all the time. Not like it's been.

Cuz really, I think we should keep some distance between us. I don’t want to ignore you if I see you at work, or on the street, but I don’t think it’s really necessary that we hang out all the time like we did. I need my space, food. But I still love you. Listen, I do. And I know you’ll always be there for me. But it’s time I stopped taking advantage of you, and you stopped taking advantage of me. It’s just time. We don’t need to be that way anymore. It’s just time, food. Time I started seeing you as the friend I know you can be for me, and not the only thing in my life that matters. You feel me, food? Yeah? Okay, good. Come on. Give me a hug.

We’re gonna be okay, food. We’re gonna be okay.

No Fear in Da New Year

2009-01-02T09:32:00.000-05:00

*Editorial Note: Below, I write "Last year, on December 31"--I mean December 31, 2007. Not 2008. I posted this post a couple days after I wrote it and intended last year to mean 2007. You can find the post about said butt sex under Happy New Rear Parts 1 & 2. Tada!

Hi there everybody. And Happy New Year.

Last year, on December 31, I had butt sex for the first time. That was a pretty awesome way to spend New Year's Eve afternoon, I'll tell you what. It took about two hours to get an actual cock in my ass, but when it finally happened, it was like "Yay! I'm capable!" That's always a good feeling. Realizing you're capable of something. It doesn't even have to be "oh, I'm good at this." Just being able is good enough sometimes.

I'm capable of brand new things now. Feelings, mainly. Feelings that blow my mind every direction until next Thursday.

Despite new feelings to be written about, the endless "I'm having trouble writing this blog" issue continues over here. To tell you the truth, I have five or six posts. But they're all sort of, um, romantic. Still about sex, yes, of course, but mushy and shit. And I have a problem that if I don't post something as soon as I've written it, I don't want to post it later. The awesome thing about blogging is that non-self-conscious feeling that comes with it. Spit it out, write it, post it, no holds barred, no fear. I've never really revised a post. Never held back in writing one. And the problem right now is not not being able to write, the words are coming--but the fear of posting. Because now, the things that I'm writing about--well, let's be frank--they mean a lot more to me than a lot of the casual sex I've written about in the past.

But a friend, who knows about this blog, gave me some good advice the other day. He said something like, "Your current romantic feelings or whatever, it's like the next step in this whole blooming process. It's not out of line with the thesis of your blog." And he's right.

So I'll start out slowly. With just this...

We'd just finished fooling around for the last time that night. The room was pitch black. It was probably 4 am. My orgasms had been neverending, and my heart was beating a million beats a minute, and my head was pounding from prosecco and fucking and fatigue. Suddenly, I felt the need to lie on top of him and just feel his body close to mine. And then the tears came. Rushing. Huge tears, snot, sighs, gulps, the whole nine yards. I wept into his chest and he wiped away the tears and patted my hair and sighed and was not afraid to have me crying on top of him. I wanted to say so many things right then, but I also wanted to be quiet so as not to ruin the watery moment. But I did find one thing to say, something I thought to myself, would be okay, would say enough about what I felt:

"I just feel so lucky."

So lucky.

"So do I," he said.

And I stopped crying, kissed him on his temple, and went to sleep.

In Memory of a Friend

2008-12-03T14:48:00.000-05:00

Today is the fourth anniversary of the death of my good college friend.

We'll call him Seth.

I met Seth my junior year of college and I was so blown away by him. Admittedly, it was his looks, at first. He was the spittin' image of a then very popular pop singer. He was just gorgeous, and the biggest goofball on campus. Hilarious and kind and awkward, he had flocks of girls following him. I decided, because that was how I rolled with boys back then, that I would make him my best friend. And that's what I did. We ate big Italian sandwiches together and drank 40's together and threw rocks at windows of old buildings. He tried to set me up with lesbians he knew and came storming at me out of nowhere many a time, wrestling me to the ground and pinning me until I started to scream. We were in plays together, comedy groups. We sang karaoke together at the local dive bar and had our first slow dance to a Journey song.

Eventually, my senior year, I confessed to Seth that all I wanted to do was make out with him, and make out with him hard. At that time, Seth had a girlfriend. Seth asked his girlfriend if it was okay if he and I made out and she said yes. How adorable is that, thinking back on it. Coming back from a party at the end of the year one night, he walked with me through the graveyard to my apartment. I stopped walking and attacked him. We kissed for several minutes. His hands wandered but not too far. He used a lot of tongue. I got very wet. It was one of the first kisses I ever had that made me ready to fuck. I stopped the kiss eventually and Seth whispered, "I thought you were gay." I said, "I'm not." He laughed and said, "Nope, definitely not." I went home alone that night, but I was so euphoric. I graduated a week later, and Seth and I continued to hang out in a city near both our parents' houses. We would booze it up and eat pizza and stay up late talking. We never kissed again.

A few years later, he moved across the country and married his college sweetheart. Months after his engagement, Seth suffered a minor heart attack. He got on medication and was supposedly fine. A few months after that, Seth suffered a heart attack that killed him in his sleep as he lay next to his wife. Hundreds of people attended his funeral. Scholarships were set up in his name. Every year, many of us get together to celebrate his life.

I almost forgot that today was the anniversary. And then I looked twice at the date. And remembered.

Seth was a dear friend, an extremely talented and beautiful boy, who thought I was hilarious and smart. He also said that someday I would fall in love with someone and that person would be very lucky. Seth could say things like this and sound sincere and serious, even with his occasional frat-like ways. He occupied this unique space of college boy and intellectual, model and comedian. He was, in many ways, the closest I ever got to falling in love back then. It's weird to measure anything like that--"close to falling in love." But it's true. If he were here now, and not married, I might just try to make him mine. :)

I am not crying while I type this, though a lump is forming in my throat. It's a little strange to remember a dead friend on a sex blog, admittedly. But Seth was a sexy, sexy young man, a great influence on me and my sexuality, really. I had to come out of hiding with him. Seth's pull was that strong. I had to kiss him. That's really not the most important part of my friendship with him, though. The laughs we shared are what I value the most.

I know Seth would be proud of me and where I am now if he were still alive. If he were still alive, I have no doubt he'd be famous. He probably would have ended up on that It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia show or maybe The Office. Ha. We always talked about what show we'd like to be on, you know, in a dreamworld. His spirit and his humor were so fucking powerful. I'm proud to have known him. And I still miss him. I always will.

Guess that's it.

Love you, Seth.

xoxo,
Janie

Givin' Thanks

2008-11-25T20:10:00.000-05:00

Okay. So I wrote a post today. And now I'm writing another! Holy crap, right? The other post from today is, of course, below. It's called Top. And I kind of feel like I should have given an introduction to it. It's about the boy I'm dating. The boy that I like a whole lot. The boy who is blowing it all up for me.

Yeah, so like. I have a place for my sweetness now. For my roughness now. For my kindness now. For my nutsoid sex drive now. It's with him. Plain and simple.

Do you know how crazy that feels to say? To write? To mean it? I mean, it feels SO CRAZY. Like Janie's not allowed that shit! Janie's not allowed to feel all swoony and yet stable! Part of me still does not feel ALLOWED to feel this way. Like, oh, it's cliched. To feel sort of valid as a girl because of a boy. But in the end, I'm just feelin' it. I just am. I'm gonna want what I want.

Course, I don't really have any idea what I'm doing.

Neither of us do.

We're a little socially-retarded in the dating sense. Which is fine. Which is actually good here because that sort of gives us permission to make it up as we go along. Which I like. Rules and stuff, rules about what we should do, how we should act, those things don't make much sense to me. I mean, established rules. Rules that have been around for a long time, some of those rules work. I mean, many of them might end up working for me. Of course. They're around for a reason. But I'm a late bloomer for a reason, too. It takes me a while to figure out why I like what I like, and who I like. It just does. So yeah, I'm making this shit up as I go along. I guess WE are. Though I really want to stick to I statements here because I can only ever know what I feel. As much as we like to pretend we can get inside the heart and mind of another person, we can only ever know what's going on in our own heart and mind. I mean, I know more as we go along, but for now, just my own emotions--wow, that's enough sometimes. It's sorta scary. Sorta not. Sorta free falling and sorta standing on firm ground. Emotional vertigo. Whatever. I'm thankful for it. Big time.

Which brings me to the point of my post: THANKSGIVING. My fave holiday! Food, football, booze, naps. Bam bam bam bam! So I won't be fucking on Thanksgiving, so what? There's enough simple, sensual pleasures about the holiday to really make me feel full and alive and relaxed and at home and all that. I'm making this pumpkin chocolate cake for the fam:

Pretty ridiculous, right? I am PUMPED for that bad boy. Mmmmhmmm.

So there's plenty to be thankful for this year. So herrrrrrrrrre we go: I still have my shitty job, but I am thankful for my shitty job because other people don't have jobs. I am thankful for my apartment because I can still almost afford it and it's warmer in here this winter. I am thankful for so many new friends! I am particularly thankful for Jack and Mariella who taught me about love and the real meaning of friendship. I am thankful for my health. I feel really good right now and I'm exercising and I'm eating better and really not emotionally eating that much at at all. Of course, I'm thankful for him, for the boy I'm dating. I guess I should call him something. I'll think of a name soon. I'm thankful for my family who continues to support me and welcome me home whenever I need to go home. I am thankful for Barack Obama! I am thankful for turning 30 and still feeling very young. I am thankful for being able to write freely again. I am thankful for the new collaborators I've met this year. I'm thankful for The Wire, a television show which has taught me a lot. (I know--ridiculous. But I'm thankful for it.) I'm thankful for my blog readers. I'm thankful for my old friends, who continue to love and encourage me in all my craziness. And I'm thankful for my happiness.

I just tweeted a bit ago. "I'm so goddamn happy. It's weird." And it's true.

You know how I always talk about hope on this blog? Hope this and hope that? Right now, for a lovely change, happiness has replaced hope. And rather than hope I feel a sense of wanting to look ahead. It's a slightly different emotion. Hope is sort of like imagining that the future will be brighter. But what I feel is more like KNOWING now. I know, that's A DANGEROUS THING to feel. And I don't attribute this feeling to anything in particular. I just know now. My outlook has changed. My capacity for change--it's been enacted. I. Am. Capable. For that, I'm thankful.

It almost feels like I should end the blog right now.

It really does. Before something disappointing happens. Before things get mundane--good, but mundane. I don't know. I don't want to end it. I have like four posts I need to share. So because of that, I won't end the blog. I mean, this isn't SEINFELD. No one cares that much if it ends or continues! Or maybe you do. I don't know. In any case, yeah, don't worry, not closing up shop. Sorry for the scare.

I guess that's it. I'm writing this Thanksgiving post today because I'm going home tomorrow and won't have time to blog from home. So yeah, you get a two-post day! Wooh.

Thanks for reading, guys and gals. I hope you all have a terrific holiday and for those out of U.S.A folks, just have a great rest of your week! You all continue to inspire me. You really do. Thanks again.

xoxo,
Janie

Top

2008-11-25T09:42:00.000-05:00

"I have to practice,” he says. “I have to meet the guys at 3:30. I haven't practiced all week..." he murmurs as I pin him gently against the wall.

"I know," I say. "I don't want to occupy your entire afternoon. I'll leave." I lick his ear. Bite the lobe.

"Yeah,” he says, sighing. “And I don't want you getting all sweaty. For meeting your, your friend." He sucks on my bottom lip. I do the thing where I fuck his mouth with my tongue.. He takes it.

Somewhere along the way, I ask, "What’s this?” feeling his hard-on through his jeans. I look into his eyes. He looks so lovely, so tired. That's what you get for two hours sleep. He'd woken me up before breakfast with that prong that is his gorgeous hard cock nestled up against the small of my back. I don't mind waking up to that. I don’t mind him knowing that when he's ready, I'm ready. He doesn't even have to touch me these days. He can just breathe in my ear and I get wet.

Moments before, he was sitting in his chair by the coffee table. Patti Smith was playing again. I stood before him. He looked up at me with puppy dog eyes. I played with his hair. I felt large. In a good way.

"I like the way you look down there," I said.

"I'd like the way you'd look if I were on the floor, you standing over me,” he said.

Sigh.

And now, he's up against the wall, my tits pressed against his chest. I position my pussy so it's below his cock. I remember flashes of me humping his knee, him swinging his leg, rubbing his knee back and forth between my legs. I remember the rhythm he kept, his panting, his breath. His cock is generally readily available, but the way he uses all his other parts is something else. The way he explores my body with his body. The way he remembers all of his other parts. All of my other parts.

i like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite a new thing. that e.e. cummings poem. Bodies are revelations.

Against the wall, I pin his arms above his head. He has the nerve to pin mine behind my back. I suppose we take the lead together. And then he's on the couch. His shirt's still on. His pants unzipped his balls, plump, high, rolling out over his jeans. And his cock strong and hard. Majestic.

"God, you make me so hard," he says. It's a terribly obvious thing for lovers to say, but really, he makes me so wet. I can't believe how wet he makes me. My juicy cunt, a slick highway, an all-access pass. I can't believe how much I want to make him happy with my pussy and my mouth and my tits. It is such a good thing to want to make someone happy.

The night before, I had said, over and over again, as he fucked me: "You own my pussy right now, you own it, it's yours, it's all yours…" That was the night before, though.

Back on the couch: "I’m not sure if you can manage, but you should get on top. And fuck me that way," he says. Suddenly, I get a bit nervous. I'm never on top. I suck at being on top. I say that all the time. For whatever reason. But at this moment in time, I don't say anything like that. I might grumble quietly for a second, but then I just say:

"Okay," and I kiss him and smile at him and try to focus. I straddle him. He guides his cock in. It slips out a bit. He's still so hard. It makes me giggle. I am mostly dressed. He takes my left tit out of my bra and starts sucking on it. I slide his cock back in. I start to move my hips back and forth. Like the magazines say. I am trying to recall the things the magazines say. I know how silly that sounds. I am trying to understand why it is girls like this position so much. I am looking deep into his eyes and then suddenly, I close them, turn my head away as he sucks on my tits and I rock, back and forth, and suddenly, quite suddenly, this is feeling quite good.

ee cummings...Muscles better and nerves more.

This is feeling like it feels when he's fucking me. But I am fucking him.

I want to be a top.

My fear of being, geographically, on top has prevented my dream from happening in some ways, but right now, at this moment, I can feel my pussy just get wetter and wetter and wetter. I am doing it. I am topping him. More importantly, I am topping myself.

"I'm so hard," he says. “Fuck."

And then I start fucking him harder, hips moving back and forth, and then I pause, and I look down and he's pumping his cock in and out of me, and biting his lip and I'm thinking, I need to go up and down on his cock, none of this back and forth, I need to fucking stab my cunt with his cock right now, and so I position myself to go up and down. Up and down. And I do. And suddenly, I am riding him hard. I really, really am, up and down up and down, and I making the sounds of a girl who is on fucking TOP, and my thighs and ass are slapping against his gorgeous hairy quads and he's groaning and grunting and so am I and my legs are burning, and I am not strong enough for this, but suddenly, I am strong enough, and I continue to pump up and down on him and goddamn it, if I don't start to tremble, and it's hard to keep myself upright, and it's hard to keep fucking like this when I'm about to cum, but I know if I stop I won't cum, so I muster up every bit of strength I have to keep going and he can tell, he can really tell and he says:

"That's it, baby, that's it, cum for me, cum for me."

And I do. I cum for him. I cum for me. I am so proud of my body.

And I gasp. And I collapse onto him, kissing his neck, sweating and shaking and feeling so strong. So fucked.

"That was fucking hot," he says, beaming, his cock still hard.

My heart is fluttering about in my chest, like a bird in a cage.

"I've never been able to, you know...” I smile and suddenly feel bashful. How often do I feel bashful? “This is just. This is so exciting. Thank you,” I say. Dorkily, sweetly, with gratitude.

"That was so hot," he says again, his hard on still blazing. "You don't have to worry about taking care of my cock. I'll be hard for another hour or so."

God, how I wish I had that hour, we had that hour. But there are other hours to come.

And right now, I really do have to go.

God in Heaven: I want to take it all from him. And give it all back. Because he has given me. So much. Already. So unexpectedly.

Sometimes, I wonder, in general, not just with him, but with the world: Will I have enough to give? Is there enough of me? Will I run out of me? There seems to be more of me right now than ever. A surplus. But I'm afraid. I'm afraid of giving it all away too quickly. But really. Luckily. Time is an invention. A concept. There is no fast or slow. There is only the moment. And all that I can give, right now, is all that I can give. I can give a lot. And I think there's a lot to get from giving.

I don't want to leave. But I have to. I'm very sweaty. I have to powder my face. And I have to meet my friend to go see a cooking demo down by Chelsea Market.

"I really have to go," I say, kissing him, letting him feel my smile on his lips. I look at his mouth. The twitching corners of his smile. The adorable resistance of a smile. Like it’s too much for him. Like his happiness sort of embarrasses him. I am a bit embarrassed myself. But this sort of embarrassment is just beautiful. I am blushing at how good I feel. But I do have to go. To meet my friend.

And he’s gotta practice.

Keith Olbermann Speaks Out Against Prop 8

2008-11-15T16:29:00.000-05:00

Not sure Keith knew that so many sex bloggers would be posting his comment on Prop 8. Or maybe he's a sex blog fan himself! You just never know...

Anyway, this video was just so powerful, so right on, so full of tolerance and love and just, well, LOGICAL ABOUT LOVE. And happiness. Happiness begets more happiness. I totally believe that. He talks about not putting out "the ember of love." Good lord, did Keith really write this all by himself? I'm sort of in love with Keith right now.

Anyway, I'm preaching to the choir most likely by posting this video, but please watch it and pass it on.

To more love, my lovelies. More love.
xoxo,
Janie Blooms

Dirty, Perty, Not-So-Wordy 30

2008-11-11T13:02:00.001-05:00

So, yesterday, I turned 30 years old.

Which is hard for me to believe.

So much is hard for me to believe as of late. Because it seems like some of my, like, dreams are starting to come true. And shit.

I know, high falootin' words for a girl who blogs about her bloomin' so rarely these days. You'd think I'd have a lot to say on the subject of feeling good. But words are difficult right now. They just are.

Damn, same old complaint.

But still, with all the wonderful things that are happening in my life presently, I still feel a small emptiness. And part of that really is because I'm not really writing. Not writing creates a void. It does. It is so a part of me but I just can't do it sometimes. Like when you're just too lazy to take a shower, but you know, you'll KNOW you'll feel better if you take one. Sort of. See, even my similes stink.

Lately, I'm afraid of it. Afraid of my words. I get choked up just thinking about what I want to write down. Here's a leap: there was a time when I was afraid of my body. Didn't want to get near it. Couldn't stand the thought of bringing my body out into the sun and showing it off. Now, I can do that. But words. About relationships that matter. That mean so much to me. Are hiding from me. Scared little words. With big fat powers.

I know what you're thinking: just say what you want to say. Yup. You're right. Trying to get there. By writing this.

But I mean, I have been being creative. Performing again. That's something, at least...

Historically, I have never really been balanced. I'll be writing all the time, and not seeing a single soul. I'll be a social butterfly and not creating a thing. I'll be exercising like a maniac and spending no time with the books and movies that I love. I'll be hard at work and neglecting my family.

My father always said: "Janie, balance is the key." And he's right. It is. I have little balance right now. I'm practically falling over.

But I'm super happy. I find myself bursting into tears from feeling good. Is that normal? Probably not. Feels okay, though. For now. "For now." That's not nearly as foreboding as it sounds. I just mean that I'm relying too much on heart and body stuff to feel good right now. No nerdy Janie stuff. The nerdy Janie stuff was relied upon too much in the past. But Nerdy Janie Stuff needs to come out and play as well! And soon. I feel like my brain's getting soggy.

Balance or no balance--being happy is good.

Sigh.

I'm supposed to make a list of shit to do in this next year. You know, cuz I'm 30. I made a list this summer when things were getting out of control in my personal life but I didn't really accomplish much on that list. Honestly, making the list feels good enough sometimes but after a few months of not really addressing the list, I feel a little embarrassed. It's really time to make a do-able list. For my 30th.

Immediately coming to mind are these things:
1) write more
2) cook more
3) exercise more

All that means is if I'm writing once a day to write twice. If I'm cooking twice a week, cook three times. If I'm exercising once a week, do it two times.

I'm sexing enough. I'm seeing enough friends. I'm connected with my family. My job sucks, though. Oh, let's add that:

4) apply for more jobs.

I took the day off today. It was an impulsive decision. It was a long wonderful weekend and I needed a day to myself. To listen to some new music. Hang out with the strap-on. Write something down. Be wrapped up in flannel. Order a sandwich. Reconnect. With myself. And with the blog.

Dye my hair, maybe.

I'm trying to push myself to write right now. I think, maybe, give me a few days and I'll just bubble over. There will be no room left in me and the page will catch what spills over.

My 23 year-old brother came into town this last weekend. Came to a party at a bar with lots of my friends. I looked at him at one point, and thought to myself, he's so handsome. He's so mature. People are laughing at his jokes. All the girls are looking at him, sneaking glances every now and again. I hope he gets everything he wants. Every single thing. And then I started to cry. Quietly. In the corner. No one noticed. I was admittedly a little drunk. It wasn't a big deal. But at that moment, I realized something: I wasn't thinking about my own needs at all. Not because I was neglecting them for someone else's. Which I've been known to do. But because, at that moment, I felt so content. And older. And happy to be 30. And not--God FORBID--20. I was a wreck at 20. Maybe when I turn 40, I'll look back and think, I was such a wreck at 30. I think that's the best thing that could happen. Feel better about who I am with every 10 years.

I do tend to commemorate shit. I don't know if it's terribly sentimental or what. If writing about birthdays makes for bad, cliched writing. I honestly have no idea how my writing reads these days.

It really is one of the most important things in my life.

Writing.

It is the hug I give to myself.

I need to give myself more hugs.

Strap-On Adventures: Part I. Jerking Off

2008-10-27T18:41:00.000-04:00

I am by myself. I am taking the day off from work. I have decided to hang out in my apartment wearing only a strap-on. He bought it. It is his. Though, it is mine, for now. He's letting my have some alone time with it. With my new cock.

The harness itself is soft leather, pretty cherry red. One a lot of girls buy, I suspect. It's terribly comfortable. Though it takes me a good twenty minutes to figure out exactly how tight the harness needs to be and where the cock needs to rest, I find the whole process of putting it on and strapping myself in--as it were--incredibly arousing.

The cock itself is jet black. Just over seven inches. Not too thick. The head is realistic and kinda perfect looking. There's a vein or two running down the side. It's very smooth. Bouncy. Definitely erect. Definitely a good-sized cock. Bigger than most I run into. It's really the perfect size for me. If I had one of my own, in real life, it would be just about this size, I think to myself.

I look at myself in the mirror. I have no bra on. My eyes look tired and sexy from so much the night before. My lips look used and pink and full. My nipples made hard by the cold air in the apartment. My tits, a couple which are a couple feet above my shiny black cock--this sight is very fucking hot to me. I don't think I've ever felt such an attraction to my own reflection. I turn sideways. I stare at my cock, curved upward ever so slightly. I start thrusting my hips and back and forth a bit. I grab my tits and continue the thrusting. The base of the dildo is just barely grazing my cunt and yet I can tell I'm getting sopping wet. Just from the sight of this. Just from the motion of back and forth. I stick my hand out to touch the invisible head of a curly haired boy on his knees in front of me. I imagine his tight mouth around my cock. Suddenly, I spit in my hand and start to stroke. Slowly. Corkscrew strokes. I bite my bottom lip. I turn around to face the mirror again. One hand on my cock, the other on my right breast. I imagine his ass in the air, facing me. The tip of my cock teasing his ass. I spit on my hand again and get the cock really slick and even harder. I hear my hand make the wet noises against the head and I close my eyes. I stop moving my hand and start thrusting my cock through it, fucking my clenched fist. I laugh. I imagine all the ways boys and men with bio-cocks must try jerking off. I'm sure it's endless.

I sit on the couch. I stare down at my cock. I tap it ever so gently. It springs up. I remember a porno where a guy would literally slap his own cock very hard. It was like a trick. It would come bouncing back up like a diving board. I was amazed. This cock is not as big as his. But it is springy.

I find some porn. A cute boy sucking a big man's cock on his knees in some tan and navy blue hotel room. I try to match my strokes with the boy's mouth going up and down on the big man's cock. Suddenly, the boy licks the ridge of the big man's cock, using just the tip of his tongue. And suddenly I remember my clit. Seeing his tongue do that brings my clit back into existence and I press the dildo hard against it. Now I am barely stroking. I am grabbing my cock hard by the base and pressing it back onto my clit. Suddenly I remember I have another hand. I start jerking the head of my cock really hard while pushing the cock onto my cunt. Suddenly, the big man in the clip starts to cum, grunting hard. I am getting close myself, pushing the cock against my crotch, breathing heavy and short now. And then I stop pushing, and I start thinking: when I fuck this boy hard enough, this thing will melt into my cunt and I will cum. Or if I wear a double-dildo--God, imagine if I could squirt and fuck a boy's ass at the same time. Could this happen? Could it? Could I soak him as he cums on my sheets? Could that happen?

And then all of a sudden, I press the cock against my clit hard and move it ever so slightly back and forth, still jerking the head, and I think of my gush spraying his thighs as I fuck him from behind, and here on the couch, wearing my first strap-on cock: I cum. I don't squirt. But I do cum. I take off the harness, I walk to my bedroom, I place it on the bureau. I look at the red leather and the shiny cock and I smile.

And I want to tell the world.

This is something new. I mean, I've thought about it soooo much but never, well... this is something so hot, it makes me want to cry. It does. It is self-actualization though I have little idea what I'm doing with it yet, with this cock. It's like learning a new language. So many words I don't the meanings of yet, but like the sounds of. And want to learn how to use.

The night before, he just lied down, on his back and said, Whatever you want to do. Smiled at me. Oh, the gifts.

I put the cock back on as I started writing this post, I am wearing this cock right now, and I can't believe how at home I feel. I want to learn how to fuck well with a cock. I want to get sweaty and tired like a man gets sweaty and tired from fucking. I want to say the things that men have said to me, "You like that cock? You like getting fucked by my big hard cock?" And I want to see the boy beneath me nod, yes, silently, biting his lip, the smile/grimace on his face saying it all. And I want it all. I want my cunt seizing and clenching and my clit swelling and hardening behind my harness. And then I want. Sweetness. Care. Those words, those things. That's what I want.

I do wait too long for things sometimes. Sometimes, I don't go after the things I want. Sometimes the things have to be brought to me and then I can accept them and I can give myself permission to enjoy the gift I could have given myself but was too afraid to do so. Like this cock. But now I just want to shower myself with good things. More good things. More things that feel good, that make me feel good, that make him feel good. More enjoying myself. More enjoying him. Because after all. Happiness is a real turn-on.

And I am really turned on.

The Late Bloomer Finally Blooms One-Year Anniversary

2008-10-25T10:54:00.000-04:00

Wow. Wow-wee wow.

Kinda hard for me to believe it's been one whole year since I sat down and wrote the tale of my first blow job, as suggested by the man whose sex blog got me into this whole crazy, beautiful, delicious, confusing, awesome, rewarding blogging mess in the first place.

I have so much to say on where I've been, where I am, where I'm going. You know, like a big ole reflection piece. But honestly, I've been terribly busy lately, with work, artsy project stuff, dating, job searches, et cetera--real life stuff. Which is not to say this blog isn't really, really real. But life happens when you're not blogging it sometimes. I have so much to say. I just have to find the time, the words, the courage. It'll come.

In the meantime, take a look below at JOEY: my first blog entry. It remains one of my favorites. And sucking cock remains one of my favorite things to do. So I think it's wildly appropriate that I re-blog it. Enjoy. And thank you for reading. Here's to another year of blooming!

xoxo,
Janie Blooms

Thursday, October 25, 2007
JOEY
“Do you want to come back to my place and watch my short film?” Joey asked.

He was a filmmaker. We hadn’t really developed a conversational flow yet. It was only our first date, but I’m not sure if we had much to talk about, really. If we ever would. And indeed, if my mind wasn’t so set on a certain task, I might have even ended the evening right there. But this was going to be the night. I had decided on it.

“Sure,” I said. I zipped up my fly. He saw me do it, and he smiled. God, Janie, you’re a dork, I thought. Ignore your zipper.

I had my period so I was quite bloated, and the zipper on my jeans kept coming undone. My date and I had just seen a movie at some quirky little theater deep inside Brooklyn—something violent, and slick, and cool. He wanted to see all the credits at the end. I remember staring at his bald spot, shining, as the theater lights came back up. It came as a surprise—he was wearing a baseball cap in his photo online. Still, he had puppy dog eyes. Fantastic stubble. Wore a hoodie. His voice was lower than I thought it would be. He was more man than I thought he would be. I wasn’t used to men. There was no question, though. He was a man. He was 30. I was 26. It was time.

“I live right down this street,” he said. He put his hand on my lower back. Shit. I thought. Shit. I’m wet already. What am I doing? Just stay focused, Janie.

We walked to his apartment building, in silence, pretty much. He unlocked the front door and we walked up two short flights of stairs to his studio apartment. He unlocked the door. There were piles of records everywhere. It smelled a bit like beer, wet towels. There was a bare light bulb hanging by a string in the hallway.

“Should I take off my shoes?” I asked.

“If you want,” he said. “I don’t care.”

I took my shoes while standing up. He unzipped his hoodie, gray tshirt underneath. He dug his nose into my neck, behind my ear. My pussy throbbed. It’d been so long. In fact, it’d been forever.

“You smell downy fresh,” he said.

“Um, Febreze. This shirt’s actually not even clean—“

“Do you want a drink?” he asked.

“A beer, please.” He opened up the fridge: beer, milk, orange juice, tofu, extra firm.

“You could make a tofu orange milkshake. That’s all, though.”

“Bachelor pad, Janie.”

This was the first time he’d said my name. I liked how it sounded coming out of his mouth.

He gave me the beer. I took a big swig. We stared at each other. I broke eye contact. I was sweating so hard. The cramps in my belly seared. My panties felt so tight. I was all woman. My pheromones must have been meeting his nostrils like a freight train.

“I like your place,” I said. I like your place because I’m at your place, I thought.

“Do you like Radiohead?” he asked.

“Doesn’t everyone?” I found a place on his futon. I sat down. Crossed my legs. Uncrossed. He sat next to me. He took a deep breath. And then he sighed. He was smiling.

“I’m sweating,” I said.

“Are you warm?”

“Kinda,” I said.

“My fan’s broken.”

“Oh, okay…hmmm. Is this Kid A or is it Amnesiac, I always get them con—”

“Janie. Do you mind? If we make out a little bit before we watch my movie?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t mind.”

“Aw, you’re the best.” You’re the best. You’re the best. You’re the best. I kept hearing it in my mind. We began kissing. Kissing, hard. Forcing tongues. Our teeth clicked. It was awkward for a moment, and then my pussy developed a pulse of its own, surged, and my clit began to grow and fast. Is his cock getting hard? I thought. Is this when a guy’s cock gets hard? This early, like as my pussy is getting wet? Would I be able to tell if I felt his cock through his jeans? He answered that question for me by taking my hand and putting it on his crotch. His cock was hard. Very. I moaned. I couldn’t believe I was moaning. Stay quiet, I thought. I rethought: Fuck no, don’t stay quiet. I squeezed his cock through his jeans. He licked my ear. I shuddered, I shook, and I shivered.

“Fuck, whatever I do, you react to,” he said. “You’re so sexy. Let’s see those amazing breasts.”

I took off my shirt and fast.

“We can’t fuck,” I blurted out. “I have my period.”

He laughed. “Janie, who said anything about fucking?” He stood up. He cocked his head to one side. “Stand up,” he said. I did. “Nice bra, honey. Though it’ll look better on my floor, don’t you think?” I nodded and bit my lip. I felt sweat drip down my back. He unhooked my bra. Three hooks. “Big busted girl. I like your curvy body.” God, he wanted me, didn’t he? He really did. It felt so good. I was standing in front of this man, this man I just met. And the room was full of sex. Our creation. Radiohead blared. It was definitely Kid A. He took my nipples between his thumb and his pointer finger, pulled at them a bit, up and down, and as if my tits had strings, they moved with his fingers.

“Such little nipples for such a big titted girl,” he said.

“Oh, I know, I wish I had big black girl nipples, like in pornos.”

“What?” He laughed. “Yours are amazing. Hush.” He raised my left breast up to his mouth and sucked. Oh Jesus Christ. I think I might cum in the same room with a man tonight. I think I might actually do that.

“Fuck,” he brought my hand to his cock, “Janie, feel me. Please, baby.” Oh, I’d forgotten. I was supposed to be doing that. I was supposed to be rubbing his cock. So I did, over his jeans, I cleared my throat and then looked at my hand, watching my hand go, gently massaging his cock. I wondered if I was doing okay. “God, you’re so hot,” he said. “You like my cock?”

“Um, yes,” I said, blushing. “I do.”

He unzipped his fly. Let his jeans drop. His underwear hit the floor. His cock flew up in the air, like a spring, straight up. It gets this hard?? This big? Good lord. That’s a lot of cock. It actually looks—delicious. There was something shiny at the top.

“Pre cum baby. All for you.”

I touched it with my fingers, and brought my fingers up to my mouth. It was surprisingly sweet.

“Oh,” I said. “You taste really sweet.” I was legitimately surprised. I had heard something somewhere about bleach, chlorine, sourness…

“Suck my fucking cock,” he pushed me down on the futon, with some force, but I was right there with him. I sat there on the flattened old cushion. His cock right in my face. There it was. No ignoring it now. I was gonna suck my first cock. At 26. This was the night. I was blinking away drops of sweat. His cock looked so big and so purple. It twitched. Like an animal. I noticed his eyes were closed. I stuck out my tongue. To taste the tip. A bigger hole than I thought. Hmm. Does it open up when aroused? He moaned. Okay, that was a good sign. This ridge, it has a lot of nerves, use your ttongue on that. Hard. Ice cream cone, lollipop, popsicle, cock. Buzzwords. Around the head. Use your tongue, Janie. So I did, I let my tongue travel around the ridge of his cock. But it wasn’t wet enough. So I spat on it. Twice.

“Fuck,” he said. “Spit on that cock.”

“I am!” I said. Oh wait, he’s talking dirty. Okay. I reached down into my panties. It actually felt like I had peed down there. My whole pussy ached. It wanted his cock so badly. But tonight my mouth would have to do, and so I gripped the base of his cock with my hand and put the head in my mouth, swirling my tongue around again. I drooled. Then my mouth went further down on his cock, only and inch or so, and I felt a gag reflex--No, don’t gag. Just relax and moan. So I did. Just like that. I relaxed. And before I knew it I was sucking and slurping him up and down, up and down, hard, my mouth going down, my hand before it, down further, then up and down again. God, this was fun! Such fucking fun! What had I been waiting for?? Oh wait. The balls, never forget the—

“Should I kiss your balls? Or suck them? Or lick them?” Different boys wanted different things done to their balls.

“Whatever you want, baby. You’re taking such good care of me.”

“I am?” I said.

“Yes, you’ve been sucking my cock for forever, and on your knees. Such a good little girl.”

I had lost track of time. “Oh. Do you want to lie on the bed, that way, I can eat your ass too, maybe, you think?”

Everything was a suggestion. I had absolute no idea if that’s what he wanted or that’s what I was supposed to do. It was a giant experiment. But I think he thought I was talking baby talk, being cute and cautious, playing the part of the submissive. But really. I just didn’t have any idea what I was doing. But I was learning. And fast.

“Eat my ass? Oh my god, please.”

He ran to the bed, ripped off his shirt, and lied down on his back.

“Take off your pants,” he said.

My fly was already down, of course. I slid off my pants. There was a huge wet spot on the front of my red cotton panties.

“God, you’re so wet. Let me eat you.”

“I have my period, you can’t. This is—this is for you right now.” God, it was so for me!! “I love sucking your cock.” And I did, I grabbed hold of it with my mouth, and then popped it out, and using my hand, I started rubbing it and slapping it against my face. Against my tongue, eyelids. I wanted to feel his cock everywhere. Its hardness, its strength, its precum, leaking out onto my upper lip. I started to move my ass around in circles, rotating my hips.

“Jesus, that thing you’re doing with your ass. So fucking hot. Are you thinking about fucking me right now?”

“I am,” I said. I guess I was. I hadn’t thought of that. Consciously. But my body will do what it wants to do. I’ve learned that.

“Get up here,” he said. He put me on my back and started tapping his cock against my underwear. Oh gosh. It was so hard. I felt his cock make contact with my clit and I jumped. What the fuck is going on down there? He took my right tit in his mouth and sucked. I said, “ Bite it, please.” And he did, and I screamed and writhed in pleasure. He sucked more and moaned and started dry humping me.

“This is like high school,” he said. “I love that you still have your panties on.”

This is not at ALL like high school, I thought. This is like me being 26 and finally becoming friends with cock. This isn’t like high school at all. In high school, I was praying, I was drawing mystical creatures in my notebook, I was flirting with the homecoming queen and not knowing it, I was singing in chorus, I was inhaling the smoke from matches but never cigarettes, I was getting wet while watching Gilligan’s Fucking Island but I was never sucking cock, and I certainly was never getting my tits sucked and I certainly never—

“Oh Jesus, I think I’m gonna cum!”

That was me, saying that, not him.

“Yes,” he said, “Fucking cum.” He was rubbing my pussy through my underwear, staring at my crotch, using three fingers to massage my clitty over the thin fabric, so intensely, so focused, like he was writing something, or playing his guitar, or listening to a lecture, that kind of focus on my pussy, his cock in his other hand. My back curled, I closed my eyes and pictured his cock in my mouth again, I wanted that cock and Uhhhhhhhh cumming, my juices ran down my thighs, dripping, pretty little mess, my tampon getting soaked within me, my tits sore from his mouth and teeth and from my cramps, the bare light bulb searing its harsh florescent light into my brain, and the waves of pleasure finally hitting my toes which still had mismatching socks on, dammit. My socks. They don’t match. I’m such a tomboy—

“Suck me off, baby.”

Oh yes, him, right, his cock, okay. I put my mouth around it—“Oh, baby no teeth no teeth,” he said. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I said and quickly made up for my boo-boo, kissing his cock and then his balls, to make him feel better. I licked his long shaft and those balls every so slowly, and then remembered his ass—I spread his cheeks a bit and flicked my tongue at that at that musky crevice, and he said, “Stay on my cock.” So I went back up to his cock and drooled on it and then took into my mouth and slid down, down, farther now, farther till it hit the back of my throat, I closed my eyes, moaned,. Don’t gag, I thought, and went back up, my lips getting tighter, and then I started a rhythm, up down up down, oh, I had it now, up down, my pussy still aching from cumming, I was so tired, but I had to finish him off I had to, in my mouth, I wanted to taste cum, a man, Please, I hope he cums hard, I really do, make up for lost time with a gallon of man cum streaming down my—

“I want to jerk off on those titties.”

“Oh, my goodness,” I hadn’t thought of that. “That’s very naughty,” I said.

“You’re naughty,” he said. “Get on your back, slut.”

Oh my god, name calling! Amazing! He straddled me, and started playing with himself, mostly just the head of his cock, squinting at me, inhaling, shaking his head a bit, his nipples hard, working that knob of his, I took his hand and licked it, and then placed it back on his cock, “Oh, baby,” he said.

“Mmmhmmm. I think you’re gonna cum very hard. Lots of it. all over my tits, right? All over. Plaster me with your stuff, baby, do it, do it,” I was a porn star! Where was I coming up with this? “Come on now, you can fucking do it, fucking cummmmm—“

And he roared and it came, and it came, and it came, it kept on coming and some landed on my neck, and some on my lips, and as it came I rubbed it in and what was on my fingers, I licked off. He was a bit tarter than I originally thought. His precum was sweeter. Or maybe my tastebuds changed after my orgasm? He rubbed his spunk into my tits, too, and fed me some of it off his fingers. I licked his fingers clean. The last drop of cum fell on my left nipple, and he fell back and lied down. Beside me. Quiet. For about 30 seconds. Then I sat up. I had the urge to make him a sandwich. But instead I said:

“Huh. Facecloth? How do I get this stuff off?” He laughed, and got up slowly and said, “One second.”

He came back with a facecloth. I decided I needed privacy and went into the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror. A hickey was forming on my right breast, purple and yellow. My face was bright red. My bangs were slicked back with sweat. My mascara had run down my face. My chest was blushing pink, imprints of fingertips, half moon fingernail marks. My lips were swollen and there was a red ring around my mouth. I looked HOT. And very much like a woman. I used his hand soap and scrubbed away a bit with the facecloth. I smelled like him. I grinned. I think I might have even winked at myself in the mirror.

I came out of the bathroom. I was trying to hide the smile. The smile would give my first time away. And my first time was just for me.

“Oh, we didn’t get to watch my movie,” Joey said.

"That's okay," I said. "I had fun anyway.'

Janie Dresses Up

2008-10-02T13:15:00.000-04:00

I usually wear dresses. It’s a recent development. I remember when my whole crush on dresses began. About a year and a half ago, I tried on a black sleeveless babydoll style dress that looked really cute on the rack. I remember my friend saying once that I should wear that style of dress if I ever decided to actually wear dresses. I tried on the dress and I found that I quite liked the way I looked in it. It was quite short. Showed off my generous cleavage and flared out just enough to hide my tummy while accentuating my toned calves. I remember recognizing that I looked pretty in it and sort of sexy and that it might be a nice thing to wear on a date. I know, this isn’t rocket science, but you have to understand, this was a new recent development for me: dressing to emphasize my femininity. Dressing to attract the attention of boys. Dressing to say, “These are my legs, these are my breasts, these are my arms, and you can see everything else if this one garment comes off.” Also, quite simply, dressing up makes ME feel good, me—by myself. Even if I’m tired that day, or feeling cranky, or feeling a bit too chubby, or just in rotten mood, a dress helps me get there. To a better mood place. I can look in the mirror and say, “Okay, I might not be feeling my best today, but I can try to look my best.” Working from the outside, in. Sometimes, it really does work.

I used to wear jeans. A lot. Nearly every day. But I was never really able to find a pair that I really liked. My legs are quite thin, but my tummy is significant. Jeans never fit like the glove that I see on some girls. I like my smallish Irish ass, I like my hips, and my legs. But the size of the jeans I have to buy in order to accommodate my belly never fits these parts that I do want to show off. The jeans end up baggy, saggy, not emphasizing my curves, but rather, covering them up and making me look bigger than I’d like. I have thought about getting a custom pair of jeans made to suit my body but those are expensive and I’m always working on trimming down, admittedly, and a custom pair of jeans that only fits for a few weeks seems like a waste of money. If I’m, gulp, dieting.

Which isn’t something I talk about here, really. My chubby issues. It’s not that I’m trying to pass as some skinny girl of my readers’ dreams. It’s just an issue that’s a blog on its own and besides, my tummy has never prevented me from having orgasms or good sex. In fact, my stomach has become my most erogenous zone, apart from the obvious ones (pussy, breasts, ass). It was a scary thing when someone first touched my stomach and I found it very arousing. Because it is a place on my body that holds for me, historically, tons of shame, insecurity, and doubt. However, there is a miracle that happens in sexuality. Or at least in mine. All those negative-ish feelings about my tummy translate into physical sensitivity. My fears about my stomach not being attractive are eroticized and, bam, kink is born. Touch my stomach in a certain way, grope it, massage it, and well, I get very, very wet kids. And boys who have elicited this reaction out of me, well, this reaction has often made them touch my stomach even more, and in turn, I have started to treasure my tummy. As a place of power, of VULNERABILITY. Vulnerability is power, folks.

When I wore that black babydoll dress the first time on a date, boy, did I feel vulnerable. And not quite like myself. Whoever myself is. I’ve learned that as soon as we start feeling out of our element is the moment where growth happens. Anyway, the guy I was out with told me that my legs looked hot in the dress. I saw him staring at my cleavage. He brushed away the hair from my face. Now, men have stared at my tits before. But no one had ever brushed the hair away from my face. Okay, it could just be a coincidence, true. But I didn’t see it as that. I just KNEW it was because I was wearing the dress. He could act more manly and chivalrously because I was showing him my girlyness. My date held my hand as we walked to the train. And I remember thinking, I’m a girl in a dress and a boy is holding my hand. I’m in a dress and walking through the city with a boy who is my date. I’m in a dress and I can feel the breeze go up my thighs and hit the cool wet spot on my panties. I’m in a dress, I’m in a dress, I’m in a dress.

In a way, I have never since felt as feminine as I did that night when I first wore that black dress. Of course, it wasn’t the first dress I’d ever worn. But it was the first dress I’d ever worn on a date. It was. Now I always wear dresses on dates. I find myself buying more dresses, and skirts as well. I now look for special tights and pretty bras I know will enhance the dress. I mean, these are just typical “girly” things to do, traditionally. “Girls” enjoy going shopping for clothes, relish in matching up their underwear under sexy outfits, treasure seeking out new fall fashions, and look forward to that first hot day when they can wear a sundress. Now, I like all these things as well.

Dressing up has been an extremely vital part of my blooming. When a boy compliments me on a dress I’m wearing, I melt a little bit. That bit of sweetness is like no other. He is recognizing the femininity I am offering to him.

Two years ago, that dressed-up femininity was definitely a performance. Sometimes, a more forced one than I’d like to admit. I didn’t really incorporate it into my being all the time. I crossed my arms over my chest. I wore long coats over dresses and sometimes didn’t take the coat off until several minutes into the date, even if the bar or restaurant was hot. I kept my legs crossed tight in the dress and didn’t understand the allure of an ankle cross, or the hotness of switching the top leg over to the bottom leg as legs were crossed and uncrossed. I was just trying to keep it together. My femininity and sexual availability were often separate at that time. I knew looking feminine would attract the attention of boys in a sexual manner, but I wasn’t sure how else to act feminine besides putting on a dress. But now, there is no putting on a dress. The dress sort of, well, stays with me. I FEEL feminine. And I AM feminine. I believe I might want to say I’m femme. Even.

It’s a hard thing for me to admit. Femininity is a source of my power that I haven’t always embraced. Naturally, I’m sort of the bawdy girl, brass, sometimes loud, witty and very quick. Qualities that don’t always lend themselves to being a girly-girl. I do not possess a small, sweet femininity. I did not start wearing dresses and grow into being cutesy-femme. I started wearing dresses, and as soon as I got over the strangeness of the costume, I was Mae West. In black rectangular glasses. In a way. My femininity, like the rest of me, is not subtle. But it attracts the kinds of men that I want it to attract these days—men who also own their masculinity, who aren’t always traditionally masculine, but whose masculinity appeals to me in an intellectually sensual way. Oh, men. Delicious, masculine, sexy, sweet, sensitive men. Whether he takes me or I take him, or we share the lead in bed—my femininity is there to offer something to him that he doesn’t have, but that he can possess, in a way, for a while. And his masculinity provokes even more femininity in me, and I provoke his masculinity through my femininity.

And then, the dress comes off. And even though it’s off, in a lump on the floor, tossed aside, out of sight out of mind, for a while, when I slip it back on the next morning—God. I am at once clothed.

And exposed.

As feminine.

Love Words

2008-09-25T21:38:00.000-04:00

It's a windy and drizzly fall night. I've had some bourbon and I watched an episode of The Wire. My legs are achy in that liquor way and my mind is somewhat clear. I mean, somewhat.

But I'm feeling so goddamn romantic. So goddamn fucking romantic.

Not in that sad way. Not in the I'm lonely way. Not in the feeling sorry for myself way. But in the wanting way. The longing way. Sometimes I just want to fuck. Right now, I just want to love. Spontaneously.

Here's what I want.

I want to be able to look into the eyes of a boy for a long time. Unflinchingly long. Until my heart floats up to my throat and my lips start to tingle and my pussy just gets wet because it just does, because that's what it does when I get that undeniable need to be filled. It's not that my pussy just wants cock. My pussy wants love. My pussy wants to drown someone in love. Love'll make my pussy wet. And my heart wants to beat a boy into submission. And I only want to speak in kisses. I want a boy to learn to read my lips by the feel of them on his lips.

God. There needs to be another language.

I want another language so bad.

I'm sick of these words. I use the same ones over and over again. And I don't think I just need to read more. But I do need to read more. I need to read more so I can learn more words and figure out new ways to put them together so that more sense is made.

But I don't even want things to make sense. I try to make sense out of things all the fucking time. I'm a brainiac, a nerd for love. I compartmentalize and then I overflow and posts like these happen on rainy nights. That's all it is lately. An overflow.

But I don't want things to make sense. Not right now.

I want a new sense to be made. A sense of chaos. What happens when the body, the mind, the heart, all get overwhelmed, all at the same time, and none of them can explain anything. I want to know that what it's like to have no fucking clue.

These small small bits of knowledge hurt.

I want to know it all or nothing. I want to be a genius or a fool. Nothing in between.

A friend of mine told me the other day that he is in love. He got on a plane to have dinner with the girl and flew back the next morning and now he doesn't really have any idea what he's supposed to do. The only thing he knows is that he must have her. He talks about needing to play a game. But he has no idea what game to play. Fuck the rules. He doesn't even know what game he's playing anymore.

I posit this: Wait. Nope.

I don't know what I was about to suggest. I wanted to make some big beautiful suggestion about how to live the rest of my fucking life in order to get that big love but I've seen people do that and they become fucking pop stars of people with addictions for drugs and love and proof that they're loved. Folks with addictions they can't ever fill because that's what an addiction is. An "I need this but I can't ever get enough. I will never be full. That is the irony of my longing."

And everyone gets miserable when they're only seeking things outside of what they can give themselves. It'd be just gorgeous if I could be self-sufficient. I mean, sad-gorgeous. And God knows, a lot people think I am just that--self-sufficient. Most people I know think I have my shit together. So together. Beautiful box filled with shit. Neatly packed. Beautiful ribbons. With a card from myself that says: "Dear Janie, You are all you need."

I don't know.

Maybe I need to make myself even more vulnerable. I say I wear my heart on my sleeve but maybe my sleeves are rolled up.

Sometimes it's all so terrifying. Or mystifying. Sometimes I want back in the non-blooming box. I want to just write, just be friends, just masturbate on my back, thinking about faceless boys and wondering what it'll feel like to get fucked. But now I know what it's like. And I know what it's like to feel modicums of love but it's not enough. It's never enough.

My parents have been married for over forty years.

I rarely mention them here. I come from a family where there are no divorces. There's some resentment, at times. But mostly there's just: what can I do for you? What can I do for you? What do you need? Let me fucking give it to you. Please.

I want to love someone as much as I love myself. And I want him to love me so hard back that we've got no fucking clue what we want as individuals anymore. I want that big, bad, codependent, your breath is my breath, your blood is my blood, my cunt has become a mold for your cock, it's where you put your cock away at night love. That- stare really hard at each other, hold each other's hand kinda love, stare at the hand you are holding for so long that the hands together become totally surreal and absurd objects kinda love, and don't look like hands anymore kinda love, just laced-up together, like one thing, one object, two hands, one thing holding itself, sustaining itself-kinda-fucking-love.

That's all.

That's tonight, anyway.

Tonight while it's raining and my apartment is cold and my heart is warm.

That's it.

She Tweets and She Twitters

2008-09-23T14:22:00.001-04:00

I'm giving the Twitter thing another try. Because I'm a cyber-communication junkie. And because I ruled at Twitter. I. Rocked. That. SHIT. Ha.

Ohhhh, Janie. (Canned sitcom laughter.)

Follow me and stuff.

Love Letter to Mariella

2008-09-22T09:16:00.000-04:00

I love Mariella . I love her with all of my heart. She has fast grown to be one of my dearest friends in the entire world. We have only known each other for a few months. We met via this sex blog world, so indeed, we have fucked some of the same boys. But besides that, we like to see movies together and we like to talk about boys and kiss and laugh and daydream together. We like to write each other sappy emails and we test each other's capacity for honesty. And somehow, the ways in which I have wanted to be friends with some other women in my life comes through in this very friendship with Mariella. She is, in some ways, my Mega-Girl Friend.

The drama we have gone through together has been at times intense. And not pleasurable. We have never wanted to hurt each other. But our worlds have overlapped in some sexy, romantic kinds of complicated ways and we have hurt each other's feelings on occasion. That has made me sad. And it's made her sad, too. Because I want her to be happy. And she wants me to be happy, too. And because we take pleasure in each other's happiness, and despite any conflict we might have, our friendship remains strong.

Crushing on the same boys has destroyed lesser friendships before.

But it's not gonna destroy us.

I know the nature of our friendship will continue to change. New boundaries will be set and old ones will be tossed aside and we will create new ways to protect each other and new ways to protect ourselves and we will still have fun, and be adventurous, and grow—together. And I look forward to that. We will heal each other through words, but our actions will prove to be the basis for the beautiful changes in our friendship.

Mariella is the high school best friend I never had. We are coming of age as a duo, in some ways--learning how to be intimate, and strong, and vulnerable—together. But really, separately. Yes. Separately. In the end, we are two different people, looking for different things, on our own.

But here's what I like to think.

That Mariella and I are on our own—together. If that's possible. I am rooting for her. She is rooting for me. We're running the same race. And I love having her as my running partner.

I love you, Mariella. I thought I should just say it here for everyone to know.

Xoxo,
Janie

Sexy Fall

2008-09-19T12:03:00.000-04:00

For me, Fall is the sexiest season.

Upon first examination, that might not seem quite right. All other seasons seem to have sexier things naturally going for them. Summer: the heat (sweaty fucking). Winter: the cold (snuggling for warmth). Spring: rebirth and regeneration (putting on a short skirt, and flirting for all to see). But there is something about fall that puts me in the mood more than any other time of year.

It's always been this way. Maybe part of it stems from school starting in the fall--all the boys and girls coming back after summer break, my eyes and ears poised to hear whose voices dropped, whose muscles formed.

Or maybe it's the fact that my birthday is in the fall, and whenever I turn a year older, I have a tendency to look back and see what I accomplished. I have a tendency to look ahead and fantasize of what could be. Considering a lot of my recollections and daydreams are of a sexual nature, birthdays, well--birthdays make me horny.

Or maybe it's just what fall FEELS like: brisk, sunny, breezy, crisp. This kind of weather feels best on my skin. I like the cold, I like walking in it, and playing in it. I like the sting of an almost wintry wind in my lungs. I most like the way bourbon tastes in this weather. I like the food of Fall the best: stews, cornbread, apple cider. I like the clothes of Fall: sweaters, corduroy, layers, hats, plaid, wool. I like picking out a bench in a park and sitting and reading on it until it gets too dark, until the cold air starts to make me ache and I have to go meet someone for coffee.

All these fall details, for me, are sexy. They are sexy not because they're kinky, or exotic, or push boundaries. They are sexy because they are COMFORTING.

We always talk about doing new things in bed here on this blog. Or trying out new people in the sack. Or falling for new boys. And these things are all well and good, and push me to grow, and shape me and my preferences, but there is something to be said for feeling comfortable--at home, not pushed, not pulled. There is something to be said for just a really good lay, or a really good kiss, and just how good that feels. How at home I feel when something is basically comforting and when I can basically just feel like myself.

This is not to say that fall is the Season of Vanilla Janie. Of course, I know I am adventurous. I know this because some of the stories I tell my friends shock them. I know this because when I write down some of my stories, I am shocked myself, shocked at what I dared to try, shocked at what he dared to do to me. It is a wonderful thing to surprise yourself. But it is also a wonderful thing to be able to relax. And know that whatever you do is the right thing to do because it's what feels right. I mean, REALLY right, waayyy deep down, not right because it's daring, not right because it's kinky, not right because it's a risk. But right because it's what your soul is telling you to do.

Sometimes kink is perfect. Sometimes it's exactly what I need. But sometimes, in the miraculous moment where the forbidden becomes allowed, kink suddenly becomes not kinky. And I'm able to relax and do these things that are suddenly things I do, not things I dream about. That's the miracle. When what was once uncomfortable becomes comfortable. Or at least MORE comfortable. Threesomes, domination, simple casual sex. All seemed impossible at one point or another. Now these things are at my fingertips. And that feels quite nice. Like I'm becoming myself.

In the end, though, at the very end of this journey, when I'm eighty years old, and perhaps toothless, and hunched over and tired and maybe not as sexually-driven as I used to be, I know what I'm going to want: a kiss. On a park bench. In Fall. The heat coming through the cup of hot apple cider that I'm holding and warming my hand. His gloved hand warming my other hand. And falling into his kiss. Slow and gentle and without expectation. Comfortable. Sweet.

Sometimes, the sexiest thing for me, for bad-ass kinky exploratory Janie is sweetness.

Comfortable sweetness.

Happy Fall, everyone.

xo,
Janie

Vacation

2008-09-14T09:58:00.000-04:00

I am distracted.**

**Editor's Note: (I had "I have been distracted" up on the blog for a while but I'm really not quite sure if that's the correct verbage! It's also in the passive voice and I wasn't totally nuts about that though the distraction was sort of done TO me. But now I own the distraction. So, "I am distracted" is best, I think. Good lord, Janie, write about sex already...)

Merriam Webster says that to distract is to draw or direct (as one's attention) to a different object or in different directions at the same time, or stir up or confuse with conflicting emotions or motives. But honestly, I don’t feel confused or conflicted. I don’t feel like my attention has really been directed towards anyone but, well, myself. Which is GENERALLY where it belongs, right? So if I’ve been distracted, well, then so be it, because right now, I feel happy instead of hopeful. (Hopeful’s great and all but happy goes further in the present moment sometimes.) I feel sore instead of achy. I feel sexy instead of sexually frustrated. I feel fulfilled instead of lacking. And how did this all come to be?

25 year old smiley, smart pretty boy with a gorgeous cock who likes things up his butt.

It’s as if a little “What Does Janie Need Right Now Machine” went and cooked him up.

Great sex is still just great sex, of course. One date is one date. I’m not soooo “rebounding” as to place any crazy amount of meaning on it, to make it be an all-healing, all-encompassing act. But wow. Does it feel good. Sex, that is. And cuddling. And the sweetness of someone so new coupled with that strange, strange familiarity that can happen between any two people who happen to want to enjoy each other’s bodies at the same time. It’s a miracle and it’s not. Because it’s what we were made for. Connections. The moment when two people breathing becomes one person breathing. Simultaneous orgasms. Parts which fit together. Really basic stuff.

Thank goodness for the basics.

He asked me if writing about sex gives it meaning. What a question. I think I answered it in a roundabout way, never really saying yes or no. But now, I think I want to say that the sex already has meaning. Writing about it gives it clarity. I think that’s what it is.

He asked me if I ever blogged the sex as it was happening. I said I had a pornographic memory. That I generally remember every little thing that happens in a sexual encounter. But this one is a bit of a blur. And I like that. Of course, the day I’m thinking more about sex writing than sex is the day I stop writing for a while.

That said…

When he entered me the first time, my eyes just rolled back into my head. His cock, so gorgeous, so hard and so pink, was finally in me. He had taken so much time into getting me off with his mouth, with his hands, so many times before. But I hadn’t yet felt that remarkable fullness. And was it remarkable. I thought for sure he’d fuck fast and hard. That he’d explode in an instant. That his 25 year old taut body would allow him to pound me as rough and tough as he wanted and the need to cum would, well, overcome him. But instead.

Instead, soooo slow. Every. Inch. Marked.

You know you’re getting absurdly wet when you can feel yourself getting wet. With every stroke. Wetter and wetter. It was such a detailed fuck. Simple but detailed. I could draw his cock from how distinctly I felt it inside me. Does that make any sense, dear reader? He introduced his cock to my pussy in such a way that first time that I felt like I really knew it.

As he fucked me, I saw him licking his lower lip, his tongue moving fast across it, his eyelashes fluttering, and his brow furrowed. His mouth would disappear into my ear and lick it and he would breathe hard and hot into it and I’d moan quietly and he’d fuck me a little harder. I was not so loud with him. I didn’t want to be loud. My body, itself, was loud, though. I’d stretch my legs out farther for him so he could fuck me even deeper and he would fuck me harder and faster for a moment, to steal from me another orgasm, but always, he returned to the slowness. Even now, as I type this, I type slower. It felt so fucking divine. Like my pussy was being taken care of.

When he finally came, I must admit, I barely noticed. The look on his face was the same as it was the whole time. There was no huge finish. He finished as he started. Calm, cool, focused. I could feel his cock flutter inside me and that was beautiful. He kissed me and dared to look right into my eyes and dared to smile and dared to let his eyes light up as I said, “I felt every inch of you.”

We went on like this, with mouths, fingers, tongues, pussy, cock, ears, tits, ass, until 4 morning. His mouth and his ass are two other miracles. They work so well. And at breakfast the next day, we both remarked how we felt like we were on vacation...

Vacation. From Merriam Webster: Latin vacation-vacatio. Freedom, exemption, from vacare. A respite or a time of respite from something. Intermission. A scheduled period during which activity (as of a court or school) is suspended. A period of exemption from work granted to an employee. A period spent away from home or business in travel or recreation. An act or an instance of vacating.

So maybe I’m not distracted. Maybe I’m just on vacation.

Giggle.

Dear Readers

2008-09-11T18:49:00.000-04:00

Dear Readers (and writers, a whole lot of you, apparently),

I just wanted to say thank you, thank you, thank you for your supportive and sweet emails this last week. I mean, it's one thing to have my in-real-life friends around me to feed me cheese and wine and to watch silly movies with me and sing the entire RENT soundtrack with me and to allow me to smoke in their living rooms and help me fill out dating profiles and ramble on late into the night. It's another thing to read emails from my readers, virtual strangers, reaching out and saying how much my writing has mattered to them and that they hope I feel better soon. It just really blows my mind to conceive that I've had that sort of effect. You do seem to CARE. Incredible.

I'm not faking modesty. I swear, it's just sometimes--I forget that people are reading this. Well, at least a part of me forgets. I think that has to happen in order for me to share things the way I do. I always try to be honest. And you appreciate that. And that makes me happy. That gives me a sort of writerly thrill, but also a basic human thrill. To be heard the way I want to be heard. To be understood. And to commune with others through my writing. Indeed, this is a collaboration of sorts between us all--between myself and my lovers, between myself and my readers. We all seem to work together, in a way.

Really. Your emails. Have touched me. And put me on the road to recovery much sooner than I thought I'd get there. Which is, in a word, awesome. And totally powerful.

I don't have the slow constant ache anymore, thankfully. It's occasional jabs of pain now. Which are easier to deal with, really. Unexpected, but that's a good thing. That I don't know they're coming. Yes, I'm doing better. I feel better!

Fuck. I'm getting emotional again. I get emotional when I think about my emotions rather than feel them. Isn't that strange? Isn't that a strange way to go about feeling? Or maybe it's just the grown-up way.

In any case, thank you. This blog and my readers have helped me more than you'll ever know. And not just at this time. During many times this past year. Shoot, I've almost been blogging for a year now. I can't believe it. I didn't think it would last. But it has. And I'm turning 30 soon. Sigh. Landmarks, red-letter dates, marriages. Just kidding about the marriage part. :)

I'll write you all an actual story soon. Something kinked up and sweet. Promise. This mushy crap is nice and all but we're still looking to get off, in the end, aren't we? We are. And to that I say: Thank Goodness.

xo,
Janie

Stop! Dominant Time! (Not to Be Confused with Hammer Time)

2008-09-10T18:45:00.000-04:00

I've been feeling a bit dominant the last couple of days.

That might mean I am the sum of my psychological parts and am attempting to take the reins of my emotional inner life by acting out a certain dommeyness but I really doubt that it's JUST that.

Whenever there is a cease in my sexual activity, I retreat to my dominant fantasies. Maybe it's not so much a retreat as a return.

I hadn't reached down to touch my pussy in many days until last night. I know, that's not really that long a time for some people, but I tend to connect with my cunt at least once a day. But I hadn't really felt the need to until last night. And as soon as I did--damn. I felt the need to mess a boy up.

But let me make it clear: my dominance does not come purely out of sexual frustration. No, not at all. It comes from a desire to take care of someone else besides myself. I have been taking good care of myself these last few days. Emotionally. Getting enough sleep, reflecting, keeping busy. And now. Now I want to take care of someone else.
With a dose of sweetened pain and yummy agony, with sex, with my words, hands, and pussy. I want that. I deserve it. He deserves that. And I'm ready and prepared. It's time.

It's soooo time.

So I'm making it the next step in my healing process. I want to know I have the strength to show another my strength. And to provide pleasure by being pleased. That's what I want.

So I'm gonna go get it.

Watch me.

Dear Heart

2008-09-09T20:25:00.001-04:00

Sometimes, I think of my heart as this strong beautiful thing covered in scar tissue, like a boxer of a heart, like a thug of a heart. Sometimes, I feel sorry for it, like it's not a part of me, like I'm watching someone else's heart get smashed to smithereens. I think to myself, that cannot be my heart. My heart hasn't seen times like that. If it had, it would have given up a long time ago, settled down in a cardboard box in an alley somewhere, sang mournful blues songs with lyrics no one understands but everyone knows are very sad.

If that thing I am looking at, that heart, were really mine, I would feel this even more. Right? This would hurt worse. Wouldn't it? It would have stopped struggling. It would have stopped beating. If the hurt were as bad as I think it is. Why does mine feel the need to press on even though it's been, for lack of a better word, fucked?

Because, fortunately, my heart is connected to my mind.

And my mind knows better.

My mind knows the ends of stories like these, knows hearts heal, recover, get stronger, and that scar tissue--eventually, it gets softer and softer, and you can barely tell it's made of scars. That scar tissue just looks like the thing itself. The heart itself.

And the scars become the blanket for the sweetness. The tough sweetness. And the heart might get harder to chip away at, to get the center of, but once someone gets there--god, that someone--once he gets there, he's gonna just be fucking enveloped in sweet, soft, wet heart. Heart that's been covered up for quite sometime. Real fresh beautiful sweetheart.

But for now, scars. Not even scars. More like, like scabs. Fresh scabs. I'm gonna try not to pick at them.

Though sometimes I wonder if blog posts are more like band-aids...or fingernails.

Oh, But This Was Nice to Discover

2008-09-07T16:04:00.001-04:00

I was mentioned in Fleshbot's Sex Blog Roundup by Always Aroused Girl this week. I hadn't been paying any attention to the bloggy blog because of recent drama, but you know, just checked the Statcounter, and there you all were.

Thanks, AAG. And thanks, readers. Sigh. I'm glad to be a writer.

xo,
janie

And So I Move On: Not a Goodbye Post

2008-09-07T10:28:00.000-04:00

I said I'd be quiet for a bit...

Hah. Two days.

There have been themes of hesitation in many of my posts lately. What should I post, I won’t be posting, Now’s not the right time to post, etc. etc. The main reason for this is because I was engaged in a situation which I did not want to blog about out of respect for the participants. And because things have worked out badly when I’ve blogged about promising dates and boys before. I received encouragement from readers, got even more excited about things, only to be disappointed when things didn’t work out.

This time, things didn’t work out.

I don’t write this for him to read. I really don’t. He probably will end up reading it, and so she will she. I do not mean for this to cause drama or to illuminate feelings I cannot tell them in person. The contents of this post won’t, hopefully, be a surprise if they do read it. But it might sting for them to read. It hurts more for me to write but I feel soooo compelled.

Sigh.

Right now, I am incredibly sore. I feel tender and bruised and all cried-out, like I have a funeral to go to every day when I wake up. It’s the funeral that just won’t go away.

Okay, here goes. I was involved in a polyamorous relationship for a couple of months. (Though we scoffed at that word “polyamorous” because we always knew that “the poly thing” would not, ultimately, be for us. We had no idea how to sustain such a thing, and probably didn’t want to, and so the whole thing was always probably slightly doomed, though the excitement of it all rather than the horrible “What ifs” sustained its beauty for a while. Anyway…) I fell harder for the boy than I’ve fallen for anyone in a very long time. And the girl, well, she's one of my dearest friends. And in the end, they chose one another.

Pretty terrible, right?

But I figured it might happen.

Though I thought I would be the one who would end up with him, honestly, and selfishly. Not alone. Not like this.

It HAD to end, dear reader. I found myself wanting to say those big sweet romantic things to him because I knew I would MEAN them. My feelings were progressing for him, rapidly. But also theirs, for one another. I could not be a part of that. I could not hang around pretending I was still sharing the spotlight with her when I wasn’t. So I ended it as soon as I read these words: “She and I have developed strong feelings for each other.”

I believe that was near the exact wording.

And incidentally, seriously, one of the worst sentences one can read. I mean, it’s almost comical. The alienation, the envy, the shock one feels when reading that sentence. One’s vocabulary in reply is limited to “shit,” “fuck,” “fucking shit,” and “I have to puke.” Really effective wording, though. Really. I mean, I got it.

They didn’t want to hurt me, dear reader. They apparently agonized over this as I continued to pine away for him in the corner. She is really everything I am not right now. Which is why, ultimately, I can’t really allow myself to feel competitive, or jealous. There is absolutely no way I could be her. It’s like an Olympic Volleyball player going to a hockey game, lacing up his skates, and slipping and falling as soon as he hits the ice. You really couldn’t blame him for that. It’s just not his game. This is not my game to win. And I am not to blame.

But I do feel jealous on occasion. It's still very new, dear reader. The worst part is late at night when I imagine them together whispering under the covers, things that I’ll never hear. That is the fucking worst. Their romantic and sexual bonding becomes so specific in my fucking writer’s mind. Ha. Curse my fucking imagination.

I KNOW I’ll get over this. In a few weeks, or months. When I meet a new boy who knocks my socks off and suddenly, this guy, in romantic terms, doesn't really matter. And she and I can be friends and talk about boys again. Which I so want to do. Which hurts me not to do.

But I love them BOTH, dear reader. And ultimately, I cannot be angry. I simply cannot because I want them to be happy. I have to let go with love. You should have seen the looks on a couple of my best friends’ faces when I told them this story this weekend over comfort food and wine. No one can quite believe the letting go with love thing. But honestly, this fierce and nasty sex blogosphere has shown me that happens way too rarely. So I’m going to try and do something revolutionary and just continue to care about these awesome people. Which doesn’t mean I can’t feel betrayed, confused, rejected, and deeply saddened right now. I can. And I do. But above all, they are loved. Above all, I am loved.

And this love which hurts so bad right now will paradoxically help to heal me.

And I will find somebody else. Sometimes it feels like it’s never going to happen, dear reader. But it will. Because I am so terribly capable of it now. This last thing with this boy, though brief and torrid and somewhat tragic, has taught me that. How capable I am of…those feelings. There will be another who will accept those feelings. And return them in ways I could have never imagined. And at that time, I will be filled with a great and beautiful fear, and a joyful and overwhelming fullness, and we will whisper under the covers only things he and I will ever know, and I will hold tightly to those words, and I will hold tightly to him, and we will be the only two people in the world.

I’m not sure if I’ll blog about all that, either. To be honest.

But rest assured, dear reader, my smile each day will tell the story to the world.

Twitter and Bloggin'

2008-09-04T17:21:00.000-04:00

For those of you following me, I'm not doing Twitter anymore, kids. And I'm gonna be a little quiet for a bit. I'll be back, though! Don't fret.
xo,
Janie

Theme of This Here Bloomin' Sex Blog

2008-09-02T20:46:00.000-04:00

So the thesis of this blog is starting to feel a little bit...suffocating. Or maybe just tired. Like, sure I'm "blooming" all the time like we all are as people on this journey called life but I mean, let's face it: Janie done some shit now. You know?

The late blooming thing is not QUITE sustaining itself. At least not in my mind. It's hard to explain, really. And it's probably not terribly exciting to read about a writer questioning her thesis. But yeah. I just don't want to feel like I have to end each post with "but I'm growing, and I know this is all just a part of the process, because I'm blooming." Like, no.

So yeah. I might "open it up". Because I don't want to stop sex blogging.

I started to open it up with the fiction I recently wrote. And I mean, that didn't seem, tonally, very far off from what I usually post on here. So maybe I'll do some more of that...

This is more of a writer's dilemma than a Janie dilemma, really.

So I'm just saying: things might be changing around here. Perhaps it'll be subtle, perhaps it'll be drastic. But I promise to try always to keep it sexy, exciting, and honest.

Of course, if you do want to leave comments, suggestions, encouragement or words of vicious critique (please not that!), feel FREE. I mean, that's the great thing about blog. I can ascertain what the readers want and are enjoying and would like to see more of quickly, through comments and emails. So please, speak up if you like.

For now, I'm gonna sit on the porch swing and smoke my lady pipe because I'm old, and haggard, and got so many stories to tell, the crickets seem to be chirpin' out the exposition.

xoxo,
Janie

The Gay Best Friend

2008-08-31T20:28:00.000-04:00

So, hmmm, okay: fiction. This is totally fiction. Trying it out here on the ole bloggy blog...hope you enjoy:

The doorbell rang. I was wearing a black tank top and little white shorts, my hair windblown because of the fan I’d bee sitting front of for the last thirty minutes. I took a quick look into the mirror and saw the ring of red wine around my mouth. I left it there and took a drag of my cigarette. My eyeliner was smudged but whatever, I thought. I wasn’t about to fix myself for him. He wasn’t a boy after all.

Just a gay best friend.

I heard a knock at the door.

“Coming,” I said, blowing my nose into a tissue. I opened the door to find him standing there. Gabe.

“Hi, honey,” Gabe said, smiling at me, a little sheepishly. “How are you doing?” I hugged him right in the doorway. I smelled his cologne and his hair gel and all his other products.

“You smell good,” I said, sniffling into his shoulder. “You always smell so good. How often do you shower?”

“Every morning, after I work out, and after I fuck,” he said, smiling.

“Oh, so like three times a day,” I said. “You’re so active. I need a more active lifestyle.”

“Shut up,” Gabe said, coming inside. “You’re active. Go be active and get some glasses. I brought Maker’s.” Gabe pulled a bottle out a small black plastic bag and I sighed. I kissed him on the forehead.

“Aww,” Gabe said. “So many kisses. Have you been drinking?”

“No,” I said, walking to the dish cabinet. “I’m just leaking desire for human contact tonight. Any and all. I’m achey, Gabe. I’m really fucking achey right now. I feel like I just played a soccer game, or ran a marathon, but like, in my heart, or fuck, that’s so, so dumb…” I wandered off. I stood before the sink, put my head down and started to cry.

“Janieee,” Gabe said, coming towards me. He gave me a bear hug from behind. “You should really not be crying. You should really not be crying at all! You have months to cry! Years to cry! Right now, I am here. And we, WE are not crying.” He kissed the back of my neck. “We are not crying, Janie.”

I turned around to face Gabe and gave him the two glasses. I wiped my nose with the back of my hand. “I’m so snotty. I have that crying headache, too. You know that crying headache?”

“No more crying, honey. Hmm. Do you have soda water?” Gabe asked, opening my fridge.

“No,” I said. “I have, like, a pudding cup. And I have ranch dressing. Neither of which mix very well with bourbon.”

“Your fridge sucks right now. The least you can do is go grocery shopping, girl. Fucking nourish that sad little heart of yours with some FOOD. And some soda water,” Gabe said. He got a tray of ice cubes out of the freezer. “Ice will do.” Gabe dropped a couple cubes in the glasses and poured a three fingered shot into each. I was sitting in front of the window fan in the kitchen again.

“You know that scene,” I murmured. “In St. Elmo’s Fire? When Demi Moore is sitting wrapped up in a sheet in front of the open window all traumatized? And she’s like cold. And everyone’s trying to get into her apartment,” I said, moving away from the fan, and taking Gabe’s hand, leading him into the living room.

“Yeah, I remember,” Gabe said. “Vaguely. Rob Lowe played the saxophone in that movie.”

“I always thought it was so funny. So ridiculous. Mental breakdown in a sheet in front of an open window in winter. Like please. No one has mental breakdowns like that.”

“Right…” Gabe said. “What is your point?”

“Oh, right, sorry. Disjointed thoughts. Um, okay, so I’ve been sitting in front of fans all day. Feeling the breeze in my hair. Just because it was comforting. Because, I don’t know. It felt like something else. Besides this ache. Subtle breeze. Really gentle. Just feels nice.

“It’s nice that you can use fans to distract yourself from the ache. Some girls slit their wrists in bathtubs and shit, Janie. Or do massive amounts of drugs!” Gabe exclaimed, lighting a cigarette.

“Yeah,” I said. “I guess you’re right. Demi Moore really is one of the prettiest ladies in the world. I want black hair and blue eyes.” I was drinking my bourbon too fast. I poured another shot in the glass almost immediately. The ice hadn’t even started to melt.

“You have red hair and green eyes,” Gabe remarked.

“Astute. My hair is fake, though,” I murmured. “Can I have a cigarette?’

“Sure, honey,” he said, taking one out of the pack, putting it in my mouth, and lighting it for me. Like I was some old lady, I thought.

“I don’t want to talk about him. I want to talk about anything but him. I don’t even want to talk about NOT talking about him, that’s how much I don’t want to talk about him. Him. He. I thought he was a good guy, you know, I thought he was…” I trailed off and started crying again. I held the cigarette in my hand. My hand was shaking. I heard a kid outside say a Spanish swear. And a car alarm.

“He’s probably a good person. Who makes bad choices. That’s more likely,” Gabe whispered, touching my hair.

“That doesn’t make me feel any better, Gabe,” I growled, dropping my cigarette in the diet Coke can on my coffee table.

“What can I say to make you feel better?” Gabe asked, scratching my shoulder.

“Just. I’m sorry…”

“What, honey?”

“Just keep touching me. Lightly. No sudden movements,” I said. Taking a drink from glass. I noticed Gabe chugged his at that moment and poured some more.

‘You’re drinking faster than I am,” I said, giggling. “I’m the dumped one.”

“Yeah, you’re driving me to drink, girl. You and all your boyyy pains,” he whispered in my ear and continued to scratch my shoulder.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “Don’t get drunk, though. I don’t want you to have some sort of mental breakdown, too, because of drunkenness. One of us has to be sane right now.”

“You’re sane, honey. You wouldn’t question your sanity if you weren’t. You’re just, what the southern ladies call, “out of sorts” right now.”

“Do southern ladies say that?” I said, sitting up a bit, and looking into Gabe’s eyes. They were bloodshot, I suddenly noticed.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Why are your eyes bloodshot?” I asked.

“I had a few drinks before I got here,” he said.

“Oh, did I interrupt a date or something? Shit, Gabe, you didn’t have to—“

“Shut up, silly girl,” Gabe said. “Just shut up.” And then Gabe took his fingers and brushed them against my lips, stroked my right cheek, and pulled a strand of hair away from my forehead.

“Gabe…” I said. I bit my bottom lip. “What are you doing?”

“Shut up,” he said again, this time, sweetly. And he kissed me. softly. On the corner of my mouth.

“What?’ I asked the air.

“What?’ he asked the air and kissed me softly on the lips.

“What.” I said again, this time not a question. I suddenly grabbed his face in my hands and kissed him hard. He kissed me hard back.

“What the fuck are we—“ I squealed between gulping down his kisses and tasting cigarettes and bourbon on his lips. He tasted like me, I thought.

“I have no idea what we’re doing,” Gabe said. “Take off those stupid looking shorts.”

“Gabe, I—“ he interrupted me by shoving his hand down the front of my shorts. “Oh fuck, I am—“

“You are so. Fucking. Wet. Do you get this wet for all the—“ he started fingering me and closed his eyes.

“For all the fags,” I said. “I don’t know, Gabe. No fag has ever—“

At that moment, Gabe lifted me up off the couch and pulled down my shorts for me. Suddenly, he bent me over the side of the couch. I felt his cock, through his jeans, prod my ass. Suddenly, I felt the hot flesh of his cock on my ass. I turned around. He’d just taken it out through his jeans. He was still completely clothed.

“Gabe, could you take off your...I want to see…” I got up from the arm of the couch. I turned around and saw Gabe, redfaced. Looking like a different person. “I want to see you.” He kissed me on the forehead. Suddenly, things slowed down. Achingly slowed down. He took off his shirt. I took off my shirt. He took off his jeans. Boxer briefs. I slid them down. I saw his ball sack, high, tight, hairless. A gay boy’s sack. Still, I was intrigued and surprised by all the black chest hair. He really was a man underneath all that sweetness. Though I had never imagined Gabe naked. I had never even seen him with his shirt off. He was so taut. Muscular. I never dated boys that looked like him. I never…

“Stroke my cock, Janie,” Gabe hissed. “Please.” He grabbed my hand and put it on his cock. The precum was dripping.

“Gabe. Why are you? Why are you doing this?”

“Because,” he said. “Because your sadness turns me on.”

“Are you serious?” I asked, giggling. “My sadness turns you on?”

“Actually,” Gabe said, kissing my neck. “Yes. And I want to know.” He kissed my mouth, his tongue prodding, very wet and hot. “I want to know what I’ve been missing. Not because you’re a girl. But because. Because you’re Janie.”

He put his fingers inside me again.

“Do you always get this wet?” he asked. I moaned and stayed silent. “Janie, do you always get this. fucking. Wet.” He started fingering me fast.

“Gabe, you—“

“I’m going to make you cum first, and then I’m going to fuck you, sweetheart.”

“Gabe. Gabe, you are so not making any—“

“Any what, Janie?” he fingered me faster. “Any what?”

“You are not making. You are not. Fuck. Gabe you are not making any sense right now. You don’t like. You don’t like—“

“I like you,” Gabe rubbed my clit, hard and fast. “I. like. You. Goddamitt. You’re my sweet hot little fag hag. Fuck.” His fingers quickened over my clit. “Look at this clit. So hard and fat. Like a little cock. That’s my little cock, that’s my little…” Gabe growled. “Now cum.”

And I did. I closed my eyes and I came hard.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, Gaaabeeee,” I whined. Tears sprung to my eyes and I cleared my throat. “Oh Gabe, what are you doing to me? What are you trying to do?”

“Janie,” Gabe kissed me. “Why would any straight boy want to hurt you?” He stroked my hair. And for a second, I knew where I was again. Gabe is gay. I kept repeating it over and over in my head. Gabe is gay. Gabe is gay. But then I opened my eyes after my pussy stopped fluttering and I saw his face. And I thought it was a beautiful face and then I thought, Gabe is not gay.

Right now, Gabe is mine.

God, I really think he’s mine right now. I really think he’s mine.

“Would you like to fuck me?” I said, blushing. “Hee hee. Really? I mean you don’t have to…” I kissed his earlobe.

“I do. I want to,” Gabe traced my pussy with his cock as we stood in front of one another. “I’m not sure how I’ll do, though.”

“It’s pretty easy,” I said. “Heh. I mean. And I’m really wet right now. You can just slide in. There’s not as much resistance in a pussy as there is an ass.” I blushed. “You’ll probably want to take me from behind…”

Gabe frowned at me and kissed my neck, my collar bone, my lips softly.

“Don’t say that. I want to see you…I want to see you.”

I took Gabe’s hand and led him into my bedroom. He laid me on the bed. I still had my tank top on. He rubbed my tits gently.

“Hee-hee,” Gabe giggled. “Boobs.”

“Boobs,” I guffawed. “Straight boys don’t say boobs. You’re—“ and then Gabe kissed me hard and pulled up my tank top rubbing my stomach. My round little tummy I’d told him was my spot one time. Because I could tell Gabe anything..

“I’m what?” he kissed my tummy. “You’re speechless, now, huh? See, I take note.” He twisted my nipples and I moaned. “I take note, Janie.”

I sighed and rolled back and forth. I reached down to grab his cock. I could feel the pulse in his shaft. I couldn’t believe how hard he was. How big. How BIG. Wow, he was big!

“You have a big cock,” I whispered as he started kissing my breasts.

‘I do, don’t I?” Gabe cackled. He looked down at me. He was kneeling in front of me and started stroking his cock. I gulped. I thought about the time I saw Gabe and his boyfriend one night, kissing outside the restaurant we’d all gone to for dinner. I saw the way Gabe held his boyfriend’s head in his hands and thought I’d like to kiss him someday. Just. Just kiss him. But now.

I had his cock.

I had his cock and his mouth and all those bits of Gabe…all those bits of Gabe.

I closed my eyes as I felt the tears coming on. I wasn’t sure where those tears were coming from. A hundred places, I supposed. I opened my eyes back up when I felt Gabe’s mouth on my mouth.

“Gabe.” His eyelashes were so long. The lights were off in my bedroom but the hallway light was on and I could see his eyelashes.

“Do you have a condom?”

I leapt up from the bed and grabbed a condom out of the drawer. I ripped it open with my teeth and slid it on his cock. I laid down and played with my pussy. Coyly. I giggled.

“Fuck,” Gabe said. “You’re sexy.” He was silent as he stroked his cock. “Janie. I only. I only fucked this other girl…once…like ten years ago.”

“I know,” I said. “You’re gonna fuck number two right now.”

“Fuck,” he said. And he slid his cock, all of it in me suddenly without hesitation. Almost too much too soon but just enough at the same time. I groaned hard and loud. “I guess I am,” Gabe said. His eyes rolled back into his head. He propped my feet up on his shoulders. “You’re…you’re so easy to find…your pussy is like fucking magnetized…you’re so wet. Gahhhh….”

He fucked me harder. I panted. I couldn’t speak. I just looked at Gabe, stared at him. stared at his cock going in and out. And I suddenly thought I would squirt. I moaned.

“You’re really tight, right? You’re really. Oh, no.”

“What?” I asked.

“I’m gonna cum too soon, I don’t want to, I don’t want to,” Gabe whispered.

“Slow down then. It’s not a race,” I smiled.

Gabe slowed down and kissed my calf. He slowed down and sucked my toes. He slowed down and rubbed my belly, lightly. Then all of a sudden he started fucking me harder. Hard thrusts. Smack. Pause. Smack. Pause. Our sex melding and crushing one another. He started fucking me harder and faster now. I put my legs back toward my head, spreading them wide.

“Oh, no, oh god, Gabe, I’m gonna cum now. Are you? Are you gonna?”

“I’m gonna fuck fuck fuck I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna—CUUUUMMM!“ Gabe screamed. He screamed at the top of his lungs. I had never heard anything like that before. Not from a boy while he came. And suddenly, my cunt seared and squeezed so hard and suddenly everything got very very fuzzy and I got dizzy. And I said over, and over again, as his last thrusts nailed me to the mattress, I said:

“Thank you, thank you, thank you. Thank you, thank you thank you…” My thighs were suddenly wet with juice. I had gushed. Gabe felt my wet thighs.

“Thank you.”

“Wow,” Gabe said.

And then my cunt stopped shuddering and Gabe fell on top of me and slowly, slowly took his cock out of my pussy. He took the condom off and flung it on the floor. I giggled. Such a romantic gesture.

“Gabe.”

“Janie.”

“Wow.”

“Wow is right.”

“What was—“

“I have no idea.”

“Can we—can we do it again?” I asked.

There was silence. I was scared suddenly. I had pushed it too far. I didn’t even mean can we do it again now, I just meant, can we do that again? Someday? But even that was too much and now Gabe was gonna leave and things were gonna get weird and I, what the hell did I just--

“Give me,” Gabe whispered. “Like, fifteen minutes.”

I smiled. I sucked on his lower lip. “I can do that. I can do that.”

100 Posts

2008-08-25T16:35:00.000-04:00

Blogger says I have 100 posts. I mean, this is 101. But the bratty sub deal was 100! Woah.

So many words. Jeeze Louise.

You know, I dig way back into the archives of my sex life here on this blog. Some of the things I write about happened years ago, for instance. Some of the things I write about happened yesterday. Some of the things I write about haven't happened at all yet.

But 100 posts. That's momentous and stuff.

I don't know why I've always been about anniversaries, birthdays, and the like. I think because they're a very PRESENT way of celebrating the past. Not looking forward, and in a way, not really looking back. But saying, "I am here now, and I have been here for this long." There's something lovely about moments. 100 Posts being a moment. This time in my life being a moment. These people I've met being a moment. An accumulation of moments.

I remember in the eighth grade, I wrote a poem for the yearbook. It was called, of course, "Memories." Memories lasting forever, memories being our way to relive the past, memories like a looking glass like a metaphor like a simile, etc etc etc. My classmates all pointed out the poignancy of my poem. I remember thinking I had nothing to say specifically about memories. It was just a wash of feelings back then, a bang of emotion at all times, nothing was ever organized or worked out or definite. My line breaks were a mess in that poem: careless, haphazard. And my rhymes were approximate but not deliberately so. I had so much to say and no way to say it the way I wanted to. I'm not sure where I was going with that...huh.

Indeed, thanks, dear readers, for being here from moment to moment. I know some of you are wondering: what happens next for Janie? I know sometimes that dating threads seem to drop, crushes seem to fade, mysteries swell and question marks fill the ether of the sex blogosphere. I don't see an end in sight for this here blog. But I don't know what's going to happen next, either. I've been wondering lately about what I want from this venture now that...things are happening. I'm not engaged to be married or in a serious relationship or anything like that, but my heart and soul seem to be coming out of hiding and settling down in a way. In a typically hectic, untraditional Janie way, of course. And ironically, now that I'm not really hiding, I'm not sure what I want to share here. Does that make any sense, dear reader?

I guess I will just continue to write what I want to write. Even if it's questioning what I want to write. It's still writing, I suppose. I do want to keep in accordance with my late bloomer theme, however. So, we shall see. A transition is coming, dear reader. The moment, whatever it is, has arrived. And one will arrive tomorrow. And the next day and the next...

xo,
Janie

Bratty Sub Janie

2008-08-16T16:55:00.001-04:00

So, I'm just gonna write and not stop, and I apologize for the mess of contradictions you're about to read, but that's what this post is about, I think. Contradictions.

I've been thinking a lot about this idea of being a bratty submissive woman lately. Or a bratty bottom, if you enjoy the alliteration.

It's come up quite a few times during foreplay and sex for me. When suddenly, I start fighting. I start struggling. I move my ahead to avoid kisses. I growl rather than whine when I'm spanked. And I say things like, "What the fuck?" and "Is that the best you can do?" instead of "Fuck me." In a sense, I delay my submission. On purpose. And I enjoy asserting myself, and showing my strength, and giving the dominant man I'm with something to, let's say, rub up against. Yeah, I avoid submitting fully sometimes. But then when I finally do, it often feels deeper when I've fought you off. Because you won. And I want to be a gracious "loser"--a gracious, soaking wet loser, that is.

But being a bratty bottom doesn't mean I don't want to submit. It's because I want to feel the contrast. Of resistance and giving in. I want to get tired out. I want to feel my body say, "Okay, that's enough, Janie, let him take you now." I want my submission to come from a physical place as well as a mental one. I want to be a brat. I want to show you you need to work hard for me. That my submission won't come just because you're so big and strong and feel like being mean. It will come because you've earned it--and because I've earned it, too.

Being a bratty bottom is different from topping from the bottom. I've done that a couple of times, and the feeling of empowerment there is different than the feeling of empowered resistance that comes when I'm being a brat.

I also like being a brat because I like knowing how strong you are. I like getting to know what your muscles can do and I wouldn't get to know that if I just melted into your arms or got down on my knees. I wouldn't get acquainted with your power as intimately if I weren't being a brat.

Of course, I don't always want to be a brat. Sometimes I just want vanilla. Vanilla is an equal power exchange, I think. Vanilla is when the brattiness or meanness leaves us both. And there is pure sex extract left behind.

Some people say that submitting to someone is mostly a mental thing. It's about getting into that "sub state." Believing a man's strength and will is there and present. There are a couple of men I've been with where my brattiness didn't even come up. But that was a while ago. I wonder if I decided to be with these men again if the fighter would come out in me. If they'd get annoyed, or if they'd like it. If they'd question their own dominance over me, or step up and prove it. I know. I almost sound angry, but I'm not. I just want to be shown. I want to be shown. And I want to show myself.

This language is not the traditional language of a traditional submissive woman, maybe. I understand that. But more and more, I realize I'm not a traditional submissive. Because my dominance is also there. Always. Really and truly, that's what this is about, I think. It's not about wanting to dominate my dom, but it's about wanting him to show me he wants to dominate me.

I used to think that "switching" meant I'd have to separate the two entirely, the submission and the domination. But I can't really do that anymore. Because the more I think about these labels for myself, the more I realize I might just be a sexual being who sometimes like to get it rough, who sometimes like to give it rough. These labels of sub and dom were very useful for me a few months ago, when I first started discovering what could be done in the bedroom in regards to BDSM kink. But now, I'm not sure. They seem to contradict each other. But I'm certainly not a contradiction. Okay, so maybe I'm a "switch" but I don't like labels.

Maybe I'm just a person who wants to show you outright, who I am. Who doesn't want to hide her fear, her power, her resistance, her sweetness, her submission and maybe her love. Or her domination and love. The same goes for future subbie boys who want to submit to me. Be a brat. That's fine. I can take it. Can you take me, though, is the question?

In the end, maybe I just want to be myself. Maybe I just want to be hot and mean and sweet and loving all at the same time. But I can't just give you one part and call it everything. You're just gonna have to want it all. And I'll want all of you in return. That's just how it's gonna be, I think.

A Wow Threesome

2008-08-11T13:33:00.000-04:00

I had this spectacularly awesome threesome on Saturday (and into Sunday). I mean, it was sort of everything one could ever want in a threesome. It was a bit kinky and sweet and funny and fun and orgasmic. And it was with two of my new favorite people.

And honestly, I have no idea how to approach writing about it.

The whole experience hit home. In so many ways. It was almost too full (in that good way.) Too epic with erotic and emotional undertones. I'm still trying to piece together the events, still daydreaming about the goings on. Still gasping for air.

Sigh.

I say that a lot lately: Sigh. As soon as I think as I have a semblance of calm, of direction, something like this threesome comes along, and fucks it all up (in a good way) and I have to sigh. And in that sigh is a kind of relief (I did it!) and also a sense of distress (What did I do?!) No regrets, though, NONE of those. Regret is the farthest, farthest thing from what I'm feeling right now.

Oh, my poor dear reader, am I making any sense? Does it make any sense to have experienced something beautiful and to question its meaning? It doesn't really. Does beauty have meaning? Does it even have to? Physical attractiveness (ie, beauty) is measured in terms of symmetry. Does this mean I had a symmetrical threesome? Things the same on all sides? How can that be when there are three people? Bodies reflecting on bodies reflect on bodies? Two mirrors facing on another provides an infinity of reflections. What could three mirrors do? Oh, the variables. Oh, how vague. You can tell, I'm working it out. Trying.

My desires used to be locked up in a chest of drawers in the corner of a room in my heart; now they're just being thrown about the entire house. Scattered. Disheveled. A gorgeous mess of me out for everyone to see. Sometimes I think that's what this blog is: just a mess. But a mess attempting to be cleaned up by words. Words that attempt to organize. A blog post being a box, a drawer, a shelf.

I can't tell you the amazing fun I had on Saturday night and Sunday morning. It's not that I don't want to share it all. I do. And I'll try. In a bit. Or maybe one of them will blog about it first and I can just sit back and read. Hee hee. Hang in there, dear reader...hang in there.

xo,
Janie

Friends of Jefferson

2008-08-07T07:36:00.000-04:00

An important member of the sex-positive community urgently needs our help.

Jefferson—blogger, educator, and dear friend to so many of us—is at this moment fighting a court battle with his ex-wife, who is seeking full custody of their three children.

Jefferson’s love for his children has been well-documented on his blog One Life, Take Two for years. His ex-wife has stated in court that he is a “great” father who loves his children.

However, among her claims is that his bisexuality makes him an unfit parent.

Jefferson needs our help now. As a writer, his resources are limited. The costs of fighting this case are mounting quickly—and will certainly run into the tens of thousands of dollars.

As of today, there is an urgent and immediate need for at least $20,000 to cover costs associated with attorney fees and those of the law guardian who has been appointed to represent the children.

If he is unable to pay these fees by August 11, he will be forced to relinquish custody of his children.

This case is of concern to anyone whose sexuality does not fit the standard mold—because it could happen to you. This case is of concern to all writers, because Jefferson’s blog is being used as evidence against him—and that could have repercussions for our First Amendment rights.

Here’s how to help:

Make an ANONYMOUS, TAX-DEDUCTIBLE contribution to Jefferson’s legal defense by visiting the Sexual Freedom Defense and Education Fund at:

Sexual Freedom Legal Defense and Education Fund

There you will find out how to donate to Jefferson’s Defense Fund via PayPal or if you prefer, check or money order.

Please note that you MUST mention that your donation be used for the JEFFERSON LEGAL DEFENSE FUND.

One Life, Take Two has been relaunched with information about Jefferson’s ongoing case. Be sure to visit his blog for updates. In the meantime, you can contact Friends of Jefferson directly at friendsofjefferson@gmail.com.

Oh, New York City

2008-08-04T11:12:00.000-04:00

How I love you.

I am back from vacation, which was great and lovely and reinvigorating and exhausting and relaxing all at the same time.

But, oh, how glad I am to be back in New York City.

Sometimes I think the best part about leaving New York City is returning to it. If that makes any sense. The cab ride back from the airport. Seeing the city whiz by fills me with a sense of calm. This is where I'm supposed to be, I think. Really and truly. This is home.

I'm not sure how it became my home. It's not that it's easy living here. Maybe just through time. Years of struggling to make ends meet, and then making ends meet, making new friends, and of course, new lovers. Establishing my independence as an artist and a sexual being, here, in this town. In this apartment. In this bed. On this laptop.

I mean, it's incredibly basic. Most everyone lives somewhere. Most everyone calls somewhere home. But sometimes, I am impressed that I have chosen New York City to be my home--myself, having had somewhat meager beginnings. But then sometimes it just seems like a non-choice--I went to college in New York State and then I moved to New York City in 2001 to have a career in the arts. And I stayed here after 9/11, having moved here just two weeks prior. Because I knew if I left, I wouldn't ever come back. I guess I made the choice then to make New York City my home. Just because I knew if I didn't make that choice, I'd be a wanderer for the rest of my life. Really. It sounds dramatic. But it was pivotal, I think.

And the thing is, you can be a wanderer, a nomad deep down in your heart of hearts, here in this city. And yet settle down. New York City embraces that kind of person. Don't know where you're going? What you want to do? Come here. We'll find somewhere for you to go, something for you to do.

A Home With Options.

On this vacation, I was with family for over a week. I only snuck in one orgasm on the hotel bathroom floor when they left to go to the post office. It was fierce, fast, and I barely thought of anything. I was like an animal. Hand. Clit. Rub. Hard. Cum. I think I imagined fucking a sissy at one point. And the sensation of a dom's balls slapping against my ass at another. But these were flashes. I was mainly focusing on sensation. Not thought.

When I got out of the cab on the way home from the airport yesterday, I walked up the stairs to my apartment. It was slightly stuffy. Warm. I got some water, peed, opened up a window, and turned on my laptop. I approved comments that had been left by some of my dear readers. And then I lied down on the bed, and masturbated for about an hour. Just cumming and cumming and cumming. Before checking my email, before showering, before eating. I just had lots of orgasms. It was a Masturabathon. It seems like I thought about all the things I've wanted sexually, romantically, over the last few months. I thought about getting beaten. I thought about cuckholding. I thought about a butch dyke having her way with me. (Saw one with a great tan and a terrific faux-hawk in the airport yesterday--thanks, honey!) I thought about abusing some sissy's wimpy cock while I fucked myself with a dildo 5 times as big as his dick. I thought about threesomes. I thought about sweet sex with a man of my dreams. I thought about that last one a lot. Love is sexy, after all.

I have a big, busy month coming up. New and exciting projects. I have yet to go on dates with a couple of people that I'm really sort of very intrigued about. For all sorts of different reasons. I'm looking forward to this August.

I know I'm all over the place right now, but here's something I've been thinking about: it seems like a long time since I've used the word "experimentation." I always thought of it as somewhat a derogatory word, really. I don't know. "She's in an experimental phase" is a sentiment I've always disliked. It seems like, to some, the idea of "experimentation" is not something to be taken seriously. It's just explorational or whatever. No end in sight, no real objective. But I'm trying to embrace the word more now. Because after all, some of the world's greatest scientific experiments have led to great DISCOVERIES.

Trying new things is important to me.

That's really the main reason I love New York.

Its perpetual newness. The city as experiment. Blink and you'll miss something. Blink and you'll miss yourself.

My eyes are wide open. Wide, wide open.

Vacation!

2008-07-26T08:17:00.000-04:00

Hi my lovelies.

Today, I'm going on vacation. On Monday, I will be taking a road trip with family across the country. It should be full of surprises, a real escape, and grounding, as I will be with, you know, family. Family, who always seems to calm me down.

I won't be posting for quite some time. Honestly, I'm not even taking my laptop! I'm sure I'll sneak internet access at some point. I might go through withdrawals, otherwise.

But I just wanted to say that I will be back. And hopefully will have some sort of sexy story to tell you. Maybe I'll meet a cowboy, or a farmer, or a trucker along the way--or some other male archetype who will prove--eh-hem--useful.

Please fill my inbox with tales of sexy summer adventures while I'm gone. I mean, why not? SOMEONE ought to be writing, right?

xoxo,
Janie Blooms

Fleshbot Mention--Hooray!

2008-07-24T09:06:00.001-04:00

So some of y'all have come here via Fleshbot and Always Aroused Girl's Sex Blog Roundup! (She's got an awesome blog herself, that one does. Find the link to your right!) For a hot and summery, pervy, masturbatory fantasy. That's pretty awesome. Yes, I'd say that sort of makes my whole week!

Please stick around. And go venture into the archives. I've come a long way, baby. And I've cum a lot. HAH. Anyhoo, I am so glad you're all here. Please feel free to leave comments galore. And write me!

xoxo,
Janie Blooms

When It Is Hot, This Is What Gets Me Hot

2008-07-19T20:02:00.000-04:00

My first associations of summer heat with sex are from when I was but a teenager. Playing sexy underwater show me yours, I'll show you mine games with the strange, beyond-her-years tomboy at the town pool. I'm not sure what the point was of this game except the exhibition part. Because frankly, I couldn't ever see details of "hers" and nor could she see the details of "mine" under the water--it was cloudy, chlorine filled water, and we didn't have goggles. But we were pulling aside our bathing suits to show each other those naughty bits. It was all rather innocent. Only a couple of years before, I was playing underwater teaparty with the same girl. And now we were exposing ourselves. Natural progression, perhaps.

Now it is late July and I have been living in New York City for nearly 7 years. Which is sort of a long time. It's almost a third of my lifetime! I mean, that means something. Even if at times I feel stagnant here, especially on these hot days, when the sweat doesn't stop, I'm bloated but I can't exercise and I'm hungry and I don't know what to eat. I'm bored but I don't want to do anything. I'm hot and there's no way of cooling off. Even a cold shower only relieves the body for a few minutes. I have an air conditioner which I don't like to blast during the day. Only at night. I'm trying to save money. Money I spend too much of now that it's warm out and everyone seems to want to go out for drinks. This is summer in New York. It's fun, it's social, but it's also a bit--I don't know. Lethargic. I find myself counting the days until fall. Fall is always invigorating. Sweaters, hot coffee, bourbon, long walks on Sunday afternoons until the air gets just a bit too chilly. That all sounds really good right now.

The one thing that does stay with me throughout the summer is my sex drive. Although it's a lazier one. Hah. Honestly. I think Summer is the Season of Submission. Yes, it's true. The thought of dominating a boy right now--tires me out. Is this typical? Is this just me being lazy? The sex I have been having seems about me being in the submissive role. The hardest work I do during it is sucking rigorous cock. But of course, it is my fantasy life that is still full of me being dominant. Although I have one fantasy that I think would be pretty easy for me to pull off, in reality, even on a hot day.

I'm getting fucked by a Big Bad Man. Honestly, a man who is tall, a man who is well-hung, a man with a beard, a man with scary dark eyes, a man who doesn't much care for anything but my holes when I'm lying there, naked, under him. And so knowing this, I happily provide him with a dripping pussy and a slobbering mouth. It's the least I can do. But there is the sissy boy. That sissy boy who in EVERY FANTASY I have nowadays suddenly appears. In his chair next to my bed. He is dolled up, and looking gorgeous, and his eyes are glassy and full of a sort of lost longing at the sight of Big Bad Man pounding me. The sissy will never enter my pussy, of course. And I do not strap on a plastic cock in the fantasy because it is too hot. Yes, it is too hot even in my fantasy. Instead, I give the sissy a bench. Yes. a bench. To kneel on, on all fours. His ass pussy faces me, and I simply fuck him with the prettiest pink dildo I have, at the same rhythm and pace that I'm getting fucked. I move my arm back and forth, fucking his hole as I lay on my back, getting fucked. Everything is sweaty and I can barely see his tiny balls hanging as I pound his ass with my dildo. And Big Bad Man tells me to fuck him good, as good as he is fucking me. And everyone comes at the same time. And then things dissolve in a mist of air conditioning and frozen grapes. Yes, Big Bad Man disappears, and Sissy feeds me frozen grapes. I have that vision as I'm smoking my cigarette, in real life, on my couch.

That is my masturbatory fantasy on a hot summer day.

I know a lot of Big Bad Men. I mean, some are taller than others. But I know a lot of men who are willing to fuck me senseless.

But Sissy Boy, oh Sissy Boy, where are you? You are so close, and yet so far away.

Apologies for the Radio Silence, My Sexy Ones

2008-07-16T11:37:00.000-04:00

Hi everyone.

Is anyone still there?

I feel a little crappy about not writing for so long.

There are a few things on my mind which I hope to catch you all up to soon.
No big tragedies, no big triumphs--you know, just regular life happening at a normal pace which seems kinda unnecessary to blog. You know, because I never want this thing to get mundane. As soon as that happens, you might as well just take a peak at my middle school journal circa 1993: "I can't get into my jeans. Again. Might have to wear stretch pants for the rest of my life, Journal. Sigh. Sigh. When will I ever kiss a boy? Ed wears the loudest boots and when he clomps down the hallway, my heart skips a beat."

Actually, that sounds pretty exciting. Hearts skipping beats. I want my heart to skip so many beats that, if you added up all the skipped beats, you'd have a short lifetime of heartbeats worth.

I get all swoon-y and dreamy and misplaced at this--ahem--time of the month, dear reader. Too much information? Most likely. Though I am sure there is already a blog out there called Too Much Information. It's a theme in these internet parts.

I don't mean to sound vague. I'm just at this start-stop phase right now. Where the momentum seems almost too much to take and then the halt nearly gives me spiritual whiplash.

But I'll post a masturbatory fantasy soon enough.

Thanks for hanging in.

xoxo,
Janie

My First Real Kiss With A Boy

2008-07-05T14:36:00.000-04:00

I was nineteen years old when I kissed my first boy.

My experiences with kissing prior to that time were weird half kisses during spin-the-bottle games in basements at dance parties. Experimental kisses with girls underwater at the town pool where I spent all my summers as a youth. As a teenager, I liked to make a fist, pressing my knuckles together and pretending my fingers were lips, the space between them a mouth. I'd press my lips hard against my fingers, slip my tonge between them, and roll around on my twin bed, pretending there was a boy there with me. Sometimes, I'd make a v shape with my pointer finger and my middle finger, spread my fingers out, and flick the webbed part between those fingers with my tongue, pretending it was my own pussy that I was eating. I know, that's probably a strange one. Why I never thought to just masturbate is also rather odd, I know. But I wasn't looking to have orgasms. I wasn't looking to have sex. I wasn't even looking for a boyfriend or a girlfriend. I was looking to use my mouth.

I was nineteen years old when I kissed my first boy. I was at college, a quaint little liberal arts school where experimentation--sexual, substance-wise, and intellectual--were all very much encouraged. The parties we had were themed with the freedom to experiment in mind. Very minimal clothing was often recommended for such events. Boys would show up to the party with socks on their cocks and that was all. Girls would paint their breasts and wear a thong. I remember seeing naked people my own age for the first time at these parties and instantly feeling dizzy. Almost sick. All that overt sexuality was too much for me for a very long time. I had no idea how people could control themselves dressed like that. Why weren't they screaming and running around and humping the wall? That's what I would be forced to do. I couldn't act all cool like them. Talking to people and smoking clove cigarettes whilst almost naked. Acting all natural. Please. I just knew I would lose control if I ever got too drunk, too stoned, too naked. So I didn't ever do that--get drunk, stoned, naked. Until one night. I got very drunk, and well, maybe not naked--but scantily clad.

There was a party that night. Which celebrated alternative sexuality. Whatever that meant. I didn't really understand why a party needed to be thrown for such a thing. Especially when my choice was an alternative TO sexuality. To be funny, and smart, and sassy. Never flirtatious. I only experienced two emotional states with boys back then: friend or madly in love. I had no idea what this "making a move" was. I had no idea how to do this. I couldn't just go up to someone and hold their hand, could I? I couldn't go up to a boy and smack his butt, because that would be fifth grade behavior. And I couldn't just knock on someone's door late at night and, like, offer myself. I mean. Doing these things would force me to relay DESIRE which was something I was deathly afraid of.

But I did want to kiss a boy before the year was out. I needed to do that. I never had. I had never felt the stubble of a man on my cheeks or neck. It was something I really wanted to try because then I wouldn't be afraid of kissing anymore. If I kissed a boy once. Then I would be able to kiss any boy because all boys are boys and maybe they kiss differently, but I knew I'd be able to adjust my kissing style for each boy if need be. But I needed a base. I needed that first kiss to understand.

As I said, there was a party that night. Everyone had to dress up in some slutty thing. I had never done that before. But I had decided earlier that day that I would do that tonight. I went to the mall and bought a sheer blue babydoll neglige. With patches of black velvet. I bought a black push up bra. I bought black velore boots. And I bought black fishnets. I didn't think about it. I just bought these things. I only tried on one slutty thing, this blue babydoll, and said that was it. I took a shower, applied heavy heavy makeup, put on the outfit, slowly, deliberately, realizing for the first time that I really nice breasts. It's true. For the first time. I looked at them. And thought, Oh. I might actually be sexy right now. I might not be faking sexy. I might actually be sexy. This might be what sexy is. Knowing it.

Still, I had to down three shots of Cuervo Gold in order to leave my room dressed up in that thing. I went upstairs to my friend's dorm room and we drank and drank some more. Then everyone else started pouring out of their rooms. In even more risque outfits. Smoking pot in the hallways. Carrying flasks in their cleavage. Boys in white briefs and their girlfriend's bras. Seriously. It was like the festival of Dionysus but I suddenly felt very much like a little girl who had accidentally wandered up the hill to the Bacchae's forest on her way to choir practice. My little blue babydoll suddenly felt like too much clothing. I wished I had worn something sluttier. Somehow, feeling overdressed made me feel overexposed. Like everyone knew I'd never kissed a boy before. Like everyone knew that I didn't know what an orgasm was. So I had another shot of vodka. Then one of whiskey. Then another or something else, then another, then I started to sneak shots, and suddenly everything got lovely again and I danced in my little blue babydoll dress in the hallway and people were staring at me and nodding and I knew suddenly, that I was HOT. That this was what sexy was about. Dancing in the hallways in front of half naked college students.

Of course, it was the drink that was talking. Frankly, I'm sure the eyeliner was dripping down my face at this point, my hair messed up and sweaty. But I looked in the mirror on my friend's door after I'd had another shot, it had to be number 10 or 11. I saw my smeared makeup. And my sweaty hair and thought: This is what it will look like after I get fucked someday. I ripped my fishnets on purpose at that moment. Huge rips down the thighs. I pulled down my babydoll dress so that the bra was showing. I messed up my hair a little more and licked my lips. I felt my hips with my hands and bit my finger, staring at myself in the mirror, alone in my friend's room while everyone stood out in the hallway, drinking and smoking. I sucked on my fingers for a minute and then, I made a fist and kissed my knuckles, out of my mind wasted. I stumbled out into the hallway. I stumbled over to my friends. Someone gave me a beer, "to rehydrate." I tapped my boot in time to the music.

Then suddenly, I saw Will walk out of his room and down the hallway. Toward me.

In leather pants and a black mesh shirt. Black eyeliner and white glitter. His hair flowy against his neck.

I had said hi to Will in the tv room one day. And I gave Will some Twizzlers one time. I always had Twizzlers in bulk.

Will was always gorgeous. But suddenly, at that moment, Will was also the only boy that ever mattered.

He walked by me and winked and headed into the restroom. I followed him and closed the door behind us. I turned him around with my hands as he was about to unzip his fly at the urinal.

"Hi there," Will said.

"Hi," I said, grabbed his face, and kissed him hard. I pushed him against the wall and as I felt his stubble on my cheek, my pussy caught on fire and I moaned. Too loudly. I was the greediest mouth on campus. He pressed me up against the wall, put my hands over my head, kissed me again, harder than I had kissed him. It was a competition of sorts, I thought. Our tongues fighting against each other, massaging, and then lashing out. He bit my lower lip, I squealed, and then moved my face away from him. I looked at Will again and kissed him softly on the lips.

"Thanks for that," he said.

"You're welcome," I said and Will left the restroom, having never peed.

I barely touched him. He barely touched me. But I had just had my first kiss. I was elated.

I threw up about five minutes later.

My friends put me to bed with a gallon of water. I never made it to the actual party.

But with the room spinning as I lay in the dark of my tiny dorm room, the sound of the real party moving across the quad, I thought: That was my first kiss. I can't wait until the next one.

First Date Sleepover with Greg

2008-06-30T20:25:00.000-04:00

Greg and I had been emailing for a few days before he officially asked me out for drinks. We’d covered all the mutually enjoyed subjects: writing, smoked meats, spanking, The Wire, and the question “What exactly is erotic humiliation?” Greg decided it was something equivalent to the word irony or post-modernism in that it could mean any number of things. I pretty much agreed. He was whip smart, his emails full of words I had to look up on merriamwebster.com. Greg invigorated my brain in a matter of days and I quickly realized—even though I’d never seen a picture of him—if he was as smart and kind and nerdy in real life as he seemed in his emails, I’d probably be fucking him before the week was out. I mean. If he wanted to fuck me, as well. Of course.

When Greg asked me out for a drink, I said, “What took you so long?” I was simply pumped for drinks. It’d been a while since I’d gone on a date that I was simply excited for. Not nervous about. Or unsure about. Legitimately and honestly excited about.

Anyway, we decided on a chain restaurant bar and grill known for its colorful drinks and silly suburban menu. I liked that we were going there. It added some levity to the date. And even though we were somewhat going to enjoy the place for its camp value, I didn’t get the impression that Greg was an “enjoyment by irony” seeker—you know, someone who could only enjoy something silly because, after all, he’s better than that thing. Greg, I believed, wasn’t like that. He seemed down-home and earnest despite his edgy New York writer self.

That night, Greg walked up to me on the corner in a paisley shirt, crazy curly hair all crazy and curly, glasses, and squinty, nervously happy eyes. Tall and thin, but not too tall and thin. He simply looked adorable, just my type with an aura of sophisticated goofiness.

“Janie?” he said.

“Greg!” I said. We shook hands, I think. I’m not sure. I felt immediately comfortable. There was a gentle zip of sexy in the air. Nothing pervy. But it was there, palpable. Of course, Greg’s nerves were also palpable. And I REALLY enjoyed that. It wasn’t, I’m not used to being around people nerves. It was, I’m nervous being around YOU nerves. And that was lovely to receive.

More and more, I’m straying away from those cool cat dudes who approach each situation with an obscene amount of confidence. Some confidence is a nice thing, but overly confident is just an inch away from overcompensation. Besides. All that REALLY matters on a first date is that a person show up. Be open. And ready to have fun.

Greg was ready.

When we got to the bar, I chose some ridiculous mango strawberry passion fruit margarita in a goblet the size of my head. Greg got a daintier coconutty thing with a very ta-daaaa garnish. Greg had asked the bartender for the most “absurd drink.” The bartender stared blankly at him: “What do you mean by absurd?” she asked. I think I said something like, “He means big and colorful.” After all, the bartender did not think the drinks at this restaurant chain were absurd. She took them seriously. I felt kind of cute translating Greg’s request for her. Like I knew what he was talking about. It made me feel suddenly close to him. Like in this minor way. For this little moment. Strange what things do that. Strange that we can feel close to anyone, at any time, if we just pay attention to what they’re giving us.

Greg is from New York and is a Yankees fan. I’m from Red Sox territory. This realization created a bit of tension but I told him I respect Yankees fans. I don’t have any need to be angry. We won the World Series. Everything is fine now. I said this with a tone of calm, like a religious figure, accepting of all, adversaries and enemies alike. I believe he still hates the Red Sox.

But he offered to take me to a game sometime anyway.

My heart raced when he did.

He’s thinking ahead. Is he thinking ahead to get into my pants? Probably. Probably a little. Probably he’s also just a nice guy. And maybe likes me? Like a little? Yeah, I was being a chick when I was thinking this. No doubt, reader. No doubt.

We split a cigarette outside.

He held open the door. On the way out, and on the way back in.

Greg spoke of college protests, commissions, his new apartment, his parents, growing up, how he feels most comfortable around working class people. He didn’t say that with a tone of “Look at me. I’m a well-to-do writer and I still like people who take out my trash.” No, please, that wasn’t the tone of all. Somehow, it just meant that he liked those people who were straight with him. I told him about my pock-mark faced boss from Queens who’s got an aching back and is the straightest shooter I’ve ever known. I always know where I stand with him, I said. Greg nodded. This was some of the most interesting first date conversation I’d experienced in a long time. Of course, there were moments of nervousness and quiet. Of sipping at my big drink that was supposed to be frozen and was runny and chunky. There were moments of us watching the tv screens above the bars in quiet. But mostly, we talked and laughed and paid attention to each other.

I’m not sure when Greg grabbed my hand. But he did grab it. And I didn’t move my hand. I let him hold it. And I felt my pulse race. And I knew then. I was gonna ask him to come home with me. That was really it.

Sometimes, I’m easy, dear reader. But that doesn’t mean Greg wasn’t exactly the person I should be easy for. He was. I could ease it all up down and the street with him. I was breathing ease at that point. And it felt good.

Soon after the hand holding, I excused myself to the restroom and said, “After I come back, let’s get outta here.” I thought about putting on new lipstick while I was in the can, but then decided that would be too obvious. Though I’d just said, “Let’s get outta here.” which is what they say when you visit Obvious Town, but anyway. When I returned, Greg had paid for the drinks! I offered to give him money and he said, “Don’t worry about it.”

Did I say I lived 4 minutes away walking from this bar? Oh, I do.

Ladies of NYC, how great is it when a guy you think you want to fuck offers to come to YOUR hood for drinks? It’s pretty fucking great. If you don’t end up fucking him, you’re only a little walk away from your place. And if you do end up fucking him, well then you’re only a little walk away from your place.

We walked out of the bar. And seconds later, Greg was kissing me. Lightly on the mouth. Briefly. Pecks. Then he’d smile. Then he’d peck again. Smile. Then peck again. Then finally he put his tongue in my mouth and kissed me hard and I nearly gasped so very excited and he pushed me against a wall and I felt his cock spring to life.

Yeah. Holy shit. Enter nerdy writer type. Taking fucking charge.

I got wet like THAT.

“Can we wait til we get home for this?” I asked. I saw the neighborhood kids watching us and didn’t particularly feel like making out in the street. Though I was greedy for him. “I’m inviting you back to my place, you know.”

“Oh, you are? Oh, GOOD,” Greg said. Then he grabbed hold of my hand. And we started talking about. About his book that’s coming out in the fall. And my neighborhood. And all sorts of things. I felt so goddamn comfortable. A tremor of excitement shuddering its way through my body but not nervous. Shit felt right. You know?

Upon entering my apartment, I showed Greg the living room and the kitchen, and suddenly I was pressed hard against the kitchen wall. And the kisses. These kisses hard and wet and passionate. Faces moving. His hands on my sides. I budged down so that my crotch hit his hard cock and he lowered down just a bit until my pussy met his cock just like THAT and oh my, the kisses.

“I like the way you kiss,” I said.

“I like the way YOU kiss,” he said.

And so we kissed. My panties a mess.

“Let me show you the rest of the apartment,” I said.

I showed him.

“It’s huge!” he said.

Seconds later, Greg pushed me against another wall by the bathroom.

“I’ll be fucking you against the wall later on,” he said.

We went to the couch. More kissing. So much more kissing. I took off my dress and he pulled me onto to his lap. I sat on his cock and grinded up against it. His stubble on my neck drove me nuts. I was on fucking fire. I was so wired for this guy. Fuck. He pushed me back and said, “Let me just enjoy the view for a minute.”

Sometimes, getting objectified. Is just very very sweet.

Soon Greg’s button down shirt was off. He kept the tshirt on. I giggled at him.

“You need to take off all your clothes,” I said. And so he took off the other shirt. Mmmm. Chest hair. Yum.

I like it all, I thought. I like all parts of a man. I like all parts of this man. I like his face between my tits and his breath on my torso. I like his curly hair. I like this stuff. I like this stuff. This stuff is making me hot. I’m gonna fucking cum so hard tonight, I thought. When I’m lit up like this. I’m going to have so many orgasms. I just knew it.

I’m not going to disappoint you here, dear reader. I came so many times I lost count.

I came when he fingered my gspot. Greg has miracle hands.

“How many fingers did you use?” I asked.

“One, two, three, then four,” he said.

I came when I used the Hitachi on my clit and in my pussy. I came when Greg told me to cum.

I came when Greg used the Hitachi on me from behind while spanking my ass to oblivion. God, I came so many times then. And I growled. And drooled into the bed. And when he stopped spanking me, I sat up, and nearly fainted. I had to learn how to breathe again. He made me cum so many times. It was sweet torture.

I came when Greg fingered my pussy. I almost came when Greg was twisting and kneading my breasts. He slapped them. Hard.

I came when Greg rubbed my clit gently the next morning.

The orgasms aren’t ever the point, dear reader. And I barely mention them sometimes. But Greg. Was so intent. On getting me off. I considered it almost an act of sweetness.

Even though his sweetness is accompanied with a dominance. Not a fierce dominance. Not something I am scared of. Not something I feel I can just submit to. No. On the contrary. Greg did something very interesting to me, made me into something very new. Greg brought out the naughty, bratty fighting bottom in me. We sorta. Wrestled.

Which felt. So perfect, dear reader.

Greg enjoyed the fight in me as he pinned my arms back. I tried so hard to get out of his grasp. It was a game, indeed, but I was not going to submit until my arms were tired.

“God, this is fun,” I said, grunting and sweating, skin stinging from sweat on sweat.

“So hot,” he said, pushing me and gritting his teeth and smiling maniacally.

Greg enjoyed the fight in me as he lay on top of me, trying to kiss me. I moved my head away, flinched at his kiss, avoided his mouth, as best I could. Not quitting. Resisting him. Resisting his body, accepting something else. I didn’t quit until I was tired. And when I was tired. I WAS HIS.

The way he’d pin me, the way I’d struggle.

“What will you do if you win?” he asked.

‘I’ll fuck you with my strap-on,” I said.

“I don’t know about that,” he said.

I smiled. I thought, “We’ll see.” That little domme part of me, reader. Sneaks in everywhere these days.

How did I get Greg off, though? How did I do that? I think I did that five times? Once with my mouth. He shot his hot load fast and hard down my throat. He was so quiet. Such a quiet orgasm.

Oh, and again. With my mouth. Minutes later.

Greg’s recovery time was awesome. His orgasms weren’t always earthshattering. But he could cum. And then again minutes later. And I loved seeing him do that. Subtle. A subtle tremor. Then precum dripping out minutes later. And then the cum dripping down my hand as I gave my first hand job to completion…

Yes, it’s true. Greg told me how to do it. Said later his instructions were random. Said it was my hand that got him off. We used lavender lotion. His cock smelled of flowers afterward.

I got him off again with my hand again right before bed. Easy as pie that time. No instruction needed. He breathed harder that time. Made more noise. Greg has a fierceness, both intellectual and sexual, to him. But a quiet that is so lovely. A chatter that exists beneath the quiet. And a quiet that exists beneath the chatter.

We only actually fucked once in the morning. Exhausted. A lazy languid early morning fuck. A just getting to know you fuck. I knew from his cock inside my pussy that it felt good. But we only fucked that once. The night before we’d engaged in foreplay forever. All kinds.

And oh yes. Spanking.

And The Spankula.

Dear reader. The spankula is a spatula I brought to my bedroom one evening. It is firm black plastic. I beat my own ass with it. Never had anyone else do that. But Greg did.

And he broke the spankula. Like against my ass.

“I’m going to enjoy buying you a new spanking device,” Greg said as he got his shoes on the next morning. Extended foreplay. Extending into his thoughts. That warmed me up just so.

We enjoyed lying on top of one another. Feeling the weight of each other’s bodies. The differences. The fit.

“It’s like we’ve been friends forever,” I said at one point.

“It is. Kinda weird,” he said. And then he pinned me.

Greg and I had met the night before at 9:15. He left my apartment at 9 the next morning. He had to go buy things for a Sunday brunch with friends. He wished he could stay and get Chinese with me later on. That morning after fucking, we filled the air with talk of Chinese food, delis, mofongo. Greg loves to make soup. He said he’d bring me homemade stock some time. All this talk of food after a night of getting to know someone’s body, making each other cum, and hard kisses. My tongue sore. My tongue actually sore. I was really very quite content, dear reader. And hungry when he left. Very hungry.

So.

No fancy metaphor at the end of this one, kids.

Just. I like food. I like sex. And I like Greg.

When Is It NOT All In The Timing?

2008-06-29T14:53:00.000-04:00

That submissive dinner guy...he didn't email me back. Or call. Or send messenger pigeons.

But you know what? I have one thing to say about it: Shrug.

Oh, and one other thing: NEXT.

That said, I think the sort of hopeful and open mood Submissive Dinner Guy (I'll give him that) helped to put me in got me to this other place. This other exciting place that I'm in right now.

That is to say: I had a really terrific date last night. With Greg. I mean, like, he slept over good. And it wasn't what I expected. Which is always awesome, isn't it?

Surprises. They make you feel alive. And alert. And most of all: READY. Okay, so technically, you're not supposed to be ready for a surprise. That is surprise's major tactic. But when surprise comes, and you find yourself not only handling surprise, but adapting to it, and suddenly, being ready for whatever comes next.? Or at least FEELING ready. I mean. That's some good shit right there. That's the shit which makes you feel capable of feeling alive, I think. Like, Curveball? BRING IT.

I can't help but go back to my whole philosophy on moments As soon as I start thinking too far ahead, I get intimidated. I get stressed out. And I get stagnant. When I should be seeking out change. Okay, I'm not exactly a Long Term Goal kind of gal which has worked to and against my advantage throughout my life. But the moments thing? The here and now thing? It's good.

I'm not even really talking completely about my date last night. I'm just rambling, dear reader.

This post seems to have quite a few cliches in it: surprises, living in the moment, etc. So I'a throw out another cliche, because cilches are cliches because they're true: it really is all in the timing. Isn't it?

But I don't ever want to know what time it is, though. I don't want anyone saying: Janie, it is time for _______. I just want to be ready when the time. Comes.

Oh, I'm gonna write a nice hefty post on the date soon but right now, I'm dead tired. And watching The Wire. I love this fucking show. Seriously. Wicked good.

Dinner Date with the Potential Submissive

2008-06-25T22:06:00.000-04:00

Was lovely. No lack of conversation. We laughed. He was handsome. He looked at my boobs. He paid for dinner. Drove me home. Kiss in the car. And an "I'll talk to you soon" from him as I left the car. He waited til I got inside my apartment building. He was quite lovely.

A traditional date between a dominant woman and a submissive man. Or two wanna-bes, at least.

Very interesting, dear reader.

I'm trying to connect the submissive online persona with the man I just met, with whom I had dinner, spoke about dating, hobbies, the pursuit of happiness with. There seems to be a slight chasm between our online personas and what just occurred. Is this a bad thing? I don't think so. The first time I met Jefferson, for instance--we had drinks and talked about sex blogs but there were no really explicit sexual overtones. And I thought this was fine. And I knew there was still chemistry there. And that things would happen in due time.

But this time, I know something different about myself. And I understand the way things could go...

Tonight, there was attraction. There was chemistry. There were two people enjoying each other's company--and perhaps thinking, all the while, "Does he like me? Does she like me? What happens now?" I thought that once or twice. It didn't create an insecurity. Instead, there was a tentativeness, sweet, patient. Not full of heat. But full of something simmering. The kind of stew you wanna cook for days in the crock pot. If you just give it time. The meat will fall apart at the end of the day if you let it cook. Melt in your mouth.

I am calm right now. I am, really. For once.

But if I want to dig deep, right now.

If I want to get to the core of my most beautiful fear.

If I am to be honest with myself. Here is what is most beautiful and most scary and most simple, dear reader.

"The moves." Will have to be made. By me.

Hope and Masturbation

2008-06-23T21:03:00.000-04:00

I had a family guest staying here at my humble abode from Wednesday to Saturday. There wasn't a lot of time to masturbate this last week or so. In fact, there was none. No time. No opportunity, really. And I didn't jerk off (or "jill off" as a friend once said to me--ADORABLE!) last night either. In fact, tonight was the first time I'd had an orgasm in like, almost a week.

Wait a minute. What's that I hear? It sounds like an earthquake. Oh, wait--it's just the aftershocks of me cumming! Hoo-fucking-ray, kids. That shit that just went down--that shit was hot.

Okay, little background: as you might have heard, I've been looking for a submissive man. Yeah, you might have heard that. You know, one who will dress up in stockings and be my footstool and lick my pussy for hours and let me beat him in a wrestling match. I'm not sure I've mentioned the wrestling match. But I'm into that now. Pinning someone. Of course, I don't know how that would really work. I mean, I want to feel stronger than him. And I want to work for it. So, yeah, we'll see.

Anyway, I've been thinking about these submissive/slave/sissy types quite a bit whilst ramming my ever-soaked pussy with dear Hitachi for quite some time now. And tonight was no different, really. The only difference was a submissive man I've been chatting with asked me out on a date right before I decided to rub one out.

Wednesday. Dinner.

I hate announcing these things in a way, dear reader. Because what if he cancels, or, even worse, stands me up? Then I have a tragic entry on Thursday and we all feel sorry for me again and I have to say "When will it happen? What's my problem?" and all that crap. But you know what, I'm getting my fucking hopes up for this because it feels good to get my hopes up right now, and I'll deal with the consequences later. There is nothing false about hope. Obama said that a few weeks ago. I think he was talking about rebuilding this country. I'm talking about the hope I have to make a man cry and beg for mercy. So, I guess Barack and I have different goals behind our "hopes."

Anyway.

He asks me out on the date. (The submissive man, not Barack--but I tell you what. Obama. K. Have we had a more fuckable candidate for the presidency in the last two decades? No. We haven't.) And I say yes to the date. And then I run into my bedroom and plug in that Hitachi like it was the last time I'd ever get to masturbate. And I conjure up Mr. Tall Submissive Man. And he has on stockings. And I am sitting on his face. And he is lapping up my pussy like it is the sweetest lollipop that ever was. And I am watching his cock get bigger and bigger under the stockings. Which I guess are nylons because they go up to his waist. And suddenly, I reach down to his crotch, and I rip a hole in the stockings. With both hands. I RIP. It makes a really violent sound and he gasps into my pussy and latches hard on to my clit. And suddenly his big fat beautiful cock bursts out of that hole I made and sticks straight up in the air. And I get up off of his face and I sit on his cock and ride it. Til Kingdom Come. And the kingdom that is coming--that would be me. As I punch his chest. Rhythmically. His eyes are wide open. And suddenly he has nipple clamps on. And I tug at the chains. Hard. And he screams and I put my hand over his mouth and say, Don't you scream. I don't want you to scream. I want to see tears before you scream. Then I kiss him softly on his lips. Okay, baby? Janie wants some tears. And then I yank those nipple clamps again. And tears come to his eyes and he says, Janie, fuck me. Please. Please...

And I cum really hard.

And there is a pool of my gush on my mattress.

And then I run into the living room and I write up this post.

Because you know what? I'm hopeful right now. I don't know what it's gonna get me in the future.. But right now, hope--hope gets me off.

Mariella's Side of the Threesome Story

2008-06-14T15:15:00.000-04:00

If you want to hear the other gal's side of the story, and you do--it's right here.