My Writing

Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Pinups for Pitbulls

So this is an adorable idea. I just stumbled upon it while perusing pinup photos for another post. Being the owner of one of these pups, and knowing just how many of them are homeless and hard to place because of their breed, I think what this group is doing is great.

The costumes and photography are fabulous.






























For more...to donate...to buy...head on over to pinupsforpitbulls.org.

Friday, November 28, 2014

"I'm sorry, Daddy." (FFF)


It's been awhile since I FFF'd. And I really wasn't sure I'd be able to find inspiration for this photo...but, I just started writing, and this is where it took me. Head over to the Flash Fiction Friday site to join in the writing fun!

"I'm sorry, Daddy."

“Will you spank me, Daddy...” Her slightly averted, pleading eyes, her bouncing pigtails, her pink-cheeked, smiling face..all of it framed by his naked, spread knees, made him smile. 

“Why, princess?” His right eye squinted as his lips curved up in a wicked curl.

“Because it’s my birthday.”

“It’s not your birthday, princess. Why are you lying?”

“I’m not lying, Daddy.”

“Oh, but love, you are. You are lying, and you know it, don’t you?”

“Why would I lie, Daddy?”

“Because you want me to spank you harder, baby. And you know what, I ought to send you away right now for your naughtiness. But, you know what I’m going to do instead, my girl?”

Her smile had faded, a shamed blush taking its place.

“I’m going to spank you. I’m going to spank you so hard you won’t forget it. And the next time you feel the need to hand me such an unnecessary and silly story just to get what you want, you’ll be sent to the corner.” He inhaled and exhaled slowly, with great intent, as if he were counting backwards to keep his calm. 

He patted his lap.

She moved instantly, positioning herself across legs, her full breasts pressing into the outside of his left thigh, her belly pushing against his right.

“With every strike, princess, I want to you say I’m sorry, Daddy.”

Meekly, she whispered, “Yes, Daddy...”

Raising his voice slightly, he demanded, “Speak up, girl.”

“Yes, Daddy,” she said, clearly and obediently.

His hand came down hard to meet her bare bottom, leaving its telltale red print, like a semi-permanent tattoo.

Her voice rang out, in between each resounding smack, her rear-end quivering, “I’m sorry, Daddy!”

But she was not.

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Things that go "mmmmm" in the dark

We live on a dark road, about a mile off the highway, nestled between cedars and maples. Our sky does not look the same as the sky above a large city. It's much darker, and shines with dense pockets of twinkling stars so numerous it looks as if a salt shaker has been upended.

When the clouds roll in, and the moon does its monthly disappearing act, it becomes so dark, you can't see your own hand in front of your face. And if you are paying attention to the crunch of the leaves beneath your feet, you might not even notice someone coming up behind you.

Maybe a pair of warm hands and the comfortable smell of recognition.

With one sense fully at the mercy of nature, the rest will be left to experience those hands with more intensity. The sense of touch...fingers tracing curves, entering crevices, exploring places in a way made more surprising by the inability to see them.

Smells...the wood stove smoke lingering in the still, cold air, kept low and closed in by the clouds, making the atmosphere seem heavier, the pressure of winter bearing down and making your bodies feel weighted and slow. The day's cologne and perfume will have withered beneath more natural scents, muskier and mouthwatering.

You might feel the heat of breath on your neck, a hot tongue licking at your nape, and the cool air immediately stealing the warmth. That will likely be intoxicating. The quick contrast. The shift in temperature.

That tongue will take away the salt of your skin, taste buds swelling with the sting, causing the mouth to water. It will come back for more, only this time, it will invade your mouth, filling it, pressing itself between your teeth, sucking.

The hands might make their way between your legs, probing, searching...and eventually finding your sweetest spot, already wet and ready...hot.

If you could see, in the darkness, you would notice the steam rising from the hand as it is pulled from the band of your loose evening clothes. The steam caused by your heat as it meets the bitter reality of night.

Best to go in...out of the cold...out of the dark...and into the warmth of the house. The subtle glow of the lamplight will be a cozy invitation to snuggle up on the couch and finish what has already been started.




Sunday, November 23, 2014

Learning how to be Daddy's girl....again

Okay...amazing revelation while perusing another blogger's website (A Slut's Memoir). And quite honestly, it just shouldn't be a revelation. So I'm fairly disappointed in myself. But...it's all a learning a curve, I suppose. One person's epiphany is another's "duh."

I'm not the best sub. I'm certainly not the most knowledgeable. So, I've got a lot to learn. I can be bratty, resistant, and downright FAIL. In fact, so much so, that we just put that whole part of our life on hold because it just wasn't working.

However, the underlying dynamic never went away. We are who we are, after all. But all the rules and the pomp and circumstance...the label...the shared goal...bye bye. And I'm sure it depressed him...and didn't do a damn thing to help in all of our other marital "issues" (which seem to be mostly related to sex).

We've struggled with it for over a year now. My dwindling, sometimes non-existent, libido...our sort of new communication issues...really, we've been pretty frustrated for awhile.

And about a month ago, after a night of hair-pulling good sex (...just because we have marital issues doesn't mean we don't still love each other and want to be together...and it doesn't mean we never have sex...seriously), the thought came back to me, heavily, that I really needed him to be my Daddy again. Because when He was...I wanted Him more, I respected Him more, I thought about pleasing Him more.

My brain grabbed hold of it all and just ran with it (because that is what my brain does...and it only does it when it wants...can you say ADD?). But, I was smart. I said nothing. I read. I researched. I tried to make better sense of it, figure out what I wanted and why I wanted it.

Daddy is nothing if not a good detective...and I knew He'd want evidence. After all, we'd tried this before, why was this time going to be different?

And why did last time not work?

After weeks of consideration and writing, I finally decided it had come to the point where I could go no further with it by myself. So I brought it to him. And we talked. And we made very simple first decisions.

We're taking this a step at a time. No bells and whistles at first. It can't be complicated. It has to be natural and intuitive.

I know it works differently for others, but for us, this is it. He is completely responsive to me. Open and willing to guide and question. Basically, He's my perfect leader. The leader I follow willingly.

Which brings me to the impetus for this post:

"I...need to remember to take better care of Sir's property in the future." (A Slut's Memoir)

Indeed.

It's so easy to be lazy, to say no to the gym, to drink just one more beer, go all day with out getting dressed on the weekend, say no to getting my nails or hair done because I'm being frugal. It's easy to stress myself out, stay at work too long, bring work home, stay up too late, forget my vitamins, not drink enough water.

But...if I change the way I think about it, I have to remember that this body is His. I have to keep it clean, healthy, refreshed, pretty, and ready at all times. And I have to accept it, lovingly, because He loves it the way it is.

While my mind may be my own, He has a pretty good hold on it. He deserves my time, my attention, my focus, and my devotion. I need to keep my head straight (not only for myself) for Him. 

I can't push myself to illness (mental or physical), because that would be abusing His property. I shouldn't stress myself out, because that would not be caring for His property. I shouldn't disrespect myself...because that would be disrespecting a choice that He made in choosing me. Daddy has good taste. Daddy knows best. And Daddy chose me. 

Wow. 

That's a much more powerful set of reasons for taking care of myself. 

It's not just for me, it's for Him. And it's a hell of a lot harder to say no to that than it is to myself.




And seriously...applying that seemingly simple mental shift last night made masturbating in His arms feel perfectly natural. He doesn't judge me like I so easily judge myself. And He wanted it. It wasn't about me. It was about Him. And so I let myself go, and for the first time (really...in 9 whole years) felt completely at ease getting myself off in front of him. Weird. 

Saturday, November 22, 2014

Hilda the (lost and found) Voluptuous Pin-up

So I found a new love today, and her name is Hilda. She's a buxom redhead, who's a bit silly and a bit clumsy, and well...quite a bit like me. Maybe that's why I find her adorable...because I'm narcissistic and see myself in her.

After finding several stashes of her images on google, I decided to go a little further and actually find out about the artist. This article from Daily Mail gives a good summary worth reading.

And here are a few of my favorites...





I realize she's a bit rounder than her perfectly thin counterparts of the 50's, but damn...I think she's got some lovely curves...soft thighs, a round belly...just the kind of girl I find to be the sexiest. Plus, she seems to just have more of a human element that other more main-stream pinups. Don't get me wrong, I love those, too. Elvgren and Vargas were simply amazing artists who both had a keen eye for the beauty of the female form. That being said...I think Hilda looks a lot less breakable that the others. Just sayin.

Saturday, November 15, 2014

New Project

So...I'm currently working on a new project. Yes, that means neglecting old ones, to some degree. And yes...I'm keenly aware that the post before last promised my avoidance of hibernating.

I'm not hibernating. It's more like gestating. I had to go blank...whitewash the canvas...so that I could create something new...and lasting.

It's always a process of becoming.

And just because I can't share my project yet...it doesn't mean I won't ever.

For now...it's personal. Very personal.

Do I have you wondering yet?

If yes, or if no, good.

I've had this website for several years now. It's had its ups and downs and its rebirths. It isn't over yet. It's just time to regroup and find focus. On what matters.

And what matters most is Him.

I don't make commitments easily or even well. But there are some things in life that just are, whether we want them or not. We can't escape our nature or our desires. We can refuse to accept them, of course. We can even try to quell them with other addictions. We can go numb. We can medicate. We can run away. But we can never really hide from ourselves or the ones who truly know us.


Saturday, July 26, 2014

Heads up!

(Source)
Okay...sort of a misleading post title...sorry for that, but really, I'm just writing to let you all know, I'll be on a business trip for a week (don't know if there will be any writing time available in there) and then on a backpacking trip (no wi-fi) with Mr. LL. So, posting will be sporadic at best until after August 9.

I'm going to get a few things scheduled to post tonight, so the blog won't be completely asleep during that time.

Just wanted everyone to know that I am NOT going back into hibernation, as I am wont to do on occasion. Actually, I've been feeling pretty good lately. Sort of pains me to admit it, but the doc added lithium to my evening cocktail, and it seems to be making at least a noticeable impact on my mood. It's hard to say whether the improvement is a result of the added medication or just a by-product of having downtime at work and the return of the sun to our dark little corner of the country. And of course, with the downtime at work comes more time for working out (read "mood upper") and lots of fresh local food - so the diet is nice and healthy. Plus, less alcohol because of the diet. With all those changes, it's hard to know what is really causing the improvement. But, whatever...it's there. Not gonna question it too hard.

Anyhow...just wanted to give you a "heads up" ;-)

source on photo

source on photo
for more of this redheaded beauty going down...head to her website,
I wouldn't mind having her looking up at me from between my legs...just sayin'.


I'm thinking...Mr. LL...that this looks like an important "send off" activity for tonight....and maybe a photoshoot? So I can add some of my own "heads up" pics to the mix in the future?

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

The Last of Its Kind

(This is a Wicked Wednesday post...based on the prompt: Write from the point of view of the last tree standing in a forest. I have to admit, this stumped me, and I was ready to throw in the towel before I even started, but I ran the prompt past Mr. LL, and he came up with a cute idea - so I'm running with it.)

The Last of Its Kind

It's hot today. Humid as hell, in fact. Seems that during the growing season, we all tend to crowd, to the point of touching...even braiding ourselves together in places, or growing back into the ground beneath us to escape the heat and the suffocating closeness. 

And there's the darkness. Intermittent brightness blinds us, like being bathed in neon, but with it comes the blessed breeze, and we can breathe. For a moment, until we are covered again, kept from the light, left to stagnate. 

In this condition, we sweat. Like prisoners in a pit, we talk to each other, sometimes never knowing what the other looks like. It's just voices. 

Until night. Even though it's still dark, the cover is taken away, like low clouds that rise and let the moon gaze down upon the forest below. We rest and dry out, the cool air freeing us. And sometimes, the hands of the gods above literally brush through us, bending us gently, petting us like a cat. If they could only hear us purr.




Occasionally, there is a storm...a heavy darkness beats down upon us, crashing and mashing us to the ground, bending us, breaking us. There are casualties...losses...and we pull together and prepare ourselves for the post-tornado downpour, that washes us clean, separating us, leaving us breathless, tired, and weak. We curl into ourselves, shrinking and exhausted.




And then there is the inevitable disaster. We all know it will come. We are told from the moment we are born...warned that we may not even have the chance to fully develop...grow to our potential. And we live with the possibility. 

I've been lucky. I was born during the growing season...a time when the forest is let loose to become what it may. We don't know why it happens. But from time to time, it does. So, I knew it was only a matter of time.

Right now, I'm in the eye of the storm. I can hear the vibration, the rumbling beneath me. I can hear the screams in the distance, the tortured screams of those cut down in their prime. And I know it is coming for me. I try to be calm, to prepare myself. 

The vibration becomes a deafening growl, pounding and gnawing at the world around me. Dozens, hundreds of my friends and family...and those that were never close enough to know...are cut away and disappear, sucked up into the bright void.




And suddenly, I am alone, hidden in a crevice. Maybe I will be spared? Maybe the storm will pass and I will be left to tell those who are still waiting to be born?




Stuck to the ground where I stand, I hold on. I stand proud. I am willing to be sacrificed if it must be that way. But, I hope I am left to tell the tale. The last curling hair on a rolling hill between two giant mountains that grown downward. 

I can hear the voices from above...the voices of the gods. They have planned this execution. This "cleansing" as it were. This clear cut. 

They say it is for the best. And they run their hands across the naked landscape, barely grazing me. If they notice, they do not let on. Instead. a clean warm rain comes down and washes away what is left of the broken bodies around me, leaving smooth ground, ripe for regrowth. 




A large pink tidal wave brushes past me, barely missing me. It returns...again and again...digging deep into the widening crevice in front of me...a cavernous, hungry crater that invites the destruction.




I turn away. I can no longer bare to look upon the horror...the end of days. I will curl up...attempt to bury myself, hide beneath the ground. I can only hope they won't find me...the single hair left behind.



Saturday, July 19, 2014

When he's gone...

Mr. LL is working late. He hasn't had to do that for some time now. But once in awhile his job forces him to. Oddly enough, it's on those nights that I really value what he does. In fact, I'm put in a position of feeling like "the world is at peace because my husband is out there..." and it makes me proud. And that pride makes me warm inside. Which leads to feeling warm in other places. Which turns me on.

Good fucking lord. He goes to work. He stays away longer than I'd like. And here I am in a fricking tizzy because he's out there being a superhero (my superhero, that is...), and I begin to think of all the cheesy superhero movies I love. I imagine all those silly love scenes...the ones where she pulls down his mask and kisses him, and the wind blows through her hair...and he has to run, because someone's screaming and he has to save them...and they can never be together because the world will always come between them.

Luckily, my superhero is coming home. I imagine myself taking off his spandex superhero outfit, laying him down on the cool sheets, and telling him to stop thinking about the rest of the world. I'll run my hands down his chest, around his hips...I'll grab his ass, and I'll slip my lips around his cock. I'll suck him slowly, and then I'll fuck him. And then I'll wrap my arms around him and let him sleep. Because he's had to work too hard today. Too hard.

Someone ought to thank him. So I will. Of course...it's almost midnight...so that might happen in the morning...but hey...it'll happen.

Source: NYC Prowler "Buff Superheroes in the Buff"
And just because I'm home alone and have the internet ADD...

How about this odd little article on the history of Superhero Porn?

or this article "The Problem with Sex and Superheroes"

or this article from Psychology Today "Super Sex Theorists: Hung Up on Superheroes Sex Organs"

and because it made me laugh...

Ahh...True Love.

Friday, July 11, 2014

A Much-Needed Vacation

“What if I stripped down to nothing but my underwear and just stood in the middle of the aisle for everyone to see?”

“It’s against FAA regulations, Katherine.” Jim said it absently, while fingering through a magazine he’d taken from the seat pocket in front of him.

Her voice became high and strained, like a petulant child who wasn’t getting enough attention, “No it’s not...it’s against your regulations. You don't even know what FAA means. You’re boring, Jim. Just plain boring!”

“Whatever, Katherine.” Jim’s voice never rose. And his eyes never left the page.

“Oh, good God, Jim...what do I have to do to get your fucking attention?!!”

“Hmph...” Jim made a dismissive noise in his throat.

Katherine began unbuttoning her blouse. She removed it and then unsnapped her bra from the front, setting her middle-aged breasts free. She stood up, unzipped and unhooked the back of her skirt, and let it fall, revealing nothing but a pair of black thong underwear.

Several passengers gasped and began to mumble and whisper. Jim looked around him, wondering what all the fuss was about. He hadn’t felt any turbulence. He figured the drink service was making its way down the aisle and prepared to request a cup of coffee. Without looking at his wife, he inquired whether she’d like to have her usual glass of terrible airplane champagne.

“No, Jim. I think I’m plenty loose at this point.”

He finally realized she was standing, and without looking up, asked if she needed by, to use the restroom.

“Only if you’re coming with me, Jim. If not, that man over there looks plenty interested.”

Jim looked around for the “interested man”, saw several wide eyes, and realized they were all staring in his direction. He turned to face his wife, seeing her naked belly and full thighs. His eyes took the path of the rest of the audience; eyebrows raised in disbelief, he scanned up her body, past her subtly swaying tits, to her face. 

She wasn’t even blushing. 

“Honey, I think you’ve had plenty to drink.”

“I’ve had nothing Jim. Nothing. And I’m tired of nothing. I’m ready for something. Anything...”

Jim tried to cover his wife with his magazine, looking around nervously, embarrassed, but Katherine was having none of it. 

“I’m done being invisible, Jim...this is the first time you’ve looked at me naked in years...and gauging by the horror on your face, I’m sure I’ve made the right decision.”

“Divorce?” Jim gulped.

“Do you pay attention to anything, Jim? Do you even know where we are going?”

“You took care of the vacation arrangements, Katherine. I just packed my things and followed.”

The stewardess broke in on the loudspeaker above their head, “We are preparing for landing. I hope you enjoy your stay at The Essence Nudist Resort, and that everyone will get lei’d.” She winked and held up an armful of colorful leis. She continued, “I can see that one passenger is already in the spirit.”

At that, at least three other women took off their shirts. 

“Katherine?” Jim looked like a wounded puppy, confused and scared.

“Jim...you’re going to have no choice but to notice me here.”

Flash Fiction Friday photo prompt
limit: 300 words (sorry...I went well over that...)
keywords: FAA and service
forbidden words: flight, mile high club

Friday, July 4, 2014

Let Freedom Ring (FFF)

Ahhh...the 50s. The epitome of "America" at a time when things were just so damned...well...American. The fashion, the technology, the language, the "proper niceness". A perfect facade for reality.

Yesterday, I rewatched Revolutionary Road, and so today, for Flash Fiction Friday, the era of the 50s was fresh in my mind. Picture a perfectly groomed lawn, a perfectly straight fence, a perfectly laid quilt, and a perfectly dressed couple with perfect hair. The Jensens. Imagine them lying under the stars having a perfectly proper conversation...about the children, about the future, about the day and their wonderful BBQ party.

Imagine they've thrown back a few too many perfect martinis. And imagine their conversation becomes, well...more "real."

This week's requirements:

Key Phrase: "Let Freedom Ring"
Word Limit:  294
Forbidden Words: Independence, Revolution


"Let Freedom Ring"


(Source)

“Do you think if I fucked you with a firecracker fast enough it would spark?”

Mrs. Jensen giggled and raised her eyebrows at her husband’s ridiculous question, “You could imagine your dick is a firecracker, exploding its sparks into my cunt.”

“I love it when you talk dirty., Mrs. Jensen...How about I just fuck you, plain and simple?”

Mr. Jensen rolled his wife over, flipped up her voluminous skirt, pulled down her lacey panties, and marveled at the soft glow of her ass so white in the darkness of their back yard. The neighborhood was ablaze with the sounds and lights of the 4th. No one was the wiser that the lovely and proper Jensens were celebrating in their own traditional way.

With his pleated pants pooled around his knees, Mr. Jensen pounded the missus from behind and grunted out in time to his thrusts, “Get... your... flag... ready... mama..., the... bomb’s... about... to... blow...”

And as Mrs. Jensen came, she whispered, “Oh, fuck yes....” then loudly pronounced, “LET FREEDOM RING!” Of course...she was being silly. And Mr. Jensen laughed as she pulsed and tightened around his cock. Every year it was a new patriotic phrase, yelled at the top of her lungs to screw with the neighbors.

From across the fence, the responses “Hallelujah!” from one side and from the other side “God bless America!” made them both laugh, as they lay spent on the rumpled quilt.

“America...land of the wonderfully oblivious. I’m just grateful for the freedom to fuck my wife in the wide open.”

They lay on their backs, staring up at the sky, colored lights streaming down at the same rate that Mr. Jensen’s come streamed down his wife’s inner thigh.


Happy 4th!

(Source)
(Source)

_________________________________________________

Just for fun...here's a little down home "real" Americana...I love vintage porn...


(Source)

(Source)
This one is especially for you, Mr. LL...I figured you'd like those voluptuous tits and round hips...


Sunday, June 29, 2014

The road to recovery: What turns me on?

I don't have fantasies. Not in the traditional sense of the word, anyway. I have fleeting thoughts, fragments of events, images of people, whole body sensations that wash over me spontaneously and then, just as quickly, disappear. A smell, a visual, a physical feeling, a taste...anything can trigger it.

And that makes it hard to define what turns me on. I can't just say, I have this recurring dream about being in the middle of a gang bang with 7 buff firefighters stripping me naked and tying me to the firehouse pole so they can use me as their personal toy for days. No. My fantasies aren't that fleshed out. They're moments. Wisps of scenes that race across my internal vision so fast I sometimes don't even catch them, I just get the resulting twitch between my legs, and then it's gone. Irretrievable.

So for me, it isn't about knowing and sharing my fantasies or sexual dreams (because I rarely remember those, either); it's more about knowing what triggers the feelings that cause them.

For example, I might check my phone messages and come across an erotic image:

(Source)

Momentarily, my brain is jolted and my thinking shifts. I notice the man's hands on her hips, the garters stretching across the V of her folded body. I can imagine myself in this moment, one of my favorite positions, and a warmth rises up and down and out from my belly.

I put my phone away and go back to whatever I was doing, and the moment is gone. It happens just that quickly.

It isn't a fantasy, so much as a response. And that's where I think the misunderstanding happens. I'm sexually and sensually responsive, not proactive.

Sometimes porn does it...and occasionally I actually seek it out. I prefer watching women masturbate but, though I consider myself bisexual, I don't tend to like watching girl on girl porn (probably because it isn't realistic and is obviously made with men in mind). I'd choose amateur home-made videos to stylized pornography, mostly because I can't stand the music (huge turn off) or the sounds the girls make. I like erotic films (like Henry and June or 9 1/2 Weeks) and reading well-crafted erotic fiction. I appreciate artistic images of naked women and sometimes men (though with less regularity...because too often, nude male photography is crafted homosexuality in mind...which feminizes the men - a turn off for me). I seek out still images of BDSM, though I'm not interested in doing it myself and stories or video footage of it does nothing for me. I have rape "fantasies", though the idea of a gang-bang repulses me. I like having my throat held during sex, anal stimulation, rough sex. I like it when my husband comes in from working, asks me to bend over the bed, and fucks me until he comes. I like being used, but to a point. I like being restrained, but not tied up. I like being spanked playfully, but not truly beaten. I like music, and massage, and romantic dinners (even at home), the idea of having sex in unexpected places (the floor, the car, on an abandoned dirt road). I like erotic texts and notes, but am not much for phone sex. I prefer sex in the morning or the middle of the day, even the middle of the night, over bedtime. I'd love a sex-getaway (a weekend away from work and children and chores), even if it just meant taking the trailer to a nearby camping spot, sharing a half-rack of beer, sitting around a fire until it got too cold and then going inside to "warm up".

Basically, I need a mental/emotional/spiritual removal from the intrusion of reality and resonsibility...and something to respond to...to submit to...to bury myself in.

What turns me on most about my husband (since he's dying for me to explore that in greater detail)?  His natural smell, mainly. The look he gives me when he wants me, when his blue eyes darken and the pupils expand. His tattooed arms. His breath on my neck and in my ear. When he physically controls me, without force or words. His massages. When he's productive and proactive about the housework. His cooking. When he puts his arm around me during a movie. When he's physically active and drinking less. How he dresses for work and when we go out. When he takes charge of things.

It's hard to get turned on when we fall into one of our down cycles...both of us in loungewear as soon as we get home, him on the couch - me in the chair, separately loosing ourselves on the internet, drinking until we get too tired to do much else. We become disconnected, disenchanted, run-down, depressed. Bored.

The other night, we went outside, set up camp chairs in the driveway, and looked at the stars. Things like that are enough to jolt us out of routine. Don't get me wrong. I love routine and need it most of the time, but from time to time, it's nice to do something else.

Being connected, being intimate outside of sex, being intentional and mindful about our sensual existence, those are the things that nurture my desire and make me "want". My path to intimacy is through the senses...and the senses lead to my sexuality. I suspect that for my husband...his path to intimacy is through sexuality. This isn't necessarily opposite from me, but it is different. He isn't looking for meaningless sex. Quite the contrary; he seeks connection through sex. For me, connection comes through physical contact (and sex), yes...but it mainly comes in through the mind. The difficulty this presents is that I have a hard time just "being turned on" without some outside stimulus.

In A Return to Desire, Ogden describes the "performance model" of sex. She says,
What is missing from this performance model of sex? For one thing, it's disconnected from the rest of life. The desire phase appears out of the blue, with no antecedent, no history. And the cycle ends when you roll over on your side and go to sleep. This leaves out most of what actually occurs in our sexual response....In addition, this model is linear, an action model--which may work fine for men who are able to proceed in pretty much a straight trajectory from desire to "doing it" to climax to dead sleep. But if you're like most women, you take a more circular sexual path, enjoying the view before and after and along the way.

But she is also clear to point out that one cannot be passive for desire to take hold. I don't think being "responsive" is being "passive", though I'm sure it would be easy to say so. It's not that I don't feel desire on my own. There are indeed times when I spontaneously feel "sexual". When suddenly I am awash in feelings of desire and sexual hunger. But these are whole body experiences that are rarely if ever attached to a fantasy or particular stimulus. I'm not sure what triggers them, because these highly fleeting moments happen (that feel sort of like getting a sudden injection of a drug that relaxes the entire body - pretty much the feeling one gets directly after an orgasm) at the weirdest times - while I'm walking down the hall at work, when I'm working out, while I'm running errands. The only thing I can imagine these times have in common is that I'm usually active...so maybe it's adrenaline? And it's always when I'm on a high, emotionally (melatonin? seratonin? dopamine?). This certainly makes a case for regular exercise, I suppose.

Anyhow, that's the best I can come up with right now. But, I'm open to direction.


Saturday, June 28, 2014

The slow demise of a sex life: a history

At the behest of Mr. LL and as a exercise related to the book I'm reading right now...I've been doing quite a bit of thinking about what turns me on - honestly...the gritty truth. I'm having to dig here, because I haven't really thought about it (specifically) for a long time - maybe ever.

What turns me on? he asks. Over and over. And he genuinely wants to know. He asks me what he needs to do, what it was that used to get me going....He's trying. And really, I've been less than helpful. I'm not intentionally sabotaging things.

It's not because I'm lazy or don't care. But, really looking at what turns me on, what motivates me, what makes me desire sex - well, I guess I'm afraid of finding out it I'm broken or that it isn't him. Better to just not look in that dark closet. I love my husband. And our life together is comfortable and safe. We work hard to provide for our family. But somewhere along the way, the focus changed from erotic intimacy to a safe closeness.

(This post is a precursor to another that will follow with more specific information about my turn ons...I'm breaking it up as to not end up with a novel-length post...so stay tuned for the next installment.)

Let's go back a bit.

Boy and girl find each other on the internet. Boy and girl write back and forth, getting to know each other a bit. Boy and girl meet. Girl is instantly in lust. Why?

He was hot. Physically hot. He had sideburns and these amazing blue eyes. He was quiet and seemed intense, observant. He unnerved me and just let me chatter nervously. I imagine there was scent as well, but I can't remember it. He didn't drink, which showed self-control, and made me hyper aware of my own need for social lubrication. When we parted, he gave me a hug, and nothing more...though I probably would have fucked him right there in the parking lot if I'd had the chance.

He was new. Exciting. And after dating several guys who really did nothing for me in the lust department, it felt amazing to really want someone. I think I was a bit taken aback...surprised by my own re-awakening. And I gave him credit for it.

From there, a lot of sex happened. And believe me, I wanted to keep him. I think I tried very hard to be the kind of girl that a I thought a guy like him would want. And though my sex drive was unlikely to stay that high forever (the new was bound to wear off, and reality would work it's nasty little hands into the mix), it was a whirlwind. We didn't share bills or responsibilities. We spent money like freaks and went out every weekend, sometimes more. He had his first drink in over a year, and off we went on a seemingly endless party.

My want turned to love, and though the want didn't go away, my focus and intentions shifted. I wanted to keep this guy. It wasn't just about the sex or the fun anymore. And I knew him now.

So, I rode high on the wedding planning, and pledged my heart, and stopped taking birth control, and (as sort of planned) was pregnant within months (too soon maybe?).

That'll put a damper on a couple's sex life right quick. I was exhausted. And I had a new focus. And since I'm pretty obsessive, I did what I do best...I obsessed. I nested. And my thinking shifted. I wasn't thinking about sex anymore. I was thinking about a baby. I was thinking about motherhood.

In the meantime, he became pretty disenchanted with his job, and decided to go back to school. He spent a lot of time training and doing homework. He had a new focus. He's also pretty obsessive, and did what he did best. He obsessed...he worked his ass off. He was thinking about being a father and provider for his family.

Without going into detail, the birth was difficult and I spent quite a bit of time recovering after some major complications. It certainly put me out of commission for awhile. In fact, after an emergency hysterectomy, I quite literally felt nothing but pain during sex...even 6 months out. I worried quite a bit, because he was so unhappy. He knew it wasn't my fault, but our sex life had pretty much been on hold for over a year, and he wasn't handling it well. And I was just scared that I'd never enjoy sex again.

Eventually, it began to feel a bit better. But the damage had already been done. I felt guilty and he felt unwanted.

He began to ask often what he could do. I dug deep, searching for an answer...any answer. And all I came up with was that I needed more help. I was stressed and tired and sinking into what I now know was depression. So he did more around the house. But nothing changed between us.

At some point, he brought up "swinging," (here's a link to all my posts on the topic) and I agreed to try, though it sort of terrified me. The initial foray into that wilderness was exciting. I was apprehensive, but it certainly changed the focus of our sex life and gave it a bit of a jolt. (You can read about our first time at a club here.)

Eventually, I became disillusioned by the whole swingers scene. First of all, I'm an introvert. And swinging entails actually searching out and meeting people, usually on the internet or in a club. I'm not good at small talk, and I'm awkward at best meeting new people. Dating was never my favorite thing to do on my own, and though having a partner while "dating" was a bit easier since I had someone to lean on, it didn't make the meetings any more fun. And quite honestly, there was little for me in it. My bisexuality did flourish, and I had a few intriguing encounters, but the men tended to be a disappointment, and I found myself unsatisfied at the end of the night, more often than not.

I don't regret it, but I realize now that what I hoped would be the key to recharging my desire was really just another way for me to relieve my guilt and to please my husband, whom I was desperate to make happy. The really shitty part is that rather than relieving my guilt, it actually made it worse. I felt guilty that I didn't truly like being on a path from which my husband obviously gained pleasure.

Our sex life pretty much ebbed and flowed, cycling with the tides, for several years. I started taking medication for depression (which was a battle unto itself, believe me). We experimented with D/s and D/g (and some elements of that have stuck with us). Things seemed to plug along at a rate that at least kept the arguments over it to a minimum. Until last year, with our "threesome" debacle. (Read about it here and here). For some reason, I think this experiment pushed me too far, past some hidden limit. And once I'd crossed that line, I had a hard time finding my way back. There were some trust and insecurity issues that came out into the glaring light of day, and like an ostrich, I stuck my head in the sand and avoided the whole thing.

So what I can see has happened, over time, when I look at this short history of our sex life together is that I've been following his path. Mainly because I didn't know where mine was, and because he was so much more eager than I to go on a long hike up an unknown mountain, into a forest full of who knows what. I'm more of a backyard kind of gal...a lot less "exciting" than he is. So when he asks me for my fantasies, it's hard to come up with anything.

I mean, I write a lot of stories and poems, so I suppose to some degree, those are my fantasies. But, I haven't really delved too deeply into what really turns me on...in fact, I sort of avoid it, because I'm afraid it will be too pedestrian. Because, I'm really not that creative when it comes to sex (though that might be surprising to some). I like plain old missionary style most of the time. I like knowing where I'm headed. Spontaneity really isn't my thing. But, I realize that's a surefire recipe for stagnation and boredom in a long-term relationship (especially for Mr. LL, who seems to get bored easily). I guess I have this fear that experimenting with one thing will just lead to something else, and that he'll never be satisfied until we've gone so far I don't even recognize us anymore.


Or is it? Does satisfaction and contentment necessarily kill desire? Does it inhibit change (b/c I'm not a huge fan of change, either)?

I can say this...I am not satisfied with our sex life as it is. It's easy to fall into a sexless pattern. But, it doesn't mean I am content. It just means that I've become numb in reaction to constantly feeling like a failure (mostly self-initiated and imagined). I hide from my own insecurities because I'm ashamed of them. I feel like I should be able to rise above them.

Ultimately, I need to find a better way to define and explain "fantasy". And I need to find words to explain (and accept) that my sexual path is really pretty straight and narrow. That it's more about my mental and emotional state than it is about "doing something out of the ordinary".

Anyhow...my next post will explore this: what exactly is it that turns me on? What do want? What do I need? I don't know that I have a definitive answer for these questions...but I'll give it my best shot.

Friday, June 27, 2014

On the Green Line to Arlington Station

Flash Fiction Friday

Key Words:  Parting, Station
Word Limit:  200
Forbidden Words:   Discreet, Forbidden, Tryst
Extra Credit:  Name the train and the destination


She could tell she’d had too much to drink, because she’d never be doing this otherwise--running her foot up the inside of a stranger’s leg on the train. He said nothing, but his smile was inviting. She shifted in her seat, subtly hiking her dress up just enough to “accidentally” expose herself when she uncrossed her legs. 

She was nervously pleased when he countered by leaning forward to “tighten his shoe laces,” taking the opportunity to gaze between her still parted legs. She thanked the gods that tonight she’d opted to go bare beneath her dress. 

He slowly and quite intentionally ran the back up his hand up the inside of her extended calf as he sat back up and re-situated himself in his seat. Licking his lips, he visually assessed her from head to toe one more time as the train rolled into the station. Then he stood up and held out a hand to her, without a word. She slid her hand into his, rising.

Yes, she’d had too much to drink. She could tell, because she’d never be doing this otherwise.

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I have to admit...this was tough. 200 words isn't much, and to have any story at all, it has to be tight. I like the challenge, though. It's an exercise in brevity and clarity, two things every writer should practice often.

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

Mile High Illusion

(Source)
Miranda had worked for Mr. Jordan for 15 years as the only flight attendant on his private jet. It was a sweet deal, really.

There were drawbacks of course.

Though she had a lot of time off, she was paid year-round to be on call. When Mr. Jordan wanted to fly, she had to be at the ready within an hour, sometimes less. It also meant she got to travel quite a bit herself. When Mr. Jordan went to Paris, so did she. When Mr. Jordan went to Dubai, Miranda did, too.

She knew several languages and had originally been hired, right out of college, as a translator by Mr. Jordan's company. Miranda moved up the ranks quickly, as she was professional, punctual, talented, and...let's be honest...attractive, young, and approachable.

Mr. Jordan wanted her to be the face his clients saw smiling at the door, her well-manicured hands holding the tray that would bring them champagne.

On this particular day, Mr. Jordan had requested Miranda's presence for a flight to New York with an overnight stay, a short trip that Miranda had been on dozens of times over the years.

She had prepped the cabin, fluffed the chair cushions, and stocked the refrigerator and cabinets with the expected essentials.

When Mr. Jordan boarded, Miranda smoothed her skirt and straightened her hat (he had always required that she wear a traditional stewardess uniform -- gloves and all). He greeted her as usual.

"Good afternoon, Miranda. I expect things are ready to go...you always seem to have everything just as it should be. I so appreciate your attention to detail." He nodded his approval and smiled as he moved past her toward his preferred seat, making himself comfortable.

"Can I get you anything before take-off, Mr. Jordan?"

"No, my dear. Just make yourself comfortable up front. I'll ring you if I need anything. For now, a bit of peace and quiet and solitude." He looked down at his open newspaper, his silent way of dismissing her.

Miranda made herself busy in the kitchenette (closed off by a door to ensure privacy to the passengers in the cabin).

It must have been 25 minutes or so before she heard the tell-tale ringing of the bell meant to summon her. But when she entered the cabin, no one was there. Her brow furrowed in confusion, and she began to look behind the seats (there were 12) to be sure Mr. Jordan hadn't fallen or been hurt somehow. Maybe a heart attack?...She was mildly panicked by his apparent absence. Finding the cabin completely empty, she went to back of the plane to knock on the door of the private quarters Mr. Jordan used as a sleeping room on long flights, and when he had sporadic (usually beautiful) female guests. Some, of course, were paid escorts. But, often, Mr. Jordan brought along women he knew to break up the monotony of being alone. He was busy. Too busy for a steady, committed relationship. But the man had needs, didn't he? And Miranda didn't judge.

She knocked lightly on the door.

"Mr. Jordan? You rang? Is there something I can do for you?"

At that moment she heard a clank and the voice of woman, moaning, and squealing. The sound was coming from the bathroom.

Miranda was suddenly confused. Mr. Jordan hadn't had a companion with him when he boarded. Unless she boarded after Miranda had left the cabin, which wouldn't have been at all the protocol. Was Mr. Jordan hiding his guest from her...or more likely, was he hiding Miranda from his guest? Why?

She walked toward the bathroom, at the front of the plane, near the door behind which she spent most of her time on these flights. She put her ear up to the door and prepared to ask if Mr. Jordan required assistance, but her hand stopped short of knocking when she heard the woman's voice again.

Her eyes grew wide and she inhaled deeply. She decided not to knock, but rather, stood motionless outside the door, listening.

She could hear the rhythmic pounding that made the internal activity obvious. And still, she could not move.

She knew that Mr. Jordan would not approve of her eavesdropping, but it was the closest she was likely to get to being in the position herself. She indulged her curiousity and kept close enough to hear but far enough away to pull herself together quickly if need be. The sounds were primal. Whatever he was doing to that woman, it must be amazing. Miranda found herself feeling a tinge of jealously. She also found herself feeling a tad...tingly.

Standing, with her back to the door, she closed her eyes and slowly pulled her short skirt up in the front, just enough to touch herself. She thought a moment about removing her glove, but figured it would be too hard to get it back on if the door opened too quickly. With her fingers moving against her quickly dampening panties, she wondered to herself, why on earth is he fucking her in the bathroom when he has a perfectly good private room at the back of the plane?

She bit her bottom lip and let her fingers quicken their movement a bit. A small sigh slipped from her mouth, quiet enough to not be heard over the ruckus in the room at her back. She leaned up against the wall next to the door, on the side where the door would open against her to hide her indiscretion.

She spread her legs a little more and tightened her calves and thighs, pink rising up her neck and cheeks. She shuddered and whimpered quietly, biting her lip again to quiet herself. She felt a tiny trickle of liquid down the inside of her thigh. She could feel the blood pumping in her ears, as her breathing began to return to normal. It was quick. She had always been able to do that on her own. A skill she had perfected over the years, blazing fast self-produced orgasms.

As her breathing slowed and her hearing cleared, she continued to listen to sounds behind the door.

"Miranda?"

Her eyes flew open, she quickly pulled her skirt down over her thighs and, gulping and very obviously and nervously flustered, she responded in a strained and unintentionally small voice, "Yes, Mr. Jordan? I heard the bell and became concerned that you were possibly injured because I couldn't find you anywhere and then I heard moaning from the bathroom and thought that you might be hurt so I stood here and listened for bit until I realized that you must have a guest that I didn't notice board the plane...I'm very sorry Mr. Jordan if I've disturbed your privacy in any way..."

She stopped to take a breath, and looking like a frightened guilty puppy who'd just eaten the side of the couch, she peered up at him through her lashes. What she saw was a unexpectedly mischievous smile. She straightened her gaze, as he began to laugh softly. Just then she heard the moans growing to a crescendo in the bathroom behind her.

"Wait a minute..." Miranda looked very confused. "If you're here...then who's in there?"

Mr. Jordan continued to laugh. He reached around her, his body close enough for her to feel his heat and smell his ridiculously expensive aftershave. Turning the knob to the bathroom and pushing the door open, he exposed his little trick. His smartphone emitted several deep throaty moans and a final scream of release, "Oh my God!"

She swung back around to face him, her eyes narrowing in question, "What is going on, Mr. Jordan? I don't understand..."

"I knew you'd be faithful to your curious nature...I knew you'd listen in. You do that often, don't you?"

"Of course not, Mr. Jordan..." She was fidgety and extremely uncomfortable with the question - even more so with the answer she knew she shouldn't give, "...but it's hard to ignore in such tight quarters...." She was quick to add, "It's none of my business and I never judge or talk about what happens here to anyone...I promise..."

"Miranda, you silly girl." He looked at her, lowered his head and tsk-tsk-ed.

"I'm not a girl, sir...I haven't been for quite some time." She was bit indignant in her discomfort.

"Had the operation then, have you?" He smirked.

"The operation?" Her quizzical expression gave way to an exasperated sigh. "You know what I mean...I'm not a girl. I'm a woman if you hadn't noticed." She breathed in fully and stood tall, ready to face whatever he might throw at her next.

"Oh, I've noticed. For quite some time, as you say."

"Mr. Jordan, I would be very interested to know what is happening here, if you would be so kind to enlighten me...What exactly is the purpose of this prank? Were you trying to trap me so that you could reprimand me or fire me?"

"Good God, no, Miranda. I wouldn't dream of letting you go. And I apologize for my dishonesty. I'm not sure where this adolescent behavior is coming from. Maybe you bring it out in me."

"Excuse me?"

"I was watching you."

"What!?"

"I wanted to see what you'd do...I wanted to see if you'd listen in. I was in the back quarters, watching through the peephole..."

"Watching me?" her cheeks grew hot, and embarrassment flushed through her, stopping, with the greatest intensity, between her thighs.

"I'm sorry, Miranda...forgive me. I shouldn't have. I really didn't expect that you'd..."

"Okay...stop right there, we needn't discuss it, I'm completely mortified at this moment..."

"You shouldn't be...it was amazingly erotic...and I feel like a giddy thief for having witnessed it without permission. I know it was wrong - and I'm sorry...but really, I couldn't stop. I was hypnotized by it. Unable to move, or speak, lest you stop."

Miranda looked at him with a mix of confusion and anger and shame.

"Mr. Jordan, I..."

"Tyler...call me Tyler. Let's start over." He reached his hand out to her, as if requesting that she shake it, which she did, reluctantly.

"Nice to meet you, Miranda. Would you like a glass of champagne?"

Miranda could think of nothing better than drinking away her humiliation.

"Yes...yes, I think I would."

She made to release his hand and turn to retrieve a bottle, but he held tight and pointed out that he'd already beaten her to it. He led her back to the seats and handed her over to the soft leather cushion, into which she sank and wished she could be buried whole.

He poured her a glass and held it out to her. Shaking a bit, she took it. He sat beside her and held his glass up for a toast. Hesitantly, she clinked her glass against his.

"To the next 15 years, Miranda. May they be a bit different than the first."

She drank the glass of champagne as if it were water and she'd just completed a marathon, and he refilled it just a quickly.

Good lord what have I gotten myself into? She thought to herself.

"What do you mean by "different," dare I ask?"

He reached across the armrest and touched her face.

"Miranda, yesterday I woke up and realized I was tired of being alone. And then it hit me....I'm not. You've been here all along, ready in an instant, always expecting my call."

"It's my job, Mr. Jor--"

"Tyler."

"Yes, Tyler, it's my job."

"No one just gives up 15 years of her life to follow some bloke around the world and follow his every whim simply because it's her job. Miranda...be honest. It isn't just me, is it?"

She swallowed audibly.

"You don't have to say it...just kiss me." He leaned toward her.

Holy hell, she thought. Right now, with little time to do so, she had two choices between which to decide - slap him and request that he have the pilot turn around this instant, or accept the fact that Mr. Jordan...Tyler...was not a normal man, and therefore would never have approached her as such. He would not call her and ask her to coffee, subtly referencing his interest in her. He would not be shy even appropriate. He was used to getting his way, without asking. The fact that he'd just requested that she kiss him was more accommodating and patient than she would have ever guessed him to be. This was him. And if she wanted him, she would have to take him as he was. Though many women would have refused his entitled way of commanding those around him, Miranda knew him for what he truly was. She also knew herself, and that he was right. No one gives up 15 years to follow some bloke around the world, unless she loves him. It wasn't explainable or justifiable. It just was.

She quickly downed the rest of her glass of champagne, and then leaned in to kiss him, the bubbles still dancing on her tongue.

___________________________________________________

So I was NOT going to stay up late to finish this story. I had intended to do it early this morning. But then...life got in the way. And here I sit at 11:30 pounding out the tale, so I can submit it for Wicked Wednesday (the prompt was to explain how/why a flight attendant might be sipping champagne in first class). I didn't think I'd have a thing to contribute for this one, but as it turns out, I became quite entranced with my characters and couldn't give up until I finished. So, for what it's worth, I got it done, with 36 minutes to spare before the deadline.

Hope you enjoyed it...I'm headed of to bed now. Exhausted but pleased with myself. Just sayin'.