Thursday, December 30, 2010

Pussy Eating - Fact or Fiction?

This is a weird one.

I was going through some old boxes yesterday (in between bouts on Second Life, of course), collections from college of old photos, letters, papers... exam results (eeek) and the assorted detritus that seemed so important back then and now... well now it's just funny, with melancholy bits attached.

But one thing that caught my eye was a survey that a couple of girls put together, then sent out around campus, quizzing people on where their sexual tastes lay in the real world and in that of the still-reasonably new and unexplored universe of computers.

Do you remember cyber sex circa 1999? When the message boards were thriving and people still remembered Compuserve? When even logging onto a page was enough to send your IM box haywire? And when the whole thing was still so new and exciting that even an online kiss with a complete stranger was an absolute thrill?

I'm not going to publish the whole thing... it goes on for pages and it does get a little samey. But the question that caught my eye... the one I'd like YOU to think about today, was...


And the result?

23% of female respondents, among those who actively played online, said they preferred it in real life.

Which means... 77% didn't.

Some thoughts...

Cunnilingus is not like fellatio. Licking cunt is not like sucking cock. Different physical sensations sensations are involved, different emotional stimuli. Guys (and fiction writers) might like to think that a tongue only has to glance in the direction of a clitoris for the girl to be bouncing off the walls in the embrace of seventeen separate orgasms, any one of which could fell an elephant. But the reality, of course, is very very different.

Of course there are exceptions... that 23% to begin with. (Although, I can't help but notice that a lot of them seem to be bisexual/gay. A discussion for another time, perhaps?) But the fact is, or would seem to be, that a woman is far more likely to receive the emotional stimuli she needs from the act when it takes place wholly in her mind... the thought of what it could be like... than if it is actually happening in the flesh.

No surprise there. I recently read a paper that argued that the female orgasm is actually sparked by the same (still largely unexplored) areas of the brain as the male erection, and that unless there is also an underlying health issue, male Erectile Dysfunction and a female's inability to climax are essentially one and the same issue. The same psychological issue.

True or false? You can discuss that among yourselves. But the female orgasm is primarily an emotional response... which means the stimuli that cause female orgasm are also primarily emotional. Which, in turn, would suggest that a girl is far more likely to be turned on reading about certain acts than she might be actually performing them.

So maybe 77% of women really do prefer to have their pussies licked on paper, than by a real life flesh and blood lover?

Maybe, in this case at least, fantasy is more fulfilling than reality?

And maybe... well, maybe I should shut up and wait for people to start responding to this? But one final thing. I happened to mention this to a male friend last night, and asked him for this thoughts on the matter. His response? A very indignant "well, I've never had any complaints."

I'm sure he hasn't. After all, ladies, when was the last time you told your lover that he was an absolutely lousy lay?

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

The new 12 Days of Christmas

When I first posted this last week... well, I'll be honest, I ran out of energy after seven days. But then my friend Veritas got hold of it and dashed out another three days for me. So here, brought over from the No Words Spoken blog, are the full twelve days of Christmas... Enjoy!

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…
A hot and steaming facial!
And I wasn’t even expecting it
I thought we were just petting
I wasn’t even touching it
But suddenly he rose up
Gave out a mighty cry
And it splashed across my cheeks and lips
And dripped down from my eye

On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…
The best head that I’ve ever had
He started slow and teasing
Just lapping at my pussy lips
The tension stopped me breathing
I felt each delicate shift he made
Felt that loving tongue
Flicking wildly at my screaming clit
Oh God, I’m gonna cum!

On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
Eight sweet inches of rock hard cock
Slipped between my legs
Teased me with an inch or two
He likes to hear me beg
At first I tried to bite my lip
But he kept on poking faster
Until I couldn’t help myself
“Just ram it in, you bastard!”

On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
A tit fuck like you won’t believe
So hot against my breasts
I held them tight against his cock
Felt his balls scraping my chest
Saw his face screw up with pleasure
Felt his rhythm quicken
Then splashing hot against my neck
And his cock was ripe for licking

On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
A hot cock up my back passage
On the kitchen table
He asked me how much I could take
I said “all that you are able’
I felt my tight flesh clinging to him
While his fingers fucked my cunt
And when we came hard both together
It felt better than up front

On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
The chance to suck him long and slow
To relish every inch
To take him deep inside my throat
To feel my tonsils pinch
His helmet, grasp it, tease the tip
I love to suck him off
And when he came like a runaway train
I swallowed every drop

On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
A few days rest! And fuck, I needed them.!

And the remainder of the song... the bits I didn't write, supplied by my friend Veritas....

On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me,
Her wrists bound discretely in leather and fur,
Crossed demurely as if to hide,
Her soft, silken and smoothed delights,
Onto my face arose,
A wry grin,
Oh' secretly wicked girl,
Your treats are plain to see,
As is your Honey glistening for me....

On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me,
Eight inches of heel, platforms and a naughty feel,
Slowly straddling me with a tiny smile
Eyes flashing, as she whispers,
“Come do me stud, for a good long while.....”
Thong slipped aside, I fondle and slip inside,
Eighty tiny mewls and she shuddered and sighed.

On the ninth day of Christmas my true love gave to me,
Nine tails o' cat as she kneels for a gentle lashing,
Gentle mewling with each soft caress soon reaches my ears,
Nine tails o' cat, laid softly with but a sting,
Her pant and purr allay my fears,
Breathlessly she betrays her secret fetish
The kiss of the lash she so doth relish,
Offered to her she kisses hungrily the handle,
As I press her back my cock erect, hers to fondle,
Before beginning her deep and ardent thrusting.

On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
Ten tiny toes,
Clad in sheer hosiery,
Nails all a glitter, sprinkled red, silver, gold and pink,
She slid them slowly along my cock,
She is, after all a bit of a kink,
"Baby," she cooed, "my world you rock"
So much to my surprise when she swiveled and settled,
Her wet petals and folds, so deliciously presented,
For a lick, a kiss and an oh so slow fondle,
Her silken sheathed toes wrapped astraddle my head,
Her body naked and pressing me down onto the bed,
Her warm breath caressing my cock and ball bundle,
“Merry Christmas, my stud,” She said with a smile,
Then swallowed me whole and bobbed for quite awhile,
My own tongue drifted,
tween folds and honey hooded,
Lingering, exploring, probing, "So good..."
She whispered I'm quite gifted,
As she shimmied and settle well down on my tongue,
her toes massaging me as I gave her head,
“You, my Sir, are quite well hung,”
She said with a breathless smile as she licked,
“I do so hope soon to be dicked.”

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
Eleven strokes to harden my cock,
She said with a smile,
As she jacked me for a while,
“I know you will do me oh so well....”
“I want you in me deep and slow, can't you tell?”
I groaned under her touch and managed a reply,
“Soon my anxious babe,”
“I'll bind you, each limb, with a black silken tie,”
“And fill you then flood you with that you so crave...”

On the twelfth day of ChristmasS, my true love gave to me,
Twelve Dreams come true,
Each a special treasure,
Each desire she said, “Just for you...”
She whisper'd softly, Of my love you should be sure,”
Whether with a glimpse of stocking and heel,
Or just a seductive fondle and a good feel,
She laughed with a sparkling smile,
“You can take me now, or in a while,”
“Get your camera, I'll pose,”
“be your New Year's delight”
Then she spread out sleek like a cat,
My cock long past phat,
Slipping home with a steady thrust,
She purred and mewled with happy lust,
“Merry Christmas, stud...”
She panted as I rubbed her hooded budd,
“And Happy New Year back my erotic friend,”
I growled with a final shudder,
“With your arms round me, no one can sunder,”
“And 'tis here, kissing your lips, I'll dally the new year to spend ….”

Monday, December 27, 2010

The Ghost of Christmas Parties Past

Found this pic on Blue-eyed Vixen's ever-wonderful blog. Funnily enough, I remember a few parties along the lines of this one.

Saturday, December 25, 2010

A Christmas Carol

Okay, there’s definitely some wishful thinking going on in this one. Day four, to be precise. I don’t have the biggest tits in the world, and they were a lot smaller when I was at college. My boyfriend of the time was desperate to try a tit fuck,and he wasn’t going to take no for an answer, so I was lying there trying to hold his cock between these two tiny breasts, and he was pounding away… and it wasn’t my fault he didn’t realize he was rubbing himself against my watchband, and actually scraping the skin off the side of his cock. He was hurting for days! And no, he didn’t even want me to kiss it better.

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…
A hot and steaming facial!
And I wasn’t even expecting it
I thought we were just petting
I wasn’t even touching it
But suddenly he rose up
Gave out a mighty cry
And it splashed across my cheeks and lips
And dripped down from my eye

On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…
The best head that I’ve ever had
He started slow and teasing
Just lapping at my pussy lips
The tension stopped me breathing
I felt each delicate shift he made
Felt that loving tongue
Flicking wildly at my screaming clit
Oh God, I’m gonna cum!

On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
Eight sweet inches of rock hard cock
Slipped between my legs
Teased me with an inch or two
He likes to hear me beg
At first I tried to bite my lip
But he kept on poking faster
Until I couldn’t help myself
“Just ram it in, you bastard!”

On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
A tit fuck like you won’t believe
So hot against my breasts
I held them tight against his cock
Felt his balls scraping my chest
Saw his face screw up with pleasure
Felt his rhythm quicken
Then splashing hot against my neck
And his cock was ripe for licking

On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
A hot cock up my back passage
On the kitchen table
He asked me how much I could take
I said “all that you are able’
I felt my tight flesh clinging to him
While his fingers fucked my cunt
And when we came hard both together
It felt better than up front

On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
The chance to suck him long and slow
To relish every inch
To take him deep inside my throat
To feel my tonsils pinch
His helmet, grasp it, tease the tip
I love to suck him off
And when he came like a runaway train
I swallowed every drop

On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
A few days rest! And fuck, I needed them.!

Thursday, December 23, 2010

Happy Holidays Everyone!





Tuesday, December 21, 2010

My Favorite Blog Posting of the Year

Maybe it's the festivities creeping up on me, maybe I'm still celebrating from the news a couple of days ago... see below. But I spent the last few days rereading all my own favorite blogs and wondering... if I had to pick one posting from one page that sums up everything I have loved about the last twelve months of my on-line meanderings, what would it be?

It would be this.... from Drenched and Delicious - the best-named site in sight, and a story so delicious that I wish i'd written it myself. Thanks, Drenched - for the words and for finding the picture as well.

Saturday, December 18, 2010

On the somethingth day of Christmas...

It's the sheer casual appearance of the photo that appeals, the snapshot like qualities... so many so-called she-male photos are either obviously posed or even more obviously faked. But this one, fired off on what could have been an i-Phone, with nobody trying to look hot or sexy - well, it's just so matter of fact that it really ought to be real. I hope it is, anyway,

Friday, December 17, 2010

The Best Blogs of 2010

What better way of waking up could there be than.... discover you've made the 40 Sexiest Blogs of 2010 list!

Thanks to Red Region Inferno for including me in such illustrious and, of course, red hot company! And here's to an even hotter 2011.

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Ambrose Horne and the Disobedient Chambermaid

Another excerpt from a yet-to-be published Ambrose Horne adventure.

"I apologise, my dear," Ambrose said softly. Or, at least, he thought he spoke softly. "What was that you were saying?"

From her position stretched across the eminent detective's lap, her naked pink buttocks poking pertly out from the raised folds of her disshevelled skirts, his companion of the evening presented him with her most scornful pout. "I said, if you are going to spank me that hard, you could at least have the decency to listen to the slaps." She reached out and, rather more roughly than a woman in her position ought, snatched at the thin cord that stretched from Horne's ears, to the tiny box-like contraption in his breast pocket. A cacophony of sound erupted from two miniscule buds... they looked so much like nipples, she thought to herself, albeit disturbingly white nipples... as they ripped from Horne's ears.

Horne glared at her. "I was listening to that."

"Well, you should be listening to this," she replied and, reaching behind her, she delivered a resounding slap on her own bare bottom. "What is that noise-some device anyway?"

"Tis but a trifle that I concocted in my spare hours," Horne told her. "I call it an iPod... think of it as a portable gramophone, with neither disc nor crank nor even horn." He paused, sensing that his words were already bemusing the poor simple woman. "And much more besides. A marvel of the modern age, as I'm sure you will concur."

And, somewhat more brusquely than he intended, he stood and the poor girl tumbled to the floor. "And I will have you know that, although I currently employ it, as you say, for 'noise-some' pursuits, it is also an aid in manifold other tasks too. A portable library with neither librarian nor silence, a portable cinematograph, with neither projector nor audience...Plus," and here he puffed his chest proudly out, "I myself can be found within the myriad marvels that are concealed within."

And, with a few deft swirls of his finger, he called up from within the miraculously minute bowels of the device, a written account of his own adventures - "published," it seems, as though it were a book, but so unlike any book she had seen before that the very sight sent her swooning to the floor.

"It is the devil's work," she whispered as she regained her senses a few moments later.

"It probably is," Horne answered slowly. "But I would wager that scoundrel Holmes would sacrifice his own grandmother to Beelzebub for so signal an achievement as this. Now, if you would reassume the position, I believe that a certain amount of punishment still awaits you."

"I do hope so," the girl smiled softly. "And maybe while you spank me, I will investigate your iPod further. Do you have any Motorhead?"


Sunday, December 12, 2010

Ambrose Horne and the Copulating Colonials

an excerpt from the yet-to-be published STRANGE CASE OF THE COPULATING COLONIALS

An Ambrose Horne adventure

The mercury had been boiling around 100 degrees for so long now that Amelia – or plain old Miss Am’ee to the folk she was currently vacationing with – had forgotten what it was like to feel comfortable. No matter the hour, be it first light in the morning, or deep into the darkness of night, the heat pressed down like an unwelcome lover, and her ears felt as though they would never shake off the whirring and chirruping of the local insect life.

“Another Mint Julep, Miss?” A smiling servant, one of the half dozen who seemed forever to be hovering within arm’s length of every guest, stood with one of the delicious concoctions already prepared; and Amelia nodded. No matter how bizarre it sometimes felt to be wading through a glass of crushed leaves and ice in search of the sugared bourbon that was so liberally applied, there was something so exquisite about the ensuing concoction that she could scarcely wait to get home to London, to introduce her friends to the same delicious libation.

London. It seemed so far away – well, it was far away. Nine days it had taken to even cross the Atlantic, and another three to journey down to the plantation that Amelia’s father had recently taken possession of. And all the way, the sun had grown hotter, the bugs had grown louder, and the conversation of the locals that they met grew ever more incomprehensible. “Ah do declare,” Amelia whispered mockingly to Jennifer, her traveling companion and maybe, although not even a Yankee would have ventured it to her face, something more than that. “If their speech became any lazier, ah swear they would all just tumble onto their backs and stay there.”

Jennifer smiled. “I like the way they talk. So much more glamorous than anything you hear in London.” She demonstrated one of her own impersonations now, of the cackling old crone who sold flowers on the street corner back home. “Tuppence a bundle, my sweetie? A nosegay for that gay little nose of your’n?”

Amelia giggled. “Well, maybe one of those fine Southern gentlemen will sweep you off your feet while we’re here, and you’ll end up the lady of a house as large as this one.” Jennifer, however, sniffed disdainfully. “No, I’m London born and bred, and that’s where I intend to stay. Foreign’s a lovely place to visit, but would you really want to live there?” She swatted at a cicada that was hovering close to her face. “Besides, can you imagine how much you’d have to spend on fly paper?”

They fell silent and sipped their drinks. Three weeks they’d been there, and the only word Amelia had received from home was a note from her governess, concerned that she might be shirking her lessons, and a longer missive from Ambrose Horne, asking whether she might look up an old friend of his from Cambridge, who had sailed to America to make his fortune, and was now running for Governor of the very state she was visiting.

She agreed, although a voice in the back of her mind cautioned her against becoming too involved. Any friend of Horne’s, she knew, would have something more than friendship on his mind when they met and that was not the point of this visit. Or, at least, not the primary point.


Thursday, December 9, 2010

It could happen to anyone!

another in my occasional series of Second Life-inspired tales...

We hear a lot about playing safe on the Internet in general, and Second Life in particular – any game that demands such immersion and offers such emotion will inevitably have its bad side, as well as its good.

We seem to be going through a quiet period right now so far as Internet Horror Stories are concerned… just the usual rash of concerned Nigerian businessmen asking for your banking details, and credit card companies offering you an Erection That Will Never Die. But there are also occasions when it’s difficult to go a couple of days without one trustworthy source or another unearthing a new Real Life Incident designed to scare us all into regarding every new acquaintance with suspicion. Could she be the Noobie Island Mangler?

This was written during one of those periods.

It is not a confession… it’s not a true story… it’s nothing but a short piece of fiction, a piece of salutary satire that reflects as much on the game’s potential for harm as it does on our own fear of somehow being harmed.

Make of it what you will…


She’s weak, she’s strong, she’s whatever I say she is.

She loves me, she feels me, she does what I tell her to.

Sometimes when I call her to me, she says she has other plans. I accede to them gracefully without a word of dissent. She has me, she thinks, where she wants me. She does not know that I have her.

Sometimes, on those occasions, I will beg a boon. May I visit you, my Lady? And I stand and drink in her beauty, bathe in her radiance, dance in her spotlight. For that is what she requires of me and we all know, what my Lady craves, she shall receive.

I give her all she desires. And, in return, she gives me herself.

I live in her dreams and I fascinate her. I walk in her reality and I satisfy her. I step between the two dimensions, virtual and actual, as though the barrier were butter. And, when she tells me that she has never felt this way before, she believes she speaks only of her role in the game. That the words she types are the moment’s alone and, once they are spoken, they are forgotten. But she is wrong.

All of the memories that she laughingly gushes, all of the dreams that she whispers in pillow talk, I preserve them in pixel, animation and script, so that when she steps into the world I have invented, she steps into a world that she knows and loves.

“Why, there is the church I used to walk past to school.”

“Why, there is the stream that I fell in while playing.”

“Why, there’s the old post office where I used to buy candy.”

And the words that she says to me in that half-forgotten landscape become a part of her memories of that land, permanently seared upon her soul. They can not be discarded as the passion of the mind, for we are not playing a game here, my Lady, or rather, we are not playing the game you believe. When you see that church now, you will see me in the doorway. When you think of that stream, you’ll feel my hands helping you out. When you remember that candy, you’ll be tasting my sweets.

You say you love me, and maybe that’s a game too? That’s what you tell yourself, but I know that you do.

Who knows your deepest secrets, your most fiery fantasies? Not the man you call your husband.

Who do you look for when you first log on, and keep looking for on the nights I don’t appear?

Who is waiting in the back of your mind when you turn away from your computer and return to reality?

Who is the first person you say more than “good morning” to when you arise every day?

And the last you say “goodnight” to when you go to bed at night?

I cannot be dismissed like the lights you switch off behind you as you climb those lonely stairs; I cannot be brushed away like the hand of your husband as he reaches for you in his half-asleep horniness. I cannot be blacked out like the computer image that you stared at since the moment you got home, and which is branded upon your retina when your eyelids close to sleep.

I eliminate your friends, because they do not understand us. One is a liar, one is a cheat, one is malicious and the others are meaningless, We do not need them, for we have one another. And if your rl friends, too, try and turn you against me, I don’t care. They tell you that I exist on the Internet only. But to you, I simply exist. And that is enough. For now.

She gets wet to my words, she orgasms at my command.

I control her.

She speaks words and emotions that no other lover has ever heard.

I possess her.

She tells me of her oldest dreams, and I make them come true.

I own her.

“Build me a castle where I can be Queen.”

“Build me an ocean where I might swim.”

“Buy me a gown that I may look lovely.”

And I hasten to obey because that is what she asks of me, and the gifts grow as extravagant as my generosity.

At first she chooses, but soon I make the selections, dressing her as I wish to dress her, in the styles that I choose myself. And, as the styles and what they say slowly change, so does their nature.

“I have a gift for you, my lady, as exquisite as you are. May I have an address to send it to?”

I know where she lives

And she falls deeper under my spell, darker into her own living nightmare – the nightmare where she has lost all control, while thinking that she rules the world.

The game is slow. It may take weeks, it may take months. But the play is as exquisite as the end result, and why hurry the perfection of my art?

“I crave the touch of your hand,” I moan as our avatars grind in poseballed perfection.

“Then let me touch myself,” she says, and she types a long gasp with suddenly moistened fingers..

“I long to hear your voice,” I whisper, as our pledges and promises tumble out in mad passion.

“Then let me whisper your name,” she replies, and she switches on her microphone, “just for a second, while there’s no-one around.”

“I need to glimpse your flesh,” I gasp, as her fingers flash the words that tell me what she wishes.

“Then let me give you that glimpse,” she giggles, as she activates her cam and shyly flashes a breast. And I type a long moan as I speak of its beauty, as she clicks on the box that brings my cam to her screen, then types her own liquid longing for the image she sees.

“Touch me,” I breathe and her finger snakes out, to run down my cock as it hangs on her screen.

“Kiss it,” I whisper and she inclines her head, her lips to the screen of the laptop she bought so she could manage the household and play online banker.

“And fuck me,” I cry as she lowers her lens and I look and I listen as she rides her imagination to orgasm – the imagination that I created in my very own image; the imagination that will follow her wherever else she goes.

She asks if she can text me when she is not near her laptop. I give her my number. Her first notes are shy, all fingers and thumbs, misspelled abbreviations like a child’s first code. But they will grow.

I pay a few dollars for an online subscription. Her phone number becomes an address, and a search result in Google maps. I study her neighborhood and then tell her of my home… that has the same color siding, the same kind of garden, the same favorite trees. We aren’t simply one in love and devotion, she breathes. We are one in spirit too.

I agree and I bring us closer still. And closer and closer, until I could almost believe that I really do care for the woman who grinds on the carpet when my buddies come round to watch the Internet show. Whose moving image is “live” on the web, you can search for it now if you like… yes, I’ll wait. It’s called “horny housewife calling my name.”

Her photos are seeded across a dozen more websites. I’ve even posted the audio for the whole world to hear, because a beauty this rare should not be kept to myself. It should be shared with everyone who appreciates her talents.

Including, should they ever mouse in the right direction, her husband… her son… her employer… her friends.

But that is another game, one that I will not be here to play, because I will be playing another by then. I will have tired of her, her neediness, her love, and I will do so in the knowledge that I can move on.

And that she can not.

Monday, December 6, 2010

Fucking vegetables

Friday, December 3, 2010

From the top

No words... just one of those lovely images (or maybe it's the angle) that you cum across on the net periodically. Yum.

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

How to become a sensuous witch

A wonderful jacket photo promises so much - and so does the subtitle: "spells, rituals and recipes for a healthier love life." But how healthy would you be after devouring, for example, chicken livers and eggs? Pork chops Valaria (take two large thick pork chops)? Or Eggnog Erotica... four eggs, a pint of heavy cream, bourbon and cognac.... Happy, yes, but primed for anything more energetic than an evening glued to the couch? Hmmm.

Yes, it's a witchy recipe book, courtesy of a pair of New York based witches writing in 1971. And the food looks good. Interspersed with the Fanny Farming, however, are sundry charms, spells and rituals for everything from "turning a quickie into a longie" to getting rid of a Freddie. (Fans of My Fair Lady will understand.)

Or try this one, from the chapter "Food & Charms for Carnal Calisthenics." Take a hot shower, stand in a hot room until you've worked up a sweat, and then cover yourself in flour. When it dries,scrape it off and use it to make cakes. Serve them to your lover and make sure he eats every crumb. "This will bring you everlasting luck and happiness." Yum yum.

One further element of this particular charm fascinated me. Back in my schooldays, a fellow pupil fancied himself (very convincingly) as a Black Magician, and delighted in scaring the younger kids with his Evil Eye and a wealth of charms and spells he'd picked up who-knows-where, a five letter, five word chant that could conjure up the greatest demons of all. You probably know it as the Sator square, a Latin palindrome that may be Mithraic, might be early Christian, and was later used by the Pennsylvania Dutch as a charm to protect cattle.


Abragail and Valaria include this same charm in the above piece of spellwork, to be written on a piece of paper before the cakes are baked. Now all I want is for somebody to come forward who has actually tried this.

Saturday, November 27, 2010

Black Friday!

I saw her when I stepped out through the elevator doors
She stood there looking radiant, just like Drew Barrymore
Really hot and sexy in a downhome sort of way
The girl next door you wish would come for something more than play
I couldn’t help my staring as she glided down the aisle
I wondered what it might take to turn on her brightest smile
I wondered what she looks like when she’s really having fun?
I wondered what she looks like when she’s about to come

I saw her look at toasters, and idly scan the pots
I paused to take my jacket off, I’ve never felt so hot
I felt confused; I didn’t ever act like this round chicks
I tried it out at college, but I’ve always preferred pricks
But I felt my puss get moister every time she looked my way
My panties growing damper as I wondered what I’d say
I wondered if she’d ever guess she was having this effect?
I wondered what she tasted like when she was soaking wet?

I saw her look at mattresses; I felt like I should shout
“Hey wait for me!”; the two of us could give it some work out!
The lighting in this display room illuminates her splendor
Her backlit dress was transluscent, her legs looked long and slender
I wondered what they’d feel like, pressed against my crack
I wondered what they’d feel like, wrapped around my back
I wondered what they’d taste like as I licked up from her feet
I longed to feel her silky thighs pressed against my cheeks

I saw her as the escalator swept me to the bottom
She was standing by a looking glass, trying a hot top on
I wanted to rush over, “you look so great in it!”
I watched her as she straightened it; my God, she has great tits
I wondered what they’d feel like cradled in my palms
Her nipples firm against my flesh, as she writhed in my arms
I’d shower her with kisses as she whispered “now you’re mine”
And pushed her crotch against me and began to slowly grind

I saw her in the purses aisle, where there isn’t that much room
I felt my legs grow weaker as I breathed in her perfume
I could barely speak; “excuse me,” I whispered as I passed
My heart was pounding loudly as my hand brushed her firm ass
I didn’t think she’d notice as I paused and briefly lingered
Let my pores breathe in her beauty through my gently questing fingers
Then she turned around to look at me as she felt me touch her coat
She turned around and smiled at me as they softly, softly stroked

I saw her in the changing room with a pile of bras and panties
She beckoned me, said “do you think that this pair are too scanty?”
I went to speak and then she lunged, a hard kiss on the lips
Pulled me inside the changing room, her hands tight on my hips
Her tongue devoured my mouth, while her hand explored my breasts
Then she dropped down to her knees and she sucked out all my breath
My panties down in one swift move, her tongue upon my clit
I couldn’t last! I came so fast! And she lapped up all of it

I’m on my back, I lick her crack – oh God, I see a camera!
She laughed “it’s just security, watching while I bang ya
“It’s the day after Thanksgiving, let’s give the boys a treat”
I smiled and waved up at the lens, then began to gently eat
This goddess of the shopping mall, this Queen of Sears and Penny’s
This screaming, squirting Princess who’s now gasping my name! “Jenny!”
Her cries subside, she kisses me, then smiles and softly says
“I love the sales, let’s meet next year? Same time and same place”

Friday, November 26, 2010

Giving thanks for Thanksgiving

I wanted turkey
He offered me cock
I wanted stuffing
He said, “babe, no prob”
I want some green beans
I got meat, two veg
I said “lay the table”
He laid me instead
I want sweet potatoes
“That’s what I yam”
I asked for some cream
“Hey, woman! hot damn!”
I wanted cranberries
He gave me white sauce
I begged him “hang on”
Then he served second course
“Let me finish this mouthful!”
But he just thrust in more
I said “let me swallow!”
He asked “are you sure?”
And out at the table
The family clucked
While the butler and I
So languorously fucked

Thursday, November 25, 2010

A Thanksgiving Thought...

Get Valentines Graphics on yTagi

“Barely legal…”

“But dressed to impress all the same…”

“Cool outfit.”

Yeah, right. Most families spend Thanksgiving slouched around the dining table passing wind. Mine spend it sprawled around a photo album, passing comment, and while I can’t say I’ve ever contributed much to the conversation… I’ve certainly never brought one of my own albums along for inspection… it’s hard not to get sucked into the occasion. Especially when cousin Margie is around, with half your own teenaged years in glowing Kodachrome.

Gary, her husband, tore his eyes away from the television. “Hey, I remember that outfit,” he laughed. And, a little later, as we made our way into the dining room to eat, he sidled up to me again. “I remember what happened to it, as well.”

I smiled. Well, he had a better memory than I did. “Really? It probably ended up in a charity store somewhere.”

“Yeah. And Monica Lewinsky bought it.”

It took me a moment, but… oh. My. God. Suddenly I remembered what had happened to it, too, and the only saving grace, as my face turned cranberry color, was that he and Margie barely knew one another at the time. Whereas he and I had been study hall buddies back in High School, and still occasionally came across one another in town. Literally, as it turned out.

Barely legal, but dressed to impress. I was working my way through my freshman year at college, shut up in a downtown insurance brokers, mindlessly typing my way through the reams of documentation that the most innocent fender-bender spontaneously created, and wishing every day away, not because I had anything to do at night, but because I hated that job with a passion. So when Gary turned up in the office one day, a motorcycle messenger who viewed his job with only marginally more urgency than I viewed mine, it wasn’t exactly a wrench to put my thoughts of premiums and deductibles to one side, and catch up on what we’d been doing since graduation.

Which took all of thirty seconds, so we moved on to more engrossing topics and, by the time my boss came out to see how I was getting on with the Harrison claim, we’d already set up a lunch date for the next day, and a gig for the weekend as well.

It was the gig where it happened. Shit, I don’t even remember the band we were seeing, one of those early Noughties alt rock whiners that would have one singalong hit and then disappear. I do know that we were dancing all evening, though, and I also know – ah, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s go back to the beginning of the night.

We met outside the club. It’s not there anymore, the building was razed about five years ago, to make way for another one, all ugly and new. Lunch had gone well, but it was tentative and nervous; maybe it was the crowd and the noise in the bar, but our conversation was hesitant, punctuated with so many “sorry, I didn’t hear you”s that it was almost a relief to go back to work. There wouldn’t be any better opportunities for conversation tonight, of course, but that didn’t seem to matter so much. Different surroundings, different expectations.

And a very different Gary. At school, he stuck to T-shirts and jeans, at work he was encased in his motorcycle leathers. Tonight, he could have stepped out of an MTV video, looking so good that I felt positively dowdy alongside him. But he was the same Gary underneath it all, and as we took up our positions at the front of the dance floor, and the crowd began to push in around us, I realized that I was going to get to know a lot more about Gary’s “underneath” than I’d expected. Stretch-jeans never left much to the imagination when you looked at them. They leave even less when their owner is wedged against your ass.

The band came onstage, the crowd started moving, and Gary, to put it bluntly, started growing. At first I thought it was my imagination; that I was focusing so much on the bulge that was pressing against me that even the slightest motion set my mind in motion. But no, it was definitely bigger, firmer, warmer. And the crowd was so tight around us that he couldn’t have moved away from me if he’d wanted to.

I wondered what was going through his mind? It’s easy to think that once the blood starts its pumping, a guy loses all sense of decorum and shame, and just lets his lust take control. But on a second date with a girl who he’d never even kissed before? Hmmm… well, maybe there was something I could do about that. With a hand on his shoulder to help keep my balance, I stood up on tiptoes, turned my head slightly, and brushed his cheek with my lips.

I was aiming for his mouth, but feigning towards his ear; that way, if he said anything, I could always claim I was trying to whisper something. But, if I shocked him, he didn’t show it; with one hand on my waist (and the other still clutching his beer), he pulled me close again and this time our mouths did meet, as tongues entwined and he was holding me so tight that the next time his bulge moved, there was no doubting what he was thinking. Because it did move, straining against the fabric of his pants. Hell, that couldn’t feel comfortable, could it?

One song ended, and we broke our kiss to applaud. Then I lowered my hands to my side and I touched it. I jumped, he… I don’t know what he did, but the back of my hand was on his cock, and I wondered how big the damned thing was, because it was pressing against my hip as well.

He leaned in and kissed me again, and I almost shifted my position to put my arm around him. Almost. But I didn’t want to move my hand. Well, not that far, anyway. Instead, I bent my wrist just enough that now it was my palm that was against his dick and, if I inched my fingers just enough, I could slip them over his waistband as well. Over and behind. Now all he had to do was take just a tiny step backwards and I’d be there.

Except he didn’t. Maybe he couldn’t. The crowd was jammed around us, after all. My fingers strained against the so-tight fabric, and I felt one fingernail make contact. I wriggled it a little, felt him stirring in response. But I could go no further. There was just one thing for it. I extracted my hand and unbuttoned his pants, squeezed his cock and then raised my fingers to my mouth. His eyes never left my face the whole time.

“Do you want to step outside?” he whispered.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

We went out through the back door that was left open for smokers, and looked around. The alley led a few hundred yards in both directions… one way led to the street, the other to the parking lot of an apartment block. I took his hand and dragged him that way, paused as we reached a long row of skips, and then pushed him against the wall. I didn’t know how busy this stretch of emptiness might be at night, and I didn’t really want to find out. But I had a burning need that stretched from my pussy to my tonsils, and one of them was going to get drenched.

I knelt and tugged; his pants were still open and his hard cock slipped out without a thought. I swallowed it, and kept on swallowing, his helmet lodged in the back of my throat and every gulp I gave sent fresh shockwaves through his body… I know, because I could feel him twitch, hear him gasp.

I started to move, bobbing my head back and forth down his shaft; pausing occasionally to lick, nip and breathe. And then back to the main course, sucking him down, sucking him off, and sucking so much come out of his gorgeous cock that I never imagined there could be anything left by the time I let him fall from my lips.

But there was, one last blast, and you can guess where it went. Splash down the front of my favorite outfit… the one that I’d remember at a Thanksgiving Party years later. And the one that Gary remembered as well.


Monday, November 22, 2010

Flower Play

Flower Play is alternately one of the most exquisitely beautiful, and – under certain circumstances – exquisitely painful of all the traditional BDSM experiences.

For many people, its derivation lies in art – the imagery of the naked body on a bed of roses, tiny streaks of blood on the flesh pinpointing the entry and scratching of the thorns… of course, there is also a religious/sacriligeous aspect to this, in the replication of Christ’s Crown of Thorns, and that in turn has inspired a number of impressive collars and cuffs. A slave who will wear such a collar, knowing that even the slightest movement will cause his or her flesh to be torn by the thorns, is truly a dedicated creature.

In other play, too, flowers represent a blending of sexuality and nature that it is impossible to replicate elsewhere. The bed of roses is a delightful torture, every tiny thorn a fresh reminder of your partner’s love; and the firmer the bed, the greater the stimulation. Wrapped in lengthy clippings from a climbing rose plant, and then secured to a table will test even the most stoic submissive's will.

LIkewise the use of a length of bramble… blackberry, for example… or a stinging nettle, utilized as a lash in the usual style but then allowed to rest, or rub against the flaggellant’s flesh. This is not only deliciously painful, but also (in the latter instance) allows for a lingering sensation that will remind the victim of the experience for days to come. One word of caution, however. Do not use Poison Ivy, or any other oil-based irritant, unless you both want to wind up with a serious case of the itchies.

Bondage using some of the stronger vines found in forests and unkempt gardens is also a popular theme, and as one browses through any wooded area, one will certainly discover other plants, herbs and growths whose erotic potential suddenly seems astonishing.

For the most lastingly memorable experience, however, there is nothing that surpasses the simple cactus, a truly succulent succulent that, in the right hands and with the right amount of imagination, can be utilized as a substitute for almost any conventional sex toy you can think of – including an anal or vaginal dildo. Varying lengths and thicknesses rival any "store bought" dildo, while the degrees of sensation that a skilled practitioner can readily be compared to having a Pain Threshold setting on your favorite cinrator.

The sensations during use are as intense as they are intolerable; an orgasm drawn through the manipulation of the tiny thorns is one that will never be forgotten. But, best of all, you will never again need to worry about how your slave is occupying its time following an afternoon with a cactus. It can take hours to remove all those tiny thorns from the skin. (Handy hint - duct tape is often the best solution).

Saturday, November 20, 2010

A well-stacked bookshelf

Time for a quick update?

I think so...

Happy holiday book shopping!


Kindle edition; print edition
An anthology of my best verse.




Three volumes detailing the extraordinarily erotic adventures of Victorian England's other great detective.

BELOW BLUE LONDON (novel - e-book)
A series of interlocking tales set in London's East End from the 1500s to the present day, and into the future too.

DON'T FORGET TO BREATHE (short stories - e-book)
A collection of short blowjob stories (surprise!)

COUSIN TOM'S MOTORBIKE (short stories - print edition)
Mayhem, masturbation and more from the Colorado Rockies' favorite amorous teens

(short stories - print edition)
A collection of short stories

WHAT I DID ON MY SUMMER VACATION (novella - print edition)
My first novel, the tale of a vacation spent between the sheets

MISS AMERICA (novel - e-book)
A modern BDSM classic, a tale of violence, redemption and discovery. Not for the faint hearted.

The "true life" autobiography of American TV's most precocious princess.


Multi-author collection of short stories edited by Chrissie Bentley

Multi-author collection of gay (male) stories







Multi-author short story collections.

German language short story collection

Multi-author collection of military sex stories (Xcite Books)

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

What is she thinking (part two)

Another picture that I've published before but, judging from how many downloads it's had (over 100), there's no harm in posting it again, with a few ruminations to keep it company.

Facials are interesting. They've been a staple of the porn industry for a couple of decades now, although it's only been since the arrival of the Internet, and its own ovsession with naming ansolutely every sexual act imaginable, that they have become a widespread end in themselves. Before that, they were simply a/the consequence of other forms of love making, and maybe that was better.

Because naming something doesn't just make it "tangible," it also allows people to take a stand pro or con, and it is astonishing, reading through other blogs and writings, how many women (and occasionally men) will speak out against receiving, or administering, a "facial" - as though it were one sexual deviation too far, or something even worse than that.

Personally - well, the fact that I've now published this picture twice in the space of a couple of months should let you know my feelings on the subject. So today's competition is... what do you think the girl in the photo's feelings are?

The smile gives a lot away, I think, and the fact that if you look at the picture closely enough, you can almost see her lips about to part, to draw in what she has alreadt started to taste. But what would you say if you were her? Or if you were with her?

Sunday, November 14, 2010

The first review

Thanks to Chrissie Bentley for forwarding these along... although I'm sure I'd have found them the next time I looked through my links...

The Really Naughty Corner's review of The Bad Girl's Sweet Kiss

And Everynight Erotica's interview with Chrissie, with a little mention of me in there too!

QUESTION 3. Do you have a favourite story within the anthology?

That’s a tricky one – they’re all favorites in a way, otherwise I wouldn’t have included them. But the ones I direct people to first are the poems; we have two poets included in the book, Jenny Swallows and BL Morticia, and they both have very different approaches to verse… in fact, if Jenny reads this, she’ll kill me for even calling her a poet. But between them, they remind us of the sheer power of the simplest words and sentiments, and just how important they are in this field.

Which gives us all another excuse to look at that amazing cover. OMG I'm hungry!

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Best Women's Erotica 2011

First, can I just say that I am thrilled beyond words by the inclusion of Chrissie Bentley's story "Pictures Of Lilly" in the newly published Women's Best Erotica 2011, edited by Violet Blue and including the series' usual round-up of the finest female erotica writers around...

So thrilled that I don't even have the words to talk about it, so I pulled this from her website instead.

"The story of four teenaged girls who find their way, week after week, into the confines of a rather "exclusive" movie house, "Pictures Of Lilly" is also a slice of personal autobiography about that moment when fantasy and longing is suddenly confronted with the reality of a sex act that I'd been dreaming about since I first heard about it. Shot through with my love for what I believe remains the greatest porn film ever made, the immortal Sexorcist Devils.

"Eighteen stories pack this book to bursting, eighteen authors with some amazing tales to tell. You can buy your copy from all the usual places... Amazon among them, of course... and... did I mention that I'm thrilled beyond words?"

Yes you did, Chrissie. And so am I. Congratulations!

Monday, November 8, 2010

Awwww, how sweet

I couldn't resist this... NOT because I find it an especially hot picture, nor because I'm particularly attracted to either of the people in it. What I love about this picture is...

Look down.

Look at the way he's holding her cock.

Thumb and forefinger... neither squeezing nor caressing, barely even touching it. What is going through his mind? Eeek, will it bite?

It's so cute! And why? Because all of us... us girls, anyway, I won't presume to speak for the boys... have been there. Our first touch of cock, that first nervous, giggling, tentative tap... neither squeezing nor caressing, barely even touching it. Eeek, will it bite?

No it won't. But if you stroke it enough, it will spit.

Friday, November 5, 2010

Remember Remember

The Fifth of November. I can't believe I spent twenty-odd years thinking of it as Just Another Day, when across the ocean, it's the excuse for all manner of incendiary wildness - think July 4, Thanksgiving and Columbus Day all rolled into one, with bonfires instead of marching bands, baked potato instead of turkey, and a cellarful of conspirators instead of a boatload of very lost explorers.

But then I watched V For Vendetta - my choice for the best movie of the past however-many years, and one that I now religously worship once a year, on... the Fifth of November.

So Happy Guy Fawkes Day to all my UK readers, and to the rest of the world... you don't know what you're missing.

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Regrets? I've had a few more

Another day, another dollar... but I'm working my ass off for the things today, as half the staff seem to think that the first Thursday in November has been proclaimed a federal holiday and none of them need show up.

So... regrets. Out of my office, away from my computer... out on the front desk and "yes, I'm sure we have something by (name the best selling author) in stock - maybe you should go and look in the fiction category instead of hanging around here giving me a hard time because you're too lazy to walk five feet to that section." People - can't live with them, can't live without them being a pain in the ass.


Standing out on the frontline of the sticky end of literature has given me some time to think, and to realize that the last week or so has given me some of the most amazing emotional experiences of my entire on-line life. And also the opportunity to look back on some of those experiences' predecessors and to finally understand, regardless of the means by which we relate to another person, there is nothing in the world as important as friendship.

And if that friendship happens to include a bucketful of orgasms... every night of the week... then it not only transcends the medium, it transcends mere physicality as well.

Which isn't something I ever thought I'd sit down and say about a bunch of pixels, wires and an internet connection, topped off by a voice server that transforms conversation into a series of morse code messages. Seems like there really is a first time for everything.

"Yes, I'm sure we have something by (name the best selling author) in stock - allow me to stop doing whatever it is I need to get done, and I will graciously accompany you on the long and perilous journey to the relevant bookshelf."

Regrets? I've had a few...

He'd been on at me for weeks to let him take me dancing. He asked me himself, he passed messages via my friends, he even left a note on my locker between classes, all of them promising me the sort of good time that few girls could ever resist - fine music, pricey drinks and the opportunity to wear the sort of outfit that the average night out in town never allows. So finally I said yes. I admire persistence - especially when it's cute.

He picked me up on his parents' car - that was a good start; his own was a rattling death trap. And he cleaned up nicely as well. His name... oh shit, have I really forgotten his name? Brad, I think. Or Brent. Let's call him Brent. He was tall, buff, muscled without being over-done. I'd watched him at football practise; he was fast, he moved well... oh, and he had the brightest eyes I'd ever seen.

Where was he taking me? A new club that had just opened in town. Except we got there and it hadn't quite opened.. he'd got his calendar muddled; we were seven days early. Never mind. There's a place on the edge of the city limits, his elder sister and her boyfriend went there... three years ago. It was closed now. Sheee-it. Okay, how about...

"But that's practically in Abilene!"

"That's okay, it won't take long." We got onto the highway and headed south... and that place was closed as well, for redecoration.

Now what?

Brent (or was it Brad? This is awful) got out of the car. I thought he was going to put a brick through the darkened club window, he looked so mad. And then I realized he wasn't mad, he was sad. He'd been looking forward to this for who knows how long, first plucking up the nerve to ask, then having to deal with my evasions... for the first (and, possibly, only) occasion in my long career as a Teenaged Tease, I regretted not having simply said yes when he asked me the first time.

I got out of the car and walked around to where he was standing, still staring at the closed venue; put an arm around his waist and wondered what to say. "Oh well, at least we're together" sounded weak, but it really was the best I could manage, and when he turned to face me... and kiss me of course... I had to press my body tight up against his and stand on tiptoe simply to reach his lips.

Which is when I felt... it. The hardness between his legs that seemed to go on forever. Other guys, there was a beginning, there was an end and there was awarmth. Brent had a blazing hot rod that ran halfway up his torso, and as I pressed harder against him, an answering twitch sent shivers through my whole body.

I looked around. The parking lot was deserted; so was the side road we'd turned off. A few moving lights in the distance marked out the highway but the way this place was situated, we'd see anyone coming towards us long before they saw us.

We kissed and my hand dipped, stroking his cock through his t-shirt and jeans, then unbuckling his belt and releasing him, to grasp him with the savage enthusiasm of a girl who thinks she has more experience and expertise than she has; while he responded with the unself-conscious moans of a guy who's simply grateful to have someone touch his cock to begin with.

He came fast... too fast... and I didn't know what to do so I shook my hand to flick the cum off onto the gound, then wiped the rest on his T-shirt, while he panted grateful platitudes in my ear. Then we kissed some more, got back into the car and he dropped me off at home before midnight. And it was only once I was tucked up in bed, running over the events of the evening in my mind, that I cursed the maddened excitement that consumed me the moment I felt that magnificent cock in my hand.

Why didn't I slow down, why didn't I look at it? And why didn't I fall to my knees on that dusty parking lot concrete, and pop him into my mouth, to suck that cum right out of his balls instead of smearing it over half his outfit?

I know I thought of it, as my hand pulled his flesh; imagined how good it would feel, that length in my throat. And when he came and it dripped from my fingers, the flash of imagination, licking them clean with my tongue. But I didn't because... well I didn't.

And although I would, a few days later, get the chance to do it properly... I didn't on that occasion either because... because it felt like he was expecting it; because the first time we dated, he wanted me, but the next time he asked, he wanted the hand that had jerked him off in the dark. I wanted the spontaneity, the lust, the fury of discovery and delight that I should have grabbed the first time we were together, not the constant wheedling from a bratty jock, reminding me "but baby, you did it before...."

I tolerated his hand pulling mine to his bulge three times before I finally grabbed my purse and stomped out of the bar. Afterwards, I heard he promptly went down to the dancefloor, pulled a girl twice my size and disappeared into the night without a second thought. I went home and watched PBS. So I guess we were both happy....

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Jenny's second movie!

Very short - the camera fell over!

Sunday, October 31, 2010

Samhain Salutations!

I thought we'd start our round up with a vampire... those are fangs on either side of her mouth, aren't they?

Followed by a scene that you probably don't see played out in church very often. At least, not by the Anglicans.

And, finally, one which is just plain silly. Happy Halloween, everyone!

Saturday, October 30, 2010

Braid the Raven Hair

Rearranging some bookshelves today, and lost in the dreamscapes of Kushiel's Dart, my beloved old copy of Gilbert & Sullivan fell open to a few lines that obviously meant a lot to me once, and still strike a chord today.

And so, in the interests of things that 99% of this blog's regular readers probably don't care a hoot about... well, not here, anyway...

Braid the raven hair,
Weave the supple tress,
Deck the maiden fair
In her loveliness;
Paint the pretty face,
Dye the coral lip,
Emphasise the grace
Of her ladyship!

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

On target!

Just one of those lucky shots!

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

The Bad Girl's Sweet Kiss


The e-mailman came calling today and, hot off the presses, clutched in his sweaty little cyber hand, a copy of THE BAD GIRL'S SWEET KISS, an anthology of oral sex stories (of course) compiled by Chrissie Bentley and featuring no less than four contributions from me... three verses, including the title poem, and a short piece of prose.

The e-book is available now from Xcite Books, price 2.99 in UK money, and also features stories and verse by CHRISSIE BENTLEY, ANGEL PROPPS, SANDRA W, GARLAND,

I haven't even started to read yet, so I can't tell you any more... so maybe you should just trot off and buy your own copy.

Monday, October 25, 2010

Breakfast Time

I have a friend, a very dear friend, who woke me up this morning with the news that she has a Pavlovian Pussy. That the mention of a certain name, the thought of a certain face, the memory of a certain night, are all it takes to set her pussy salivating uncontrollably, no matter where or when it happens.

It’s a sensation that we are all familiar with, whether we choose to use a term for it or not. A smell, a taste… and not necessarily immediately sexual ones, either. The smell of the perfume I was wearing the first time I met her, the feel of the purse I was carrying as I fumbled for my keys, the candy bar we shared for breakfast the next day, because someone had neglected to do any shopping that week and was living off vending machines till her next day off.

Other things. A picture that I’d posted on my blog a few days earlier… one that I love for a lot of very private reasons, all of which she repeated when she remarked upon it herself. I look at the picture now and I don’t see the imagery that drew me to it in the first place; I hear her voice outlining a love that in turn leads into a fantasy that I thought was mine alone. And Pavlov’s Pussy salivates.

Certain songs, certain sounds, certain textures and, most of all, certain words. Because, beyond all and every physical, visual and sensorial stimulus that we consider play a major part in attracting us to someone, and particularly once the initial impact of those things has waned, the power of the word is the one that holds me spellbound, because it is a power that shifts, drifts and changes as many times as there are words in the language.

Today, the word… well, words… is “Pavlovian Pussy.” Tomorrow it or they might be something else entirely. And all I have to do is listen for them.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

Meanwhile, back in the real world...

There's this really strange overlap occurring... regular readers will know that I discovered the world of Second Life a few weeks back; personal acquaintances will know that I've more or less become hopelessly addicted to it; and a handful of especially close friends will know better than to try and stage an intervention, because now they've all got sucked into it as well. Whatever did we do with our lives before computers came long to replace them?

Anyway... the overlap. What a weird feeling it is, when someone walks into the club where my SL alias, the immortally named Jennys Willful, works, and says they were directed here by my blog. Reality lurches into fantasy and some incredible conversations have ensued. But what about when people I know only in Second Life start turning up in reality, commenting on blog posts and generally joining in the fun?

I love it, of course. But sometimes when I go to bed, and those drifting-into-sleep visions start swirling around my head, that's when the friends I've made in one place really start to become people I know in others. And the last thought before I fall asleep leaves me wondering whether the stranger I fell in lust with tonight really did walk up to me in that club I was at earlier? Or is she just a figment of somebody else's computer's imagination?

One day, somebody will be publishing a long socio-psychological discourse on the long-term effects that a second life has had on the ways we inter-act with one another. They may already have started, and I look forward to reading it.

In the meantime, in a reality that is studded with political correctness, and nobody dares say what they really think or feel for fear of being slapped with a harrassment lawsuit, there is something SO refreshing about having a cute guy, or girl, or elf or vampire or dragon or cat or any of the thousands of other sentient permutations that roam the virtual world, walk up and ask the only question that any of us really want to be asked.

"Hey sexy, wanna fuck?"