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Je veux être la fille avec la plupart de gâteau. Regardez-moi dans la glace.
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27 August 2007


Principal's Office

I picked the boys up this afternoon, waited until they were buckled in, and asked the question, "So, how was school today?" I know, I hated being asked that when I was a kid, and here I am, doing what every stupid, clueless adult did to me. Anyway.

Jack said, "Well, for me it was a little bit good and a little bit bad."

"What was bad about it?"

"Cameron and I got in trouble. We had to sit out recess."

"Uh-oh, what happened?"

"Cameron scratched me with his spork and so I stabbed him with mine."

Um. Don'tstartlaughingMaddie,pleasedon'tstartlaughing. The fact that "spork" is a natural part of my children's lexicon strikes me as hilarious. Also, I tried not to extrapolate twenty years into the future when a similar situation could occur, say, in prison.

"Was this at lunch?"

"Yeah. Then we hadda go to the Principal's Office."

"Did she talk to you?"

"Yeah, we hadda wait for her."

"Oh, Jack, you know that there are better ways to solve your problems than hurting people, right?"

"Uh huh. Like walking away or telling a grown up."

"Okay, good. Stabbing Cameron was unacceptable behavior. Did the principal tell you that, too?"

"Uh huh."

"Good. I hope it never happens again. It's not fun to miss out on recess, is it?"


"So, what was the good part of school?"

"Well, only Cameron was bleeding."

It's a good thing he was behind me, because that cracked me the hell up.

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18 August 2007


Inertia Creeps

(Or, Where Thomas Gets it Up the Ass)

When I returned from vacation Thomas came over. My house was a wreck, all my bedroom furniture shoved into the dining room for the floor guys. Thomas helped me move it back. We set up my bed, made it up with sheets and eiderdown like some married couple, had us a drink and fucked for several hours. I kicked him out at 6:30 the next morning. My mom showed up half an hour later. We went to garage sales.

Thomas went on his own European Vacation. He sent me a postcard from the Copenhagen Museum of Erotica. Awww.

Last week he wrote, complaining of jet lag and haunting nightmares. "Poor baby," I sympathized, "is there anything I can do?" We made a date.

On Thursday afternoon he texted me from the road, "On my way!"


"35 minutes. OK?"


It has been over a hundred degrees for the last ten days, and humid as hell. My air conditioner has been running nonstop, despite being set at 80 degrees. I turned on the fan in the bedroom and smoothed the sheets on the bed. He knocked. I bounded to the door and let him in, grinning when I saw he was carrying his gym bag.

"Working out tonight?"

"I dunno, I thought I might, depending on what kind of workout I get."

I smiled and kissed him.

"It's really hot out there," he apologized. His back was warm and slightly damp through his dress shirt.

"No air conditioning in your car?"

"I do have, but I try not to use it so much."

I said something about being turned on by his concern for the environment, asking if he was related to Al Gore or something. I stopped talking, convinced that it was, whatever IT was, pointless to share as I unbuttoned his shirt. He didn't pick up on that shift in the conversation and continued:

"Why is it that buttons are backwards for men and women?"

"So that it's easier for women to dress men."

"Hmmm, but I don't need anyone to dress me."

"It's not about need, baby, it's about possibility. Because it's also hot when I undress you."

I took off his starched white shirt, his plain white tee, his handmade black loafers, socks and grey dress pants, draping them on the back of the sofa. I led him, still wearing his boxers, to the bedroom and closed the door. We stood beside my bed and kissed in that slow, nuzzling way you do to prolong the anticipation, lips not quite touching, noses brushing necks. I like that kind of kissing.

I was standing just in front of the floor vent. The air conditioner kicked on and my slipdress billowed gently out from the cold, forced air. I sighed, "Oh, that's nice!" He took a pillow from the bed and dropped it on the floor in front of me, saying, "You can stay like that if you like."

Um, I like.

I'd told Thomas earlier in the day that, while I was looking forward to seeing him, I would not be dropping to my knees upon his arrival to blow him. It's become the predictable order of things, and it makes me nervous and bored. Greet at door. Take off clothes. Suck Thomas' dick. Sex from behind while bent over the couch. You know. Like that. Predictable.

I closed my eyes as he reached up beneath and slid his finger between my labia, and then felt them slicking up to my clit. I pulled my dress up and held it at hip level, steadying myself on the bedpost with my left hand. He pulled the fingers into his mouth and sucked them, exhaling so hard that the baby blonde hairs on my thighs tickled. I put my left foot up on the stool at the end of my bed. He traced the swollen vee, licking his lips, and bent forward.

Thomas gives very good head: slow and deliberate, moving up slowly to the point where my hands put themselves in his hair and my hips gyrate and thrust, my voice gets creaky and crackly and breaks mid-syllable, my breath catches and I come, grabbing his neck, arching my back and driving my head past vertical. He had a faceful of my come and I pulled him up to kiss it off. The insistent bonging of his cock against my leg was distracting.

I reached behind him and pulled the scarf from my dresser, tying it over his eyes. He smirked as I pulled down his shorts and pushed him back to the bed. I've never blindfolded him before, but I was feeling feisty–first I made him go down on me and now this–I had plans for the boy.

Thomas likes a finger in his ass during blowjobs. I quietly pulled a glove on and lubed it, all while sucking his dick. Soon my finger was moving inside him and he was sighing, pushing my head further and further down his cock. I guided a second finger in to join the first, sitting up and stroking him with my free hand, glancing to my side and gauging how long it would take me to slip the chrome bullet vibe, already wrapped in a condom, into his ass.

I replaced my hand on his shaft with my mouth and reached for the vibrator, holding it still against his hole and easing it in on an oustroke of my fingers. I pushed it up to the right spot and tossed the inside-out glove into the bin. His cock was throbbing in my mouth and he had a half-blissed smile. I took another condom and rolled it on, saying, "I'm going to fuck you now."

"What if I want to fuck you?"

"I think I'll be doing the fucking, but you're more than welcome to assist in fucking yourself."

I lowered myself onto him and pulled my knees in close to his body, squeezing my pussy while shallowly fuck-fuck-fucking the tip, then making a long stroke down and slowly up again. It was a huge tease. It was so hot.

And damn, it was hot! My skin was wet despite the air conditioning and the fan directed onto the bed and when I leaned forward in my favorite Lance Armstrong position, our bodies slid along one another. Once I got a good, solid rhythm and his hips were meeting mine, his hands pushing and pulling my body, I turned on the bullet. He jumped and moaned. I slowed down, keeping my pussy wrapped tightly around his cock and fucking him very slowly. It's the slower fucking which makes me come in the way I like. I grabbed his shoulder as I came, pressing myself down as if I could take more of him inside my tenselikewhoa cunt.

His hips were squirming then, as was his cock inside me. I know that feeling, that "this is so good I don't know what to do" feeling. That "I can't possibly sustain this without my body imploding" feeling. I turned the vibe up. I turned my fucking up. His mouth was searching me out and kissed me once I put my lips within his reach. He pulled on my mouth like he wanted to drink my blood. I ripped off the blindfold, face this close and slammed my hand onto his forehead, reaching back and pulling on his balls with the other. I licked the salty sweat on his neck and sat up, watching him watch me snake around on top of him, nipples small and erect, shoulders thrown back, stomach undulating as my hips rocked themselves back and forth over his pubic bone, picturing in my head the shape of his cock like an antenna inside me and the position of my silver bullet inside him.

I couldn't help myself; I turned it up as high as it would go.

His body was raising itself off the mattress, pounding into mine, sweat rolling from his chest down the sides of his body and over the slopes of his shoulders. He came, fantastically, with his cross between "Ohs" and "Ahs," completely uninhibited. Loud.

I gripped the rolled condom edge with my fingers and slowed the bullet down.

I looked at us, once I'd stepped off him and tossed the heavy condom from his cock, the one from the bullet and the squares of foil. Extending about three inches around his torso the sheets were a shade darker from our mingled sweat. He had a pool in his belly button. I gave him water, moving my cheek up slowly to his shoulder, content and in control and we were fucked but good.

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13 August 2007


Readers of this Blog, Lend me Your Ears.

Send me your interesting, your unusual, your mind-bendingly fabulous sexual positions!

I'm doing research (Really. No, really!) and I'd like to hear from readers about what unusual positions or locations you like for fucking. I'm really looking for out of the ordinary, so while I appreciate (and count as a fave) missionary fucking and standard cowgirl, I'm more interested in the others. You know the ones, when, in an inspired moment you shift into some twisted configuration and it feels so good, you wonder why nobody ever told you about it.

I want to hear it: the position as detailed as you can make it, and why you think it's so awesome.

Maybe it makes you come for eight minutes straight. Maybe you like the sound your bodies make when they smack together. Maybe it makes use of furniture or appliances, I don't know.

Email your favorites (no need to limit it to just one–go crazy!) to (at) You can be anonymous, that's cool. If it's easier, just comment on this post and I'll see them on the moderation page. Good? Good!

Go, get 'em in quick. No time like the present.

Thanks, and now back to our regularly scheduled smut.

12 August 2007


Wax On, Wax Off

I have long been a poster child for the nearly bushless bush.

While never wanting to appear pre-adolescent, I have nonetheless been waxing my "bikini line" since I was nineteen. From petite inverted triangle to landing strip to a lightning bolt (I was crazy pregnant and I thought it would be funny to surprise my midwife when she checked me later that day), my pubic hair has been lovingly groomed and 'scaped for nearly half my life.

I've used wax strips, cold wax, hot wax and sugars, all to varying degrees of success. The formula was easy: use whatever method to shape the hair up top and then trim down below with scissors (early '90s), a beard trimmer (late '90s), and finally, hot wax applied by someone other than myself.

When I was pregnant with Miles my friend Hannale–she of the aforementioned lightning bolt–was an aesthetician.

(Did you know that some women have yeast infections which last their entire pregnancy? Me, neither, until I got one. For nine months.)

So I was bitching about my stupid, unbalanced vagina one day, when Hannale said, "Let's just wax it off. The hair."

"You can DO that? ALL of it?"

"It wouldn't be so irritating."

"Damn, do it yesterday, please."

For nearly seven years I was waxed monthly. I couldn't remember the last time a razor sliced across my skin. I waxed my legs, underarms, eyebrows and bush (which, let me just say, was never very Foxxy Cleopatra, even before I took up with the grooming). Until last fall, when a routine waxing appointment went horribly awry: I had second-degree burns under my arms and folliculitis with a staph infection ON MY LABIA which freaked my shit out completely. Once the lab results came back and the course of antibiotics was finished I vowed never to wax my bits again. At least, not for a good long while.

I do that. I freak out a little sometimes.

I bought a Venus razor and Skintimate shave gel and began my life of thrice-weekly pussy shaving (Monday, Wednesday and Friday, unless I had a date in the interim). I didn't mind it so much, but I missed the smoothness, the weeks'-long-baby's-bottom-feel-how-slick-put-your-face-there smoothness I'd grown accustomed to. Not that I'd never been subject to ugly, painful ingrown hairs when I'd entrusted my snatch to the ministrations of others and resigned myself to coaxing, pinching, tweezing the fine, stubborn little burrowed strands from beneath my skin. I'd grown accustomed to that, too.

My fine, downy, nearly straight bush, while shaved between my legs, was being tweezed up top, and was steadily increasing its coverage of my pudenum. Because, let's face it, pulling hairs out by the root one by one is not only painful, it's time consuming. But I did it. To keep things neat.

I started to like my hairy bush, un-Foxxy as it was. I started to notice that my furry pussy has a stronger scent–a scent which I love–especially during my period. I started fantasizing about letting everything go natural. I'm not so hairy, after all. I could neglect my legs for months, the sparse blonde strands barely registering to the naked eye. My underarms were the same. I can't neglect my eyebrows, because for some reason, they are damn bushy if I don't groom them with serious regularity. Like that chick from Dodgeball bushy. Like Frida Kahlo bushy.

Last spring I was in New York, sporting my new, shaved below, bushier up top cunt. I announced that I was going au naturel. I was encouraged and supported and fucked senseless.

This summer, on vacation with Jefferson and our children, I commented as he was cupping my pussy in his hand as a precursor to pre-dawn sex, "Can you believe how hairy I am?! Isn't it awesome?" His laugh and subsequent, "Yeah, you've got a regular Seventies bush there" made me laugh. And yet it was something. I could pet myself, stroke myself there and lull myself to sleep like a kitten. Take the soft wisps between my fingers and pull them toward my toes, circling fingers back over my clit and sighing.

That was vacation. That was summer vacation. I even let my nails grow, shaping and polishing them, sharing candy-colored laquer with Lillie, scratching my lover's back with the hard, rounded-square extensions of my fingers which are never present in my real life because I can't work with nails which extend beyond the tips of my fingers. I even got a French Manicure when I returned home.

Then life kicked in. I started seeing clients. I soaked my fingernails in acetone and scraped off the polish that looked, from the start, phony and ridiculous, like a bride's wedding ring photo. I clipped my nails to their normal, uber-short state. I started seeing lovers to whom, after weeks off, I needed to explain my new bush. No one was put off by it, but the annoyance of having to preface contact with, "Oh, by the way, my kitty is furry now" was real.

Also, I realized one day, while jerking off, that I was less sensitive than I'd once been, and having to pull silky hairs aside to position my bullet properly, that I was annoyed at the intrusion. I was annoyed that something which was so easy in the past had now become a task, and one to be reckoned with. Point: My snatch was not as responsive as it was, and I was not pleased.

I balked at buying new razorblades. I shuddered at the thought of more tweezing. I made an appointment with a new waxer.

On Thursday I swallowed my (possibly unfounded) fears, walked into the spa with my children and set them up with coloring books and Boggle Jr. The aesthetician, whom I discovered I knew, as her daughter was in Jack's preschool for a year, led me back into the quiet, Native American Flute-saturated private rooms of the spa. I kicked off my sandals, tossed my underwear into a chair and assumed the position.

We chatted as she unceremoniously slathered hot (HOT!) wax onto my skin and ripped, strip after strip, not pulling skin taut, not placing the heel of her hand on the newly offended patch, not even offering a heartfelt, "I'm sorry" when I winced or cried out in pain. I suggested, as I do, that I have no problem lending a hand to hold a fold to the side, ". . . you know, if it would make things easier. "

"You're fine," she bristled, "we're almost done."

It hurt like a motherfuck, and I'd taken Ibuprofen in preparation.

I could barely sit on Thursday evening. Friday wasn't much better. I cursed the waxer and her ilk. I slathered my bruised and tortured bits with arnica gel and oil of lavender. I complained. Disapproving Maya sympathized. My skin recovered.

It is the middle of the month. My inner labia are fat and pink, not from the torture of waxing, but by the influx of hormones which surge from within me mid-cycle. I am like a bitch in heat, sex swollen, anxious, horny, desperate for a release.

My children are sleeping in their beds. No lover will come to me tonight. But I have my Babeland Silver Bullet and Njoy Pure Wand laid out on the mattress. Looking forward to jerking off as I remember it: Slick and sensitive and fuck-all fantastic.

Tomorrow I will begin looking for a new waxer. That bitch can rot in Native American Flute hell.

concept of love

Okay, I'm doing it.

But only to spread the love.

It seems like so many people I know have been tagged awarded with the Rockin' Girl Blogger thingie, including myself. I got to thinking, "this is kinda cool, but sort of pointless if I tag award people who've already gotten it, so I'm giving you linkage love to a few of the lady bloggers (not sexbloggers, actually) I read regularly and think rock.

In no particular alphabetical (by first name, duh) order:

1. Amy Güth, whose blog Bigmouth Indeed Strikes Again can at once have me making my sad, nodding, understanding Jewish mother face and then losing my beverage in a spray over my shoulder, makes the cut. You all know I heart the Güth. For the glasses, the verbage, the lipstick, the umlaut. Oh, and she's hilarious, and she loves Morrissey, and she's like, a novelist and stuff. Buy her book, Three Fallen Women, here.

2. Kelly Sue DeConnick. You might not have heard of Kelly Sue, but I stalk her regularly online and you should check out her blog, Girl Farts. She writes comics and adapts manga into English and she is super, super cute. Also, she has great style and posts photos of her house (drool) and things. She is also having a baby next month and I am desperately in love with her kid's nursery. Just saying. Kelly Sue's also pals with Nikol Lohr, the woman behind the website Disgruntled Housewife and the author of Naughty Needles Knitting: Sexy, Saucy Knits for the Bedroom and Beyond. If you buy that book, you can look at photos of Kelly Sue as a geisha and a knitted flogger-wielding dominatrix. Not to objectify the girl, but you know.

3. Lisa Goldman, of On The Face. I've been reading this blog since 2004, and Lisa (a Canadian journalist who immigrated to Israel) kind of blows my mind. She writes about the politics and complicated social, cultural and religious issues mucking up the Israeli-Palestinian situation. "On The Face" is the literal translation of "Al ha-Panim," which is Hebrew slang for "Totally fucked up." As in, "I got these really pretty tomatoes at the market, but when I got them home they were completely al ha-panim." But I like the double entendre, being that, on the surface, things can seem completely different than they really are. Her blog's been featured in lots of publications, she's damn smart, a good lefty and speaks Hebrew with nary an accent. Plus, she makes me think, which, while frightening to some, is usually a good thing.

4. Mimi Smartypants of Smartypants' Diary. I've never corresponded with Mimi. I'm sure she doesn't even know who I am. But if you've never read her diary, you should. Now. Even if you're not a parent (Mimi's daughter Nora is freaking hilarious), you will get off on the entries because they are witty, stream of conscious-type ramblings that, just when you think she's gone and lost her mind, come around for closure in the end. Also, she talks about parenting in a way I can totally relate to: not sanctimonious, not "omg, my kid is the most brilliant kid EVAH (which, of course, she is, but anyway), and totally supportive of parents' drinking rights.

So, there you go. There are more, but those are the ones who came off the top of my head at midnight Saturday while listening to my kids and their sleepover guests shrieking in the basement while playing Jet Set Radio Future on the Xbox.

07 August 2007



It was 5 AM. The grey light was just coming through the window in the adjoining room. Nobody slept there, my children had crashed on the couches in the main house last night. I know better than to move them. Never mind that I couldn't move Miles even if I wanted to.

Jason and Collie slept upstairs, sure to wake in about five hours if things remained quiet.

In my semi-slumbering, not wanting to be awake and gorgeously horny state, I closed my eyes, exhaled and pulled his arm across my body as I spooned my back up next to him. His hand naturally cupped a breast, flicking its nipple absentmindedly through the fabric of my nightie as he kissed the back of my head.

In a rare moment, I realized that, no matter how much I want to let him sleep–my Jefferson, knowing how many demands (self-inflicted or not) are put upon him in daily life, making vacation sleep a long awaited treat–I very much wanted to fuck him.

Here. In this bed which his grandmother had made up for us. Where his children lay within earshot and their clothes and swimsuits and hair ties littered the floor of our room–here, in white sheets smelling of Clorox and cool as the recirculated air, I needed to fuck him.

I was already semi-consciously pressing my hips into his pelvis, given my ass's advantageous position and the fact that I was naked under my white cotton nightie. He sighed, then inhaled. I knew he'd opened his eyes.

"Heyyy," I said.

"'Morning, love," he managed.

I flipped him onto his back and pinned his hands next to his shoulders, lowering my face to his. As I systematically avoided kissing him, but bringing my face thiiis close, I smiled and lowered myself to his cock, which was hard and receptive. I sucked him slowly and with real joy: I adore taking his cock into my mouth.

"Ahhh, honey, that's . . . perfect."

That was all I needed to hear. I wasn't sucking to get him off, I was sucking to get me off. The fact that he thought it perfection was a bonus. I sucked him long and steady, never varying speed or intensity. I reached into the pillowcase for supplies I'd put there the night before, so I wouldn't have to go hunting in the morning.

His hands were in my hair, stroking it, doing that thing that hands do when eyes are not probing other eyes for their mirrored adoring gazes. I pulled up and looked at him, gave him the glance and smirked. His dick was so ready.

After the appropriate preparations I sat up on my knees, lifted my nightie and lowered myself onto him. I rode him slowly up and down, watching his mouth open and close with the sensations, feeling his hands sliding across the thin fabric of my nightie over my hips, around my waist, up to my breasts.

I leaned forward, taking his hands in my own and pressing down, down on his cock, giving myself a shallow fucking with it, squeezing my pussy around the head on its exit and reentry. He liked that. I decided I didn't want to finish just yet.

I slowly circled his dick with my pelvis and he pulled down the shoulder of my gown, exposing a breast.

I took my hand to the back of his neck and pulled him up to suck and bite it as i rode his cock, bringing his upper body toward me as I rocked my cunt onto his cock at the perfect angle, not wanting to let go, coming in gasps and staggered whispered "oh, oh, ohs" and finishing with a shallow ride on his dick, my body covering his, kisses dotting his face, my hips moving in small and deliberate arcs.

He came shortly afterwards, silently, grasping the eyelet trim of my nightie, which had never been pulled completely off.

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